papers. A poorly decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner, a few strands of tinsel clung to the fake fireplace.
Lauler tut-tutted at the mess.
“Stay there,” Lennon told him.
He walked to the kitchenette, followed by Connolly. The hob looked like it had never been used, but crumbs dusted the toaster, and spilled water pooled around the kettle. A drawer stood open. A bundle of black plastic bin bags lay by the sink, a roll of adhesive tape beside them.
“Shit,” Lennon said.
“What?” Connolly asked. He looked at the items, followed Lennon’s thoughts, and said, “Ah.”
Lennon opened more drawers, all of them empty, except for one. There, he found a brown envelope containing several hundred pounds in cash and an employment contract.
And a passport.
He lifted it from the drawer. The green cover said LIETUVOS RESPUBLIKA, the Republic of Lithuania. He had seen others like it. This was an older passport, not bearing the burgundy cover now required by European law, and not biometric as all new passports were. He opened it to the data page.
Issued in 2005, it said, to Niele Gimbutiené, born in 1988. He looked at the image. A pretty, young woman, blonde hair, fine features. He flicked through the rest of the pages, searching for immigration stamps. There were none. It had never travelled outside the European Union.
“This might be the girl they were keeping here,” Lennon said. He held the passport up for Connolly to see.
“A prostitute?” Lauler asked from the doorway.
“Why else would they keep a place like this?”
“I can assure you,” Lauler said, “the agency has no knowledge of any illegal—”
“So where is she now?” Connolly asked.
Lennon didn’t answer. He examined the employment contract next. It bore a logo saying EUROPEAN PEOPLE MANAGEMENT . Each paragraph was printed in three languages: English, French, and what Lennon assumed to be Lithuanian. It bore two signatures, one resembling that on the passport, the other a name Lennon couldn’t make out. It listed a Brussels address as the company’s head office.
He returned the contract to the envelope, but tucked the passport into his pocket.
“Excuse me,” Lauler called.
Lennon stepped out of the kitchenette and looked closer at the living area’s wooden laminate flooring. Lauler went to move from the doorway, but Lennon held his hand up.
“I said stay there,” he said.
“Listen, you can’t take a tenant’s property from—”
“I need the photograph,” Lennon said. “It’ll be returned along with everything else we gather.”
“But—”
“Shut up,” Lennon said.
He let his gaze wander the floor until he found it. There, a red streak, running away from one of the doors. Lennon pointed.
“I see it,” Connolly said.
“See what?” Lauler asked.
Lennon said, “Sergeant, can you please show Mr. Lauler outside?”
The officer from C District took Lauler’s arm and guided him to the corridor.
Lennon walked to the door, watching where he put his feet, and opened it. The metal smell, insistent, pushed him back a step. Beneath it lay something not quite rotten, something that would be foul before too long.
Connolly coughed. “Is that … ?”
“Yes,” Lennon said.
He moved into the room, his shoes clicking on the linoleum-covered floor, his breath shallow. The dark pool spread beyond the bed, touching the far wall. It had thickened in the hours since the blood had spilled. What appeared to be vomit had splashed nearby. Red footprints wandered around the room, gathered in a huddle by the pile of stained sheets where they’d cleaned their shoes. A track like a long brushstroke arced toward the foot of the bed.
“Jesus,” Connolly said. “So Tomas Strazdas was killed here, and whoever did it took Sam Mawhinney and the foreign fella to the other side of the city?”
“Maybe,” Lennon said. “Or maybe Sam and the foreigner killed Tomas, and someone else took exception to that and held them to
Lauler tut-tutted at the mess.
“Stay there,” Lennon told him.
He walked to the kitchenette, followed by Connolly. The hob looked like it had never been used, but crumbs dusted the toaster, and spilled water pooled around the kettle. A drawer stood open. A bundle of black plastic bin bags lay by the sink, a roll of adhesive tape beside them.
“Shit,” Lennon said.
“What?” Connolly asked. He looked at the items, followed Lennon’s thoughts, and said, “Ah.”
Lennon opened more drawers, all of them empty, except for one. There, he found a brown envelope containing several hundred pounds in cash and an employment contract.
And a passport.
He lifted it from the drawer. The green cover said LIETUVOS RESPUBLIKA, the Republic of Lithuania. He had seen others like it. This was an older passport, not bearing the burgundy cover now required by European law, and not biometric as all new passports were. He opened it to the data page.
Issued in 2005, it said, to Niele Gimbutiené, born in 1988. He looked at the image. A pretty, young woman, blonde hair, fine features. He flicked through the rest of the pages, searching for immigration stamps. There were none. It had never travelled outside the European Union.
“This might be the girl they were keeping here,” Lennon said. He held the passport up for Connolly to see.
“A prostitute?” Lauler asked from the doorway.
“Why else would they keep a place like this?”
“I can assure you,” Lauler said, “the agency has no knowledge of any illegal—”
“So where is she now?” Connolly asked.
Lennon didn’t answer. He examined the employment contract next. It bore a logo saying EUROPEAN PEOPLE MANAGEMENT . Each paragraph was printed in three languages: English, French, and what Lennon assumed to be Lithuanian. It bore two signatures, one resembling that on the passport, the other a name Lennon couldn’t make out. It listed a Brussels address as the company’s head office.
He returned the contract to the envelope, but tucked the passport into his pocket.
“Excuse me,” Lauler called.
Lennon stepped out of the kitchenette and looked closer at the living area’s wooden laminate flooring. Lauler went to move from the doorway, but Lennon held his hand up.
“I said stay there,” he said.
“Listen, you can’t take a tenant’s property from—”
“I need the photograph,” Lennon said. “It’ll be returned along with everything else we gather.”
“But—”
“Shut up,” Lennon said.
He let his gaze wander the floor until he found it. There, a red streak, running away from one of the doors. Lennon pointed.
“I see it,” Connolly said.
“See what?” Lauler asked.
Lennon said, “Sergeant, can you please show Mr. Lauler outside?”
The officer from C District took Lauler’s arm and guided him to the corridor.
Lennon walked to the door, watching where he put his feet, and opened it. The metal smell, insistent, pushed him back a step. Beneath it lay something not quite rotten, something that would be foul before too long.
Connolly coughed. “Is that … ?”
“Yes,” Lennon said.
He moved into the room, his shoes clicking on the linoleum-covered floor, his breath shallow. The dark pool spread beyond the bed, touching the far wall. It had thickened in the hours since the blood had spilled. What appeared to be vomit had splashed nearby. Red footprints wandered around the room, gathered in a huddle by the pile of stained sheets where they’d cleaned their shoes. A track like a long brushstroke arced toward the foot of the bed.
“Jesus,” Connolly said. “So Tomas Strazdas was killed here, and whoever did it took Sam Mawhinney and the foreign fella to the other side of the city?”
“Maybe,” Lennon said. “Or maybe Sam and the foreigner killed Tomas, and someone else took exception to that and held them to
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