Death Can’t Take a Joke (29 page)

Noting the solid-looking closed door behind the drapes, Janusz decided that his life expectancy might be enhanced by staying in the café. Here there were witnesses at least: two of the tables were occupied by middle-aged Turkish guys watching Al Jazeera on the giant overhead screen, coffee and pastries in front of them. He chose a table near the window, taking a seat facing back into the café.

When Romescu emerged a few minutes later, all eyes flickered towards him and then slid away. He was an unsettling presence, his fierce gaze and scarred face incongruous against the beautifully-cut shirt and jacket, the shiny, expensive looking brogues on his feet. As he sat down opposite Janusz, the owner set down a tray bearing two tiny glasses and a silver teapot from which rose a sweet yet bracing aroma.

‘Mint tea?’ asked Romescu. ‘Or do you want something stronger?’

‘This is fine,’ said Janusz.

Romescu spread a napkin across his lap, a curiously fastidious gesture given he was only drinking tea. ‘How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?’ he said, fixing his piercing stare on Janusz. ‘I hear you work as a translator for the English cops, when you’re not playing at the private eye business.’

So Romescu had learned of Janusz’s eventful visit to Przeczokow Airport with the girl detective, which was no doubt how he’d discovered his real name: one of his stooges there could easily have accessed the flight passenger list.

After checking that no one was watching, Janusz parted his coat a few inches. Romescu reached across the table and ran a swift outspread hand from his chest down to his belly. Janusz suppressed a shiver of disgust: even after Romescu withdrew his hand, he could still feel the trail the questing fingers had left on his skin, nerve endings jangling in its wake.

Romescu gave a curt nod – he was satisfied. ‘What exactly are you doing digging around in my private business, Kiszka?’ His voice, although still reasonable-sounding, was as cold and sharp as a glacier’s edge.

Janusz took a sip of his tea, shrugged. ‘I made a pile of money selling properties in Krakow, and I’m looking to invest it in the right project. Like I told you at your drinks do, I like to do my research on the people I invest in.’

Romescu’s searching gaze became incredulous. ‘Really! And what did your “research” tell you?’

‘That your Triangle Investments set-up has an asset you’ve been keeping under your hat. Something with the potential to deliver serious returns – not the ten or fifteen per cent you give your Polish shopkeepers.’

‘And what is that?’

‘A highly discreet, super-fast delivery route to the East, avoiding the risk and inconvenience of border crossings and customs checks.’

Romescu reached for the teapot to top up their glasses. ‘And what merchandise do you imagine I am exporting in this way?’ He sounded complacent, amused even, apparently confident that the cloak of secrecy around the cargo flying out of Przeczokow was intact.

Janusz lifted his eyes to look over Romescu’s head. Face creasing with irritation, he twisted round in his seat to follow Janusz’s gaze. The TV screen behind them showed a group of Middle Eastern combatants bouncing around in the back of a moving truck. They wore
keffiyeh
twinned with ill-assorted camouflage gear, and each cradled an assault rifle. The strapline at the bottom of the screen said ‘
SYRIA: Jihadist fighters well armed despite international sanctions, say analysts
.’

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.

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.’