Uprichard stood up. “I didn’t hear you say that.”
“It was Hewitt. He was working for Strazdas. He put Connolly up to it.”
“Proof, Jack,” Uprichard said, waving a finger in Lennon’s direction. “Evidence. Unless you’ve got plenty of it, don’t you dare blacken a good officer’s name.”
“It was him,” Lennon said. “I’m going to get him. I’m going to bring him down.”
“Enough!” Uprichard’s face reddened. “Enough of that. I won’t listen to it.”
He put his head down and bulled his way to the door. He paused, his shoulders rising and falling with his anger. Eventually, he allowed Lennon a backward glance.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “I have something for you.”
Uprichard returned to the bed without looking Lennon in the eye. He dropped an envelope onto the sheets. Lennon picked it up, turned it in his hands. It was addressed to “Police Man Jack Lennon, Ladas Drive Police Station, Belfast, Northern Ireland.” The postmark said “Kyyiv.”
“I looked it up,” Uprichard said. “It’s Kiev. It came this morning. I thought you might want to see it.”
“Yes,” Lennon said. “Thank you.”
Uprichard shuffled his feet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Get well, Jack. You’ll need to be fit as you can to get out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself.”
When he was alone, Lennon examined the envelope, studied the neat, girlish handwriting. He went to open it, but found his eyes too heavy to hold, too dry. He looked up at the clock opposite his bed.
Right on cue, a nurse entered the room ready to release a dose of painkiller into the IV drip that hooked into his hand. Once she did, he would fall into a fathomless dark sleep.
“What have you got there?” she asked.
“A letter from a friend,” he said.
“Do you want to read it before I hit you up and you go bye-bye?”
He placed the letter on the bedside locker.
“For later,” he said.
EPILOGUE
Dear Jack Lennon,
I write this letter in a city south of my old home in Andriivka, near to Sumy. I will not write the name. Now this city is my home, and the home of my brother Maksim.
I hope that you are alive. I pray to God that you are alive. I think you are not, but I will write this letter anyway.
For to come home was five days. The train goes from Krakow to Warsaw. It goes from Warsaw to Kyyiv, and then another goes to Sumy. I sleep on the train. I have dreams about the man who took me in his house. I think I will always have dreams about him, but they will get better.
When I come home Maksim is happy. He was afraid for me, and now he is not. I do not tell him what happens in Belfast. I tell him I could find no job. I tell him I had a car accident.
I tell the man who lends money he can take Mama’s farm. We leave there a nd come to this city on a bus. Today, I have a job in a cafe. I will have only small money, but I will pay for a room for us. Soon Maksim will have a job also, and he will go to school to learn English like me.
We will be safe. I will be safe.
Some time when I sleep I dream about you and Susan. I hope you are alive so you will make her happy and she will make you happy. Be kind with her and your small girls. You will be happy.
Thank you.
Galya Petrova.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all who have helped bring this book into existence:
As ever, my deepest gratitude goes to Nat Sobel, Judith Weber and all at Sobel Weber Associates for their support, guidance and friendship. I couldn’t navigate these waters without you.
Caspian Dennis and all at the Abner Stein agency for everything they do for me.
Geoff Mulligan, Briony Everroad, Alison Hennessy, Kate Bland, Ruth Warburton, Vicki Watson and all at Harvill Secker and Vintage Books for their kindness and support.
Bronwen Hruska, Juliet Grames, Justin Hargett, Ailen Lujo and all at Soho Press for treating me so well and showing just what a passionate publisher can achieve.
Betsy Dornbusch for still being my friend even when I sometimes don’t show that I appreciate it, and to Carlin, Alex and Gracie for helping me explore San Francisco.
My Soho Press touring buddies James Benn, Henry Chang and Jassy Mackenzie for making the road a much less lonely place.
David Torrans and all at No Alibis for keeping on keeping on.
All the indie bookstores across America who have made me welcome both in print and in person.
The online community of readers and writers who continue to fly the flag.
Hilary Knight for her friendship and hard work.
Sidney McKnight for letting me in on the secret of the buttermilk shandy. But no, I won’t be trying one.
James and Louise Morrow for being there when it mattered.
My mother, and the rest of the clan, for just about everything.
Jim, Sally and all the Atkinson family for letting me steal their daughter.
And my beautiful wife Jo for making me happier than I ever deserved to be.
Finally, the book
