by Anya Lipska
‘Did you get the name of this Romanian?’
He heard Oskar fumbling with a bit of paper. ‘Barbu Romescu.’
‘You didn’t let Marek know this was anything to do with Jim?’
‘Of course not, Janek! I just dropped into the conversation that I’d seen this seksowna blonde girl getting into a fancy black 4X4 in Hoe Street. You know, man talk.’
‘Not bad. Maybe you’re not as bat-brained as you look.’
‘I was thinking,’ Oskar’s voice became conspiratorial, tinged with suppressed excitement, ‘I could park the van near the café, like I was doing deliveries, and when the Romanian comes out, tail him to his hideaway.’
Janusz grinned at the idea of Oskar and his old crock of a van with the squealing fan belt shadowing anyone undetected. ‘I tell you what, kolego, here’s the best thing you can do. Take Marek out for a drink. Drop into the conversation that you have a mate who’s come into a pile of money and who is looking for investments paying a good return.’
Right after he’d hung up, the message waiting sign started flashing on his phone. It was a voicemail from Kasia.
‘Janek, darling. Please don’t hate me but I can’t make it tonight. We have so many late bookings for extensions, I’m going to have to stay here and help out. I’m really sorry. I’ll call again later and we can rebook? I love you, misiaczku.’
Janusz flung his phone down, sending up a dust cloud of flour, where it lay like an alien spacecraft crashed in a snowdrift. This wasn’t the first time Kasia had stood him up lately. She was always protesting that he was the love of her life, but these days her burgeoning nail bar business and inconvenient husband left barely any time for him. When she’d left her job as a pole dancer, Janusz had hoped that she might move on from Steve, too, but on the subject of her marriage her position was unwavering: as a devout Catholic, she said, she couldn’t countenance a divorce.
Staring at the sourdough, he contemplated binning it, but then resumed his kneading. It felt therapeutic, slamming the dough into the worktop. The cat, who was curled up on a kitchen chair cleaning himself, broke off from his ministrations to gaze up at Janusz.
‘You probably won’t see it this way, Copetka,’ he told him, ‘but when the vet took your nuts away, he saved you a world of trouble.’
Janusz arrived in Walthamstow ten minutes ahead of the Romanian’s scheduled meeting time. He bought a half of lager in Hoe Street’s last surviving pub and stationed himself in the window, almost directly opposite the Pasha Café, which had a sign advertising ‘Cakes, Shakes and Shisha’. And sure enough, even on this chilly day, there were two dark-skinned men seated at one of the pavement tables chatting and smoking shisha pipes beneath a plastic canopy. Janusz remembered reading somewhere that an hour spent smoking tobacco this way was the equivalent of getting through 100 cigarettes. Lucky bastards, he thought, cursing the smoking ban.
At two minutes to four, the black Discovery pulled up right outside the café and the bullet-headed man climbed out of the driver’s seat – no chauffeur today. He bent to retrieve something from the rear seat, a manbag, from the look of it, then turned, giving Janusz a view of short-clipped hair, a muscled back under a well-cut jacket, before heading for the café entrance. Janusz was just thinking he’d have to wait till the guy came out again for a good look at his face when, at the threshold, he turned to aim his key fob at the 4X4. It took barely a second – but long enough for Janusz to take a mental snapshot. The thing that caught his attention was a curious scar running down the side of his face. Reaching from temple to jaw, it looked too wide to have been carved by a blade, and yet unusually regular for a burn.
Janusz took a slug of lager, aware of a pulse starting to thrum in his throat. He’d seen his type before. His bearing, the way he walked and held himself, revealed more accurately than any psychiatrist’s report what kind of man he was: someone who saw other people as tools to achieve his ends – or as obstacles to be neutralised.
Around forty minutes later, Scarface re-emerged. Expressionless, he retrieved the plastic-wrapped parking ticket that a warden had left pinned under his wiper and dropped it into the gutter, before pulling out into the stream of traffic. Janusz decided that his disfigurement was a burn, despite its neat edges – the sort of thing that might be caused if someone had pressed a red-hot iron bar against the side of his face.
Janusz took his time finishing his drink and headed over to the café. Inside, it was surprisingly plush, kitted out with low, upholstered seating and Middle Eastern-style wall hangings. To the café’s rear, a doorway hung with heavy dark red velvet curtains led to what he assumed was a private salon. The Christmas cake smell of fruit-flavoured shisha tobacco hung in the air. Opposite the long glass counter was a giant TV screen tuned to Al Jazeera, on which a female presenter in a headscarf was interviewing an Israeli diplomat. English subtitles revealed that the subject of the interview was the shelling of southern Israel by Hamas militants in Gaza; attacks returned – with sky-high inflation – by Israeli forces. Not for the first time, the shared guttural phonetics of the Arabic and Hebrew languages struck Janusz as deeply ironic.
A young man aged about eighteen or nineteen, wearing a Galatasaray shirt, appeared behind the counter through a tinkling bead curtain. He greeted Janusz across the counter: if he was surprised to find a big white Pole wearing a military greatcoat in a shisha café, he didn’t show it.
Janusz pretended to be checking out the trays of sticky-looking pastries. There were squares of filo layered with green pistachio paste, nests of deep fried vermicelli, syrup-slicked dumpling balls … Dupa blada! You could get diabetes just looking at this stuff.
He made a random selection, then threw in: ‘Is the boss around today?’
The kid paused, the serrated jaws of his steel tongs hovering over a pastry, and flashed Janusz a smile. ‘I’m the boss,’ he said, gesturing at a document on the wall behind him.
Yeah, thought Janusz, and I’m the Dalai Llama.
‘That’s too bad,’ said Janusz. ‘I might have some information that would work to his advantage.’
The guy shrugged regretfully, as though to say if Janusz refused to believe him, there was nothing he could do about it.
Janusz turned to watch the TV, which had now moved on to the situation in Syria, a conflict so savage it made the Hamas–Israel stand-off look like a game of pat-a-cake. A moment later, the velvet drapes guarding the private sanctum were parted by a tall, mournful-looking man with a moustache. After giving Janusz a tiny nod of acknowledgement, he stood beside him looking up at the TV.
‘What is it you are selling, my friend?’ he asked in a soft voice.
‘I’ve just inherited a business, round the corner from here,’ said Janusz, ‘and I’m offering special rates to my fellow businessmen in Hoe Street.’
He turned to receive the box of pastries from the kid, passing a tenner across the counter.
‘If it is a Polish supermarket,’ said the man, ‘I’m afraid we buy our supplies from Costco.’ His gaze flicked back to the television, signalling an end to the conversation.
Janusz pocketed the change the kid gave him. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he said with a grin.
The man didn’t move his gaze from the screen. ‘What sort of business are we talking about then?’
Janusz held his silence until, finally, the man turned to look at him.
‘I suppose you’d call it a fitness club,’ he said. ‘Used to be run by a good friend of mine. It’s called Jim’s Gym.’
The man blinked, once. Left a pause that was just a fraction of a second too long. ‘I’m not familiar with it. But I’m afraid I am not a great exercise enthusiast.’
‘Pity. But if you do change your mind, drop in any time,’ said Janusz, holding out one of Jim’s cards. ‘We do a really competitive off-peak membership.’ When the man made no move to take it, Janusz left it on the countertop.
It was almost dark when he emerged onto Hoe Street and the temperatur
e had taken a nosedive, but after the warm sweet fug of the café he welcomed the clean chilly air. As he navigated his way through the rush-hour throng he reflected on what he’d just done. It had been a moment of impulse, an urge to heave a boulder into the lake, to see where the ripples might meet land. He had no idea whether the Turk who owned the Pasha Café would report back to his Romanian associate. Nor had he any clue to the nature of their dealings, or whether they were in some way connected to Jim’s murder. All Janusz had was a powerful hunch: that the girl Varenka leaving flowers for Jim meant something. And he’d bet his apartment that the ‘something’ would lead him right back to Scarface.
Outside Walthamstow tube, he paused, and pulled out his phone: by the time he surfaced at Highbury it would be past office hours.
‘Czesc, Wiktor! How’s the weather in Swansea? … Oh? Shame. Listen, have you had a chance to check that reg number I texted you? That’s right, a black Land Rover Discovery …’
His big face creased in a smile. ‘Wspaniale! Text me over the address, would you?’
Ten
Kershaw woke from sleep with a violent start, convinced there was an intruder in her flat. She held her breath, straining to hear what might have woken her. Then she heard the fridge door slam, hard enough to clank the bottles in the door against each other. Ben.
She threw herself back down and, putting a pillow over her head, waited for her heartbeat to subside. Just as she was starting to drift off, she heard the ringtone of Ben’s mobile, muffled at first, like it was in his pocket, then getting louder as he retrieved it.
Fuck! Until now, having their own flats – hers at the wrong end of Canning Town, his in leafy Wanstead – meant that even though they spent most nights together, if she felt in need of a bit of space or a solid night’s sleep, she could always escape. It struck her that in ten days’ time, after they moved in together, that would no longer be an option.
Pulling on a dressing gown, she padded into the kitchen where she found Ben, bleary-eyed, a half-eaten kebab in front of him on the table, his mobile clamped to his ear. He looked up, and waved his free hand at the phone, his face telegraphing comic apology.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Great to see you, too. Remember what I said, alright? Yeah, mate, definitely.’
She checked the clock – it was 2.30 a.m.
Ben hung up. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he said, his words indistinct. ‘That was Jamie, checking I got home.’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
With the literalness of the very drunk, he squinted down at his phone. ‘Two thirty-three,’ he said.
‘Did it slip your mind that I’m on earlies this week?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get up in three hours’ time.’
‘I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, too,’ said Ben, an aggrieved expression on his face.
Kershaw snapped. ‘And if you want to get shit-faced on a school night, that’s up to you! But you’ve got no right to come back here crashing around and waking me up!’
‘Fine! If you don’t want me here, I’ll go!’ Ben got to his feet, swaying. They stared at each other for a long and terrible moment.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said finally. ‘I never said I wanted you to go.’
When the alarm started nagging her at half past five it was still dark outside, and properly chilly in the flat – she’d forgotten to reset the central heating timer. Kershaw hated being on early turn at this time of year – the cold she could tolerate, but the shortening of the days as autumn tumbled into winter stirred in her a near-primitive sense of dread.
She made a mug of tea and took it into the bedroom.
‘Ben?’ A muted groan came from under the duvet. ‘You said to wake you before I leave.’
Ben pulled the duvet from his face and blinked a few times. ‘Morning,’ he croaked. Manoeuvring himself to a sitting position, he pulled a penitent face. ‘I’m really sorry I woke you up last night. Twattish behaviour when you’re on earlies, I know.’
Kershaw smiled. It was one of the things she loved about Ben: when he was in the wrong about something, he apologised quickly and with real class. It was a quality she had never really mastered.
‘You’re forgiven,’ she said, handing him his tea.
‘Are we good?’ he asked, throwing her a look under his eyebrows.
‘Yeah, we’re good,’ she told him. ‘So, you never said, how was Jamie last night?’
‘Not good.’ A spasm of distress crossed his face. ‘He’s full of anger, still guilt-ridden for letting Hannah out of his sight – and drowning it all in beer and Jameson’s. He says she’s totally changed – despite the Downs she used to be a confident kid, always nagging him and Cath to let her do the things her friends were allowed to.’
Kershaw remembered that, agonisingly for Hannah’s parents, it had been one of her first trips out alone to buy her favourite Cherry Coke that had thrown her into the path of Anthony Stride. ‘I just can’t imagine what they’re going through, let alone her,’ she said.
‘Do you know the worst thing Jamie told me?’
She shook her head.
‘Apparently, Hannah used to be a real daddy’s girl, but since it happened, she hasn’t let him near her. When she wakes up in the night, Cath’s the only one she’ll let comfort her.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Kershaw. She took a swig of his tea.
‘I saw that … bastard in the street the other day,’ said Ben.
She looked at him, alarmed by the sudden and unfamiliar ferocity in his voice. ‘Really? You never mentioned it.’
‘Didn’t I?’ he shrugged. ‘When I think that he’s free to stroll around while Hannah’s too scared to leave the house, let alone go to school, or go out to play … It turns my stomach.’
‘Do you think the Ryans need some professional help, like family therapy?’
‘What they need is for that cunt Stride to step in front of a bus,’ he said.
She couldn’t remember hearing Ben use the c-word before: of the two of them she was by far the more prolific swearer. As her gaze scanned his face, she thought: Maybe it’s you who needs the therapist.
‘I know you got close to Jamie, to all of them,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’d have done exactly the same, a case like that. But shouldn’t you be thinking about handing over to family liaison by now?’
‘What, now the case is dead in the water, it’s time to dump the family and move on?’
Ben’s voice sounded reasonable, but she saw that his top lip had thinned to a line – the only outward sign of anger he ever betrayed. Tread carefully, my girl, she heard her dad say.
‘No, of course not. It’s just … you know the score; if you go bush over a case like that’ – she shrugged – ‘you’re gonna be less focused on catching the next evil scumbag – the one we can put away.’
Rocking his head back against the wall, he exhaled air through pursed lips, reminding Kershaw of the escape valve on a pressure cooker.
‘I know, I know. You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure seeing me does him any good – I’m only gonna remind him of what happened, aren’t I? I probably should back off a bit.’
‘I think that’s very sensible.’
He grinned, any trace of anger gone. ‘Before you report for duty, Constable, stick me on a couple of bits of toast, would you?’
Kershaw managed to smile back, but an undercurrent of disquiet tugged at her still. She had no problem dealing with conflict – to her, it was part and parcel of a relationship – but she got the feeling that Ben would sometimes simply pretend to roll over to avoid confrontation.
It came to her that maybe the misgivings she’d been having weren’t exactly to do with Ben being too nice, but with his apparent difficulty in being nasty. She was no psychotherapist, but she knew that would need to change when they lived together.
Eleven
The wooden shutter gave a single mournful squeak as it was pulled back from the wire grille.
‘I present myself before the Holy Confession, for I have offended God,’ murmured Janusz.
‘Have I heard your confession before, my son?’ asked the priest.
Janusz peered through the grille for a beat, before realising that Father Pietruski was winding him up.
‘It’s been –’ a surreptitious count of his fingers ‘– a long time since my last confession.’
‘I was thinking you must have run away with the gypsies,’ said Pietruski, bone-dry. ‘Or perhaps even gone home to honour your marriage vows to that wife of yours, not to mention your parental duties.’
Janusz shifted in his seat. Pietruski had been his priest for more than twenty years now, and it seemed he would always have this ability to make him feel like a wayward teenager.
‘You know that Marta and I got divorced,’ he said reasonably. The priest started to speak, but Janusz broke in. ‘Yes, Father, I know the Church doesn’t recognise divorce, but that’s the reality in our hearts.’
Janusz had been just nineteen when he and Marta had wed. The ceremony took place in a fog of grief and wodka, just weeks after the death of his girlfriend Iza, and the marriage had proved to be a cataclysmic mistake. It had, however, produced one outcome for which he felt not a trace of regret. Years after they’d split up, during a single, ill-advised, night of reunion, they had created a child together.
Things had improved between Janusz and his ex-wife over the last year or so, and although he liked to think the thaw in their relations was due to his efforts to be a better father to their fourteen-year-old son Bobek, he half suspected that it had more to do with Marta’s new boyfriend, six or seven years her junior, who she’d met at art evening classes. On the phone to Lublin, where she and the boy now lived, he had heard her laugh in a way she hadn’t done for years – and was glad of her newfound happiness.
‘As for Bobek, I’m a passably good father these days,’ he continued. ‘I flew over to see him only last month and we speak on the phone several times a week.’