Where the Devil Can't Go (7 page)

“I’m afraid I must leave intent to you, Detective,” he said. He drummed gloved fingers on the board. “But if I were to stick my neck out, I’d say it wasn’t the common or garden bottle of paracetamol.’

Rummaging through the pile of entrails with the air of a man trying to find matching socks, he retrieved a glistening brown lobe the size of a fist and set it in front of her.

“Kidney?” she said. Disgusting stuff – wouldn’t eat it as a kid, or now, come to that.

“Well done!” said Waterhouse, smoothing the glistening organ out on the board. “Have a little poke around, tell me what you see.”

She took the proffered scalpel and separated a series of incisions in the tissue.
What was she supposed to be looking for?
Then, bending closer, she saw something- a scatter of bright magenta dots across the pinky-brown surface.

“These spots,” she asked. “Are they normal?”

“No, Detective, they are not.”

Waterhouse picked up the kidney and turned it to and fro in the light. “These
petechiae
– haemorrhages – are suggestive of acute renal failure.”

Kershaw frowned at the constellation of dots. “What could have caused it?” she asked.

“Half a dozen things.” He pursed his lips. “But
off
the record, I’d put my money on rhabdomyolysis.” He smiled at the look on her face. “Damage to muscle fibres releases a protein called myoglobin into the bloodstream, which can ultimately cause the kidneys to fail.”

“
Muscle
damage?”

“Yes, rhabdomyolysis is often seen in serious crush injuries, for example.” He paused, tilting his head. “But I think the likeliest cause in this case is chemical. Drug-induced hyperthermia could have raised her body temperature so high that it started literally to cook her tissues.”

Kershaw remembered a news article someone posted on the noticeboard at Uni, about a stude who took too many tabs of Ecstasy and nearly died from overheating. The ‘alternative’ types, the ones with facefuls of metalwork, had been routinely off their tits on the stuff, and even some of her fellow criminology studes had dabbled. She’d never been tempted: a few drinks was one thing, but the idea of losing control over her brain chemistry totally freaked her out.

“You think she OD-ed on Ecstasy?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t dream of pre-judging the toxicology report, of course,” said Waterhouse. “But it’s
possible
that she died of renal failure brought about by an overdose of MDMA, yes.”

Kershaw tried to picture the scenario, how the girl might have ended up naked in the Thames. Maybe, after a night out clubbing with her boyfriend, they’d gone to bed, and he’d woken up next to a dead body. If he’d given her the drugs, or sold them to her, he could easily have panicked and dumped her in the river.

“What would she have experienced, when she OD-ed?” she asked.

“A massive surge of seratonin in the brain would have caused a breakdown of the body’s temperature control mechanisms, like a fire raging out of control through a house.” Waterhouse started scooping the girl’s organs into a blue plastic bag in the sink. “When her core temperature exceeded 39 degrees, there would be neuron damage; at 40 degrees, she was probably suffering seizures, followed by coma. When it reached 41, the organs would begin to shut down.”

He handed the bag to the Goth technician who took it without a word.

“Nasty way to die,” said Kershaw. “Presumably she wouldn’t be in a fit state to get down to the Thames and throw herself in?”

Waterhouse tipped his head. “That depends at what stage of the overdose she did so – if indeed that’s what happened.”

He started rinsing his hands under the tap. Over his shoulder, Kershaw could see the Goth girl inserting the bulging bag back into the dead girl’s body cavity, pushing it this way and that to make it fit.

Waterhouse snapped off his gloves and checked his watch. “I’m afraid I must leave you, I have a court case at the Old Bailey.”

Kershaw said she’d walk with him to the tube. Five minutes later he emerged from the changing room, wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a briefcase.

He held the door open for her with a flourish. Out in the chilly air, she asked: “So you reckon this is just a case of one too many tabs of E, do you?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “I attended a conference in Berlin last month where I met a very interesting toxicologist. He said they’re seeing a rash of these deaths across Europe at the moment.”

They were out on the pavement now. Seeing Kershaw struggling to keep up with his long stride, Waterhouse slowed his pace.

“The toxicology shows the victims all ingested a
counterfeit
version of Ecstasy, called para-methoxyamphetamine.” He shot her a mischievous look. “You’ll be pleased to hear it’s more commonly known as PMA.”

Kershaw wished she could take notes, she’d never remember all this. “Does it have the same effect as Ecstasy?”

“It’s similar, but it’s
much
more dangerous. This chap told me that three young women died in a single night recently.”

Kershaw raised her eyebrows. If the girl turned out to be a victim of a dodgy drugs ring, it could still be a big case.

Waterhouse strode off the pavement and practically into the path of an oncoming truck – meeting the blare of the driver’s horn with an urbane wave. Kershaw scurried after him.

“So why do people take this PMA, if it’s so risky?” she asked.

“They often don’t know that they are,” said Waterhouse. “Apparently the dealers pass it off as Ecstasy. And although it’s much more toxic, its effects take considerably longer to manifest themselves.” He shook his head. “Consequently, the hapless user often takes
further
pills, believing that they have bought a weaker product.”

She could see the tube entrance only metres away, and she still had so much to ask him.

“But if these PMA deaths all happened in Europe,” she said. “What’s it got to do with DB16?”

“You said in your email that our lady might be Polish,” said Waterhouse, as if that made everything crystal.

Kershaw screwed her face up. “I don’t see the relevance.”

“Didn’t I say?” he asked, turning to look at her. “The three girls who died in one night – it happened in Poland. Gdansk, I think he said.”

SEVEN

Janusz raised his chin, and ran the razor from throat to jaw line, enjoying the rasping sound of the blade. As he rinsed it under the running tap he felt the prickle on the back of his neck that told him he was being watched.

He turned around to find Copernicus, the big grey tabby tomcat who had adopted him almost a decade ago, standing in the bathroom doorway. Although the cat’s gaze was impassive, his message was crystal clear.

“Alright, Copetka. I know dinner is running a bit late at Hotel Kiszka,” said Janusz, towelling off the last suds. With fluid grace the cat turned and led him to the kitchen cupboard.

After feeding him, Janusz opened the kitchen window to let the cat onto the fire escape and watched as he trotted down the half dozen flights of stairs. Through the gathering dusk, he could make out the first daffodils under the plane trees that edged Highbury Fields.

These days, it was one of North London’s most select areas. But back in the early Eighties, when the latest wave of the Polish Diaspora had washed him up on the shores of Islington, the locals – better-off English working class types – couldn’t get out fast enough. Taking their place were Paddies, Poles and blacks, and a few bohemian types who weren’t fazed by the area’s reputation as crime central. The flat had been a cheap place to flop once he’d split the rent with workmates from building sites. And he’d always liked the view.

By the time his Jewish landlord had decided to up sticks and head for the Promised Land, Janusz had earned enough for a deposit and got a mortgage to buy the place. Now, his only problem was the odd funny look from his newer neighbours, the City types and advertising executives who were taken aback to find a Polish immigrant living next door in a Highbury mansion block. Well, tough luck, he thought, he was here first.

Janusz went to the fridge to check he had everything he needed for supper – Kasia would be arriving in less than an hour. He was happy with the look of the beef, a good dark-coloured fat-marbled slab of braising steak he’d paid a crazy price for at Islington’s farmer’s market. It was always worth spending an extra pound or two when it came to meat.

He levered open the big bay window in the living room to get rid of the smell of stale cigars, and picked up a dirty glass and a pile of junk mail off the mantelpiece of the marble fireplace. Then he put them back, smiling to himself: Kasia would enjoy cleaning the place up later.

The evening started out well enough.

Sure, he and Kasia had been reserved with each other at first, an edge of awkwardness to their embrace at the door, but since this was their first date since they’d first slept together two weeks ago, that was to be expected. That night, a fortnight ago now, had been the culmination of weeks of assignations over coffee and cake snatched during her work breaks – encounters that couldn’t have been more tantalisingly proper had they been chaperoned by a brace of
Babcia.
It was just his luck, reflected Janusz, to be dating the world’s most straitlaced stripper.

While Kasia tidied the living room, exclaiming at the mess, he cut the beef into three centimetre chunks, and started to chop the onion and garlic.

After a few minutes she came and leant against the worktop and lit a cigarette while he browned the beef. “I never saw a Polish man cook before – not even a boiled egg!” she said, watching him slice a red pepper. He shrugged. “I think it’s good,” she said. “I’m a
katastrofa
in the kitchen, and anyway, how would I cook with these?” she brandished her sinister talons at him.

“I always meant to ask: why do you paint your nails black?” he asked, quartering the chestnut mushrooms.

“I started doing it when I was a Goth,” she said surveying her outstretched hands. “After that I never changed them.” She shrugged and took a drag of her cig. “Maybe it’s nice to be a bit different.

“So, how did you learn to cook? Do you watch the TV programmes from home?”

He shook his head. “My Mama taught me, right from when I was a little boy.” Using a wooden spoon, he scraped the onion and garlic into the hot oil of the pan, releasing an aromatic sizzle. “When there was nothing in the shops we’d take a basket into the countryside to find treats for Tata’s supper. In the summer, wild asparagus, lingonberries to make jam...”

Kasia smiled at the nostalgia in his voice. Janusz’s childhood, with its visits to his grandmother’s place, a crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk, was a million miles from her monochrome memories of a labyrinthine Soviet-built estate in industrial Rzewow. She loved to hear his boyhood tales of collecting warm eggs from the chicken house, or climbing up into the high branches of apple trees in the orchard. The funny thing was, even though his memories were so different from hers, they still made her feel homesick.

She tapped ash from her cigarette out of the kitchen window. “How did your Mama know what was safe to eat?”

“She came from a family of farmers, so she was a real country girl. She even knew how to make birch wine. In the Spring, you cut through the bark,” he used his wooden spoon to demonstrate the lateral cut, “and drain off a few litres of sap. But you must be careful: if you make the wound too big the tree will die.”

Pouring a jugful of water over the meat and vegetables, he said over his shoulder, “October, November, I take the tube to Epping and go into the Forest to look for mushrooms. If you get lucky, you can find
boletas.
I could take you, if you like – show you which ones are good to eat.”

There was a moment of silence as they shared the unspoken thought…
if they were still seeing each other in six months’ time
:

He threw a couple of roughly chopped red chillies in the pot. The dish’s final ingredients, a little sour plum jam and a cup of buttermilk, wouldn’t be added till the end.

He’d been sliding glances at her face while he cooked and was relieved to see that the old bruise on her cheekbone had faded completely, with no evidence of fresh ones. The warning he’d delivered to Steve had done the trick, at least for now. And according to Kasia, Steve had bought the story that Janusz was Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, which was a relief – he didn’t want to give that
chuj
another excuse to beat her.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a jar filled with cream-coloured fat.

“What’s that?” asked Kasia.

“Goose
smalz
for roasting the potatoes,” he said, doling some into a roasting tray.”

“Ah, goose fat is good for you!” exclaimed Kasia, examining the jar, “It helps you to lose weight.” Then, on seeing his sceptical look: “It’s
true
– I read it in a magazine.”

Kasia might be blade-sharp, reflected Janusz, but like all Polish women, she had a vast collection of cherished – and often crazy – dietary folklore: a rich brew of Catholic injunctions, old wives’ tales from medieval Poland, and the crap peddled by glossy magazines.

Janusz brandished the jar in front of him and adopted a serious air: ‘Top Government scientists are warning: too much goose fat can cause dangerous weight loss – please use it sparingly.” Pretending to be insulted, she made to grab the jar back from him.

He caught her deftly, his big hand circling her slim wrist with ease: “Can you stay tonight?” he asked. Best to get the question – and the phantom of Steve – out of the way early so that it didn’t overshadow their evening. She looked along her eyes at him, then nodded. “I’m staying at my sister’s.” Breaking into a grin, he grabbed her by the waist and, ignoring her protestations, danced her around the tiny kitchen.

Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of a decent Czechoslovak pinot noir inside him, he settled into the big leather sofa and, wreathed in the aromas of the roasting potatoes and the peppery stew, let his gaze linger on Kasia, who stood examining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves either side of the fireplace. He felt as relaxed and happy – the realisation rushed on him unawares – as he had with Iza, more than twenty-five years ago.