Where the Devil Can't Go

by Anya Lipska

  “Gaz! How’s life on the frontline?”

  Gary was a few years older than her – well into his thirties by now – and still a PC. He had been her minder when she had first gone on the beat as a probie, but they became proper mates after a memorable evening when they got called to a pub fight between football hoolies. West Ham had just thrashed old enemies Millwall at Upton Park, so it was the kind of ruck that could easily have become a riot. She and Gary could hardly nick them all: instead, they ID-ed the ringleaders and pulled them out, putting the lid on it without even getting their sticks out. Back at the station, Gary had told anyone who’d listen that Kershaw had thrown herself into the fray “just like a geezer”.

  “All the other rooms like this?” she asked, after they’d done a bit of catching up.

  “Yep. Third one this month,” said Gary, shaking his head. “You missed the best bit, though.”

  Apparently, when he’d arrived on scene, he’d found a bunch of locals having an impromptu party outside the burning house.

  “It was quite a sight – there was a boom box blaring, they were drinking beer, dancing around in the smoke, everyone getting off their face on the free ganja,” said Gary, shaking his head, grinning. “It was like Notting Hill fucking Carnival.”

  Kershaw smiled but her eyes were uneasy. Gary was probably the least racist cop she’d ever met, but she hoped he watched himself in front of the Guvnors. That sort of chat could get you into big trouble these days.

  “Down to us to do the clear-up, I suppose?” she asked.

  “Got it in one, Detective,” he grinned.

  Kershaw spent the next few hours cursing the Sarge for dumping this nightmare job in her lap. The cheeky slags who ran the factory had powered it for free, running a cable from the lamppost beside their garden wall, so she had to call out the Electricity Board to disconnect the power and make the place safe. She took half a dozen statements from the neighbours (total waste of time, of course, but she’d still have type them up) – and the worst job was still to come. Kershaw, Gary, and one probie would have to bag and label every single one of the 1000-plus plants and load them onto a lorry for the evidence store.

  And it was all a load of old bollocks, anyway. It was only ever the ‘gardeners’ at the bottom of the dope pyramid, who got nicked – never the big fish.

  As she sat in the car finishing her fag Gary came over and, leaning down to the open driver’s door, handed her a clear plastic parcel – a Met-issue protective suit and gloves. “Showtime,” he said, grinning.

  “Sadist,” she muttered. Dropping her fag in the gutter, she ground it under her heel. Then the radio squawked into life.

  “Go ahead, Charlie 1,” she said pressing the talk button.

  “At the request of DS Bacon, please attend the Waveney Thameside Hotel, Wapping,” said the operator. “Report of a Sus X11. He will join you at the scene.”

  Sus X11 was control room code for a suspicious death. Game on, thought Kershaw.

  NINE

  The engine of the Transit van shrieked as Oskar thrust it into second without any perceptible reduction in speed, and accelerated around a sharp bend. Janusz felt his right leg shoot out to slam on an imaginary brake – a movement that didn’t escape Oskar, of course: “It’s like driving a babcia to church!” he chuckled. They screeched to a halt at a red light, and Oskar reached behind him, producing a six-pack of Tyskie, and popped the ring-pull on one with a hiss. “Have a beer, mate, maybe it will help you grow a bigger pair of jaja!”

  “Mother of God, Oskar! We can’t turn up smelling of beer – I want the girl to trust us.”

  Waving away the objection, Oskar took a heroic swallow.

  “A man is not a cactus, he has to drink. Anyway,” he added, pulling a tube from his overall pocket with a flourish, “I bought a packet of minty sweets.” He tapped his forehead, “Always thinking one step ahead, Janek, always one step ahead.”

  The two mates were in one of Oskar’s rust-buckets, heading northeast on the A12, bound for Adamski and Weronika’s address deep in the Essex countryside. Janusz had never heard of Willowbridge, hadn’t even realised how far out of town it was till he’d looked at a map.

  He tried to suppress the niggle of guilt he was feeling for not calling Pani Tosik with the news. The old girl had been emphatic that all she wanted was for him to find out Weronika’s address so that she could forward her poor, frantic Mama’s letter. But the more he learned about this lowlife Pawel Adamski, the more he felt some responsibility for the girl. OK, he couldn’t force her to come back, but he could give her some fatherly advice, and maybe she really was having second thoughts by now.

  So he had talked Oskar – who was on night shifts – into giving him a lift, partly to avoid a marathon journey by train and taxi, but also because he might need reinforcements. Adamski was bound to cut up rough if Weronika did agree to come back to London, and women loved Oskar. He could put the girl at ease, get her into the van while Janusz had a chat with Adamski.

  There was the blast of a horn from the car behind them – the lights had changed. They lurched forward, Oskar steering with his left hand so he could use the right to make flamboyant gestures of abuse in the rear-view mirror. Janusz rolled his eyes. At this rate, they’d be lucky to reach Willowbridge without getting shot by some Essex gangster.

  “After one hundred metres, turn left,” said a woman’s voice from the box on the dashboard.

  “No fucking way should we be going left!” complained Oskar. “This satnav is dogshit! I’ll kill that gypsy who sold it me.”

  “Maybe you just don’t like a woman telling you what to do,” said Janusz, grinning. He’d begun the day in melancholic mood, returning over and over again to the row with Kasia, wondering if the affair really was finished. He kept visualising her: the aquiline nose and half-smile, that air of beguiling inscrutability. But ten minutes in Oskar’s company had pushed her out of his thoughts, made him feel alive again. Who knew what women wanted – you could waste a lifetime trying to work it out.

  “Anyway,” said Oskar. “You said you had a photo of this chick we’re looking for?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows like a pantomime villain.

  Janusz dug out the shot of Weronika in her fur coat that Pani Tosik had given him.

  “Ale laska!” Oskar exclaimed, “I’d like to rattle her bones.”

  Five minutes later, they tore past a sign that said they were entering Willowbridge, and Janusz managed to persuade Oskar to slow down. The place had a thatched pub, a duck pond, and half-timbered cottages clustered round a green. OK, the pub did have a huge awning advertising Sky football, but that aside, it was the kind of English village he recognised from black and white movies shown in Poland when he was young. Janusz was half-expecting to find a grotty block of flats tucked around a corner, but instead, Adamski’s address turned out to be a substantial cottage with a pretty garden bordered by a yew hedge and an oak porch silvered grey by the centuries. As they pulled up a discreet distance away, Oskar whistled, rubbing his fingers together. “Your boy is loaded, huh?”

  There was no sign of Adamski’s BMW outside, and after watching the house for ten minutes or so, Janusz concluded there was nobody at home.

  “What now?” asked Oskar, an operatic yawn splitting his face – he’d come straight from his ten-hour shift. “They could be gone all day.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to bring the overalls and the tools,” said Janusz. “I’m going to get inside – check the place out.” He had some vague idea of finding evidence of drugs, using them as a lever against Adamski when he did turn up.

  Oskar rubbed his hands with glee. “Tak! I always wanted to try some of this ‘James Bond’ shit you get up to.”

  “It’s better if I do this on my own, Oskar. Gosia would never forgive me if I got you arrested.”

  “Kurwa mac! Janek,” Oskar was already levering his stocky little frame out the driving seat, “You’re not gonna leave me sitting in the van like a fucking
little kid.”

  Sighing, Janusz started to pull on his overalls. A few minutes later, they were strolling up the front path, toting a toolbox and ladder, just like a pair of workmen on a routine job. Janusz rang the bell, which sounded horribly strident in the countryside hush, and waited. Nothing.

  Leaving Oskar out front on guard duty, he headed round the back. The place had a huge garden – he couldn’t even make out where it ended – and three big kazstan trees screened the rear of the house. At ground level, the windows and French doors were tightly closed, but on the first floor, Janusz found what he’d been looking for: a bathroom skylight, open a crack.

  After collecting Oskar, Janusz leaned the ladder up against the back wall. “Just keep an eye out while I go in, okay?” Oskar nodded. “If anyone comes, I’ll say I’m doing some work,” he produced a wood block wrapped in sanding paper, “prepping the woodwork for painting.” He beamed at the brilliance of his ploy.

  When he reached the top of the ladder, Janusz checked the lie of the land. Perfect: the chestnut trees, fifteen or twenty metres tall, kept the cottage hidden from any nosy neighbours. Thirty seconds later, he had the casement window open and was just extending his left leg onto the sill when a sudden cramp shot through his thigh. Cursing, he rubbed the ridge of muscle, waiting for the pain to subside before he would trust his weight to it. Cat burglary was a young man’s game.

  Once inside, Janusz undid the top button of his overall – the place was stifling hot – and glanced around. As well as a fancy roll-top bath, there was a shower that came straight out of the ceiling, and the polished limestone lining the walls must have cost fifty or sixty quid a metre.

  Venturing downstairs he entered the living room, ducking his head to avoid the blackened beams, and took in the elegant decoration, the two-metre wide state-of-the-art plasma screen and the pricey-looking furniture. Justyna had been right: Adamski must have deep pockets to rent a place like this. But it was a chlew, a pigsty. Magazines, papers, and the cushions from the sofa were strewn about the place. The drawers of an antique sideboard were hanging open, and he noticed a faint line of dirt on the wall, suggesting it had been pulled out from its usual spot.

  The dining room was in a similar state. An antique-looking bureau had been emptied and its contents piled on the floor, the wood on one of the drawers splintered as though it had been forced open. Janusz wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve – the heat was coming off the radiators in waves, and a putrid stink hung in the air. He was starting to feel uneasy. It looked like a gang of burglars had been through the place - but how could they have overlooked the brand new Wii, still in its packaging, that stood against the wall? Leafing through the pile of papers on the floor, he found guarantees for the plasma screen and a Bose hi-fi, plus Ocado receipts, takeaway menus: the usual stuff. He sighed – what had he expected to find – invoices for Ekstasa shipments?

  Turning to go, he knocked a London A to Z off the bureau, and a piece of paper fluttered from its pages onto the oak floorboards. It bore the words ‘Bannister, 87 Porto Belo’, scrawled in a childlike hand. Tucking it away Janusz continued his tour.

  In the L-shaped kitchen diner, the cupboard doors stood ajar, contents spread across the worktop, and the refrigerator door hung open. Janusz crooked his arm over his nose – the smell was overpowering, sickening in here. He made his way cautiously toward the dining area at the bottom of the L, which seemed to be the source of the stench. A trickle of sweat ran over his collarbone and he had to fight down a sudden gust of fear at what he might be about to find.

  As he approached the dining table, on which there stood a bulging white carrier bag, the stink grew more intense. With his heart banging uncomfortably against his chest wall, he craned to peer inside the bag - and blew out a noisy breath. It held two bottles of lager and half a dozen tinfoil takeaway boxes, apparently unopened. As he peeled the lid from one, the foul stench made him gag. Chicken chow mein. For a surreal moment, he thought the yellow noodles had come alive, before realising the food was seething with maggots.

  He folded the carrier bag back over the horrible sight and returned to the open fridge. Clasping a hand round a bottle of milk on the top shelf, he found it cool to the touch and moist with condensation.

  Janusz gulped some cold water straight from the tap and leaned against the worktop to think. The takeaway meal Pawel and Weronika had ordered but never got round to eating was clearly several days old. Whoever opened the fridge had been here much more recently, within the last few hours. There was one obvious conclusion. Unless Weronika was happy to leave rotting food lying around, which he found hard to believe of a Polish girl, the couple had left days ago and hadn’t been back. But earlier today, somebody had taken the place apart, clearly searching for something.

  Catching a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye he whipped round, only to find Oskar’s cherubic face at the window, grinning and making the all clear sign. Exasperated, he waved him away, and returned upstairs. In the couple’s bedroom, the chest of drawers was half empty. All that remained was some underwear, and a tube of zel antykoncepcyjny Weronika must have forgotten to take with her.

  More surprising was the couple’s choice of bedtime reading: on the bedside table lay a history of the Solidarity movement, a weighty, new-looking hardback, its cover emblazoned with a famous poster from the late Eighties. It showed a beaming Lech Walesa being borne aloft by triumphant supporters beneath the union’s famous red banner – the word Solidarnosc daubed in that optimistic, almost childlike, lettering. It was a famous image that celebrated the end of the Round Table talks, which had wrung the promise of elections from General Jaruzelski’s government.

  Walesa was crudely rendered, but at least that ugly mug couldn’t be anyone else. Of the faces clustered in the foreground Janusz recognised just two – Tadeusz Maziwiecki, later to become Prime Minister, and Edward Zamorski, the current presidential candidate. Compared to the portly middle-aged image of the election posters the young Zamorski looked improbably young and fresh-faced.

  Eccentric reading matter, thought Janusz, for Adamski the druggie, or Weronika, the immature teenager of Justyna’s description. Realising he’d forgotten, last night, to ask Justyna what Adamski looked like, he made a mental note to call her later. Still puzzling over the book, he strolled over to the built-in wardrobe that filled one wall, pulled open the door – and froze.

  Inside, on a padded hanger, hung the fur coat Weronika wore in the photo, the one Pani Tosik had said was from TK Maxx. Bullshit. He stroked the pale soft fur. He might not be an expert on the discount chain’s range but he was pretty sure it didn’t include finest quality Russian sable.

  If he needed any more evidence that Adamski was up to his chin in gowno, this was the clincher. Never mind the abandoned takeaway, whatever it was that made the lovebirds fly their coop a few days ago had been so urgent it had meant leaving behind a fur worth twenty grand. As for the people who ransacked the cottage, they’d shown a disturbing lack of interest in the valuables scattered about the place. No, it was Adamski they were after, and, finding him gone, they’d tossed the place – maybe for his drugs or money stash, maybe for a clue to where he was heading.

  Janusz cursed under his breath. This job had looked simple enough – find Weronika and try to persuade her to ditch the dodgy boyfriend, or at least let her Mama know she was okay. Now, it looked like the couple was on the run from a bunch of gangsterzy, probably in some dispute over drugs, which meant she was in serious danger.

  As he was closing the wardrobe door, he heard Oskar’s voice outside, speaking at top volume – obviously trying to alert him. Peeking around the edge of the curtain, his stomach lurched. A well-built guy in a waxed jacket stood below, his body language radiating suspicion, while Oskar, gesturing at the house with his sanding block, trotted out his cover story.

  It didn’t look good.

  Janusz ducked into the en suite bathroom, struggled out of the overalls, and stuck his head
under the tap. Shivering and with his heart booming unpleasantly, he plastered down his wet hair, pulled on a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and crossed himself, twice. Here goes, he thought, throwing open the window.

  “Can I help with anything?” he asked, in his best cut-glass accent, sending up fervent thanks for all those war movies his Mama had made him sit through to learn English.

  The guy looked up. “Ah! There is somebody at home,” he said in a confident voice. If he was flustered by this sudden appearance he didn’t show it. “I wanted to ensure this chap wasn’t up to anything – I spotted him from the right-of-way footpath,” he waved a hand at the garden’s boundary. Janusz cursed the inexplicable English laws that allowed any Tom, Dick or Harry free passage through a man’s back garden.

  “Well that’s very decent of you,” he drawled, baring his teeth in a grin. “But as you can see, he’s doing a spot of decorating for me. I do think it’s important not to let things slide, don’t you agree?” He almost chucked in a ‘what ho’, but stopped himself in time.

  “Indeed,” said the man, starting to step backwards in the beginnings of a dignified retreat. “Sorry to interrupt your shower. Can’t be too careful, though.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Janusz beamed, “have a nice day.” Have a nice day?

  The guy didn’t appear to notice the bum note. Nodding to Oskar, who – thank Christ – had kept a straight face during this performance – he went on his way, raising his walking stick in farewell. Halfway across the lawn a rangy Alsatian emerged from the shrubbery and loped along at his heels.

  Janusz towel-dried his hair roughly and pulled on his clothes. By the time he opened the front door, Oskar was already there.

  “Fucking brilliant!” he said, eyes bright with excitement, barging in before Janusz could stop him. “That guy was really grilling me till you turned up.”

  “Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” said Janusz as Oskar started nosing around the place. “I’ll grab the ladder, you get the tools.”