Where the Devil Can't Go (12 page)

There was no sign of Adamski’s BMW outside, and after watching the house for ten minutes or so, Janusz concluded there was nobody at home.

“What now?” asked Oskar, an operatic yawn splitting his face – he’d come straight from his ten-hour shift. “They could be gone all day.”

“That’s why I wanted you to bring the overalls and the tools,” said Janusz. “I’m going to get inside – check the place out.” He had some vague idea of finding evidence of drugs, using them as a lever against Adamski when he did turn up.

Oskar rubbed his hands with glee. “
Tak!
I always wanted to try some of this ‘James Bond’ shit you get up to.”

“It’s better if I do this on my own, Oskar. Gosia would never forgive me if I got you arrested.”

“
Kurwa mac!
Janek,” Oskar was already levering his stocky little frame out the driving seat, “You’re not gonna leave me sitting in the van like a fucking little kid.”

Sighing, Janusz started to pull on his overalls. A few minutes later, they were strolling up the front path, toting a toolbox and ladder, just like a pair of workmen on a routine job. Janusz rang the bell, which sounded horribly strident in the countryside hush, and waited. Nothing.

Leaving Oskar out front on guard duty, he headed round the back. The place had a huge garden – he couldn’t even make out where it ended – and three big
kazstan
trees screened the rear of the house. At ground level, the windows and French doors were tightly closed, but on the first floor, Janusz found what he’d been looking for: a bathroom skylight, open a crack.

After collecting Oskar, Janusz leaned the ladder up against the back wall. “Just keep an eye out while I go in, okay?” Oskar nodded. “If anyone comes, I’ll say I’m doing some work,” he produced a wood block wrapped in sanding paper, “prepping the woodwork for painting.” He beamed at the brilliance of his ploy.

When he reached the top of the ladder, Janusz checked the lie of the land. Perfect: the chestnut trees, fifteen or twenty metres tall, kept the cottage hidden from any nosy neighbours. Thirty seconds later, he had the casement window open and was just extending his left leg onto the sill when a sudden cramp shot through his thigh. Cursing, he rubbed the ridge of muscle, waiting for the pain to subside before he would trust his weight to it. Cat burglary was a young man’s game.

Once inside, Janusz undid the top button of his overall – the place was stifling hot – and glanced around. As well as a fancy roll-top bath, there was a shower that came straight out of the ceiling, and the polished limestone lining the walls must have cost fifty or sixty quid a metre.

Venturing downstairs he entered the living room, ducking his head to avoid the blackened beams, and took in the elegant decoration, the two-metre wide state-of-the-art plasma screen and the pricey-looking furniture. Justyna had been right: Adamski must have deep pockets to rent a place like this. But it was a
chlew
, a pigsty. Magazines, papers, and the cushions from the sofa were strewn about the place. The drawers of an antique sideboard were hanging open, and he noticed a faint line of dirt on the wall, suggesting it had been pulled out from its usual spot.

The dining room was in a similar state. An antique-looking bureau had been emptied and its contents piled on the floor, the wood on one of the drawers splintered as though it had been forced open. Janusz wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve – the heat was coming off the radiators in waves, and a putrid stink hung in the air. He was starting to feel uneasy. It looked like a gang of burglars had been through the place - but how could they have overlooked the brand new Wii, still in its packaging, that stood against the wall? Leafing through the pile of papers on the floor, he found guarantees for the plasma screen and a Bose hi-fi, plus Ocado receipts, takeaway menus: the usual stuff. He sighed – what had he expected to find – invoices for
Ekstasa
shipments?

Turning to go, he knocked a London A to Z off the bureau, and a piece of paper fluttered from its pages onto the oak floorboards. It bore the words ‘
Bannister, 87 Porto Belo
’, scrawled in a childlike hand. Tucking it away Janusz continued his tour.

In the L-shaped kitchen diner, the cupboard doors stood ajar, contents spread across the worktop, and the refrigerator door hung open. Janusz crooked his arm over his nose – the smell was overpowering, sickening in here. He made his way cautiously toward the dining area at the bottom of the L, which seemed to be the source of the stench. A trickle of sweat ran over his collarbone and he had to fight down a sudden gust of fear at what he might be about to find.

As he approached the dining table, on which there stood a bulging white carrier bag, the stink grew more intense. With his heart banging uncomfortably against his chest wall, he craned to peer inside the bag - and blew out a noisy breath. It held two bottles of lager and half a dozen tinfoil takeaway boxes, apparently unopened. As he peeled the lid from one, the foul stench made him gag. Chicken chow mein. For a surreal moment, he thought the yellow noodles had come alive, before realising the food was seething with maggots.

He folded the carrier bag back over the horrible sight and returned to the open fridge. Clasping a hand round a bottle of milk on the top shelf, he found it cool to the touch and moist with condensation.

Janusz gulped some cold water straight from the tap and leaned against the worktop to think. The takeaway meal Pawel and Weronika had ordered but never got round to eating was clearly several days old. Whoever opened the fridge had been here much more recently, within the last few hours. There was one obvious conclusion. Unless Weronika was happy to leave rotting food lying around, which he found hard to believe of a Polish girl, the couple had left days ago and hadn’t been back. But earlier today, somebody had taken the place apart, clearly searching for something.

Catching a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye he whipped round, only to find Oskar’s cherubic face at the window, grinning and making the all clear sign. Exasperated, he waved him away, and returned upstairs. In the couple’s bedroom, the chest of drawers was half empty. All that remained was some underwear, and a tube of
zel antykoncepcyjny
Weronika must have forgotten to take with her.

More surprising was the couple’s choice of bedtime reading: on the bedside table lay a history of the Solidarity movement, a weighty, new-looking hardback, its cover emblazoned with a famous poster from the late Eighties. It showed a beaming Lech Walesa being borne aloft by triumphant supporters beneath the union’s famous red banner – the word
Solidarnosc
daubed in that optimistic, almost childlike, lettering. It was a famous image that celebrated the end of the Round Table talks, which had wrung the promise of elections from General Jaruzelski’s government.

Walesa was crudely rendered, but at least that ugly mug couldn’t be anyone else. Of the faces clustered in the foreground Janusz recognised just two – Tadeusz Maziwiecki, later to become Prime Minister, and Edward Zamorski, the current presidential candidate. Compared to the portly middle-aged image of the election posters the young Zamorski looked improbably young and fresh-faced.

Eccentric reading matter, thought Janusz, for Adamski the druggie, or Weronika, the immature teenager of Justyna’s description. Realising he’d forgotten, last night, to ask Justyna what Adamski looked like, he made a mental note to call her later. Still puzzling over the book, he strolled over to the built-in wardrobe that filled one wall, pulled open the door – and froze.

Inside, on a padded hanger, hung the fur coat Weronika wore in the photo, the one Pani Tosik had said was from TK Maxx.
Bullshit.
He stroked the pale soft fur. He might not be an expert on the discount chain’s range but he was pretty sure it didn’t include finest quality Russian sable.

If he needed any more evidence that Adamski was up to his chin in
gowno
, this was the clincher. Never mind the abandoned takeaway, whatever it was that made the lovebirds fly their coop a few days ago had been so urgent it had meant leaving behind a fur worth twenty grand. As for the people who ransacked the cottage, they’d shown a disturbing lack of interest in the valuables scattered about the place. No, it was Adamski they were after, and, finding him gone, they’d tossed the place – maybe for his drugs or money stash, maybe for a clue to where he was heading.

Janusz cursed under his breath. This job had looked simple enough – find Weronika and try to persuade her to ditch the dodgy boyfriend, or at least let her Mama know she was okay. Now, it looked like the couple was on the run from a bunch of
gangsterzy,
probably in some dispute over drugs, which meant she was in serious danger.

As he was closing the wardrobe door, he heard Oskar’s voice outside, speaking at top volume – obviously trying to alert him. Peeking around the edge of the curtain, his stomach lurched. A well-built guy in a waxed jacket stood below, his body language radiating suspicion, while Oskar, gesturing at the house with his sanding block, trotted out his cover story.

It didn’t look good.

Janusz ducked into the en suite bathroom, struggled out of the overalls, and stuck his head under the tap. Shivering and with his heart booming unpleasantly, he plastered down his wet hair, pulled on a bathrobe from a hook behind the door and crossed himself, twice. Here goes, he thought, throwing open the window.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked, in his best cut-glass accent, sending up fervent thanks for all those war movies his Mama had made him sit through to learn English.

The guy looked up. “Ah! There is somebody at home,” he said in a confident voice. If he was flustered by this sudden appearance he didn’t show it. “I wanted to ensure this chap wasn’t up to anything – I spotted him from the right-of-way footpath,” he waved a hand at the garden’s boundary. Janusz cursed the inexplicable English laws that allowed any Tom, Dick or Harry free passage through a man’s back garden.

“Well that’s very decent of you,” he drawled, baring his teeth in a grin. “But as you can see, he’s doing a spot of decorating for me. I do think it’s important not to let things slide, don’t you agree?” He almost chucked in a ‘what ho’, but stopped himself in time.

“Indeed,” said the man, starting to step backwards in the beginnings of a dignified retreat. “Sorry to interrupt your shower. Can’t be too careful, though.”

“Don’t mention it,” Janusz beamed, “have a nice day.”
Have a nice day?

The guy didn’t appear to notice the bum note. Nodding to Oskar, who – thank Christ – had kept a straight face during this performance – he went on his way, raising his walking stick in farewell. Halfway across the lawn a rangy Alsatian emerged from the shrubbery and loped along at his heels.

Janusz towel-dried his hair roughly and pulled on his clothes. By the time he opened the front door, Oskar was already there.

“Fucking brilliant!” he said, eyes bright with excitement, barging in before Janusz could stop him. “That guy was really grilling me till you turned up.”

“Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” said Janusz as Oskar started nosing around the place. “I’ll grab the ladder, you get the tools.”

He had just stowed the ladder in the van and slammed the doors when Oskar came running up the garden path. His progress was slowed, partly by the toolbox, but also by the brand new Wii tucked under his other arm. Panting, he shouted: “Drive! Drive! He’s coming back!” A distant shout accompanied by deep barking rang out from the back garden.

Janusz kept up a breakneck speed all the way to the M11. “What the fuck did you think you were doing back there? Playing Supermarket Fucking Sweep?!”

Oskar cackled, still high on the excitement. “Relax, Janek,” he said, throwing half a dozen mints into his mouth. “The guy must have been 60 – he wasn’t about to break into a sprint, was he?”

“Yeah? And what about his dog,
idiota
? It was the size of a fucking donkey!”

Janusz recalled how, on exercises in the forest, often using live ammunition, the 18-year-old Oskar had been fearless to the point of recklessness. The instructors’ reports routinely described him as ‘not suitable for military service’, which Oskar had considered a badge of pride,
naturalnie.

“And never mind the rabid fucking dog, what if the guy spotted the van, called the licence plate in to the cops? Imagine if you had to call up Gosia and tell her you were in a police cell?”

That wiped the grin off his chubby face, Janusz noted with satisfaction.

“Son of a whore!” said Janusz. “I just realised why that guy rumbled us!”

“Why?”

“Your story about sanding the woodwork...”

“What’s wrong with that?” Oskar protested. “I decorated plenty of houses when I first came over.”

“Yeah. And you were probably crap at it,” said Janusz. “But I bet even you never sanded down
UPVC windows.
”

For a beat, Oskar’s face furrowed, then he erupted into peals of laughter.

After Oskar dropped him off at Stratford bus station, Janusz boarded a No 25 bus for the West End where he’d catch another bus to Notting Hill.

It didn’t take a genius to work out that
Porto Belo
was Adamski’s illiterate stab at Portobello Rd. On the face of it, the scribbled address on the mile-long straggle of antique shops and market stalls in Notting Hill backed his antique dealing story, but Janusz didn’t buy that for a minute.

Forty minutes later, he was changing buses at Oxford Circus, which meant crossing Argyll Street, his usual route to Kasia’s club. In the middle of the pedestrianised road, his treacherous feet brought him scudding to a halt. As tourists streamed around him like water around a boulder, he struggled with a powerful desire to see Kasia, to drink coffee and eat pastries with her in the comforting old-world surroundings of Patisserie Valerie. Then, unbidden, came an image of Weronika at the mercy of a pursuing drug gang, getting knocked around – or worse – as a punishment for Adamski’s sins. Resuming normal service, his feet took him to the bus stop.