by Anya Lipska
Janusz leaned back in the chair, feeling the weight of a small planet lift from his shoulders, and passed a hand over his face. ‘Can I see her?’
‘She’s sleeping now, but if you’d like to leave your number we’ll let you know when she’s well enough for visitors.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘We examined her after you told us. There’s nothing to suggest that the pregnancy is at risk.’
The doctor was touched to see the smile that spread across the boyfriend’s jaw, transforming his stern expression.
After he’d left, Janusz just sat there, feeling his muscles unknot themselves as the mental torment of the last nine days began to dissipate. There was only one thing clouding his sense of relief: the words Kasia had said to him that morning, in her brief moment of consciousness – words that he’d been puzzling over ever since.
What could she possibly have to be sorry about?
Forty-Two
Some forty miles from Whitechapel Hospital, on the Essex coast, the skies were brightening, promising a fine and dry spring day, although the bitterly cold east wind that shrieked in off the North Sea was bending and battering the trees behind the beach into submission.
In the centre of Southend, a gleaming Mercedes van slowed as it approached a junction on the A13. The older of the two men inside consulted his phone – apparently checking the route. After a brief exchange with the driver, the van rejoined the stream of traffic, its indicator flashing, and slid into the right-hand lane for the turnoff to the coast road.
Steve Fisher rolled a cigarette using the contents of a couple of discarded dog ends retrieved from the bin. He’d smoked his last fag in the early hours, but with Kiszka making such a big deal of him staying in the caravan, he hadn’t dared to risk the fifteen-minute walk to the petrol station in case he missed him. He wasn’t even sure whether Kiszka was going to call the old bat in the office with news, or turn up in person.
As he poured boiling water onto a teabag, he wondered whether sending his phone to Glasgow, to put the mockers on anyone tracing the signal, had been the right thing to do. After getting on for two weeks with only a crappy old radio for company, he was going stir crazy. Settling himself at the table with his brew, he lit his roll-up. Yeah, he decided, you couldn’t be too careful – not with some fucking nutter going round knocking off his mates. Thinking for a moment about Jared, and poor old Bill, he felt a rush of self-pity: no matter how hard he tried, everything he did always seemed to turn to shit.
He’d given up trying to work out why they’d died and why he might be next. All he could do now was to rely on Kiszka to do the business. The big ugly bastard might have a seriously high opinion of himself – not to mention a nasty temper – but even Steve had to admit that if anyone was going to rescue Kasia, it would be him.
The Mercedes van carrying the two men came down the B-road that ran northeast out of town – its dawdling speed suggesting they were on the lookout for something. A few minutes later, the van pulled up at the side of the road, just beyond the entrance to a driveway. The older man, solidly built and with a reddened, weather-beaten face, climbed down from the van and walked back towards the driveway. He went over to a faded sign, his boots crunching on the gravel. Reading the words ‘Sea View Caravan Park’, he turned to the driver and gave a single nod. Apparently, they had found their destination.
Steve chucked half his brew undrunk down the tiny sink in the kitchen – he hated tea without sugar, another thing he’d run out of – and started fiddling with the tuning knob on the radio, trying to get a decent signal. After a few moments of nothing but shash, he picked it up and threw it at the wall. Staring at the wreckage, he felt a twinge of regret – it probably just needed new batteries. Then his expression brightened as he remembered the porn mag he’d bought a few days ago at the garage. He was about to head for the bedroom to retrieve it, when he froze. He stood stock-still, ears cocked.
He could’ve sworn he’d heard something in the distance. Something that sounded a lot like the distinctive crackle of tyres on gravel, driving slowly and cautiously. But now he couldn’t hear anything except the wind howling up from the beach, rattling the branches of the trees.
Seven minutes later, Steve had barely started in on his porn mag when it happened.
Crack-crack! Two bangs from the caravan’s door. Fuck! Next thing he knew he was cowering on the floor, cradling his head, half deafened. He pressed his eyes tight closed, the skin on his neck crawling, expecting a bullet in the back of the head. Through the ringing in his ears he became dimly aware of shouting, and then someone kicked him in the leg. His hearing recovered enough for him to make out what was being shouted.
‘Armed Police! Spread your legs and put your hands out to the sides. Do it now!’
And he felt his mouth curve into a stupid grin.
After examining the sign, the weather-beaten man started to turn, about to head back to the van, when something caught his attention. Tensing, he appeared to squint down the tree-lined drive. At the farthest end stood a parked car. As he watched, a dark-clad figure reached in and switched on its blue flashing light. He stared for a long moment, making out the fluttering tape across the road beyond the car, the dark shapes of other figures moving purposefully to and fro in the distance.
Cursing, he opened the van door and in one efficient movement swung himself up into the seat.
Forty-Three
Kershaw stood on the Southend seafront, mobile pressed to her ear, looking out over the North Sea. Across the bay, she could see the fat finger of the power station chimney on the Isle of Grain – its lazy skein of smoke looking almost romantic against the milky blue of the sky. She suddenly remembered, on a day out here when she was little, her dad telling her it was where they harvested rainbows, turning them into the bright pinks, yellows and greens of seaside rock.
‘Thanks for that,’ she said, when Adam Ackroyd, her former colleague from murder squad, came back on the line. She scribbled a note on her pad. ‘Yeah, he’s a bit busy at the moment,’ she glanced back to see the Sarge emerging from the fish and chip shop carrying a carrier bag and hot drinks. ‘But I’ll give him the update.’
After hanging up, she lingered for a moment, listening to the sound of the incoming tide and the seagulls complaining overhead – and realised something. She wasn’t going back to SCO19 – even if she did get signed off to carry a weapon again. It wasn’t anything to do with the Kyle Furnell shooting, nor the fallout that followed it. No. It struck her that Paula the shrink had been right all along: the appeal of carrying a firearm had been a direct outcome of getting stabbed. Up until that point, she’d always felt invulnerable, somehow – but wherever her imaginary suit of armour had come from, she’d lost it along with her spleen.
Now though, having put herself – unarmed – into some dangerous situations on the Duff investigation, albeit with Streaky close at hand – she’d finally climbed back on the bike. Hard on the heels of this insight came a whole new worry: by chopping and changing at a crucial stage of her career, had she completely screwed her chances of becoming a detective again?
By the time she’d walked back along the promenade, Streaky had taken possession of a bench, his fish and chips already spread out on his ample lap. ‘Rock eel,’ he told her, handing over a fat, off-white package as if presenting the crown jewels. ‘You don’t see that very often these days.’ The rich smell of the fat and the vinegar tang rising from the food made her stomach gurgle, making her realise it would be the first thing she’d eaten all day. The surprise call that had sent her and Streaky racing eastward to the seaside caravan park had come around 7 a.m., just as she’d been getting out of the shower.
‘So did you get hold of your Polish boyfriend?’ he asked, before folding three or four fat chips into his mouth.
‘If you mean Kiszka, yes I did.’
‘How does he explain this Billingsgate business then?’ In the aftermath of the armed operation at Steve’s carav
an, Kershaw had got a text from Kiszka saying that Kasia was safe, and recovering from her ordeal in Whitechapel Hospital.
‘He doesn’t, well not believably, anyway.’ Kershaw made a sardonic face. ‘The way he tells it, he gets a call in the middle of the night from someone he’s never met nor spoken to before, who tells him to go to Billingsgate Market at 0600 hours to collect Kasia.’
‘Just like that.’
‘Just like that.’
A seagull that had been inching closer flapped up onto the arm of the bench to make a cheeky grab for Streaky’s chips, before he shooed it away with a sweep of his arm. ‘And he says no money changed hands?’
‘He claims not.’
‘Do you believe him?’
She shook her head. ‘He must have given them something in return. If they just wanted shot of her, then why not just dump her somewhere? Why would they risk handing over a kidnap victim in public?’
Streaky grunted his agreement. ‘And of course, it didn’t occur to him to share this dawn rendezvous with us?’
‘He said his priority was getting Kasia back.’ This was actually the diplomatic version. What Kiszka had actually said was that he’d had no intention of entrusting his girlfriend’s rescue to a load of ‘pumped up, trigger-happy cops’, as he wanted to get her back without any holes in her.
Streaky conveyed a wedge of battered fish to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Does the handover story check out?’
‘Yep. Adam got hold of some porter down there who saw it all.’
‘Did he see anything change hands?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose he got a number plate?’
‘’Fraid not.’
Streaky sighed. ‘So Kiszka did some kind of deal with the villain who strung up Joey Duff and took Kasia. What are the chances of persuading him to provide us with an identity, would you say?’
Her dry look was answer enough.
He pointed a chip at her. ‘Did Adam get anywhere on the mysterious anonymous phone call?’
Early that morning, Walthamstow Police had received a call from a man who wouldn’t give his name. He’d reported seeing ‘a guy waving a gun around’ in one of the caravans at the Sea View site. The caller had helpfully added that the man’s name was Steve Fisher and that the information should be passed to Detective Sergeant Bacon without delay.
‘Apparently, the operator said the caller sounded English,’ she flicked through her notebook, ‘but she also said the way he spoke was quite posh – “like someone out of a black and white war movie”.’
They looked at each other.
‘Kiszka denies making the call, of course?’
‘Yep.’
‘Has it been traced yet?’
‘Call was made from a phone box in East London. At 0642.’
Streaky’s chuckle held a tinge of admiration. ‘Right after he’d got his girlfriend to the hospital.’ He paused to take a draught of orange-coloured tea. ‘Strictly speaking, of course, we should be looking to nail Kiszka on a charge of withholding and obstructing.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But the alternative view is that he’s done us a favour.’ Kershaw raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Handing us a fugitive criminal who might just have the goods on Joey Duff. Not to mention his part in resolving a nasty abduction. How’s Kasia doing, anyway?’
‘Stable. I’m going down there later, see if the docs will let me talk to her.’
‘Any chance of her being able to pick Joey Duff out of a lineup?’ Streaky pulled out a bright yellow handkerchief to wipe his greasy lips.
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath. She was probably blindfolded most of the time and one of the main side effects of Rohypnol is memory loss.’
Streaky gave a snort of disgust. ‘Hence its popularity with scumbags who don’t mind their lady friends unconscious and drooling.’
‘Yeah. Still, at least we’ve got Fisher.’
Setting her fish and chips aside half-finished, Kershaw wiped her fingers on the paper. That morning’s raid on Fisher’s caravan had been textbook. Cops from the armed unit at Boreham had used Hatton rounds to blow the front door off: known in the Job as ‘Avon Calling’, they were faster than a ram. By the time Kershaw and the Sarge got inside, Fisher had been on the deck, handcuffed to the leg of his dining table, shivering like a wet dog. He’d clearly been expecting a visit from the Grim Reaper, which made him unusually compliant – not to say grateful – at least to begin with. Once they’d started throwing questions at him – What was he doing there? Who was he hiding from? Was Joey Duff after him? – his responses became more and more monosyllabic, finally stuttering to a halt like a car running out of petrol.
‘I’ll be giving him a proper going-over this afternoon,’ said Streaky. ‘His brief’s coming down the nick.’
‘Can I attend the interview?’
‘Yes, okay,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose one way or another, you know more about this clusterfuck than anyone.’
She folded her grease-stained paper into a neat package and slotted it into the litterbin next to the bench. ‘Sarge?’
‘Hmm?’ Streaky had spread-eagled himself across the bench-back, eyes closed. He looked like an overweight ginger reptile basking in the sunshine.
‘I know you were disappointed, when I left murder squad to go into firearms.’ She paused, waiting for a response, but he appeared so immobile she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. ‘Anyway, helping out on this case, it’s made me reassess what I want to do. So I wanted to ask – I know I’d have to do some retraining – but in principle, would you ever consider having me back in the squad, as a detective?’
Opening one somnolent eye, he surveyed her, before closing it again. ‘I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.’
Kershaw swallowed, taken aback by the sudden burning sensation behind her eyes and nose.
Streaky opened the eye again and yawned. ‘I’ve thought about it. The answer’s yes.’
‘The time is 5.45 p.m. and this is Detective Sergeant Bacon interviewing Steven Fisher. Also present is PC Natalie Kershaw …’
Once the formalities were over, Streaky fixed Steve with his matiest grin.
‘So, Steven. That must have been a nasty shock for you, getting your caravan door blown off its hinges by armed officers?’
He shrugged.
‘Boom!!’ Streaky clapped his hands together.
Steve flinched and his brief, a young guy in a tightly fitting suit, looked up from the iPad on which he was making notes to give Streaky a meaningful look.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump,’ Streaky told Steve. ‘Of course, if I was you I’d be pretty jumpy, too.’ He widened his eyes for emphasis. ‘Especially now your seaside hideout’s been blown.’
Steve just stared at the ceiling.
‘You know the phrase “between the Devil and the deep blue sea”?’ Streaky mused. ‘It just occurred to me that it describes your position perfectly.’
Steve shot his brief an uneasy look. He’d been all set to go straight ‘no comment’ on everything – but no one – not the gingernut Sergeant nor the little blonde bird had asked him anything yet.
‘Either you’re a prime suspect in the torture and murder of your close associates, Jared Bateman and Bill Boyce’ – Streaky gave an inappropriate chuckle – ‘or, they were killed by someone else, which means you’re next on the list!’
‘I never …’ Steve clamped his lips shut. ‘No comment.’
Streaky paused to pull a rogue hair from one nostril, staring at it for a moment, before flicking it away. ‘Would you say you have a fulfilling life, Steve?’
Steve’s mouth opened, about to go ‘no comment’, but instead he stuck out his chin and said, ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Will you miss it?’
The brief leaned forward. ‘Are you planning to get onto the substantive matters, Sergeant? Or just play pointless games?’
‘Oh, I think your client’s survival
is a substantive matter. Once he leaves these four walls, I’m afraid he’s likely to become what our American friends call a “dead man walking”.’
Steve’s right knee started to jig up and down – a tic the Sarge always called ‘the scumbag boogie’.
‘Here are the facts,’ Streaky told him, suddenly deadly serious. ‘You and your chums have upset some very nasty people – people capable of doing this,’ he pushed a selection of close-up post-mortem photos across the table. ‘For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Steven Fisher photographs of injuries sustained by his friends Jared Bateman and Bill Boyce.’
Steve pretended to examine his fingernails, but Kershaw could see his eyes flickering towards the snaps. His right knee was still doing its guilty dance, but faster now.
Kershaw piped up now, as planned. ‘Steve, I don’t need to tell you that Joey Duff is a very dangerous man. A man who we expect soon to be charging with the abduction of your wife.’
‘Kasia?’ Steve’s head shot up. ‘You’ve found her? Is she okay?’
The brief tried to catch Steve’s gaze, but Kershaw had his full attention. ‘He kept her tied up and drugged for nine days. Rohypnol. But she’s recovering.’
‘Thank God!’ Steve pressed his hands together before his face, as though in devout prayer.
Aye aye, thought Kershaw. The marriage might be done and dusted from Kasia’s point of view, but it was clear that Steve was still very much in love with his wife.
‘Would you like to take a break?’ the brief murmured to Steve – but getting no response.
‘The trouble is,’ Kershaw went on, ‘the drugs mean she’s unlikely to make a good witness. We want to see the man who hurt your wife put away for a very long time, Steve, and for that we need your help.’
Now Streaky pitched back in: ‘You were in Duff’s gang when they pulled the Felixstowe job – maybe only on the fringes, shifting the goods, but close enough to know he was the boss. Tell us what you know about his involvement.’ As they watched, Steve’s expression congealed into sullen prisoner mode. ‘Did he ever phone you about it or talk to you directly?’
