Where the Devil Can't Go

by Anya Lipska

  Nowak turned back to Janusz. “I’m afraid that the body you and your friend repatriated to Poland was not actually Olek Kamarewski, who lies forever in the foundations of an East End apartment block, but some unfortunate lowlife who displeased Radomil.” He put an imaginary gun under his chin and pulled the trigger, pulling a grimace at the thought of such brutality.

  Bastards. He and Oskar had helped to dispose of a murder victim, their 1600 kilometre journey filmed and documented on databases at four European borders.

  “So if I cause any trouble, you tip off the police, the body gets exhumed and Oskar and I get charged with murder,” said Janusz flatly.

  Just then Radomil came back in the room, half-carrying, half-walking a slender zombie-like figure – Weronika, her wrists bound before her with plastic ties. As they got closer to the window, Janusz could see her mouth was reddened, swollen, her eyes above those angled cheekbones were half-shut and unfocussed and judging by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her breathing was fast and shallow. Kurwa mac! What had that fucking crazy done to her?

  Nowak picked up the jacket he’d left on the table and slipped it on. The stocky little bald man in his cheap blue windcheater looked for all the world like one of the old retired guys you saw fishing off the harbour wall in Gdansk, thought Janusz. Nowak nodded to Radomil. “I’ll leave you to finish up here,” he said in a businesslike tone. “But don’t hang around too long.” He waved a hand at Janusz, “You can leave Pan Kiszka to untie the girl.” Radomil nodded.

  “Goodbye, Janusz,” said Nowak. “I am sorry we had to meet in such circumstances.” He turned and with a cheery wave over his head, he was gone.

  Radomil was still holding Weronika upright against his body, one thick arm around her, beneath her breasts, her long pale hair brushing his forearm intimately. He hefted her upright and, using his free hand, beckoned casually to Janusz. But before he could get to his feet, Radomil jerked his chin out once, and Janusz felt a muscular arm lock itself round his throat. Mother of God! He dug his fingers into the forearm crushing his windpipe, and flung his bottom half around in a bid to free himself, sending the chair skidding from side to side. The Ukrainian cursed in his ear, but managed to maintain his grip. As Janusz fought for breath, he was aware of the distant whine of the lift motor as Nowak descended to ground level, followed, a few seconds later, by the clank of the lift gate, then silence.

  Radomil grinned: the dog’s master had departed. Keeping his eyes fixed on the struggling figure of Janusz, he picked Weronika up and hoisted her effortlessly onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift – Janusz heard a small gasp as she exhaled – and strode out onto the balcony. He could barely move his head but by straining right, he could just see what was happening. Radomil paused and, looking back at Janusz, tipped Weronika over the rail like a bag of cement.

  At that moment, Janusz’s entire perception seemed to shift, so that colours became intense, saturated... and every noise sounded loud and jarring, like he was locked inside one of those hip hop promos. Despite his struggle for breath, his brain became hyper-alert, too, and as he heard the splash four storeys below, which boomed like a distant explosion, he was conscious of a clock starting up in his head. She would have taken a big breath in, reflexively, at the shock of finding herself airborne, he calculated, which gave her two, probably three minutes before she started to drown, if she didn’t panic and exhale on entering the water, that is. He couldn’t see her being able to keep her head much above water – not with her wrists bound. As the clock’s big digital display started its inexorable downward tick – 178, 177, 176 seconds, he felt an almost imperceptible lessening of the pressure on his throat as the Ukrainian shifted, trying to get a better grip, and drew a lungful of breath, felt the oxygen reaching his muscles.

  The struggle must have edged his chair a few inches closer to the cutting table, because now he felt one of his lashing feet hit one of its solid oak legs. In an instant he had the flats of both size tens up on the table’s lip and, with a grunt, thrust with all his strength, propelling the chair backwards on its castors with explosive force. He was rewarded by the sudden disappearance of the weight crushing his throat, and a jarring, discordant crash as the Ukrainian smashed into the windows behind. 167 seconds.

  As he hurled himself through the open door he caught a glimpse of Radomil’s face, twisted with surprise, whipping round from the balcony rail. Janusz shoulder-charged him, knocking the fucker off balance, followed up with a roundhouse punch that landed right in the middle of his face. He went down and Janusz dropped his whole weight on top of him, producing a satisfying sound – the meaty snap of a rib breaking that was not his own. Feeling Radomil’s right hand scrabbling beneath him, he lifted himself enough to slam an elbow down on the fucker’s wrist, sending the gun skittering noisily off to the balcony’s far end. He smashed Radomil’s head onto the ironwork balcony floor once, twice, three times, till the eyelids drooped, then, with 147 seconds showing on his mental clock, decided he didn’t have time to finish the task, however enjoyable.

  Hauling himself himself upright, he leaned over the balcony to scan the cappuccino-coloured waters of Leamouth, pitted with rain, and saw a pale head bob up, a little way downstream, maybe fifty metres from where the river entered the Thames and hit serious current. He could see that the entire riverside façade of the warehouse was clad with a network of scaffolding which came right up to the balcony, and for a moment, he considered using it to shimmy down, before dismissing the idea. No, there was only one way to get into the water quickly enough.

  120 seconds. As a jet out of City airport roared overhead he clambered onto the railing and perching on the edge, calculated the drop – twenty-odd metres. Then, pinching his nose firmly, he propelled himself forward. His final thought: This is the last time I take a job from a priest.

  He was surprised how quickly he hit the surface, and by the violence of the impact, which was like running into a bus doing 50kph. Then there was the way the icy water thrust itself shockingly into every orifice. For a horrible moment it felt as though he would keep plummeting down forever, but then suddenly he was shooting back up, buoyed by the three or four litres of air he’d stored in his lungs. As he broke the surface, he spun himself round toward the Thames, looking for Weronika, but couldn’t see anything through the chop of murky water. He struggled out of his trench coat, levered off his shoes, registered that the impact with the water had damaged his ankle joints, and struck out, doing a rough and ready crawl. 60 seconds.

  Halfway to the spot where he reckoned he’d last seen her, he glanced back up at the balcony, and met a sight that made him waste breath on a stream of curses – Radomil was getting up from the deck. Still slow and shaky, but how long would that last? He doubled up his stroke, feeling his chest complain at the effort, and then, as a khaki wavelet broke before him, he saw the back of a water-darkened blonde head bob lazily above the water. She wasn’t moving. Perhaps she’d had insufficient air in her lungs. Or maybe she’d been knocked out by the impact. Let her be alive.

  Another glance back to the balcony. Radomil was on his feet now, back at the rail, weaving a bit, but with the gun back in his hand – he looked like a spider in the middle of the web of scaffolding. Why in God’s name hadn’t he finished the fucker off when he’d had the chance! He couldn’t remember the range and accuracy of a CZ 75 but he was pretty sure that hitting a human-size target at fifty metres would be child’s play.

  As he got closer to Weronika, an eddy turned her round towards him: her face was white as skimmed milk, but the eyes were half-open, lips moving. Then he saw her head start to droop forward and the eyes to close. He had a sudden powerful flashback: Iza at the demo, her white face, losing the will to live, leaving him. A wave enveloped Weronika’s face and she sank beneath the surface with a sickening finality. Mother of God, no. Fixing his gaze on the spot, he kicked out wildly, ignoring the knifing pains in his ankles. Seeing no sign of her, he sucked in a breath and dived down, using
his right arm to pull himself underwater, and sweeping his left around in a semi-circle in the hope of making contact. He opened one eye experimentally – the visibility was nil.

  He came up, praying she’d surfaced nearby, and trod water for a couple of seconds. Zero. Down again, scoping out in circles from where she’d disappeared, going with the pull of the current. His hand hit slimy reed, it must be shallower than he thought. Not reed, idiota – hair! He grabbed for it again, caught a handful, and used his right hand to pull for the surface, the load coming surprisingly easily.

  He drew a huge gulp of air, and turned the girl toward him. Her eyes were shut, her expression peaceful. Her mouth was rounded, childlike – like Iza’s.

  He slapped her face – a little water dribbled from her mouth, but otherwise it was like striking a wax sculpture. No, not again, please God. Then someone hurled a pebble into the water not two metres away. The mosquito whine that trailed it, made him whip around to look up at the warehouse – where he found Radomil, both elbows leant on the balcony to steady his aim, gun pointed straight at them. Even concussed, he’d find his range soon enough. Casting desperately around, Janusz found the channel lined by vertical brick walls, wet, black, and tall as a double-decker bus – no way out. Then, twenty metres away, he spotted an old iron buoy, just before Leamouth entered the Thames. He struck out for it one-handed.

  “Hold on Nika, hold on Nika,” he said under his breath as they inched toward the buoy. As he reached it, he was greeted by a strident clang! The psychol was getting his eye in. He started to haul Nika’s dead weight around the side, to get out of the line of fire, and then, glancing up, he saw a mystifying vision. Radomil was bending to gaze along the barrel of his gun for another shot, but he was no longer alone on the balcony – a dwarf in a hooded black cape had materialized beside him. As Janusz stared, the figure raised a silvery rectangle high into the air, and smashed it over Radomil’s head. The fucker folded like a broken deck chair.

  Janusz grabbed a heavy nylon rope trailing from the buoy’s side and looped it around his body to keep himself afloat. Turning Nika’s body around, he set her back against him, and cupping her chin to keep her face clear of the river, used his arms like bellows to force the water out of her lungs. Squeeze, squeeze. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t feel any sign of life. Squeeze, squeeze. Keeping up the rhythm, he craned his head around so he could see her profile, and watched a tiny dribble leave her lips, before the flow stopped altogether. She remained as still and beautiful as a statue on a grave. No, Mother of God, no. He turned her round and pinching her nostrils, locked his mouth onto hers, and blew gently, remembering a health and safety course back when he and Oskar built motorway bridges. One elephant, two elephant, three elephant. Pause. One elephant, two elephant, three elephant. Pause. Nothing. He locked his mouth on hers again, but with a dragging, draining sense of hopelessness. Suddenly a jet of coppery-tasting water shot into his mouth, followed by a plosive cough. He turned her to face him, holding her head clear of the water as the fit of coughing convulsed her body and, finally, saw her eyes open, blue shot with grey, the colour of pebbles on a Baltic beach, and meet his for a moment. Then they closed again.

  “Kiszka!” For a moment, he thought the voice shouting his name was in his head, but then it came again. “Kiszka!” He inched back around the buoy and looked up at the balcony. Now that the dwarf had taken off its hood, he could see it had the blonde head of the girl detektyw. He felt no curiosity, only relief to see that she was talking into a radio.

  THIRTY

  It took eleven minutes for the River Police Targa to speed Janusz, and the semi-conscious Weronika, upstream to London Bridge, where paramedics from Guy’s Hospital, a stone’s throw from the riverside, were standing by.

  They wheeled her through A&E into a recovery room, and as nurses hooked her up to monitors and stuck an electronic temperature probe in her armpit, a doctor beckoned to Janusz, who was hovering just outside the open door. He hobbled over on the crutches they’d given him, ungainly as a pantomime horse.

  “The police say they think she OD-ed on an ecstasy variant?” the doctor asked, squinting up at the monitor on the wall to which the temperature probe was attached.

  “Yes, it’s called PMA,” said Janusz.

  The doctor leaned over and ripped off the thermal blanket she’d been wrapped in. “Drug-induced hyperthermia,” he told one of the nurses, followed by a stream of incomprehensible medical jargon in which ‘ice water baths’ and ‘aggressive hydration’ were the only words Janusz understood.

  “Her temperature’s almost 40 degrees,” he told Janusz, scanning his face to see if he knew what that meant.

  He did.

  “All we can do is get her temperature down and maintain blood pressure. If we can head off renal failure, she’s got a good chance.”

  Janusz leaned against the wall. The thought of her dying, now, was more than he could bear.

  “I tell you something,” said the doc, trying to cheer him up. “If she hadn’t been immersed in that freezing water, I doubt we could do anything for her.”

  After hanging around in A&E for another hour, a second medic told Janusz that the impact with the water had broken his right ankle and sprained the left. With one leg strapped up and the other encased in plaster to the knee, he took the lift up to the ITU to see how Weronika was doing. At the door, a nurse looked him up and down and, taking pity on the big man with the anxious eyes, agreed to let him sit by her bed for a while.

  Weronika was sedated and unconscious, but he decided he could discern a reassuring trace of colour in those sculpted cheeks, and her fingernails had lost the bruised colour they’d had when the river cops had pulled her out of his arms and into the boat. The funny thing was, now he could look at her properly for the first time, he couldn’t for the life of him work out why she had ever reminded him of Iza. Weronika had the sharply planed, other-worldly beauty of a model, nothing like Iza’s rounded, soft prettiness.

  As he emerged from ITU, Janusz turned his mobile back on and found he’d got a text from DC Natalie Kershaw. She was in the hospital and wanted to see him. They met in the hospital’s staff canteen, on the eleventh floor. As he made his way toward where she sat, next to the window, still struggling with the crutches, she looked up and they shared a rueful grin.

  He lowered himself into the seat she pulled out for him. “We make quite a pair,” he said, nodding at the flesh-coloured strapping that reached from her wrist to her elbow. “Did that bastard hurt you?” He recalled her whacking Radomil over the head with what he realised now must have been one of the flight cases.

  “No, no – he didn’t come round till after back-up arrived,” she said, setting her coffee cup back in its saucer awkwardly with her left hand. “I tore a tendon, climbing the scaffolding.”

  He visualised the high sides of the warehouse, the web of slippery steel. The girl really was a psychol.

  Studying Janusz’s outfit – garishly-patterned jumper and cord trousers, presumably out of the hospital’s emergency clothing store, Kershaw reflected that the man she had once thought so dangerous now looked about as fearsome as a favourite uncle.

  She pushed a cup of coffee towards him, black and insanely strong, just as he liked it, and fixed him with a look. “So,” she said. “Before we ask you in for an official interview, any chance of you telling me what the hell has been going on?”

  Beyond the window the sun had come out, transforming the ribbon of river below into liquid jade. Janusz took a gulp of coffee, but he still couldn’t wash away the metallic tang of river water. “You’ve got the CCTV and forensics to prove that this... Radomil guy murdered Justyna, right?” he said, flexing his fingers so the joints popped.

  “Yes,” she allowed. “But I’ve got no idea why he killed her.” She’d used the passport he’d been carrying to get the Polish police to fax over a lengthy rap sheet. Radomil Janowiak was a career gangster in the synthetic drug trade, who had also narrowly escaped
conviction for the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl in Warsaw the previous year, after the girl unaccountably changed her story.

  He fiddled with the spoon in his saucer. “And I’m guessing you found another of his victims, in that warehouse?”

  “Pawel Adamski? What was left of him, yes.” She blinked, trying to clear the image. “On the floor of the men’s toilets.” Adamski’s passport had been lying in a pool of half-congealed blood under a urinal.

  “He’ll have Radomil’s DNA all over him,” said Janusz. The guy wasn’t the kind to delegate the violence – he enjoyed it too much.

  He fell silent. Pawel’s death would come as a devastating blow to Weronika, if she survived the PMA overdose. He remembered the story Pawel had mentioned, about the children who woke the dragon. If only the dumb burak had stopped blackmailing Zamorski when he fell for his daughter, maybe the two of them might have escaped, started a new life somewhere.

  “As for the religious girl, Elzbieta, you’ve got nothing to prove he murdered her, but I can’t help you with that,” he shot her a look from under raised eyebrows.

  She shrugged. It was obvious where he was going with this.

  He stretched his plastered leg out, wincing. “The way I see it, darling,” he said, “you’ve got the guy nailed for two murders and an illegal drug factory. Sure, I’ll make a statement about how he tried to kill Weronika, too. But I can’t see what else you need from me.”

  Kershaw shifted in her seat. “What was Adamski’s role in all this? And the girl’s?”

  Ever since the police boat plucked him out of the water, Janusz had been wondering whether to tell the girl about Konstanty Nowak and Zamorski. But what solid evidence did he have against either of them, when all was said and done? Ela and Pawel, the only two people who could testify to Zamorski’s crimes, were both dead. And the SB document that could prove the entire conspiracy was in the hands of Nowak, who would dangle it over the head of his creature, the president, for the rest of his political life.