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she drew close to the car, she saw its nose had butted up against a junction box at the base of the light. Its rear passenger-side door looked like it had not quite found home. Was it open? Maybe she could slip inside, get out of the cold for a little while.
    It was an old car, boxy and dented. The kind she used to see back home in her village, held together with rust and hope. Galya reached for the handle. Condensation obscured the interior. She swallowed, pulled, and stepped back.
    A man lay snoring on the backseat, curled in a fetal position, a tall bottle clasped to his chest. Disturbed by the chill draft, he snorted and pulled a coat up to his nose. The stale smell of alcohol borne on warm air drifted from the car.
    Galya guessed this man had emerged from the bar with the intention of driving home, and got no further than this. Defeated by his own stupor, he had climbed into the back to sleep it off. Short in stature as he was, he hadn’t needed to draw his legs up too much.
    And he had small feet.
    Galya regarded his trainers. Cheap, even a girl from Ukraine could tell. But better than raw bare feet on this icy ground. She took a breath, held it, and gripped one of the laces between her forefinger and thumb. It came loose with a gentle pull. She grabbed the heel and worked it free.
    The man gasped and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” he said, his words sodden with sleep and drink.
    Galya froze.
    He did not open his eyes. Soon, his snoring resumed.
    Galya exhaled. She undid the other lace and dislodged the remaining shoe.
    The man’s eyes opened, focused on nothing. “Aye, aye, I’m coming, hold your horses.”
    Again, he sank back into his slumber.
    Galya slipped the shoes onto her feet, ignoring the odor from his socks. They were at least two sizes too big, but they would do. She flexed her toes in the sweaty warmth.
    A glint caught her attention. There, in the footwell, a mobile phone and some loose coins. She leaned in and across the drunk. The bitter smell of him seeped in through her nose and mouth. The coins rattled against the phone as she scooped them up. The man’s eyes opened again, now staring directly into hers.
    “Sure it’s early yet,” he said.
    “Yes,” Galya said in English. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

9
    H ERKUS HAD CALLED at half a dozen bars that Tomas frequented. No one had seen Tomas or Darius, they said, and he believed them. People seldom lied to Herkus, even if they didn’t know who he worked for. He had one of those faces that inspired truth-telling. Only the very bravest, or most stupid, would consider lying. There were few brave men in the bars he had trawled over the last two hours, but plenty of them were stupid. Even so, he was satisfied they had been sincere when they told him Tomas had not darkened their doors that night.
    With a heavy heart, Herkus drove to the last bar he could think of. This time of night, the doors would be closed, but if Tomas and Darius were in the mood for drinking, then the opening hours would be flexible.
    He parked the Mercedes on Holywood High Street, directly opposite the Black Stove Bar & Grill. At first glance, the Black Stove seemed like an upmarket place in a well-to-do part of Greater Belfast. And to many a customer, it was exactly that, but its owner was far from respectable. Not that he was a criminal, at least not in the sense that Herkus understood. He was not a bad man, as such. Clifford Collins merely had certain tastes that only women of a particular profession could satisfy. So, now and again, Clifford played host to Tomas. If Clifford hinted that he might have liked payment for the food or drink served to Tomas and his friends, then he would be quietly reminded that Tomas would settle his bill by simply not calling Clifford’s wife and telling her the specifics of her husband’s more exotic pastimes.
    Herkus crossed the street. The heavy outer door stood open. He tried the glass-paneled inner door, but it was locked. A