by Anya Lipska
Minutes passed before Kasia peeled her face from his. Breathing deeply to still her tears, she wiped her cheeks flat-handed with a trace of her usual determination. ‘Janusz, darling, there’s something I have to tell you.’ She met his gaze, her eyes bottomless wells of sorrow. ‘I can’t come home with you.’
‘What?’ He stared at her, a silly half-smile on his face.
‘I won’t be … I can’t come to live with you. I’m so sorry, moje kochanie.’
All this was surely just some artefact of the drugs combined with the terrible ordeal she’d been through, Janusz told himself. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘there’s no rush – I know you’re still in a bad way …’
‘… It’s nothing to do with that.’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘I have to stay with Steve.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Kasiulka. You said you were dead set on leaving him this time.’ He spun through his memory, recalling that even Steve had appeared to be convinced of her departure, at the caravan.
‘I know. And I was. Nothing would have made me happier.’
‘We’ll still be happy!’ Although Janusz managed a reassuring grin, he was aware of a dim roar starting up at the back of his head.
‘Nie, Janek. You don’t understand.’ Her next words, when they came, fell like stones. ‘I took an oath.’
Kurwa mac! The roar in Janusz’s head grew louder. ‘Was it that old fool Pietruski? Did he threaten you with hellfire and damnation? You know there are other priests, ones who will still give you communion – especially in London. I’ve heard of them.’
‘He did speak to me, it’s true – I ran into him on Highbury Fields after I left your apartment, the last time we saw each other.’
He must have been waiting for her there, the old bastard, thought Janusz with a surge of murderous rage.
‘And?’
‘And I told him I was leaving Steve.’
‘Good for you. So why …?’
‘The promise that I made, it wasn’t to him. It was to God.’
It came pouring out of her then. How she’d surfaced briefly from her Rohypnol stupor, tied hand and foot, being jolted around in the back of the kidnapper’s van, and felt a tugging pain in her lower abdomen. How it had come to her with a terrible clarity that she was losing the baby.
‘Our baby, Janusz,’ she said fiercely, gripping his hand. ‘I was going to lose our child.’
‘But even if you had, we could still have had another!’
A single, sorrowing shake of her head. ‘I haven’t told you this before, but I already lost a little girl, years ago.’
The stillborn child Steve had mentioned at the caravan.
‘You must see, Janek. I couldn’t risk losing this one.’
‘So what exactly did you promise the Almighty?’
‘That I’d stay with Steve, try to make my marriage work. Please try to understand, Janek. I’m forty years old. It’s probably my last chance.’
‘Right. And you believe that God will keep his side of the deal.’ Janusz made no effort to keep the ugly edge from his voice.
She lifted her chin. ‘I’m still pregnant – the doctors say everything is all right.’
Janusz gave way then to a deluge of cold rage. ‘And your God would prefer our child to be brought up in a loveless marriage, would he? By a man who isn’t even his father? Let alone a pointless waste of oxygen like Steve?’
Kasia shook her head, mouth twisting to one side, a look that said there was no point explaining the nature of her faith to him: he might call himself a Catholic, but they both knew he’d always been more fellow traveller than true believer.
They sat side by side, no longer touching, the ten centimetres of coverlet between them seeming to Janusz’s miserable gaze like an endless icy wasteland.
He was the first to break the silence. ‘Kasia, moj kotku. Are you seriously telling me that you’d give up everything we have – our future happiness, raising our child together – for the sake of some superstitious promise?’
Her nod was barely discernible, but there was something so final in her expression, that he felt the last thread of hope snap inside him.
The woman who spoke to him next was no longer Kasia his lover, his life partner and hope of future happiness, but a kindly friend. ‘This baby we made between us, Janek. That’s the important thing. And I promise you this, on the soul of our child. One day, when she’s old enough, I will tell her all about her wonderful father, so she can come and find you.’
As she reached out and took his hand, a gesture intended to fortify and comfort him, something struck Janusz with renewed and poignant force: the utter wrongheadedness of those who claimed that men were the unromantic sex.
Kasia
The dragging pain in her abdomen she’d felt in the back of her captor’s van that day was far worse than anything else she’d had to endure. Not the pain itself, but the memories it stirred – and the searing knowledge of the loss it promised.
It pitched her back to that other, terrible day, seven years and seven months ago. The one that had ended with her gazing into the utterly still, serene face of her little girl, framed by a hospital blanket. Angelika. Named for the angels she was joining. The nurses had let her keep the baby for a while. She had combed her fine hair, rocked her and sung to her, before dressing her in the cardigan she’d bought to take her home in – the one with the bunny rabbits. Terrible, yes. And yet those last precious moments with her baby were still Kasia’s most cherished memory.
The noise of the traffic outside had receded and the jolting became rougher – the van must have turned off the main road.
The thought of losing this child … Nie. That was something she could not contemplate. ‘I will protect you, maluszku,’ she told her. ‘I swear it.’
Now they were coming to a stop. The man would give her another injection. Before that dark oblivion, Kasia knew what she had to do. Behind the blindfold, her eyes filled with tears.
‘Father in Heaven,’ she prayed. ‘Ever-living source of all that is good. Help me to do your will …’
Forty-Six
Twelve days and what felt like a lifetime later, Janusz found himself at an airport in the depths of Kent – if a steel shed with a single runway even merited the term. He’d been met at reception by a guy with thinning hair and a purple birthmark like a thumbprint under one eye – presumably one of the witness protection cops – who’d shown him up to a private waiting room on the first floor. Now he stood at the floor to ceiling window, staring out over the airfield, a plastic cup of machine-made tea burning his fingers.
He’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here. The prospect of seeing Kasia leaving for a life God-knew-where felt as unbearable as it was pointless, gravel ground into a fresh wound. But the girl detektyw had been insistent – had said that Kasia’s safety was at stake.
A moment later, Natalia came through the door.
‘Is that the plane?’ he asked, gesturing towards a Cessna parked on the apron, which was taking on fuel from a pocket-sized tanker. It had been raining off and on all morning but now the clouds were clearing and the plane’s white paintwork, spot-lit in a shaft of sunshine, dazzled.
‘Yeah.’ She shot him a warning look. ‘There’s no point asking me where it’s going, though: only their handlers know that.’
He snorted. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
She studied him out of the corner of her eye. He looked thinner, with new lines either side of his mouth, and even more rumpled than usual, but it was his tone of voice – roughened by a new bitterness – that caught her attention. He could be a grumpy old bastard, for sure, but there had always been a streak of wry humour never far beneath the scowl.
‘I know this must be really difficult for you,’ she said. ‘But we both know Joey Duff will have people working 24/7 to find Steve, and at least this way you can be sure that Kasia will be safe.’
She’d be even safer if I’d let the Russian kill her husband when I
had the chance, thought Janusz.
‘What is it you want from me, exactly?’ he asked.
‘Tell Steve he’s doing the right thing, turning Queen’s Evidence against Joey Duff, and that going into witness protection is the only way to ensure their safety.’
‘You said on the phone that he’d already informed on Duff – for shooting that lorry driver.’
She grimaced. ‘He’s given us enough to charge Duff with attempted murder and put him on remand, yes. But we’ve still got to get a conviction.’
Kasia’s decision to stay with Steve Fisher had been bad news for Janusz but a lucky break for the investigation, Kershaw reflected. After Kasia left hospital, she and her husband had been whisked to a safe house a healthy distance from the capital. While negotiations with Fisher and his brief got underway, there were parallel meetings with the brass in London, who needed convincing that it was worth the cost of resettling the couple in order to take a ruthless armed gang off the grid.
It had finally dawned on Fisher that a fresh start somewhere far from the East End was the only safe option for him and his prodigal wife. He’d spilled the beans after one long, late night session, fingering Joey Duff as the leader of the gang who’d carried out the Felixstowe lorry heist. His statement gave a detailed account of his visit to a lock-up garage in Walthamstow where he’d overheard a man boasting about shooting the lorry driver – a man he’d gone on to positively identify as Joey Duff from a digital identity parade.
‘So Steve’s statement is the only evidence you’ve got?’ asked Janusz.
‘Not entirely. Luckily for us Duff was too stupid, or more likely, too arrogant, to have his secret lock-up properly cleared out,’ Kershaw told Janusz. ‘The crime scene guys found the remains of discarded packaging from the stolen shipment with his prints all over them.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve got him over a barrel.’
She puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. ‘You’d think so. But he’ll have a shit-hot barrister, and without Steve’s testimony, he’ll probably get off with handling stolen goods.’
Janusz frowned. ‘And you’re worried that Steve’s going to get cold feet, and change his story when it comes to trial.’
‘I’m worried he’ll change his mind today, and refuse to get on that plane,’ she said, nodding out the window. ‘Apparently he’s been getting twitchy in the last few days, whingeing to his handler about being sent to “the sticks”.’
‘Isn’t it his wife you should be talking to?’ Janusz shook the last drops of cold tea into his mouth, before crushing the plastic cup in his fist. ‘She’s no idiot. She’ll know it makes sense to keep his side of the bargain.’
‘I have done, and she’s on-side, especially with a baby on the way’ – Kershaw rushed on, aware that this was dangerous territory – ‘but well, actually it was Steve who asked to see you today.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I don’t know. I got the impression that he feels the need to talk to someone who … who inhabits his world.’
‘Thank you very much.’
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Come on, Janusz. You know what I mean.’
On the face of it, Kiszka seemed like the last person Steve Fisher would listen to – but whenever his name came up, Kershaw sensed that, despite their history, Fisher viewed the big Pole with a wary respect.
‘Okay,’ said Janusz. ‘But I need you to do me a favour.’ Reaching into his inside coat pocket, he produced a large white envelope.
‘What’s in it?’ she said, taking it from him somewhat reluctantly.
‘Five grand. For Kasia. I want to make sure she has enough money of her own.’
After checking the envelope’s contents, Kershaw nodded. ‘No problem.’
They both fell silent. ‘You know, I really appreciate you coming here today,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure the last couple of weeks must have been … awful for you.’ Reaching out, she set her hand lightly on his shoulder. He flinched, apparently surprised, but didn’t – as she’d half-expected – shake it off. ‘Listen, Janusz. I want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, have a jar with – I’m there, okay?’ His muscles felt tense under her hand, like that of some wild animal at bay. ‘I’m not saying that as a cop – I’m saying it … as a mate.’
His profile gave nothing away, but he did give one of his grunts in which she thought she detected an acknowledgement – maybe even a hint of appreciation – for her offer of friendship. But a moment later, he turned to throw his destroyed cup into a nearby bin. ‘Can we get this over with?’ he said.
A couple of minutes later, Janusz heard the door open behind him.
‘All right?’ said Steve.
He didn’t turn round.
A moment later, Steve joined him at the window. ‘Christ,’ he said nodding at the Cessna. ‘They never said we was going on a toy plane.’
‘Well, they’re hardly likely to send you on Ryanair, are they?’ said Janusz.
‘Nah. Thank Christ for that!’ Steve tried a matey chuckle: it wasn’t convincing.
Janusz threw him an icy glance. Steve had shaved off his irritating demi-beard and was dressed respectably in a jacket and freshly pressed shirt – no doubt at his wife’s insistence. Janusz was waylaid by a sudden image, pin-sharp: Kasia ironing, in his living room – dressed only in a white slip. He pushed it away.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he said flatly.
‘Yeah. It’s just, I wanted to thank you. For everything you did, for finding Kasia.’
Janusz clenched his jaw for a long moment before replying. ‘Well, make sure you look after her this time, wherever it is you’re going.’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Steve, his tone suddenly aggrieved. ‘They won’t even tell us what continent we’re going to. I’m hardly likely to blab it to anyone, am I?’
Thank God they had the good sense not to tell him, thought Janusz. ‘Look … Steve,’ he said, keeping his voice as civil as he could manage. ‘This deal you’ve done with the cops, taking Kasia someplace where you’ll both be safe – it’s your only option, you know.’
‘Maybe.’ Steve fidgeted for a moment before bursting out: ‘I still say we could go up north. I’ve got friends in Sheff … aargh!’
Janusz had grabbed him by the lapels and had him pressed against the window. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, abandoning all attempts at diplomacy. ‘The cops don’t know this, but you pissed off some very serious people when you raided that flat. If you don’t disappear, they will find you. Then they’ll rip your head off and piss in the hole – if Joey Duff’s goons don’t get there first.’
‘Okay, okay!’
‘So don’t delude yourself for a second that you can duck and dive your way out of this one. Personally? I couldn’t give a shit if Duff or anyone else puts you in the morgue, but I do care about Kasia.’
Janusz fell silent, the subject of the child she was expecting hanging between them. He let go of Steve’s jacket but held his gaze. ‘Go where the cops tell you,’ he said quietly. ‘Be good to Kasia. Work hard. Be somebody the child can respect.’ Their eyes flickered apart. ‘You’re getting a second chance you don’t deserve – don’t fuck it up.’
Steve straightened his jacket with a certain amount of dignity. ‘I know you don’t think much of me,’ he said. ‘Which is fair enough, I suppose. But I’m going to do things right this time. I’m not going to let anyone down.’
Janusz turned to look out the window at the Cessna; the fuel tanker had disappeared and a man in black trousers and a white shirt with epaulettes, presumably the pilot, was giving the plane the once over.
‘Good,’ he told Steve out of the side of his mouth. ‘Because if you do, I’ll find you and kill you myself.’
After Steve left, Janusz knew he ought to go, too. No possible good could come of watching Kasia climb aboard that plane. He willed himself to leave. But five minutes passed and he was still standing at the window.
All of a sudden, she was the
re below him, a slender figure in long boots and her favourite black coat, walking out across the apron a step or two behind Steve. His heart lurched in his chest as he recalled the time he’d watched her crossing Highbury Fields from the window of his apartment. Then, her lilting step had spoken of optimism and hope for the future; now, although she was still the most graceful woman he’d ever seen, there hung about her the air of someone embarking on an unwished-for duty.
It occurred to Janusz that if he leaned forward and rapped on the glass, she’d still be close enough to hear him. He had to thrust his bunched fists into his coat pockets in order to stop himself. What would be the point?
The plane door closed silently behind her, and still Janusz found he couldn’t walk away. He closed his eyes and, seconds later, heard the low whirr of the engine as the plane taxied to its take-off position, then the hike in engine pitch as the pilot throttled up and started to speed down the runway.
When he opened his eyes again it was already a distant white dot in the vastness of a pale-grey English sky.
Forty-Seven
At 0900 hours the following day, Kershaw settled herself in her usual armchair opposite Paula the shrink.
‘I’ve decided something,’ she said. ‘I’m not going back to SCO19.’
Paula made one of her trademark noises to indicate moderate interest but it was clear to Kershaw that she’d been caught unawares.
‘I’ve surprised you,’ she said with a grin.
‘Perhaps a little. You’ve always seemed so determined to go back to firearms.’
‘I know. And I was, to start with. But I think it was more about being told I couldn’t carry a gun any more, rather than any real commitment to it as a career.’ Kershaw pulled a rueful grin. ‘I hate being told I can’t do something.’ She had a flashback to a room not unlike this one, and a conversation with her school’s career officer in which he’d tried to put her off joining the police. The Met was a hotbed of misogyny, he’d told her – an impossibly tough place for a woman to make a career in. She’d been livid at the time, but now it occurred to her that his negativity had only spurred her on to pursue her ambition.