Where the Devil Can't Go (34 page)

“You’re right. He’s a dangerous man.” She paused, re-adjusted the mirror a fraction. “I think he killed Justyna to send you a message.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He left your business card in her mouth.”

He whipped round to stare at her. “In her
mouth
?”

She nodded.
Now she had his attention.

Mother of God!
Rage and impotence battled inside him as the sense of responsibility for Justyna’s death came rushing back.

“Do you want him to get away with killing her?” she asked, watching his jaw muscles working.

He didn’t answer for a moment, then raised one shoulder, let it drop.

“Even if you catch...this guy who fed her the drugs, you can’t prove for sure that it’s murder.”

“Not
yet
, I can’t,” she said, and Janusz picked up the steely note in her voice.

“What if I told you he was probably involved in the death of someone else, another Polish girl?”

He waited for her to say more.

“A girl by the name of Ela Wronska,” she said, “reported as a misper.” He frowned in incomprehension. “A missing person. She was found floating in the Thames. Her stomach was full of PMA – just like Justyna.” She could read him better now, and sensed that beneath his veneer of indifference, he was hanging on her every word.

“
She
didn’t do drugs, either,” she went on. “In fact, she was a Catholic, studying theology at Cavendish College, so her worst vice was probably the occasional sip of communion wine.”

A man like Adamski probably wouldn’t even know what theology was, thought Janusz, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s the joke?” she asked, changing down to turn off Balls Pond Road into Highbury Fields.

The girl had eyes like a hawk. “Nothing,” he said. “Where in Poland did she come from?” If she said Gorodnik, he might get interested.

Kershaw shook her head: “I don’t recall off the top of my head, but I’ve got her college file – it’s bound to be in there.” Together with all those Polish newspaper articles about the orchestra tour, she remembered.

She did some quick thinking. Streaky would have her attending Friday night domestics for a year if he found out she was sharing sensitive information with this guy, but
fuck it
, she needed a break. If he could help with the Polish angle, where was the harm? And maybe she could gain his trust, even get him to reveal hatman’s identity, if she spent a little time with him.

Pulling into a parking bay outside his flat, she put the hand brake on and levelled unblinking grey eyes at him.

“If I show you Ela Wronska’s file – would you talk me through the Polish stuff? It might help me nail the guy who killed her – and Justyna.”

Janusz put his hand on the door handle. “I’m a very busy man, darling,” He wanted to help the girl – she might be a bit of a
psychol
, but he respected the way she seemed to take the murders of these girls personally.

Kershaw felt a rush of determination not to let him walk away. Staring down at her white hand gripping the steering wheel, she suddenly visualised a heart, drawn in indigo ink, on lifeless waxy skin.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure that Ela Wronska had a boyfriend called Pawel.”

He didn’t take his hand off the handle, but from the way his eyes narrowed she could tell that the name meant something to him.

Janusz remembered her mentioning the name Pawel before. If she really could connect Adamski with a second death, prove he was a murderer – no, worse, a fucking serial killer – then that would change everything. A murder charge would get Adamski a proper jail sentence, even in the UK courts. Maybe if he helped her with the girl’s college file, she might let something slip, some detail that would help him find Adamski. Then, once he’d got Weronika away safely – and retrieved the birth certificate – he could hand over the murdering bastard.

“Yes, okay,” he said finally.

“You’ll look at the file, help me nail this guy?” Kershaw confirmed, trying to keep her voice neutral.

He nodded.
As long as I get to him first, darling,
he thought,
as long as I get to him first.

When Kershaw got back to the office she found that DI Bellwether had just called Streaky with some news. Crimewatch was running the CCTV image of hatman on tomorrow’s show, saying the police were seeking him in connection with the Kozlowska case. Trouble was, they also wanted to interview the officer on the case. She’d never thought of herself as a wuss, but the thought of performing on live TV – and having her performance rated by every cop in the land – sent her stomach into an aerobics routine.

“Congratulations, Ms Marple!” said Streaky, brushing fragments of sausage roll from his ample lap. “Not many detectives get their Crimewatch debut at such a tender age.”

“But Sarge,” she said urgently, leaning on his desk, head bent and voice low. “You’d be loads better at it, I’d be scared I’d freeze up at the wrong moment.” She was trying to keep their conversation private – she could practically
hear
Bonnick and Browning earwigging from their desks. She’d also spotted Ben’s jacket slung on the back of his chair, so there was the toe-curling prospect of their post-shag encounter to look forward to as well.

Streaky tossed his crumpled paper bag into a bin two metres away – prompting an “And he scores!’ from arch-creep Browning. Leaning back and putting both hands behind his head, he addressed the room. “What do we do when the TV-wallahs offer to broadcast a mug shot of one of our favourite scrotes to a couple of million curtain-twitchers?”

“Bite their arm off, Sarge,” said Bonnick.

“
Correcto
,” said Streaky. “So can anyone explain me to why Ms Marple here has suddenly gone all camera-shy?” Grins and shrugs all round. She gave him a pleading look. “
Sarge
...”

“It’s not Britain’s Got Talent,” said Streaky warming to his theme. “They’re not asking you to do a Madonna tribute act.” Over her shoulder she could hear Browning and Bonnick start singing the lyrics to “Like a Virgin”. She swung round to give them the Kershaw Death Stare – and met the deep brown gaze of Ben Crowther, who had just walked in carrying a mug of tea.
Shit!

As the tuneless duo reached the chorus, Browning stood up, ran his hands down his body and raised his eyebrows suggestively at her. Ben made a half-arsed attempt to look sympathetic but she could tell he was about to crack up.

Surfing a wave of murderous hatred, Kershaw swung back to Streaky, “Why don’t you get Crowther to do it, Sarge? He’s got the biggest fucking gob in the whole nick!” and stormed out of the office.

By the time she’d reached her rooftop hideaway she was mortified. Not because she’d slagged Ben Crowther – he had it coming, after blabbing to Browning about their night together – but because she’d broken Rule Number One. She had
let them see they’d got to her.
Cigarette in hand, she slumped against the wall.

Two minutes later, who should emerge onto the roof, blinking like a pit pony in the hazy sunshine, but the Sarge.
What the f...?
He leaned against the wall next to her and lit a Rothmans, then blew out a stream of smoke with a sigh.

“Have you and Crowther had a falling-out?”

“No, Sarge,” she muttered, head down.

“You could have fooled me,” he said. “Anyway, your private life is your own affair. But remember what I’m always telling you – never jump straight to the obvious conclusion, however tempting.”

She shot him a curious look.

“Brisley’s pal from Traffic was in the office the other day,” said Streaky, flicking ash of his cig. “And I happened to overhear him saying he’d seen you and Crowther, well lagered-up, in a Chinky in Soho the other night.”

He absent-mindedly adjusted his genitals through his trousers.

“Now, personally, I couldn’t give a flying fuck if you and Crowther are playing hide the sausage,” he said. Kershaw’s face flamed a deep, shaming red. “But I’ll tell you one thing: Ben Crowther’s not the sort of bloke to kiss and tell.” The old-fashioned phrase hung in the air between them.

Streaky threw down his half-finished fag and hitched up his trousers. “Anyway, Ms M, I’ve an urgent meeting at the Drunken Monkey in half an hour. So when you’re over your hissy fit, get your arse back inside and we’ll work out what you’re going to say unto the nation on Crimewatch.”

TWENTY-SIX

“I present myself before the Holy Confession, for I have offended God,” said Janusz.

“Back so soon?” enquired Father Pietruzki drily through the wire grille. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Janusz shifted around on the hard bench, triggering a battery of creaks and squeaks. When the shutter opened, he’d been relieved to see Father Piotr’s familiar profile rather than some spotty young stand-in just arrived from Poznan. He wasn’t here to observe his religious duty, but to ask for the priest’s guidance about the decision he’d made – a decision that had kept him awake half the night and dredged up some memories he’d hoped were irretrievably buried.

Keeping his deep voice low in case any nosy old dears arrived outside to await their turn in the box, Janusz laid out everything he’d discovered on his trip to Poland: Adamski’s likely involvement in Struk’s mysterious death, the old man’s basement shrine to Communism, and the puzzling contents of the SB documents. The priest listened in silence, only commenting when Janusz told him of his lucky encounter with the shotgun-toting farmer in Kosyk.

“God watches over fools and children,” said the old man, folding his hands in his lap.

Janusz ignored the implied insult. “Ever since I got back yesterday, I’ve been going over it all in my head,” he said. “And I think I’ve worked it out.”

He had pored over the documents again and methodically revisited every step of his investigation late into the night, trying to identify a link between the blackmailer Adamski and the old
esbek
Struk.

“Right after Adamski visits Struk’s house, the old man is found dead,” said Janusz. “The next day Adamski leaves for London, and a few days later he turns up at Weronika’s café and launches his dirty little blackmail plot.” The priest waited, head cocked.

“I realised that ever since I laid eyes on those documents, I’ve been ignoring what’s in front of my nose.” Janusz bent closer to the grille.

“The link between Adamski and Struk is Edward Zamorski.”

He gave the priest time to digest the idea.

“You think that the SB was aware of Zamorski’s... liaison with the underage girl,” said the old man after a moment, “and the subsequent birth of Weronika.” Janusz tipped his head in assent – it was common knowledge that the regime had spied on all the key people in
Solidarnosc.
“So the birth certificate Adamski is using to blackmail Zamorski came from Struk’s files?” the priest raised his eyebrows.

“I think the birth certificate is the least of his problems,” growled Janusz.

He pulled the cellophane off a new tin of cigars, then, remembering where he was, slipped them reluctantly back in his pocket. “If the SB had proof, back in the Eighties, that an opposition figure like Zamorski had fathered a baby with a fifteen-year-old girl, then why on earth didn’t they release it, to discredit Solidarity?”

The priest pulled at his earlobe. “Perhaps they planned to use the information in some other way?”

“Precisely,” said Janusz. “If I were the SB, I know what I’d do. Use it as a lever.”

The priest turned to face him, and even through the grille Janusz could see the old guy’s face had suddenly paled.

Janusz tried to think of a way to soften the blow – and failed. “I’ve gone over and over it in my head, Father, and I keep coming to the same conclusion. The informant who the SB called Magpie, is almost certainly Edward Zamorski.”

“No, no,” Father Pietruzki shook his head fiercely. “Zamorski was a
hero
!” he protested. “The SB imprisoned him, beat him up –
countless
times. It’s beyond belief that he could have been a traitor!”

“Is it?” asked Janusz. “When the SB’s files were opened, didn’t it come out that all sorts of people passed on information – even
priests
?”

“And what about the priests who defied the authorities every week from the pulpit? What about Marek Kuba,
murdered
for daring to speak out?” demanded the old man, his voice cracking with emotion. “If it hadn’t been for them, and the tireless work of the Holy Father, we could never have beaten the Communists!”

“It’s true,” said Janusz shrugging. “But they were dreadful times, and even good people did dreadful things,” he rubbed the heel of his hand across his brow. “Is it really so hard to believe? All the time Zamorski spent in jail, getting beaten up, humiliated, threatened...” Janusz’s voice cracked with emotion, making the priest squint through the grille. “Maybe they made threats against his family, who knows?” He lifted a hand, then let it fall. “Sure he took the SB’s money, but what difference does that make, once he’d sold his soul?”

The two men fell silent.

“Do you have any proof of this?” asked the priest finally.

“No, but I think Adamski does.” Janusz leaned so far forward his nose brushed the grille and dropped his voice to a murmur. “I think what he’s holding over Zamorski is much worse than the birth certificate.” He pictured the fragment of card clinging to the file ties, traces of a missing page. “Struk was Magpie’s case officer. I think Adamski got his hands on something at Struk’s house – something that proves Magpie and Zamorski are the same person.”

Janusz could see the old man’s hands working together on his lap.

“The SB
fabricated
documents in order to frame Walesa,” said the old man suddenly, hope brightening his voice. “Perhaps this is the same thing.”

In the early Nineties, stories circulating in the media claimed that Lech Walesa, then Poland’s president, had once worked secretly for the SB under the codename Bolek, informing against his
Solidarnosc
colleagues. Walesa denied it and the whole business was almost universally dismissed as a clumsy smear attempt by former SB officers. Had the story been proven, however, it would have ended his career in a heartbeat – just as this affair, should it become public, would end Zamorski’s. In modern day Poland, Communism might seem like a dark and distant fairytale, Janusz reflected, but there was no statute of limitation when it came to betraying one’s fellow Poles.