Where the Devil Can’t Go

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 could see that the shots had a certain flair. Inside, a young man with a ginger goatee 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. He did a lot of smiling and nodding for openers, then showed the guy the photo. ‘You make this picture …?’

As the guy 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,’ 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.’

Inside was a contact sheet of a couple of dozen shots, colour this time.

Wearing only a black G-string, Weronika struck a variety of unimaginative soft porn poses – sticking her butt out … pushing her smallish breasts together … reclining with legs spread. Not much chiaroscuro in this lot, thought Janusz. No wonder the photographer had panicked when Janusz announced himself as Weronika’s brother – he’d probably thought he was in for a kicking.

The images offended and depressed him. The amateurish raunchiness of the girl’s pose jarred with the innocence of those rounded lips, and her eyes looked glazed, as though she were drunk – or on drugs. In that moment, he decided he couldn’t keep his promise simply to pass on the couple’s address to pani Tosik. No. When he found them he’d do his best to persuade the girl to dump her lowlife boyfriend and come home, and then he’d give Pawel Adamski a short sharp lesson in gentlemanly conduct.

Janusz tapped the contact sheet. ‘You can send him a copy in the post?’ he asked the guy.

The guy checked the cover of the folder. ‘Sure, but I’ll need an address – he didn’t leave one, or even a phone number.’

That was a blow. After promising to telephone with his friend’s address, Janusz left.

Still, at least he had a name.

Six

Wapping Mortuary was housed in a low, grey brick building encircled by a high wall, which made it look more like an industrial unit than anything remotely medical, thought Kershaw, as she buzzed the battered entry phone beside the big steel double gates.

A few minutes later, a mortuary technician with spiky dyed black hair and a bolt through her eyebrow was helping her into a blue cotton gown, the type surgeons wore for operations.

‘First time?’ she asked, her tone neutral.

Kershaw nodded. ‘I’m not squeamish, though,’ she added, before realising she’d spoken with unnecessary forcefulness.

Goth girl ignored the comment. ‘If you do start feeling a bit funny, just let us know before you keel over, okay?’ She waited while Kershaw pulled on blue plastic overshoes, then led the way through a tiled corridor and into the post mortem room.

Kershaw had seen the scene reconstructed a dozen times in TV cop dramas – the low-ceilinged tiled room, the naked bodies laid out on steel gurneys, some still whole, others already dissected. But it was all a bit different when you knew you weren’t looking at an artful arrangement of wax models and fake blood. And television couldn’t prepare you for the smell – a terrible cocktail of chopped liver, body fluids, and bleach.

The Goth girl paused at the first gurney. ‘DB16,’ she said. Spread-eagled on the shallow stainless steel tray, under the unsparing fluorescent lights, lay the girl with the Titian hair – or what was left of her.

‘I’ll tell Doctor Waterhouse you’re here,’ she said, leaving Kershaw alone with the body.

The girl was opened like a book from collarbone to pubis, revealing a dark red cavern where her insides had been. A purplish pile of guts lay between her thighs, as though she’d just given birth to them. The skin and its accompanying layer of yellow fat had been flayed from her limbs and torso, and now lay beneath her like a discarded jacket, and her ribcage was cracked open, each rib separated and bent back. Water tinkled musically, incongruously, through a drain hole under the gurney.

The good news, reflected Kershaw, was that she looked more like the remains of some predator’s meal on the Serengeti than a human being.

‘DC Kershaw, I presume?’

Tearing her gaze away from the carcass, she saw a tall, silver-haired man in his sixties rinsing his gloved hands at a nearby sink. Shaking off the drops, he approached her, beaming.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said.

‘Thanks for having me, Doctor,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ said Doctor Waterhouse. ‘I’m always delighted to see a new detective braving the rigours of a PM.’

He handed Kershaw some latex gloves with a little flourish, like he was giving her a bunch of violets, then spread his arms to encompass the cadaver lying between them.

‘Our lady,’ he began, in a plummy voice, ‘is an IC1 female who apparently enjoyed good health throughout her life, with no evidence of any chronic condition.’ He spoke as though addressing a roomful of medical students.

‘How old would you say she was?’ asked Kershaw, wriggling her fingers into the second glove.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said with a tilt of his head. Then, seeing her enquiring look, ‘I’m afraid it’s no easier to estimate someone’s age from the inside than it is from the outside.’

Over Doc Waterhouse’s shoulder, Kershaw noticed the Goth girl at the next gurney along. Wielding a huge curved needle, she was sewing up the chest cavity of a big man with tattooed biceps. His face had such a healthy colour, that for a split second Kershaw expected him to sit up and rip the needle from the girl’s hand.

Waterhouse was saying: ‘She was certainly of childbearing age.’ He paused. ‘I found a foetus in utero that, by my calculations, would put this lady in the late stages of the first trimester of pregnancy at the time of death.’

Kershaw’s eyebrows shot up. If the girl’s boyfriend didn’t fancy being a daddy, the pregnancy might have sparked an argument that ended in the girl’s death. She pulled pad and pencil from the pocket of her gown. ‘How many weeks is that, Doctor?’

‘Between nine and twelve, judging by the foetus,’ Waterhouse mused. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see it?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ said Kershaw, with a nervous smile. ‘Have you found anything suspicious? Any signs of violence?’

Looking at her over the tops of his half-moon glasses, the smiling Waterhouse raised a latexed finger. Patience.

‘Since the body was recovered from the river, let us first examine the evidence for drowning as the possible cause of death,’ he said, with the air of someone proposing a picnic on a lake, and started to stroll up and down the gurney, hands clasped behind his back.

Kershaw groaned inwardly – she was clearly in for the full lecture theatre treatment. At that moment, she happened to catch the eye of the Goth technician. The girl responded with a fractionally raised eyebrow that said – yes, he was always like this.

‘What evidence might we expect to find, post-mortem, in the case of a drowning, Detective?’ Waterhouse went on.

‘Water in the lungs?’ said Kershaw, suppressing a note of bored sarcasm. She’d be here all day at this rate.

‘But how do we know whether the water entered the lungs post- or ante-mortem?’

He stopped pacing and looked at Kershaw. She shrugged.

‘You may be surprised to learn that we currently have no means of establishing the sequence of events,’ said Waterhouse, as thought he’d only just discovered this extraordinary state of affairs himself. ‘If we allow that our lady was in the water six, perhaps seven days, by my calculations, then it is entirely possible that the copious quantities of river water, weed and sand present in her lungs and stomach found its way there after her death.’

‘So how do we find out if she drowned or not?’

‘Well, we could run a raft of analyses, to find out whether any diatoms – a kind of river algae – have found their way into her organs.’ He pulled a doubtful grimace. ‘But since none of it is the least bit conclusive I consider it an egregious waste of public money.’

No way of telling if someone had drowned? So those TV shows where a brilliant pathologist solved tricky cases single-handed after the cops had failed were clearly a load of old bollocks, thought Kershaw. She realised that Waterhouse was looking at her like it was her turn to speak.

‘So … if there’s no such thing as conclusive proof of drowning,’ she said. ‘I guess all you can do is rule everything else out – a process of elimination?’

‘Well done, Detective,’ said Waterhouse with an approving nod.

‘However, I must tell you I can find no evidence of foul play. The various injuries to the body are all post-mortem.’

Kershaw felt as though she’d been slapped. She wasn’t ready to see the girl demoted from murder victim to just another bridge jumper.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Subcutaneous dissection reveals no deep bruising or other injury.’ Waterhouse waved a hand over the flayed body. ‘Nor could I find any sign of the pinpoint haemorrhages in the conjunctivae or mucus membranes that would suggest asphyxiation.’

He beckoned her over to a deep stainless steel sink where he plunged a gloved hand into a pile of what looked like offal, spread out on a large plastic chopping board.

‘Here we are,’ he announced. ‘The hyoid bone – from the lady’s neck.’ He brandished a pair of tiny bony horns with bits of tissue still attached – which, to Kershaw, looked a lot like a truncated chicken wishbone. ‘When someone is strangled, more often than not, the hyoid gets broken. But this little fellow is intact.’ With the air of a conjuror, he pressed his thumbs into the centre of the horns until they snapped. ‘Voilà!’

Kershaw stifled a grimace. ‘So, in your view,’ she said, pencil hovering over her notebook. ‘She wasn’t beaten, stabbed, strangled or suffocated.’

‘Correct.’

‘How did she die then?’

‘Well, the chalky residue I found in the stomach does suggest she had ingested drugs a few hours before death,’ said Waterhouse.

‘Suicide?’ Kershaw didn’t try to disguise the disappointment in her voice.

‘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 organ out on the board. ‘Have a little poke around, tell me what you see.’

She took the proffered scalpel and used it to open up 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 had posted on the noticeboard at uni, about a student 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 students had dabbled, but 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’s she likely to have experienced, when she OD-ed?’ she asked.

‘A massive surge of serotonin 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 from the chopping board 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, like someone trying to squeeze a last-minute item into an overstuffed suitcase.

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 much more dangerous. This chap told me that recently, three young women died in a single night.’

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 start a new life in Israel, 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 the Islington 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, it 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, lighting 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 added. ‘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 took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette. ‘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 …’