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“Bring him to me.”
The thin man fidgets nervously in the chair before me. I circle him, wondering how my Grace knows him. What circumstance led her to go to him for help? “Look, Mr. Morozov—”
Alek slams his hand hard onto the man’s bony shoulder, and he immediately closes his mouth and winces. “Do not address Mr. Morozov until he asks you to,” Alek barks.
I stop in front of him. “How do you know Grace Parker?”
“I don’t.” I glance at Alek, who hits the man around the head. “I swear it,” he yells, ducking to avoid another hit.
Alek produces the crumpled picture of Grace, and the man scans it. “Oh, yeah, I know her,” he says, nodding. “She came to me for a passport, right?” I don’t reply, waiting for him to spill everything he knows. “She paid cash. I don’t know what else you want me to say. These people come to me because they’re desperate, and she looked it. She was nervous as hell and jumpy.”
“Did she say where she planned to go?” asks Alek.
He shakes his head. “I never ask questions. She told me bad men were looking for her and she needed it urgently. She paid extra. Her name wasn’t Grace. At least, that’s not the name she gave me.”
“Go on,” I say.
“Lara Morozov.”
I almost smile. “Clever,” I mutter, because no one would be looking for a dead woman. Especially not me.
“I hear you aren’t as stupid as you look,” says Alek. “The word is, you track the passports you make.”
The man almost looks smug but doesn’t answer, which only pisses Alek off. He hits him for a second time. “Fuck,” the guy spits, shaking his head. “Yes. Yes, I track the fucking passports, okay. But you have to pay for that kind of information.” Alek goes to hit him again, but I place my hand on his shoulder and shake my head.
“Name your price,” I say.
Minutes later, I have an app on my mobile phone showing a map of Ireland and a flashing green light, telling me exactly where Grace is right now. I smile to myself, tucking my phone away in my pocket. “You want me to take care of him?” asks Alek, tipping his head in the direction of our passport guy.
“No,” I mutter. “Pay the man his money and send him on his way. He’s clever, and we could use his services in the future. We need to pay the old man a visit. Did you get his home address?”
Alek nods. “He never knows anything useful, though. Are you hoping he’s got something?”
I snigger. “No, we’re going to give her a reason to come home.”
Lenny doesn’t look surprised to see us standing in his kitchen when he opens the door. He places his work jacket on the back of the chair before rolling up his sleeves and grabbing the kettle. “Drink?” he asks.
“Sit down,” I say firmly.
He pulls out the stool at his kitchen table and takes a seat. “I haven’t seen or heard from her.”
“I’ve spoken to Grace,” I confirm.
He looks surprised. “Good. Is she okay?”
“You know she is because you’ve also spoken to her. Now, what were her words again?” I rub my chin before adding, “Stay away from Lenny. She knows we’ve been visiting you. How does she know that?”
He presses his lips into a firm line. “She called once, just to say she was fine. But she never told me where she was.”
“Because you asked her not to, no?”
“She’s my friend. I care for her. She’s been through a lot of shit. And it’s funny, because the last time I saw her, she was with Danny, yet there’s no sign of him at all, and then you guys show up looking for her . . . so, I’m wondering, what happened to him? And I bet my life you know. Maybe the police would be interested to hear why you’re so keen to find Grace, and why the hell she’s terrified, running for her life.”
I grin. “Never bet your life, Lenny.”
I give Alek the nod, and he places a plastic bag over the old man’s head, pulling it tight until there’s no air left and it clings to his face. He struggles, his legs kicking out desperately, his fingers trying to claw the tight plastic from around his neck. He eventually stills, giving in as his lungs run out of air, and his old, tired body gives up, slumping to one side.
I pull up the app on my mobile and stare at the flashing dot, indicating that Grace is now crossing the Atlantic Ocean. “She’s heading for France,” I mutter. “How fucking original. Have someone meet her from the boat. She should know the old man is dead. And then get us flights to France.”
