“It’s okay to be scared,” she said. “You might be Big Bad Jack to all the scum you lock up, but I know you better than you think.”
She followed his gaze into the living room with her own eyes. “It’s only when you have something of real value that you know what fear really feels like. They’re so fragile. I’ve always got this little ball of terror inside me, that I’m going to lose my Lucy. I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”
She put her palm flat on his chest, over his heart. “Welcome to humanity,” she said. “Now, why don’t you go and say hello to your daughter?”
Lennon did as he was told.
Ellen looked up from her drawing, went to speak, then changed her mind. She turned her attention back to the sheet of paper on the coffee table. Lucy, apparently affronted by the loss of her crayon, had flounced off and was busy pulling toys from the box they’d been tidied into.
“Hiya, sweetheart,” he said.
“Mm,” she said.
“What you doing?” he asked, sitting on the couch opposite her.
“Drawing,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
“At work,” he said.
“You said you’d be off today,” Ellen said without looking up.
“I know. I’m sorry. But there’s been lots of stuff happening.”
“Are you going back to work?”
Lennon scratched his chin, realized he needed a shave. “Yes,” he said.
Ellen did not reply.
“But I’ll be back tonight,” he said. “Maybe in time to tuck you in. If not, then I’ll be here when you get up in the morning. When you see what Santa’s brought you.”
“Auntie Bernie’s been phoning,” Ellen said.
Lennon brought his hands together, wrapped the fingers of his left hand tight around the fist of his right. “I know,” he said.
“She wants me to go to her house for Christmas.”
He swallowed. “Do you want to go to Auntie Bernie’s? Or do you want to stay here with me and Susan and Lucy?”
Ellen thought about it for a few seconds. “Will you be here for Santa coming?”
“Yes,” Lennon said.
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Lennon said, making two slashes across his chest.
“Say the rest.”
“And hope to die.”
“Okay,” Ellen said. “I’ll stay here.”
“Thank you,” Lennon said.
He slipped off the couch and onto the floor, crawled around the table to Ellen’s side.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
“My dreams,” Ellen said.
He pointed to the picture of a girl with yellow hair. “Is that you?” he asked.
Ellen shook her head.
He traced the line of reddish-brown footprints across the page. “Did she walk in mud?”
“No,” Ellen said.
The image of the girl stood at one side of the page. At the other stood what looked like an elderly lady with her arms outstretched, as if beckoning the girl to her. Between them stood a dark figure, drawn in mad swirls and jagged angles.
“Who’s he?” Lennon asked.
“Don’t know,” Ellen said. “He smells like milk.”
He looked again at the figure of the girl. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he thought of the passport in his pocket, and the picture of a young woman who looked something like the one he sought.
Before he could question Ellen further, his phone rang. He looked up and saw Susan watching him from the kitchenette. The display said the number was blocked, just as it had before. He pressed the green button, brought the phone to his ear, and said nothing.
After a while, a confused voice said, “Hello?”
“Connolly?” Lennon asked.
“Sir?”
“Sorry, I thought you might be … someone else. You got anything for me?”
“Might have,” Connolly said. “I’ve been through the ViSOR database, like you said.”
“Okay,” Lennon said. The Violent and Sex Offender Register listed all those convicted of a sexual offense for anything from five years to life, and some who were merely suspected of being a risk.
“I didn’t find anyone local,” Connolly said. “Nobody that looked anything like that sketch you sent, and nothing for assaults involving prostitutes. But there was one bloke stood out.”
Lennon smoothed Ellen’s hair, bent down and kissed the crown of her head, and moved out of her hearing. “Go on,” he said.
“A fella called Edwin Paynter, P-A-Y-N-T-E-R, from Salford, Greater Manchester. He was done seven years ago for assault and imprisonment of a street girl, served about eighteen months. Seems he was caught with this woman tied up in the back of his van during a routine traffic stop. God knows what he was going to do with her.”
“Jesus,” Lennon said.
“Anyway, going by the database, he registered in Salford and the local police kept tabs on him for two years, then he decided he was moving to Belfast to live with an aunt of his, make a new start, I suppose.”
Susan handed Lennon a steaming mug of tea. He nodded his thanks and took a sip.
“So he registers over here,” Connolly continued. “But after about a year, he drops off the radar. He’s not been heard of for more than two years now.”
“You got a photo of him? And an address for the aunt?” Lennon asked.
“Yes, but—”
“E-mail all the info to me. I can pick it up on my phone.”
“But I don’t think we’re supposed to send any data from ViSOR outside the network.”
“Just do it,” Lennon said. “I’ll take responsibility.”
As he hung up, Susan asked, “Did something come up?”
“Possibly,” Lennon said. “We’ll see.”
“Do you have time for something to eat? A sandwich?”
“Okay,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Thanks.”
She set about gathering the ingredients, layering bread, freshly cooked ham, and salad. His stomach rumbled as he watched her work. To distract himself, he took the envelope from his pocket and studied the sketch. He noted the flow of the pen strokes, the way they cut and slashed the paper until they took the form of a rounded face. His gaze went to the jumbled lines at the center of Ellen’s drawing, the madness of the shape.
An idea edged into his mind, but he swept it away before it could take root.
Susan brought a plate to the coffee table and set it next to his mug of tea.
His phoned chimed as he took the first bite of his sandwich.
46
THROUGH HEAVY EYES, Herkus watched his boss snort up another line from the hotel suite’s glass-topped desk.
“Do you want some?” Arturas asked.
Herkus leaned back in the armchair and let his eyelids drop. “No, I had some already. Let me rest my eyes for a few minutes.”
