by Anya Lipska
Sure, it wasn’t ideal, dragging him into Walthamstow nick to break the news, but Streaky was right: it was high time that Janusz Kiszka spilled his guts. He needed to share everything he knew with them, let the professionals take over the search for Kasia – and the best place to bring that home to him was an interview room.
That morning, she’d put her uniform back on for the first time since being signed off sick. The Sarge had cleared it with Toby Greenacre, explaining that he needed her officially back on duty to question a contact in a murder case. After pulling on the regulation socks and boots, the dark blue trousers, she zipped up the jerkin, and stood staring in the mirror for a long moment. She’d been out of uniform less than a week and yet she was finding the sensation strangely unnerving – like a snake might feel, slipping back inside its discarded skin.
Now she was sitting in interview room 3, with Janusz Kiszka glowering across the table at her and the Sarge.
‘Am I to be questioned under caution?’ he asked Streaky.
‘No …’
‘Well, that makes a refreshing change,’ he growled.
It was obvious to Kershaw that someone had recently split Kiszka’s upper lip, and badly, leaving the area around it black as a plum – which would explain the way he’d been mumbling on the phone the day before.
‘We wanted to update you officially on our search for your girlfriend, Kasia Fisher,’ said Streaky, before giving him an edited version of last night’s activities.
‘Let me see if I understand you correctly,’ said Kiszka, when the Sarge had finished. On the surface, his voice was silky smooth, but Kershaw could sense the riptide of rage beneath. ‘You trace this Joseph Duff’s phone signal, but by the time you turn up, you find him half-dead – and my girlfriend gone.’ He made a derisive noise. ‘While you lot were knocking on the front door, whoever it was who took her was probably walking out the back.’
‘I think that highly unlikely,’ said Streaky. ‘We put roadblocks up locally: if he’d still been anywhere in the vicinity we’d have caught him.’
Kiszka emitted a percussive gust of air, a response that Kershaw translated as police bullshit.
‘Anyway. I have to say you don’t seem very surprised to hear that we think it was Joseph Duff – and not Steve Fisher – who abducted Kasia and who’s been holding her captive all this time,’ said the Sarge. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘I already told your colleague everything I know,’ he shot Kershaw a cold look. ‘He’s some villain who Fisher got himself mixed up with.’
‘How did you come by this information?’
‘Pub gossip.’
‘Nothing more than that?’
‘No.’
‘It seems to me that you know an awful lot more about this business than you’re letting on,’ said Streaky. ‘For a start, what motive Joey Duff might have for kidnapping Kasia in the first place.’
Kiszka shrugged. ‘I wish I knew.’
‘And who might be holding her now.’
‘No idea.’
Leaning forward, Streaky spoke in a confiding murmur. ‘Do you think it might be the same person who punched your lights out?’
Kershaw noticed Kiszka’s top lip lift a fraction: evidence of the Herculean effort he was making to control his temper.
A subtle change in Streaky’s body language indicated that she should have a crack. ‘Look, Janusz,’ she said, ‘I understand how you must feel. It was frustrating for us, as well, getting there too late for Kasia. But you’ve got to admit, at least we were able to find out where she was – because we’ve got the resources to do that.’ And you haven’t, her eyes said.
He met her gaze, but all she could see there was an accusation of betrayal. ‘I can’t tell you anything.’
‘Can’t – or won’t?’
‘Do you even have any proof that she was there, at this mystery location?’
In her peripheral vision, she saw Streaky blink. Opening a box file on the table in front of her, she pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Clearly picking up on the tentative way she pushed it across the table, Kiszka’s eyes flickered up to meet hers.
‘Do you recognise this?’ she asked.
He hesitated a moment before drawing the bag towards him, bending his head to squint at the black fragment inside. He looked blank, until it clicked. His head shot up.
‘It’s … one of Kasia’s fingernails!’ Taking a ragged breath he stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse. ‘You don’t think …’
‘No, no. It’s not her actual nail,’ said Kershaw, soothingly. ‘It’s acrylic – an extension. She did wear black varnish, then?’
‘Always.’
‘We think perhaps she broke it off herself. To leave some sign that she’d been there.’
Kiszka was clutching the bag in one big fist, staring down at the nail fragment, a muscle in his jaw working. Kershaw knew she ought to be pleased to have thrown him off guard; in fact, seeing him like this churned her up in an unexpected way.
Would anyone ever love her that deeply? she asked herself.
‘So you see, Janusz,’ said Streaky, breaking the silence, ‘we think Kasia left it there for the police to find – to give us something to go on. If you’ll give us your full cooperation, tell us everything you know about what’s been going on, I’m confident that working together, we can find her and bring her home safely.’
Janusz looked up, his gaze travelling from Streaky to Kershaw, as if he’d forgotten they were there. For a second, she thought he might actually play ball.
Instead, visibly composing himself, he produced his most charming smile. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, but unless you are going to arrest me, I’m afraid I need to go now.’
Within seconds of leaving the interview room, Janusz had his mobile – which had been switched to silent for the interview – in his hand. A missed call and a waiting text. No surprise who they were from: the number was the one belonging to the red-faced skurwiel with the Spetsnaz tattoo. The text said simply ‘Call me.’
He flew down the two flights of stairs to the exit, a cocktail of relief, hope and gut-loosening fear racing through his veins.
Once outside, he leaned against a wall, willing his breathing back to normal, before making the call.
‘This is Kiszka.’
‘Have you tracked down our mutual friend, the rogonosets, yet?’
Janusz frowned – he knew the word was an insult, but he was having trouble recalling what it meant.
‘Didn’t we teach you people Russian in school? The guy whose wife you are fucking!’
‘I know where he is, yes.’
‘You do?’ The guy gave a grunt of begrudging acknowledgement. ‘What about the mislaid item – the one I’m keen to have returned?’
‘I’ve got it locked away somewhere safe.’
Janusz heard the guy lighting a cigarette, followed by an unhurried inward breath as he drew smoke into his lungs – and had to bite down hard on his lip to stop himself asking about Kasia. Come on, skurwiel, spit it out, he urged silently.
‘Describe it to me.’ The voice was sceptical.
‘A carrier bag full of cash, about fifteen thousand sterling, and a data stick shaped like a bullet, just like you said.’
On the other end of the line came the sound of the guy exhaling smoke. ‘Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to tell you a safe place where you will leave the items, and when you get home to your flat, your favourite lady friend will be waiting for you. Maybe she’ll already be in bed, with her legs open.’ His chuckle turned into a cough as the smoke caught in his throat.
‘No.’
A moment of disbelieving silence before the mocking tone turned to ice. ‘What the fuck do you mean, no?’
‘You don’t get what you want until I see her. We do a swap – the stick for the girl.’
A tiny, considering pause. ‘Why not. Somewhere nice and quiet.’
‘No. Somewhere nice and public.’
The Russian exploded. ‘You don’t get to decide how this fucking goes, cocksucker!’
‘The deal’s off then.’ As he said the words, Janusz could feel his heart bouncing around behind his ribs like a rubber ball – but he knew he couldn’t give in. Agreeing to do the swap in the middle of nowhere would be tantamount to suicide. Whoever was the final recipient of the dirty money sluicing through the labyrinthine pipework of international bank accounts recorded on the data stick, he would clearly go to any lengths to keep the information under wraps. Which meant that even after the Russian got what he’d been sent to recover, he might still be under orders to eliminate Janusz and Kasia.
The guy swore to himself in Russian. ‘Why don’t we do it in Trafalgar Square?’ he sneered. ‘We can feed the pigeons afterwards.’
‘I’ll choose the place.’
‘What makes you think I’d let you do that, Polak?’
‘Because I know London and you don’t.’
Janusz said nothing. He could hear the guy rethinking his calculations.
‘Okay. Text me the place and I’ll decide if it’s okay. We do it tomorrow at dawn.’
‘Okay.’
‘And the “inconvenient husband” – where can I find him?’
‘I’ll tell you after I see the girl – he’s not going anywhere.’
‘He’d better not be.’ The guy laughed suddenly. ‘I’ll be doing you a favour: no need to waste money on a pricy divorce.’
‘Works for me.’
‘I’ll bet it does. And Polak – I don’t need to tell you what happens if I sniff cop anywhere tomorrow?’
‘I hate the fucking cops.’ Janusz’s words rang with unfeigned hostility.
‘Good.’ The hint of a sigh came down the line. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’ There was a weary note in his voice, as if he were sick and tired of the whole business. Janusz was struck by a bizarre notion: maybe the ex-Spetsnaz hard man was homesick, pining for his Siberian Forest Cat.
Thirty-Eight
Joey Duff’s room in the private wing of St Margaret’s Hospital in Epping wasn’t hard to spot, thought Kershaw: it was the only one with an armed cop standing outside, albeit at a discreet distance. Duff had only just regained consciousness since being admitted the previous night but his doctors had agreed, after a bit of persuasion, that their patient could manage a brief chat with police about what had happened at the electricity substation.
‘He’s using the name Gerald Doherty,’ Streaky told Kershaw in a murmur as they neared his room.
‘So he has no idea that we know his identity?’
‘Well, he’s going to be wondering why the cops turned up at his hidey-hole in Epping Forest. But if he refuses to speak to us it only looks more suspicious. He’s just got to tough it out and hope we don’t know who he is and what he’s been up to.’
Gerald, aka Joey, greeted his visitors civilly enough: if he remembered either of them from the previous night, he was making a good show of hiding it, thought Kershaw.
‘Right then, Mr …’ Streaky allowed a blank look to come over his face.
‘Doherty.’ Kershaw noticed that the whites of Duff’s eyes were a uniform red – the result of the dozens of tiny haemorrhages sustained during his strangulation. Petechiae – that was what pathologists called them, she remembered. His recent brush with death had also left a band of livid bruising around his throat, curving up behind his right ear.
‘Ah yes. Sorry, Mr Doherty. We just wanted to get a handle on what happened to you in, er …’ Streaky shuffled paperwork on his lap, doing a solid impression of an old lag dragged out of a warm office to do a tick box job. ‘… Epping Forest.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it, officer?’ His voice came in a sibilant rasp, presumably, thought Kershaw, a result of the damage to his throat.
‘Obvious?’
‘I wanted to end it all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Streaky didn’t actually stifle a yawn but he might as well have done. ‘Why was that then?’
Duff trotted out a hard luck story involving getting dumped by his girlfriend and money troubles, all of which had led to him becoming homeless, and finally, to deciding to top himself.
‘So, this substation you were found in,’ Streaky went on. ‘You say you’d been sleeping rough there?’
‘That’s right.’ His smile was insincere beneath his stony stare. ‘I was wondering, officer – who was it called the police?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Streaky, shrugging. ‘I know there’s a big traveller problem in Epping – the forest authorities are always on the lookout for trespassers.’ He went back to his notes. ‘So, was there anyone else kipping down in the substation?’
Duff’s gaze flickered between the two of them but evidently found nothing in their glazed expressions to alarm him. ‘Not that I know of. ’Course, there might have been someone else using it before I got there.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Where did you say you were from, officer?’
Meaning which police station, thought Kershaw. If Streaky told him Walthamstow rather than Epping, he’d be bound to suss this was more than just a routine enquiry by Essex Police.
‘I’m from the West Country, originally,’ said Streaky, deliberately misunderstanding the question. He turned to frown at Kershaw. ‘Have you got that report?’
‘I think it’s in your file, Sarge.’
‘No, it isn’t … Oh, yes, here it is.’ He glanced at Duff. ‘The medical report says that you’d suffered recent burns to your abdomen?’
‘I was into self-harming.’
‘And the plastic ties around your wrists?’
‘Yeah, I put them on myself.’ Putting his wrists together and raising them to his lips, Duff mimed the act of pulling the ties tight with his teeth. ‘In case I changed my mind once I was up there.’
It was almost impressive, thought Kershaw. In the short time Duff had been awake, he’d already constructed a near-plausible explanation for the way they’d found him.
He massaged his throat. ‘I’m not being funny, officer, but is there much more of this? I’m getting tired.’
‘Just a couple more questions and we’ll be out of your hair.’ Streaky lifted one buttock from his chair and fumbled with his trousers, apparently extracting his underpants from the crack of his backside. ‘Just so I’m clear, you fixed the belt up first? And then got up there and got your head through the noose.’ Duff nodded. ‘Do you recall how you got yourself up there?’
Duff’s gaze wavered.
‘Was it on the filing cabinet mentioned here in the report from the scene?’
‘Yeah, that’s it, I climbed up on the cabinet.’
Streaky lifted a gingery eyebrow. ‘That was quite a feat.’
‘Yeah, well, when you’re desperate.’ Duff hadn’t noticed a subtle shift in his questioner’s manner.
‘You are pretty tall, though,’ Streaky conceded.
‘Six foot one. Why?’
Streaky looked down at the map of the crime scene. ‘Not eight foot one?’
‘Come again?’
‘PC Kershaw here measured the distance between the noose and the cabinet.’
Duff stared at her, as if he’d only really noticed the blonde girl for the first time.
‘What was the distance again?’ Streaky asked her.
‘Two and a half metres, Sarge.’
‘It can’t have been.’ The face in the hospital bed darkened.
‘I’m afraid it was, Mr Duff.’
He was about to say something but then he clocked the use of his name, and his mouth snapped shut again.
‘It’s a cock and bull story, isn’t it, Mr Duff?’ said Streaky pleasantly.
‘No comment.’
‘I think somebody whacked you over the head and then strung you up with your own belt. You ought to be thanking me and Kershaw here – the docs said you only had minutes
to live once you were up there. We got there in the nick of time, I’d say.’
‘No comment.’
Streaky dropped the light-hearted tone. ‘We have very good reason to believe that you had company in that substation. Female company – of the non-consenting variety.’
Folding his arms, Duff drilled him with a stare.
‘A lady who wore black nail varnish,’ Streaky continued. ‘Forensics are running DNA tests as we speak.’
‘I want my brief.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’ Streaky turned to Kershaw. ‘Do the honours, PC Kershaw.’
‘Joseph Duff, I am arresting you for the suspected abduction of Kasia Fisher, on or about March the tenth. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court …’
Thirty-Nine
Kershaw followed Streaky down the hospital corridor, having to perform the occasional skip-step to keep up with him.
‘I want a second armed guard on that room – I don’t trust that bastard not to pull something,’ said Streaky. ‘And chase up the lab for the results on the water bottle and the nail, will you? We need a match to Kasia’s DNA if we’re going to charge him in the next twenty-four hours.’ He slowed down to let her catch up. ‘On second thoughts, I’d better get Ackroyd to do it.’ Seeing her crestfallen look, he said, ‘There’s already whingeing in the ranks.’ He adopted a whiny, little girl’s voice. ‘“Why is she going out on a shout when she’s not even a detective, Sarge?”’
Kershaw bit her lip. ‘What about Kiszka, Sarge?’
‘What about him?’
She pictured again the way he’d raced out of the interview – like there was somewhere he needed to be. ‘He knows something about what’s going on – I’m sure of it. He might even know who took Kasia.’
‘You could be right,’ he said, ‘but we can’t prove it.’
They’d reached the hospital car park now, Streaky’s car greeting him with a chirrup.
‘Why don’t I go and talk to him, on his home turf?’ she persisted. ‘Try to persuade him that if he has any idea where she is, he could use some firepower on his side.’