Where the Devil Can't Go (17 page)

The drop in temperature as she stepped over the threshold made her shudder. “Air con,” said Derek, “Got to keep that lot cool,” nodding at the bank of CCTV screens and winking recorders.

Surveying the Stone Age technology she felt a sinking sensation. “VHS recorders?” she asked, incredulous. “Five star hotel and they don’t have hard drive recording?”

He fiddled with his keys, embarrassed. “Not yet. The system came from some hotel the owners closed down.” He shrugged. “They say it’s only temporary.”

It was a pocket version of the M25 control room she’d once visited, except the ebb and flow of traffic on the screens here was of the human variety. “Are those the lift cams?” asked Kershaw, indicating two blank screens. “Yes, on the fritz, I’m afraid,” said Derek. “But I’ve pulled out the tapes for the check-in and the lobby.” He ushered her into a smaller, much warmer, room – his ‘cubbyhole’ – so she could watch the footage from a comfy armchair, then went off to make her a cup of tea.

She felt a tingle of anticipation as she pressed play on the first VHS, which was from the security camera trained on the check-in desk, but that soon gave way to disappointment when she saw the footage. The guests trailed ghostly auras and the picture quality was so grainy you could barely make out faces – the tapes must be endlessly recycled. To cap it all, the numpty who’d positioned the camera had angled it to favour the
check-in clerk
, rather than the guests. She pressed fast forward, looking for the section that would cover ‘Lampart’ – aka Kiszka – checking in, her sense of gloom mounting as she spooled through indistinct rear-view shots of hotel guests, catching not much more than an occasional glimpse of profile.

Fast-forwarding produced a kind of fascinating time-lapsed loop of hotel life: people checking in and out, picking up messages, having arguments. One couple looked like illicit lovers checking in for a quickie, a girl in a revealing shoulder-less dress – her hair too fair to be Justyna – who couldn’t keep her hands off a guy in a suit. But something about them sparked Kershaw’s interest, and rerunning the tape she detected a mechanical quality to the girl’s attentions that made her re-categorise the pair as sex worker and client.

She reached 1300 hours according to the 24-hour clock in the corner of the screen, but the only people checking in at that time were an overweight couple, American tourists, she guessed, judging by their matching tartan jackets and trousers.

Checking back on her notes she confirmed that Lampart’s credit card slip had been run through the machine at 13:19, right at the moment when Mr and Mrs Tartan were at the desk. Returning next door, she quizzed Derek, the security guy, making a real effort to conceal her impatience.

“Ah, you know what’s happened there, don’t you sweetheart,” said Derek, chuckling. “I bet they never changed the time setting when the clocks went back. I’d check an hour earlier, if I was you.”

Resisting the temptation to ask who else would be responsible for resetting security cameras,
if not the head of
effing security
, Kershaw returned to the sofa. As the numbers on the clock spun backwards to reach 12.08, she pressed play – and felt the hairs on her forearms prickle.

A wide-shouldered guy wearing a three quarter length leather coat and one of those trendy retro hats – a pork pie hat, they called it – strolled up to the desk, alone. As he went through the check-in procedure, she literally held her breath, praying that he would glance behind him, or at least turn his head enough to reveal his right profile. But the guy kept the back of his head resolutely turned to the camera. She kept the breath bottled up right to the last moment when the desk clerk handed him back his credit card and room card.
Turn right
, she urged silently. After viewing a stream of check-ins, she knew that if he turned left now, the camera would lose him straight away, but if he went right, she’d get a look at his face, just for a second.

Turn right, you bastard.

He turned left. Kershaw let her breath out, exasperated.
Fucking typical.
She ran the footage back and forward a dozen or so times, concentrating in particular on the few seconds when the guy was walking up to, and away from, the desk. When she compared the image with her memory of Kiszka, she had to concede it wasn’t a brilliant match. This ‘Lampart’ carried as much muscle as the big Pole, but he was a good half-head shorter, and his swagger suggested a much younger man, in his early thirties, tops.

She turned her attention to footage from the camera trained on the hotel’s revolving doors and lobby – her last chance of getting a good look at the guy. But after pressing play she wanted to scream with frustration: the camera was mounted so high, that by the time guests emerged from the revolving doors all you got was a superb view of the tops of their heads. Cursing, she spun through to 1300 hours. At 1306, a lively group of youngish people – office workers out on a beano, from the look of them – came barrelling through the revolving door in a scrum, the boys fooling around and yanking each other’s jackets.

Behind this group and partly obscured by them, came the man in the hat and a girl who, from the long dark hair, was almost certainly Justyna Kozlowska. The top shot gave little away: he appeared to be holding her by the elbow, but her body language betrayed no fear – their pace was brisk and purposeful, and were out of shot within three seconds.

Having replayed it several times, Kershaw came to two conclusions. The pair’s businesslike demeanour confirmed her suspicion that Justyna was a working girl, but as much she hated to admit it, the man in the hat definitely wasn’t Janusz Kiszka.

Which left her with a puzzle – what was his business card doing in the dead girl’s mouth?

THIRTEEN

Two flags flapped and rattled on their poles outside the four storey Georgian terrace, one red and white, surmounted by the implacable profile of the Polish eagle, the other the banal circle of stars on a blue background denoting membership of the EU. As Janusz passed through the stuccoed arch of the Polish Embassy, he reflected that he was hardly dressed for a reception at such an august institution, but Father Pietruzki had insisted they meet there to discuss the ‘terrible news’.

The priest said he couldn’t miss the event: it was to raise money for
Do Domu
Foundation, which helped Poles sleeping rough in London to return home. Janusz had seen Polish down and outs around Stratford, usually guys from the poorest backgrounds, who – despite having no skills to sell – thought they’d get off the coach at Victoria and walk into well-paid jobs. Stranded and broke, they were often too ashamed to admit their predicament, even to their families back home.

Janusz was trying to explain to a flunky with a superior air why his name was absent from the guest list when Father Pietruzki rescued him. He waved away the old man’s horrified enquiries about his injured face with the cab crash story he’d given the girl detective – no point worrying the old guy – and the pair entered the embassy’s main salon. The tall-ceilinged room echoed with well-bred chatter and the expensive chink of champagne glasses, and a flock of black-tied waiters wove their way, trays aloft, through the throng. Before one of the tall windows, a girl in a long gown, red hair swept up in a chignon, sat at a grand piano playing a lively
Polonaise.

Many of the guests greeted Father Pietruzki or bowed as he bustled through the crowd, but their eyes widened at the sight of his bruised and dangerous-looking companion. Janusz stopped a waiter to scoop up a few elegant canapés – he hadn’t eaten all day – earning a disapproving look from an elderly woman with some long-dead animal, complete with glassy little eyes, draped round her neck. As he passed, he couldn’t resist reaching out to pat the furry head, making the old girl start back, eyes popping. Once they were out of earshot, Father Piotr hissed “Behave yourself! That was the Countess Jagielska.”

It was certainly an upmarket gathering. Alongside the frayed elegance and confident hauteur of the old nobility, Janusz noticed the expensively cut suits of the
klasa biznes
, made rich by Poland’s free market reforms. The priest paused to exchange pleasantries with one of them, a man with the face of a crafty peasant. On one arm, he wore a watch with too many dials, on the other, a perfect-bodied but bored-looking girl of about nineteen.

“He owns Europe’s third largest haulage business,” said Father Pietruzki, looking up at Janusz with an expression at once sheepish and excited. “He’s pledged a million
zlotych.”

“Well I hope he’s paying through the nose for this little shindig,” growled Janusz as they pressed on through the throng.

Like a tugboat with a battered warship in tow, Father Piotr piloted Janusz into the relative quiet of a private alcove, which held two carved and gilded antique armchairs and a low table, and watched, face creased in pained sympathy as the younger man lowered himself with care into one of the frail-looking chairs.

After ordering him a Tyskie from a passing waiter, Father Pietruzki leaned in and spoke in hushed tones. “You can imagine the state that poor Pani Tosik was in after she heard the news. The policeman told her it was an overdose –
narkotyki
!”

His lips trembled. “I would never have imagined it of Justyna, such a sensible girl, she never gave any hint of that kind of thing in confession!” A champagne cork popped in the salon, making him jump. Janusz had never seen the old guy so shaken up. Reaching out a bandaged hand he gave the bony shoulder a clumsy pat.

It appeared the uniformed cop had told Pani Tosik about Justyna’s death at precisely the same time he’d heard of it from the discourteous girl detective: the timing clearly co-ordinated so that she could spring the news on him before he received any prior warning.

“The policeman also asked about you – implied that you knew Justyna...” said the priest, a question in his darting eyes, anxiety showing itself in the repeated clasping and unclasping of his hands.

“Don’t worry, Father,” said Janusz, touched by the old guy’s concern. “If the
policja
had any real evidence against me I’d be in a cell by now.”

But the priest’s hands continued their mime of anxiety.

He gazed past Janusz’s shoulder to the crowd beyond. “The loss of Justyna...it’s a tragedy,” he said. A note of resolve entered his voice, “But it makes finding Weronika and Adamski all the more urgent.”

“Listen, Father, I know I told you I’d hit a dead end...” Janusz stopped, and the parquet floor of the salon seemed suddenly to tilt beneath his feet. He gripped the chair’s delicate arms. “How do you know about Adamski?” he demanded. “Pani Tosik said Weronika was as pure as a tear – that she didn’t
have
a boyfriend.”

The priest’s hands were still now. His watery blue gaze met the younger man’s fierce, questioning gaze.

“Janusz, my boy. For once, it is I who must make a confession. I was unable to be completely honest with you about the... business with Weronika. Please don’t blame Pani Tosik: she was only following my request for...
dyskrecja
.”

“Discretion?!” burst out Janusz, causing a couple of highly-coiffed heads to turn nearby. The priest raised his hand to quiet Janusz, a look in his eyes that was part-apology, part-entreaty.

“You call it discretion, lying to me, who you have known for twenty years and more?” Janusz continued in an angry whisper. “You send me off on a job half blind – and an innocent girl ends up dead. What the devil is going on?”

“We knew that Weronika was in danger, it’s true,” said the priest, his face distorted with anguish, “But we
never
expected Justyna to become involved – how could we know you would talk to her?”

“She was Weronika’s only friend! How the hell else did you expect me to do my job? Visit a fucking soothsayer?”

The waiter arrived with the beer, and when Janusz failed to take it from his outstretched hand, set it on the side table atop a circle of felt, his eyes sliding warily between the priest and his ruffian companion.

After the waiter left, the priest continued. “We see that now, of course, but at the time, I just thought, you seem to know everyone in the community, that you would find some other way...” his voice trailed off. “I realise that was naïve.”

“Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about, anyway?” Janusz shot a suspicious glance into the crowded salon. “It’s sure as hell not just you and Pani Tosik.”

The priest hesitated, fiddling with the sleeve of his robe. “There is someone you need to meet who can explain it better than I.” He looked at Janusz with a plaintive expression. “Then you’ll understand why I was unable to be entirely truthful with you.”

Janusz followed Father Piotr back through the salon, feeling his grip on reality slipping. The scene seemed surreal now: the crowd’s chatter had become shrill, piercing, the women’s make-up looked garish and cruel, and he imagined himself the subject of mocking glances. Gazing down at the familiar balding head in front of him, he grappled with disbelief that his old friend – his
confessor
– could have lied to him this way.

The girl at the piano had started to play Nocturne Number 1, her slim fingers gliding over the keys. Janusz had a sudden image of himself, aged about three, sitting on his Mama’s lap while she played it at Grandmother’s house. One of the most beautiful Nocturnes, the piece combined an almost painful poignancy with a sense that all would be well.

The priest led Janusz down an oak-lined hallway heading to the embassy’s rear. Behind one final old panelled door a second, modern swing door opened into the cacophony of the embassy kitchen. At the threshold, they passed a man coming out who, on seeing the priest, made a deep bow. Janusz caught a whiff of his aniseedy cologne as they passed.

Inside, chefs in tall white hats were arranging canapés on trays like checkers pieces, shouting for waiters, but after passing through a second swing door, the pair entered an oasis of peace. From the odd empty plate and some kitchen whites discarded on a long table, Janusz guessed it was the staff eating area.