by Anya Lipska
As Pani Tosik returned, Janusz stood to take the tray of coffee and pastries from her. She nodded to the picture: “What do you think of our next president?” she asked, pouring coffee into a hand-painted Opole porcelain cup and saucer.
“I saw him speak once, at a rally in Gdansk – it was before martial law, so I must have been about seventeen,” said Janusz, raising the coffee cup to his lips – his fingers felt gigantic, cumbersome, around its fragile handle. “I remember at one point he spoke over our heads, directly to the ZOMO. He said ‘When you raise a baton to a fellow Pole, the blow lands on your own soul’.”
He remembered something else, too. Zamorski had told the crowd that once they won their freedom, reconciliation and forgiveness – even of the hated riot police – would be more important than revenge if the country were to move forward. As a fiery teenager, Janusz had found himself bewildered, angered even, by these words, but after what happened a couple of years later he found himself revisiting them again and again.
Pani Tosik sighed, waving a hand in a gesture than combined regret and resignation. “You young people got rid of the Komunistuw,” she said, “And got a country ruled by American multinationals instead. My friend’s daughter is a teacher in Warsaw and what do you think she earns in a year?”
Janusz shook his head.
“9000 Euros!” hissed Pani Tosik. “This is why young people have to come to London, although it is not a good place for a young girl.”
This was her cue to embark on the story of the missing waitress, interrupted only by the whines of the tiny Yorkshire terrier sitting beside her on the banquette begging for food.
“Weronika came to me six months ago, in November. No! Not November, darling, October,” – as though he’d been the one to get it wrong – “Such a pretty girl. Beautiful, even,” she widened her tiny blue eyes for emphasis. “Like...Grace Kelly, but with modern outfits, you know. Yes, Tinka, you may have a little bit of Napoleonka because your Mama loves you.”
She broke off a piece of the pink-iced millefeuille pastry and gave it to the dog, who wolfed it down, licking every scrap from her fingers. Then, using her still-moist hand, she picked up another slice and put it on Janusz’s plate, appearing not to notice as the big man flinched.
“Proper Polish pastry,” she said, “Not those things the English call cakes – ‘Mr Kipper’ etcetera.” Reaching for a pink Sobranie cigarette she leaned forward to Janusz’s lighter flame.
“Anyway, she was a good Catholic girl, very hard-working, very respectable – not like some of the English girls. With them, always a problem! One is a drunk, always arrives late, another gets a baby.’
Janusz sipped his coffee and nodded.
“So, now – only Polish girls. And with this girl, I know her Mama, and I say to her, your Weronika is safe with me. And then one day: pfouff! She is gone.”
The old lady’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel terrible, Panie Kiszka. I cannot sleep at night, I can barely eat...” a sharp glance down. “You do not like your Napoleonka?”
Janusz broke off a piece with his fork, but only took another sip of coffee.
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
Pani Tosik’s gripped Janusz’s forearm with surprisingly strong fingers: “No! I promised her Mama, no boyfriends – she is too young – only nineteen. She always sleeps here, upstairs, where I can keep her under my eyes. And I make sure she goes to konfesia every single week.
“Let me find a photograph for you.” As Pani Tosik jingled off to the rear of the salon, Janusz took the chance to offload his toxic cake on Tinka. The dog took the Napoleonka in one messy gulp, then bit the hand that fed her. He stifled a cry - Pani Tosik was returning.
“Here she is, my beautiful Weronika. She was making a portfolio – her dream was to be a model.”
Janusz examined the professional-looking black and white photograph, which pictured a striking girl with ice-blonde hair wearing a long fur coat, against a white backdrop. She struck a self-consciously modellish pose: legs planted apart, hands on hips, shoulder-length hair blown backwards by a wind machine. Her face was all sharply angled planes – cheekbones that could cut coal – but there was uncertainty in the eyes, and her lips were rounded, almost childlike...like Iza’s – the thought surfaced before he could stop it.
“Nice coat,” he said, to cover his expression, waving at the pricey-looking fur. Pani Tosik laughed. “Oh, darling! It’s not real! The girls buy these ‘fun furs’ from TK Maxx for pocket money!”
“Speaking of money, Pani...”
“I cannot afford much, Panie Kiszko,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “I am not a wealthy woman. Maybe you want to help this poor girl as a Christian duty?” She gave him a hopeful smile.
He had to admire the old girl: everyone knew her restaurant was coining it in. London’s Poles were desperate for a taste of home and these days Eastern European food was even getting a following among the English.
“We all have cash flow problems, Pani,” he said opening his hands in apology.
The old lady’s smile waned as her sharp little eyes sized him up.
“OK. I give you £500 now, you report back in one week. If you have some information, maybe I pay more.”
“1000 now.”
She puckered her mouth. “800. This is a good price.”
He cocked his head in agreement, dropping his gaze to hide his surprise at how quickly she had caved in.
A key turned in the front door, admitting a girl with long dark hair, twenty-five or twenty-six, at a guess. Not as hot as Weronika, maybe, but still pretty, in an olive-skinned way. His mother – God rest her Soul – would have said she had a touch of the Tartar. She wore a tan leather jacket and the ultra-tight jeans Polish girls liked, and carried Lidl bags stuffed with groceries. On her way past their table, she greeted Pani Tosik, nodded to Janusz, and took in the photograph of Weronika lying on the table, all in a couple of seconds.
Clever eyes, he thought. He would bet a truckful of Wyborowa that she knew the real story with Weronika – who she’d been sleeping with, whether she’d got herself knocked up, maybe even where she’d disappeared to.
When he asked to see Weronika’s room, Pani Tosik agreed readily enough and led the way up the narrow staircase. The small room with its single bed struck him as almost spookily spotless. The dressing table was empty, and the bed made up and topped with a pink satin pierzyna: a traditional eiderdown he hadn’t seen since his childhood. Standing on the bedside cabinet was the sole trace of its previous occupant: an empty photo frame.
When he asked about it, Pani Tosik shrugged. “I don’t remember, maybe a family photo?”
He could tell from the way the old dear hovered at his shoulder that there was no way she’d let him check inside the chest of drawers: a man rooting around in a girl’s underwear was probably an occasion of sin.
Before leaving, he asked to use the toilet, and on his way back to the restaurant, took the opportunity to slip into the kitchen. He could always say he took a wrong turning.
He found the dark-haired girl standing just inside the doorway of a walk-in fridge, humming along to some discordant Polish rap on the radio. She was reaching up to stack vegetables onto a shelf, her shirt riding up to reveal the curve of her waist. Sensing someone behind her, she whipped around, hand flying to her throat. He grinned an apology and held out his card. She took it without speaking, a guarded look in her brown eyes.
“Call me”, he said over his shoulder, leaving her gazing after him, fingering the gold cross she wore around her neck.
FOUR
Kershaw was super-respectful to DS Bacon on her return to Tower Hamlets nick. Fair play to Streaky, he seemed to have forgotten the ruck they’d had that morning; in fact, he was surprisingly cheery as she drew a chair up to his desk, probably because she’d had the foresight to bring him a mug of tea and a chocolate Hobnob first.
“The PM is this afternoon, Sarge, down at Wapping Mortuary. I’ve not g
ot anything else on and I’d like to go, if it’s ok with you.” She knew that it usually fell to Crime Scene Investigators to attend post mortems these days – but she couldn’t bear to wait for the pathologist’s report to find out if there were any signs of injury on DB16, the girl with the Titian hair.
Raising his eyebrows, Streaky leant back in his tatty swivel chair like it was a throne. “Well, well. Keen to see a slab butcher at work, are you? My old Sarge used to call it a poor form of entertainment.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “All right, I’ll let you go this once, purely for educational purposes,” he said, pointing his biscuit at her. “But try not to let the side down by chucking up on the Doc’s shoes, there’s a good girl.”
She gave him a big grin. “Thanks Sarge, I’ll do my best. Can I tell you what else I’ve got on the floater?”
He checked his watch. “Make it quick, I’ve got a pressing appointment at the Drunken Monkey at two o’clock. Crucial meeting with a CHIS.”
CHIS? It took her a moment to translate. Covert Human Intelligence Source – aka, criminal informer. Yeah, right, she thought, more like three pints and a dodgy pie with your dinosaur mates. All the same, she was beginning to realise she could learn a lot from an old-school throwback like Streaky. The other Detective Sergeants at Newham nick were younger, and mostly of the new breed. Smartly dressed and professional, they wouldn’t dream of drinking while on duty, but they seemed to her more like bank managers than real cops. So what if Streaky liked a few jars at lunchtime? Everyone knew he had a better clear-up rate than any of them. Which was probably why he hadn’t been shuffled off with a full pension years ago.
“Get on with it then,” he said, blowing steam off his tea.
Kershaw checked her notes.
‘IC1 Female, I’m guessing in her twenties. Could have gone in the river anywhere up to Teddington Lock. No clothing or jewellery, but she’s got a tattoo with her name, Ela, and a boyfriend’s, Pa-wel,” she said, struggling with the unfamiliar name. “Polish, according to the internet.”
“It’s Pavel, like gravel,” said Streaky. “Pawel Janas, played for Poland in the Seventies – tidy left foot as I recall. I was only a tiny child at the time, of course. Any injuries?”
“Need the PM results for that, Sarge, body’s all messed up.”
“So you’re thinking: lover’s tiff, the boyfriend strangles her, stabs her – whatever the ethnic tradition demands – strips her to get rid of any clues, dumps her in the river in the wee small hours, goes off to drown his sorrows in vodka?” That brought an appreciative ripple of laughter from the guys – her fellow DCs Browning, Bonnick, Ben Crowther, all in their late twenties, plus Toby, a middle-aged civilian officer, were all at their desks today.
“Something like that, Sarge.”
“Hmm. Well, I wouldn’t usually be too optimistic about finding a perp in the circs, but having your prime suspect’s name tattooed on the victim’s arse does give you a major leg-up.” More chuckles from the audience. She could only see the back of Bonnick’s PC screen but from his glazed look and half-open mouth she would bet he was watching Arsenal’s top goals on YouTube.
“I’ll be the first to congratulate you if the Doc says it’s a murder,” said Streaky. “And why is that, DC Kershaw?”
That threw her. “Ah, because it’s the most serious crime, Sarge?”
Browning made a two-tone comedy horn noise at the back of his throat, ie ‘you lose’, to more laughter, though there was sympathy in the look Ben Crowther threw her. Ben – the only other DC in the office who’d been to university – was the only one she really clicked with. When the guys were going down the pub it was usually him who asked her along.
“Why do we like a murder, DC Browning?” asked Streaky.
“Two reasons, Sarge,” he said in that chirpy blokey tone that got on her nerves. “One, the job goes to Murder Squad but the body stays with us so we get the numbers if it’s cleared up. Two, murder means Overtime.”
“And what is Overtime, Browning?”
“The only perk a hard-working detective gets these days, Sarge.”
“Co-rrect,” said Streaky.
She managed a grin, taking the stick. Did Streaky prefer Browning to her because he was a guy, or because he was a ranker, like Streaky, instead of a graduate entry cop like her?
“Any chance of a DNA test on the floater, Sarge?” she asked. “She might be on the database?”
Streaky gazed at his half-eaten Hobnob.
“See what you get from the PM first - it’s already costing us three grand. Got to watch the budget, the accountant-wallahs tell me. And get onto MPB – they’ll want photos, dental work, you know the drill.”
As Kershaw searched her archived mails for the address of the Missing Persons Bureau, she considered her own reasons for wanting DB16’s death to be chalked up as a murder. One, it would look good on her cv; two, she might get assigned to Murder Squad for the duration of the job and get a nice long break from these wankers.
FIVE
Pani Tosik had been insistent about one thing: once Janusz had discovered Weronika’s whereabouts, he was not to contact her himself but simply to report back with the address. The old lady had decided that the best strategy was to forward the girl the ‘heartbreaking’ letter her Mama had sent, begging her to return to the restaurant. But all he had to go on was a single crappy lead: a sticker on the back of the photo of Weronika, printed with the name of a photographer’s in Leytonstone, a couple of miles east of Stratford.
Janusz took the Northern Line south from Angel, the tube stop nearest his flat, to Bank, where he’d change for the Central Line east. He hated the tube, refused to use it in rush hour, and if there were a crush on the platform he’d head straight back up the escalator. But today he was too pushed for time to do the three-bus Islington to Leytonstone safari.
Sitting in the half-full carriage, he caught the eye of a little girl, aged about eight or nine, sitting across from him with her mother. He pulled the cross-eyed gargoyle face that used to crack Bobek up at that age. She grinned. Then he noticed the words picked out in sequins across her flat, pink t-shirted chest – FUTURE PORN STAR – and the smile dropped from his face like a theatre curtain.
As the woman and girl got up to get off at the next stop, the girl sketched a shy wave goodbye, but the mother shot him a searching look. The cheek of it! he thought. You dress your little girl like a trainee whore and treat me like a paedophile.
He emerged from the shelter of Leytonstone tube still wearing a thunderous frown, and headed for the high street, a raw wind wrapping the trench coat about his legs.
Leytonstone reminded him of how Highbury had looked when he first arrived in London. The greengrocers’ displays bloomed with strange foreign vegetables – the kind he’d only ever seen in a curry – and dark-skinned men wrapped in coats argued over glasses of coffee at pavement tables. He stepped into the road to let a young couple with a baby buggy pass, and they thanked him in broken English, their singsong lilt marking them out as fellow Poles. He found himself scanning the crowded pavements for Weronika’s high cheekbones.
The photographs on display in the window of Parry’s featured the usual suspects – wedding couples, aspiring models, obese children – but on closer examination, Janusz decided that the shots had a certain flair. Inside, a geeky-looking young man sat behind the counter reading Photographer’s Weekly.
Janusz had decided his best strategy would be to act the dumb Polak, just off the plane from Lodz, so he did a lot of smiling and nodding for openers, then showed the guy the photo. “You make this picture...?”
The guy took the bait, and as he studied the photo, a look of professional pride came over his face.
“Yeah, I remember – she was very beautiful, this girl.”
Janusz tapped himself on the chest. “My sister,” he said with a modest smile.
“Right,” said the guy dropping his gaze. He handed the photo back, as though suddenly keen to get shot
of it.
Janusz pretended not to notice. “She came here with her boyfriend,” he said – a guess rewarded with a wary nod. “This man is my good friend,” he explained, his jaw starting to ache from all the grinning. “Today, he has to work, but he asks me to come because he likes to get more photos, to make her folio?”
“Her modelling portfolio,” the guy said, looking relieved. “Yeah, I did the shots two or three weeks ago.” He started leafing through a tray of folders behind the counter.
Don’t ask me for a name, prayed Janusz.
“What’s his name again...?”
Kurwa.
“Ah, here it is. Pawel Adamski, yes?” – his pronunciation suggesting he was used to Polish customers. He spread a series of black and white photos across the counter like a pack of cards, and examined them, frowning, before selecting one and turning it round to face Janusz.
“I think this is the best one,” he said.
It was a startling image. Shot from above, Weronika lay on her back, eyes half-closed and lips parted, naked beneath a white sheet that reached from her feet to her chest. The lighting had been arranged to capture the subtly different shades of white in the scene - the chalky pallor of her face, the marble-like arms, the ivory sheen of the silk shading into grey where it fell into folds. Her hands lay loosely cupped, one within the other, on her stomach, lacking only a bouquet to complete the portrait of a virgin bride. Or a dead one – thought Janusz.
He shuffled through the rest of the shots, but couldn’t find anything that might explain the photographer’s earlier discomfiture.
“They’re good,” he said, then, taking a guess, leaned toward the guy. “But I think he meant the other ones,” he hissed. “How you call it? The ‘Page 3’ stuff?”
The guy hesitated for a moment, then turned to open a filing cabinet.
“Your friend directed these ones,” he said, his tone guarded, pushing a folder across the counter with the tips of his fingers. “All I did was set up the lights for him.”
