by Anya Lipska
‘I’m not convinced that he shares your touching faith in the armed wing of our glorious organisation,’ said Streaky, opening his car door. ‘On the other hand, if you were to speak to him, entirely in an unofficial capacity, of course, I suppose he might let something slip.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘He does fancy the pants off you, after all.’
And with that parting shot, he climbed into the driving seat leaving Kershaw standing there, a raspberry-red tide climbing her cheeks, wondering if what he’d said was true.
Forty minutes later, she arrived outside Kiszka’s apartment block. Deciding that ringing his bell would only risk getting a knockback, she hung around outside until she saw a delivery guy arrive. When he was buzzed in, she tucked behind him with a smile and a routine thank you as if she lived there.
Remembering Kiszka’s hostility during the interview, she braced herself for a torrent of abuse when he opened his door. Instead, he stood aside, inviting her in with a laconic gesture. In the living room, he stood with his back to her, looking out of the bay window. It was the first time, she noticed, with a little pang of sadness, that he hadn’t invited her to sit or offered her coffee.
‘Look, Janusz, I can understand I’m not exactly flavour of the month with you at the moment.’ She left a pause, which he didn’t use to contradict her. ‘But you need to hear me out. You’ve got to realise that once people started dropping dead all over East London, it was inevitable that the police were going to get involved. I couldn’t stop that happening – even if I wanted to.’
She stared at that broad back. There was something in the slope of his shoulders that felt different today. When he turned to face her, she squinted at him, trying to make out his expression, backlit by the fading light.
‘It’s not your fault, darling,’ he said. ‘You have a job to do. I know it’s not personal.’
That ‘darling’ triggered a flare of irritation, but it was the last bit that really stung. She pushed down the feeling. ‘I’m going completely off the record here,’ she said. ‘But I wanted to be the one to tell you that we’ve arrested Joey Duff for abducting Kasia. There’s a good chance we’ve got enough to charge him.’
‘Congratulations. I’m sure that would be a great comfort to Kasia, if she were in a position to hear of it.’
‘Janusz, you surely know we’re focused on the same outcome as you here. All we want is to find Kasia.’
‘It’s not quite “all”, though, is it?’ he said, tipping his head to one side. ‘You want to see the “bad guy” incarcerated.’
‘And you don’t?’
He lifted a big hand, let it fall. ‘In TV cop shows, sure. In real life? It’s not always possible.’
The setting sun sank behind a cloud, allowing Kershaw to see his face properly. She was shocked to see how he looked – the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes etched deeper by a look of profound melancholy.
‘What’s wrong?’ She felt an impulse to go over and give him a hug, but stopped herself. Something made her say, ‘You’re not planning to … kill someone, are you?’
Later that evening, Janusz would reflect that the girl detektyw had hit the nail on the head – even if she had no clue about his intended victim. For the moment, though, he just shook his head.
‘Janusz, I can see that something’s up. There must be something I can do to help.’
‘You need to go now.’
She didn’t move for a moment. ‘Okay. But I want you to know you can call me anytime, even if it’s the middle of the night.’
It was a relief for Janusz finally to close the door behind the girl detektyw and return to his own thoughts. Ever since the call with the Spetsnaz skurwiel, he’d been wrestling with a dilemma that was making his insides churn.
What to do about Steve?
The Russian had made it clear that he was expecting Janusz to deliver Steve’s current location as part of the deal to ensure Kasia’s safe return – and there could be little doubt of the fate he had planned for the small-time hoodlum who’d caused such a shit-storm of trouble.
Of course, after he’d got Kasia back, Janusz could warn Steve, tell him that his only hope of survival was to leave the caravan and go on the run. But whichever way he played out this scenario, it was just too risky. If the Russian so much as suspected a double-cross – or caught up with Steve and got him to talk – then Janusz and Kasia would be next in line for his vengeance.
Janusz had told himself a hundred times that this whole mess was of Steve’s making, that it was he who had put Kasia’s life in danger in the first place. Yet none of it made him feel any better about being the emissary of another man’s death. Because no matter how many times he played it out in his head, the answer came back the same.
Save Kasia. Sacrifice Steve.
After putting in a call to the caravan office, he left a message with the old woman who ran the place, and waited. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
‘It’s me,’ said Steve.
‘I wanted to let you know that there have been some developments.’
‘Have you found Kasia?’ Steve’s voice dropped to a murmur – the old biddy was probably hovering, trying to listen in. ‘Is she okay?’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Janusz. ‘I should have news tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s important that you stay in the caravan all day, okay?’
As Steve started to burble his thanks, Janusz hung up.
Forty
At 5.45 a.m. the following day, Janusz was in the back of a cab, turning off Poplar Street towards the Blackwall roundabout. One hand was wrapped around the carrier bag of dirty money retrieved from beneath his floorboards, while the other delved inside his greatcoat for perhaps the twentieth time, clasping the bullet-shaped data stick like a talisman. Through the windscreen, the sky had lightened to a dishcloth grey and looked like it planned to stay that way for the rest of the day.
Coming up with a rendezvous location that would be sufficiently busy at six in the morning to head off any rough stuff by the Spetsnaz skurwiel was enough of a challenge, but it also had to be a place where nobody would pay them too much attention. That ruled out any tourist hotspot at a stroke: the last thing he needed was a bunch of Japanese sightseers taking snaps of him and the Russian with their iPhones.
In the rear view mirror, hung with what Janusz took to be a Koranic inscription, the cab driver – a young Asian guy – shot him an uncertain look.
‘You sure you want the fish market, yeah, bro?’
‘Yep.’
‘You buying some fish, innit?’
‘No, I’m … meeting somebody.’ Janusz had managed to head off any chit-chat during the journey but now they were nearing their destination, the guy’s curiosity was clearly getting the better of him.
‘They do amazing king prawns – my mum buys them in five-kilo bags.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
The cantilevered roof of Billingsgate Market, an unlovely wedge of corrugated iron painted beige, came into view ahead.
‘You got a friend who works here, that’s it, yeah?’
‘That’s right. You’re going to park up and wait for me, okay?’
‘Yeah. Extra twenty for the wait, you said, righ’?’
‘Yes. And turn the car around, would you, so we’re ready to leave? We’ll be in a hurry.’
As Janusz climbed out of the cab he was assailed by the ozone scent of fresh fish – a smell that pitched him back to his childhood, playing on the harbourside at Gdansk. Before he’d reached the entrance to the market, a horn sounded behind him. It was the cab driver.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Have you got a quid for the car park, bro?’
Having been open since 4 a.m., the market should be entering its final act, but the aisles were still heaving with customers and the competing shouts of traders ricocheted off the iron roof. Janusz shuddered: he had an intense aversion to crowds. As he shouldered his way down the thronged central aisle, he was
jostled by an elderly Chinese lady haggling noisily over a big ugly fish with whiskers. Then a red-faced Cockney boomed in his ear, ‘Get your clams, two bags for a fiver!’ making his blood pressure rocket.
He was aware of another feeling, too – the flutter in his belly he got when he was about to see Kasia. This time there was fear mingled with the anticipation: would she be okay? What about the baby – their baby? The prospect of having to wait even minutes before finding out felt almost unbearable.
The rendezvous Janusz had proposed was outside the greasy spoon in one corner of the market, chosen because he knew it would be crowded with market traders grabbing a cup of tea and a bacon roll. He took up position with his back to the market’s outer wall and a few anxious moments later, the short and stocky figure of the Russian materialised from his right. He appeared to be alone.
‘Where is she?’ growled Janusz.
‘Calm down, Polak. She’s not far away, she’s just not feeling up to public appearances right now.’
‘If you’ve laid a hand …’
‘Keep your fucking hair on,’ there was an aggrieved note in the Russian’s anger – like someone who was clearing up a mess not of his making. ‘It wasn’t me who had her off her tits on narkotiki for a week.’ He lifted his chin, imperious. ‘Where’s the article?’
Janusz shook his head. ‘Not until I’ve seen her.’
The Russian turned his weather-beaten face up to Janusz, his gaze suddenly murderous. ‘Show it to me right now,’ he said under his breath, ‘or go buy your girlfriend a coffin.’
The constant traffic of porters and traders going to and fro showed not the least interest in the odd couple standing against the wall, but Janusz had no doubt that if the Russian tried anything, he’d disappear under a scrum of well-built Cockneys before getting even halfway to the exit. He produced the oversized bullet from his inside pocket, opening his big fist briefly to allow the guy a glimpse.
The Russian gave a single nod. ‘Follow me,’ he said, pulling his phone out as he walked and tapping the screen.
After a beat, Janusz obeyed – what choice did he have? – and the pair weaved their way through the fishy scrum towards the entrance. As they emerged, a Mercedes van, brand-new, clearly a rental, pulled up to the right of the market building. Janusz was glad to see, even here, a steady trickle of porters through the market’s portal, wheeling boxes to waiting vehicles.
The Russian spoke to the driver through the open passenger window. Then, standing back, he invited Janusz to look into the back with a mock-chivalrous gesture. In the driver’s seat, a young guy frowned down at his iPhone, ignoring him. Tensing himself against a possible ambush, Janusz leaned in just as far as was necessary to see into the back.
His eyes took a second to adjust to the gloom. Then he saw her. She lay curled in the foetal position on a piece of foam, her eyes blindfolded with blue plastic. Her face was the colour of buttermilk, but for a grey rectangle of what looked like gaffer tape over her mouth – a sight that made him grind his teeth. Worst of all, she was utterly still. Janusz felt the sudden bloom of sweat on his upper lip.
‘Kasia?’ His voice cracked on the upward inflection like a pubescent boy’s. There passed what seemed like a yawning aeon. Then he saw her head move, just a fraction.
Dragging his gaze from her, he turned back to the Russian, and handed him the carrier bag of cash. Then, pulling out the data stick he held it up between them. ‘Open up the back and it’s all yours.’
The Russian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where’s Fisher?’ he asked.
Janusz turned away from the van, so that Kasia wouldn’t hear him, and spoke under his breath. ‘Sea View Caravan Park in Southend. Plot 17.’
The guy checked his watch, before leaning in the passenger window to ask the driver something in Russian. Picking up the word aeroport and a flight time, Janusz gathered that he was checking that they’d have time to go to Southend and still make the afternoon flight.
When the Russian held out his hand for the stick, Janusz gave it up.
He juggled it in his palm for a moment before taking a step closer to Janusz. ‘I’m curious,’ he said, in a murmur. ‘What’s on here?’
Meeting his eyes squarely, Janusz said, ‘I didn’t look.’
‘Come on. You must have been tempted.’ The guy wore a half-smile, but his gaze was unblinking.
Janusz snorted, incredulous. ‘Not remotely. I’m looking forward to collecting my old age pension.’
The Russian turned the bullet shape in his fingers. ‘If this thing has been opened, I’m told it’s child’s play to find out.’
Janusz gave an unworried shrug. But inside he was praying that Stefan was right when he promised that the data stick’s memory would bear no trace of it having been accessed.
A barely perceptible move of the guy’s head was followed by the soft but unmistakable clunk of the boot release mechanism.
Janusz strode to the van’s rear doors. Within seconds, Kasia was in his arms. Holding her up, he peeled the tape from her mouth, all the time murmuring words of reassurance – but this time there was no response. He pressed his lips to her hair: she smelled musty, unwashed – with a chemical undertone – but she smelled of Kasia.
As he chafed her pale cheeks, trying to rouse her, the driver appeared and, after slamming the rear doors, disappeared again. Next thing Janusz knew, the van was slewing around in reverse, bringing him face-to-face with the Russian through his open window. It took Janusz a beat to realise that the guy had a gun levelled at his chest.
He felt his insides plummet like a broken lift. The weapon was a .22 pistol with a silencer screwed onto the barrel, the type of thing it was easy enough to pick up in an East End boozer. He had to fight the instinct to hold Kasia closer – as if that could protect her from a bullet.
‘I hope you’ve got plenty of time to decontaminate yourself,’ he told the guy, his voice sounding way cooler than he felt.
The Russian’s face creased, uncomprehending.
‘Didn’t you know? All UK airports have gunshot residue sensors now,’ Janusz went on. ‘If you try to board a flight after firing that thing, you’ll set off alarms all over the place.’
Janusz could see the cogs whirring behind the man’s eyes as he weighed up this information, wondering whether it was for real.
Suddenly, his deliberations were interrupted.
‘Oi! You!’ – the angry shout came from the other side of the van.
The Russian slipped the hand holding the gun inside his jacket just as a big round face loomed in the driver’s open window. ‘You can’t park here, sunshine, not without a permit.’ The fat man, who was wearing porter’s overalls, took no notice of Janusz on the other side of the van, and his vantage point wouldn’t allow him to see Kasia.
There was an agonising moment of silence during which Janusz could sense the Russian recalculating the risk-and-reward equation of the evolving situation. As he leaned across the driver towards the porter, his gun hand still hidden, Janusz held his breath.
‘Sorry, friend,’ he told him. ‘We’re just leaving.’
The guy grunted and crossed his arms, evidently planning to stay put until the van departed.
The Russian turned his pockmarked face back to Janusz. ‘You and your lady friend just got lucky, Polak,’ he said under his breath. He seemed unperturbed – amused, almost – by the turn of events. ‘But you owe me. Next time I’m in London, I’ll be calling in the favour.’ Without waiting for an answer, he nodded to the driver and the van sped away.
‘What the fuck …?’ This from the porter who had just taken in the scene revealed by the van’s departure – a big bastard in a military coat holding an unconscious woman in his arms.
Janusz ignored him: Kasia’s eyes had just drifted open. As they looked at one another, he saw recognition crystallise in her green-amber gaze. Dzieki Bogu! A great wave of relief enveloped him.
Seeing her cracked lips moving, he bent his head to hers. ‘Wha
t is it, kochanie?’
It took him a moment to make out her slurred words: ‘I’m so sorry, Janusz.’
Forty-One
At Whitechapel Hospital, doctors whisked Kasia – who was still drifting in and out of consciousness – into resus.
Janusz found himself consigned to the ‘relatives room’ along with Jim, the Billingsgate porter, who had insisted on coming in the cab with them, no doubt because – initially, at least – he was suspicious of the big Pole who claimed to be the boyfriend. Now they sat in companionable silence, waiting for news, Jim reading his copy of The Sun, his overalls smelling like a fishing smack.
Finally, a doctor arrived carrying a clipboard, wanting to ask Janusz some questions.
‘I’ll make myself scarce, mate,’ said Jim the porter, getting to his feet. ‘Let you talk in private.’ Janusz stood, too, and shook his hand in grateful farewell.
‘You’re her boyfriend, is that right, Mr Kiss-zaka?’ asked the doctor – who appeared to Janusz to be about five years older than Bobek. ‘You told the nurses you have no idea what drugs she took?’
‘She didn’t take them, they were given to her against her will.’
He made a note. ‘And you don’t have any idea what they were?’
‘No. She was kidnapped. It would have been something to keep her knocked out, I guess.’
The teenage doctor nodded. ‘Only toxicology tests will tell us for sure, but from her symptoms I’d say she’s most likely suffering from a Rohypnol overdose.’
‘The rape drug?’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t read anything into that. She’s had a few bumps and grazes, but no injuries of the kind we usually see in cases of sexual assault.’
‘She is going to be all right, isn’t she?’ Janusz had to make an effort not to make it sound like a threat.
‘I’d say she’s out of immediate danger,’ said the doctor, eyeing the unkempt-looking boyfriend: the police would be wanting to question him. ‘But we will need to monitor her breathing and blood pressure over the next couple of days, while she detoxifies.’