Death Can’t Take a Joke

by Anya Lipska

  A muscle jumped in Romescu’s face as he stirred his tea.

  Janusz nodded to the mustachioed Turk, sitting behind the counter, apparently intent on his newspaper. ‘Your friend here supplies the customers; you source and deliver the materiel. London, Poland, Turkey.’ Sketching the route on the table, he shot Romescu an appreciative grin. ‘A triangle, right?’

  That night in the snowy airport car park at Przeczokow, the young mechanic Slawek had told him that the freight planes were bound for Sukur, in southern Turkey, which had turned out to be a tiny airfield close to the Syrian border. But the only clue to the cargo they carried had been the boy’s brief glimpse of brown metal boxes with yellow lettering – a description that had rung a distant yet elusive bell. It had been Oskar who’d supplied the answer. Back during their national service, boxes fitting that description were found on the shelves of the camp’s armoury. The smallest ones, the size of a family Bible, held ammunition; grenades and mortars came in larger square ones; and the long rectangular ones carried Polish-made AK-47s and carbines.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Kiszka.’

  ‘I suppose we Poles should be grateful that the Soviets left us something useful after fifty years of shit,’ Janusz chuckled. ‘All those armament factories making rifles and carbines, they’re probably the only bit of Communist industry still standing, right?’

  It was no secret that Poland’s thriving arms industry supplied weapons, perfectly legally, to conflicts all over the world, but Syria was another matter: selling arms to either side of the country’s vicious fratricidal conflict was forbidden by international law.

  ‘Look, I’m a realist,’ Janusz opened his hands. ‘One stroke of a bureaucrat’s pen and arms dealing goes from crime to valued export activity. I always say guns are like water – they find their own level.’ He half-meant it – to him, Romescu’s gun smuggling offered leverage, pure and simple, and the only hope he had of pressuring the guy into revealing why Jim had died.

  Romescu shot the cuff of his jacket to check his watch.

  ‘I think you started your export sideline when you were still an Orzelair director – and saw no reason to stop it after they ditched you.’ Janusz shrugged. ‘After all, Przeczokow airport was your own little fiefdom by then. Your first “cargo” was girls, right? Till things kicked off in Syria and sent the market price of an AK-47 through the roof.’

  Romescu rearranged the napkin on his lap, looking unperturbed. ‘There isn’t a shred of evidence for what you’re suggesting.’

  Janusz suspected he was speaking the truth. If customs officials paid a surprise visit to inspect the cargo being loaded onto the night flights now, they’d find nothing but industrial fridges, or whatever goods were listed on the flight manifest.

  ‘You do like to take risks though, don’t you?’ Janusz grinned, trying to provoke him. ‘There was a good chance the cops would come sniffing around Przeczokow after Wojtek dropped out of a plane, but you gambled that the airline would choose to bury the scandal rather than identify their own head of security.’

  A flicker of arrogant amusement crossed Romescu’s face: a look that said he was used to dealing with fucking idiots. And Janusz suddenly understood. The little regional airline that had, in the space of a few hectic years, become a powerful multinational … a business that had started out buying ex-Soviet state assets at knockdown prices … Romescu edged out of the company he helped to create.

  ‘Sebastian Fischer knew about the flights from the start, didn’t he?’ said Janusz. Of course! An outfit like Zaleski built on ex-state assets would be bound to have an arms manufacturer in its portfolio. ‘But gun running must have lost its appeal – after he swung the Lufthansa deal and started going to dinner dances with Angela Merkel.’ Janusz shook his head. ‘Killing Wojtek was a warning, wasn’t it? Leave you alone, or you’d take the whole company down with you.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you think you stand to gain from all this, Kiszka.’ Romescu’s cold blue eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘We both know you’re not an investor, so why the interest in what you claim are my … business activities? If you’re looking for a payoff, money to shut up and go away, then just say so.’

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Janusz. Putting the operation on ice was clearly hurting Romescu in the pocket.

  ‘That’s generous of you,’ he said. ‘But what I really want is some information.’ Deciding he had nothing to lose, he levelled his gaze on Romescu. ‘I want to know why James Fulford was killed.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.’ His answer came too fast, as though he’d been expecting the question.

  ‘I think you can,’ growled Janusz.

  Romescu held Janusz’s eyes without blinking. ‘You are mistaken.’ Then he leaned forward, adopting a reasonable tone. ‘Look, I’m prepared to make an ex-gratia payment, so you can go back to investigating philandering husbands … let’s say 25,000 sterling?’

  Janusz didn’t bother pointing out that he never worked for jealous spouses, having discovered long ago that he was allergic to the sight of crying women – let alone crying men.

  ‘You could even give the money to your friend’s widow,’ said Romescu, ‘if you were feeling charitable.’

  Struggling to tamp down the rage building in his gut, Janusz felt his fists bunch – the fucker was more or less admitting he’d had Jim killed. ‘The only thing she wants is to know that the cowardly skurwysyny who butchered her husband are rotting in a prison cell.’ He leaned forward, eyeballing Romescu. ‘And I am going to make sure her wish is fulfilled.’

  Romescu’s eyes were like two chips of Arctic ice. ‘If you seriously think I’m going to sit around like a fucking whore with my legs spread waiting for you to fuck me then you don’t know who you are dealing with.’ He jabbed a finger at the long shiny scar on the side of his face. ‘I got this from two and a half hours spent in the belly of a jet at 30,000 feet. It was minus 40. When I came to, my face was frozen to the fuselage – the paramedics had to cut me off it.’ He shook his head. ‘If you think you can scare me then you are an even bigger fucking chuj than I thought.’

  Janusz could see flecks of spit at the corners of Romescu’s mouth. ‘At least you got to wear thermals,’ he shot back. ‘Not like poor old Wojtek.’

  Romescu picked up the napkin from his lap and patted his lips, before getting to his feet. He gave a single imperious jerk of his chin through the café window, and then, putting both hands on the back of his chair, bent down to bring his face level with Janusz’s.

  ‘I made you a very generous offer in good faith, Kiszka,’ he murmured. ‘I am giving you one last chance to take the cash and get your nose out of my business.’

  Janusz made a regretful face.

  ‘You just made the biggest fucking mistake of your life,’ Romescu spat.

  ‘Really?’ Janusz frowned. ‘I think the biggest mistake of my life was backing Chelsea for the league last season.’

  But if he thought he’d had the last word, he was wrong.

  ‘You know what I found out today? It’s only two hours’ drive from Przeczokow to Lublin.’ Romescu’s eyes were alive with malice. ‘My men could be inside your flat – and your ex-wife – before dinnertime.’

  Janusz froze for a beat, his brain scrabbling to catch up. Then he lunged across the table, going for Romescu’s throat, images flashing before his eyes. That gorilla Mazurek hurting Marta … Bobek’s terrified face. Then something hit him square in the chest, hurling him back with such force that the impact broke the seat back.

  Romescu straightened his jacket and smiled. ‘I’ll get them to film it and send you the video.’

  Then he was off out of the door.

  A big Turkish guy – still holding the baseball bat he’d used on Janusz – stepped in front of him. Clutching his ribs, Janusz whipped round to see the black Discovery drawing up at the kerb, and Romescu climbing into the front passenger seat. There was a different
driver at the wheel this time, older looking than the tattooed guy. And the outline of someone in the back seat.

  Varenka. Their eyes met through the window. Her lower lip was split and he could make out a fresh bruise around her left eye socket. But it was her expression that transfixed him – she was rigid with fear.

  Thirty-Nine

  Barely half a mile from the Pasha Café, in the Murder Squad office, Kershaw had spent the morning trying, without much joy, to pin Streaky down for a chat.

  The news about Stride’s ‘suicide’ becoming a murder investigation had been splashed on LBC’s 8 a.m. news bulletin and was now running as the lead story across TV and radio news. Since the original case against Stride had collapsed through a police cock-up, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that the angle reporters were taking was further Met incompetence in failing to find the ‘bloodstained glasses’, as they were calling them.

  Kershaw had arrived in the office to find the team running around like blue-arsed flies digging up info for the media department, and the Sarge in back-to-back meetings with the brass. The only upside was that, so far, the press didn’t seem to be naming Ben as the officer in charge of the ‘botched search’ at Hollow Ponds.

  ‘Rolling news,’ sighed Streaky, when he finally granted her a five-minute audience. ‘Biggest waste of police time since PACE. And in a couple of weeks’ time, all those scrotes in the media will be running headlines asking why we haven’t made any progress finding Stride’s killers.’ Kershaw made a sympathetic face.

  ‘So you reckon this girl Varenka knows something about the Fulford murder, and a promise of asylum might oil the wheels?’

  ‘It’s a long shot, Sarge, but at the moment we’ve got sod-all else to go on.’

  ‘You didn’t turn up anything new, when you reviewed the witness statements, the door-to-door enquiries?’ A headshake. ‘And his contacts – none of them have dredged up a possible motive?’

  ‘No, Sarge. In fact, I’m getting a bit tired of hearing how much everyone loved Jim Fulford.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Streaky scratched his belly. ‘When looking for a murder motive, give me a drug-dealing scumbag over a pillar of the community any day of the week. So you’re going to question Marika Fulford again today, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she glanced at her watch. ‘Oops, I’d better get going. Not that I’m holding out much hope of anything new.’

  ‘She wasn’t a lot of help when I interviewed her, the day after the murder,’ said Streaky. ‘But she’s buried him now. Puts you in a different frame of mind. She might surprise you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sarge.’

  ‘Make sure you do. It’s been, what, seventeen days? Another week and I reckon the case will be as dead as the proverbial parrot.’

  The phone on his desk bleeped.

  ‘DS Bacon. Yes, I’ll hold.’ Streaky cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s Barrington,’ he told her, naming the Assistant Chief Constable.

  Kershaw raised her eyebrows: the Stride story must be making waves if it warranted a call from The Dream Factory – as the Sarge invariably called Scotland Yard.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, under his breath. ‘If you can get Varenka on her own, see what she’s got, we’ll talk again about approaching the Home Office.’

  Kershaw grinned her thanks and was turning to go when he pointed a stern finger at her. ‘And if you’re planning on going to that Romanian gangster’s gaff to doorstep her? Take a fucking uniform. None of your girl scout heroics.’

  On her way to get her coat, she spotted Adam Ackroyd at the water cooler.

  ‘Hey, Adam. Nightmare day, huh?’

  ‘Yup. Getting our arses kicked from all sides.’

  He smiled but didn’t sustain eye contact, she noticed. Were her workmates blaming her for the failed search of Hollow Ponds and the media fallout they’d been left to wrestle with? She was still the office newbie and the last thing she needed was to be the focus of any team resentment. An image of Ben slipped into her mind, and she asked herself again, How could he have done it? Then she pushed all thought of him away. With their relationship still in this horrible limbo, work was the best therapy.

  ‘Listen, Adam, I just wanted to let you know. The night before we found Stride? One of my contacts says a car was seen driving out of the bushes up at Hollow Ponds.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a CHIS, Natalie,’ said Ackroyd, his grin allaying her paranoia somewhat. ‘I hope you had it properly authorised.’ These days, you had to get a stack of permissions before signing up a Covert Human Intelligence Source, aka an informer.

  ‘He’s not really a CHIS,’ she said. ‘It’s Jim Fulford’s best mate, Janusz Kiszka.’

  ‘The Polish PI who we had in the frame early on?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, according to him, one of the Forest Rangers was driving past late that night and saw a black Land Rover Discovery creeping out of the woodland. You might want to send someone down there to talk to the guy who runs the café? Apparently, he knows the name of the Ranger.’

  The moment Janusz got out of the Pasha Café he called Marta – but her mobile kept going through to voicemail. So he phoned Bobek’s school, and got hold of the headmistress, who he’d met once at a parents’ evening. She told him the best news ever – the school was closed and Bobek was away on holiday. He remembered then – Marta had mentioned that she and the new boyfriend were taking the boy on a skiing trip.

  As he hung up, he reflected that Romescu had probably just been winding him up – if he was really going to do something, why would he give advance warning? But one thing continued to gnaw at Janusz’s gut: Romescu had found out somehow that Marta and Bobek lived in Lublin. When Marta called back he’d have to tell her to move out, find somewhere safe to stay, at least for a while.

  When Janusz finally arrived at the hospital he found Oskar’s bed stripped and his bedside table cleared, a sight that triggered a fresh flare of panic. The only nurse in sight was at the far end of the ward helping an elderly man back into bed.

  Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘Kurwa mac!’ he burst out.

  ‘You’d better not let Jadwiga hear you,’ said Oskar, shaking his head. ‘She says that every time somebody curses, the baby Jesus sheds a tear.’

  Janusz grunted. ‘What are you doing up and dressed, anyway?’

  ‘I’m getting out of here.’

  ‘Are the medics okay with that?’

  ‘Fuck the medics! If I don’t go and price that patio job in Redbridge some guy called Paddy is gonna come along and steal it from under my nose.’

  Twenty minutes later, after Oskar had signed a form saying he was discharging himself against medical advice, he was climbing into the Transit van, which one of his labourers had delivered to the hospital car park earlier that day.

  Janusz lagged behind, glancing around the car park, on the lookout for anyone who seemed out of place. After slamming the passenger door, he turned to his mate. ‘Listen Oskar, I’ll go with you to price this job because I want to watch your back, but after that, I’m deadly serious – I want you to come and stay with me for a few days. Romescu’s quite capable of going after anyone close to me.’

  Oskar didn’t appear to be paying any attention – he was concentrating on trying to tune the radio with his left, unplastered, hand. ‘Dupa blada, Janek, stop fussing and make yourself useful. Find LBC for me – I haven’t heard the news in days.’

  Janusz dashed an exasperated hand over his scalp. ‘For fuck’s sake, Oskar! Romescu knows where you live – he could be sending his goons after you right now! Do you want to get all fucked up again?’

  He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. Oskar frowned at the radio, fallen uncharacteristically silent.

  As Janusz tried to imagine the ordeal those bastards had put his mate through, he remembered with a jolt an experience back home, at the peak of the Solidarity uprising. He’d just turned
seventeen when the milicja caught him daubing anti-Communist graffiti on a railway bridge. After dragging him off to the cells they’d spent the whole night working him over. The bruises had faded within a few weeks but the memory of his own powerlessness, the deep sense of shame and humiliation, had left scars as indelible as the rings within the trunk of a tree.

  ‘I’m sorry, Oskar. I just feel so bad about … what happened to you because of me. I’m probably being paranoid but I’d still feel a whole lot better if you moved into my apartment for now.’

  Oskar drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘So I’d be coming to stay with you to make you feel less jumpy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘Alright then. On one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  Oskar started the van up. ‘You promise to wear your pinny when you give me a blowjob.’

  As they left the car park, Janusz checked his messages to see if the girl detective had returned his call. Nothing. He’d been trying to reach her, gripped by a steadily growing conviction, triggered by the sight of Varenka’s terrified face, that her life was in danger.

  Oskar took a corner at speed, hurling Janusz against his door, the impact bringing a stab of pain from his bruised ribs so fierce it made his eyes water. ‘Are you sure you’re safe to drive?’ he asked, eyeing the cast on Oskar’s right arm.

  ‘Don’t be such an old woman, Janek! I’ve got another arm, haven’t I?’ Oskar nodded towards the dashboard onto which someone appeared to have upended a wastepaper basket. ‘And look that address up in the A-Z will you? Piotr forgot to bring the satnav.’

  After a few moments mining the strata of envelopes, drinks cans and sweet wrappers, Janusz retrieved the piece of paper his mate was after. On it, in Oskar’s barely legible scrawl was written: Mrs Martin, 11 Park Rd.

  Janusz flicked through the index of the A-Z, squinting to read the tiny type. ‘There are two Park Roads in Redbridge – one in E11 and one in E12. What’s the postcode, donkey-brain?’