Where the Devil Can't Go (35 page)

“If it’s a pack of lies,” said Janusz. “Then why didn’t Zamorski come out fighting, like Walesa, instead of handing over tens of thousands to Adamski to hush the story up?”

Father Piotr drew a shaky sigh. Janusz felt a stab of pity – it was a hard thing to see one’s heroes fall from grace.

The priest managed one final objection. “If you’re right, I don’t see where Weronika comes into it,” he said, folding his arms. “If Adamski had such damaging information against Zamorski then why did he need to... elope with his daughter?”

Janusz couldn’t help but smile at the old-fashioned gallantry. “I’m not sure. Maybe she was an insurance policy, in case Zamorski told him to fu...get lost.” In truth, he had no answer to this mystery – what
did
Adamski stand to gain, other than a world of trouble, by luring Zamorski’s daughter away?

The priest subsided against the wall of the confession box. “If this story comes out, it will finish him,” he said. “And throw away the best chance Poland has had for a generation.” His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“I know,” said Janusz, fingering the lump on his forehead. “And I’m not sure I can face doing that.”

The priest stared at him.

“When I find Adamski,” Janusz went on, “I’m going to destroy these SB documents about Zamorski he’s got his hands on.”

The priest hesitated, one hand plucking at his robe. “And Nowak? Will you tell him your suspicions?”

“No,” said Janusz wearily. “Why burden him with such knowledge?” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I’m only telling you about it because it is something I’ve been wrestling with. But do
you
think I’m doing the right thing – keeping this secret of Zamorski’s under wraps?”

The priest put his head on one side, considering the matter.

“Why are you doing it?” he asked.

“Because it’s time to forget the past,” said Janusz, his voice a low murmur. “And because...I’m the last person to stand judgement on a man who was guilty of cowardice.” A sudden detail of his night in Montepulich Prison bubbled to the surface of his memory – the sobbing cries of some poor bastard getting worked over in the next cell.

“First of all, the question of his punishment and his forgiveness are not your responsibility,” said the old man, seeking Janusz’s gaze. “It is possible that Pan Zamorski confessed to these crimes against his country long ago and has done proper penance for them.”

Janusz nodded, waiting for the priest’s final pronouncement.

“As a Polish patriot, my instincts tell me that a man guilty of betraying his country should be exposed and punished,” said Pietruzki. He took a breath and let it go in a heartfelt sigh. “But as a
priest
, I believe that the path you have chosen is the Christian one.”

Janusz bent his head. “Thank you, Father.”

He knelt for the priest’s blessing, letting the sonorous Latin wash over him. When he got to his feet, he felt somehow purified – as though the ancient sins he had confessed were not Edward Zamorski’s, but his own.

That afternoon, Janusz settled himself in an armchair in his living room with the big central sash open – in one of England’s bizarre weather swings, Spring had finally arrived – and started flicking through his old address book. He calculated that since Adamski was on the run he must be running out of
smalz
by now – leaving him just one thing to fall back on: his experience as a builder. Although it had been a decade or more since Janusz had worked on site, he stayed in touch with the bigger outfits that acted as an informal employment exchange for thousands of young Polish men.

After putting the word out among his contacts, he sat thinking, stroking Copernicus, who was hunkered down in his favourite spot on the arm of the chair, and turned on the Polish news channel. The second item covered Zamorski’s opening of a new children’s hospital in Lublin: the presidential candidate looked confident and assured, joking with the crowd when the curtains covering the commemorative plaque didn’t open properly. As he left the stage, though, and was ushered away by aides, Janusz thought he could discern something else, a certain tension in his body language, a fixity to the smile. It couldn’t be easy, waiting for the axe to fall. Minutes later, his phone rang and the name Konstanty Nowak appeared on the display.

“
Czesc
,” said the sprightly voice. “I thought I’d give you a call to see if you’ve made any progress on finding our friend?” The drone of traffic in the background meant Janusz had to strain to hear him.

Janusz played for time. “Father Pietruzki said you were out looking for homeless people today,” he said. Apparently, Nowak was spending the week in London with an outreach team from the charity that helped down and out Poles to return home.

“
Tak
, I was. But after three hours of drunken Poles telling me how much I enjoy sexual relations with my mother – God rest her Soul – I thought I deserved a break.” Nowak sounded cheerful. “I’m leaving it to the youngsters for a bit. So, is there any news to report back to Edward?”

“Well,” said Janusz. “I’ve checked out several avenues, and I’m doing a big trawl of my London contacts right now.”

“Anything I can do to help? You have the necessary to cover your expenses?”

“Yes, plenty thanks,” said Janusz. “Has our friend been in touch with...Edward again?”

“No, not a word for over a week,” said Nowak, sounding puzzled. “You’d think that would come as something of a relief, but it just seems to be making him more nervous.”

“There’s a lot at stake, I guess,” said Janusz, checking the date on his watch.
Mother of a Whore!
– the election was only three days away.

“Yes, of course you’re right,” Nowak said. He spoke to someone at the other end. “I have to go – someone’s just thrown up on one of the volunteers.” Janusz could hear a drunken voice in the background. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

Janusz had barely hung up when his mobile started chirping again. The display read
Girl Detective.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Kershaw checked her mobile for about the tenth time. Where the hell was Kiszka? Arranging to meet him like this, in a pub, did feel a bit weird, but bringing him down the station would have meant a lot of awkward questions. Streaky had no idea she was sharing information with a possible suspect – as far as he was concerned she was spending the day with the CSI team at Ela’s college.

She’d chosen The Founders Arms, a pub on the south bank of the Thames, because it was only ten minutes’ drive from the college, but all the tables inside were taken, so she’d been forced to sit out on the terrace, packed with lunching tourists and overlooked by anyone crossing Blackfriars Bridge. If a fellow cop spotted her and reported her meeting to Streaky she’d be in a world of pain.

Ah, sod it
, she thought – after her toe-curling public denunciation of Ben Crowther yesterday, it was worth the risk just to stay out of the office.

After thinking over what Streaky had told her on the roof, she had decided that he was probably right. Browning’s jibe about her and Ben had been no more than a lucky guess – and by her behaviour yesterday she’d simply gone and confirmed it. Trouble was, the knowledge that she owed Ben a monster-sized apology made the prospect of facing him even harder.

At last Kiszka appeared, strolling unhurriedly across the pub’s decked area. He gave her a little bow: “Please accept my apologies for being so late,” he said, his deep voice making people look round at them. “I got lost – I don’t often come south of the river.” He sat down next to her, facing the river. “Nice view,” he said, getting out his tin of stinky little cigars.

After she’d bought him a lager, Kershaw pulled Ela’s file out of her shoulder bag and placed it on the table with the gesture of someone making an opening bid.

“This is strictly off the record, okay?” He inclined his head sideways. “Is that a yes?”

He opened his hands. “Sure.”

Kershaw shunted the file sideways toward him, and he started to leaf through it, holding his cigar at a safe distance from the paper. “If you see anything unusual in here,” she said, “Anything at all, you might help us stop this guy from killing someone else.” All she received in reply was another non-committal gesture.

She crossed her legs and waited. After a moment he shot her a look beneath his eyebrows and nodded toward her foot. Realising it had been jigging impatiently, she stilled it.

“Pretty girl,” he said when he reached Ela’s photograph.

Then he found the Polish newspaper articles that had covered the college orchestra tour. “Ah, a violinist,” he said, respect warming his voice.

“Yes, the college orchestra toured Poland last year.” Kershaw leaned forward and indicated one of the articles. “I think she gets a mention in this one.”

“‘The highlight of the evening was Ela Wronska’s performance of Samuel Barber’s Violin Concerto’,” Janusz translated, “‘during which her naive delight in the music was never outweighed by her undoubted virtuosity.’”

They shared an amused look.

“Can you see any link between the towns she played in?” she asked. He went through the cuttings again, screwing up his eyes to make out the newspaper titles printed on the edge of the cuttings. She thought he lingered a second or two longer over one of them, but in the end he just shook his head.

“Lodz...Szeczin...Zakopane...they’re all over the place, from right up north down to the Czech border.” He took his time reading the final page, which detailed Ela’s personal info – her date of birth, educational background, and so on. “An orphan,” he muttered, as though to himself.

“Yes. Adopted by an English aunt when she was about twelve, so she did most of her growing up in Kent. The aunt’s dead though.”

Janusz wasn’t listening. Something had just clicked in his head, like a set of points shifting a train onto a new track.

“Can you see anything at all, any Polish angle I might be missing?” Kershaw asked. He shook his head slowly. “Where she grew up, in Kent – Tunbridge Wells,” she tried, aware of an edge of desperation in her voice, “Do you know if it has a big Polish population?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

Remembering that she had a prospectus for Cavendish College, Kershaw retrieved it from her bag and flipped to the title page, which carried photos of the faculty. Kiszka’s gaze skipped over most of them, but snagged on the photo of Monsignor Zielinski.

“You know this guy?” she asked.

“Not really.” He shook his head. “I was at a reception at the Polish Embassy the other day and I saw him talking to my priest.”

Kershaw stared at him.
The Polish Embassy? His priest?
The more time she spent with this guy the harder she found it to get a handle on him.

Kiszka shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a coincidence – my priest knows a lot of important people.”

As Janusz closed the file and pushed it back to her, he saw disappointment crease the girl’s face. She might be a pushy little creature but at least she gave a damn about catching the killer. “Have you got any forensics that might nail the guy you’re after?” he asked.

It couldn’t hurt to tell him.
“A single hair from Justyna’s body,” she said, noting the angry scowl that crossed Janusz’s face. “And I’ve got people crawling all over Ela Wronska’s room today to see if he left a calling card there.” She pulled a tight smile. “One ‘girlfriend’ dying of an accidental overdose a jury might buy, but not two.”

“You mentioned the name Pawel,” he said, studying the tip of his cigar. “How did that come up?”

In for a penny...
thought Kershaw. “Ela had a heart tattoo on her right buttock, with the name Pawel inside.”

He turned away toward the river to blow his cigar smoke downwind of her. “Amateur sort of thing, was it?” he asked.

“Yeah, it looked homemade,” she said, “Why?”

“Just a good guess,” he said, covering his tracks. “I couldn’t see a theology student baring her arse in a tattoo parlour.”

Janusz was aware of a second satisfying click in his head. He was pretty sure now how Pawel Adamski and Ela Wronska had first met.

She stowed the file back in her bag. “I’d better get down the college,” she said, “see if the CSIs have found anything.”

Janusz walked her to her car, pausing, under Blackfriars Bridge, to light a fresh cigar. Then he turned to her.

“Apart from the fact they both died from an overdose of this...PMA?” – she nodded – “What makes you think that the same person killed Justyna and this girl Ela?” he asked, picking a flake of tobacco off the tip of his tongue.

“It’s difficult to explain,” she said after a moment, staring out at the dark water lapping at the stanchions of the bridge. “But these two cases, they just
smell
the same.”

On reaching her car, she whipped out the file and returned to the cutting that Kiszka had appeared to linger over when she’d asked him where the orchestra had gone on tour. It appeared no different from any of the others – a headline and a picture of the orchestra above a few lines of story. The edge of the cutting bore the dateline, September 13th of the previous year, and what she presumed was the name of the newspaper –
Kurier Gorodnik.

Kershaw started the car, aware of a niggling sensation that Janusz Kiszka had got more out of the meeting than she had.

. . .

“Zilch, so far,” said Dave, the geeky CSI, glancing up at Kershaw. He scowled at the doorknob to Ela Wronska’s balcony, which he’d just dusted with silver fingerprint powder. “I reckon their cleaning lady must have OCD.”

Kershaw gazed around the room, which looked just as eerily impersonal as on her first visit. The white-clad feet and ankles of a second CSI protruded from the doorway of the en suite bathroom.

“You haven’t found a journal tucked away anywhere, I suppose?” she asked.

Dave stood up and stretched his spine, making his white forensic suit rustle. “That’s it, I’m afraid.” he gestured to the bed, with its pitifully small pile of belongings.