Death Can’t Take a Joke

Janusz took his time finishing his drink and headed over to the café. Inside, it was surprisingly plush, kitted out with low, upholstered seating and Middle Eastern-style wall hangings. To the café’s rear, a doorway hung with heavy dark red velvet curtains led to what he assumed was a private salon. The Christmas cake smell of fruit-flavoured shisha tobacco hung in the air. Opposite the long glass counter was a giant TV screen tuned to Al Jazeera, on which a female presenter in a headscarf was interviewing an Israeli diplomat. English subtitles revealed that the subject of the interview was the shelling of southern Israel by Hamas militants in Gaza; attacks returned – with sky-high inflation – by Israeli forces. Not for the first time, the shared guttural phonetics of the Arabic and Hebrew languages struck Janusz as deeply ironic.

A young man aged about eighteen or nineteen, wearing a Galatasaray shirt, appeared behind the counter through a tinkling bead curtain. He greeted Janusz across the counter: if he was surprised to find a big white Pole wearing a military greatcoat in a shisha café, he didn’t show it.

Janusz pretended to be checking out the trays of sticky-looking pastries. There were squares of filo layered with green pistachio paste, nests of deep fried vermicelli, syrup-slicked dumpling balls … Dupa blada! You could get diabetes just looking at this stuff.

He made a random selection, then threw in: ‘Is the boss around today?’

The kid paused, the serrated jaws of his steel tongs hovering over a pastry, and flashed Janusz a smile. ‘I’m the boss,’ he said, gesturing at a document on the wall behind him.

Yeah, thought Janusz, and I’m the Dalai Llama.

‘That’s too bad,’ said Janusz. ‘I might have some information that would work to his advantage.’

The guy shrugged regretfully, as though to say if Janusz refused to believe him, there was nothing he could do about it.

Janusz turned to watch the TV, which had now moved on to the situation in Syria, a conflict so savage it made the Hamas–Israel stand-off look like a game of pat-a-cake. A moment later, the velvet drapes guarding the private sanctum were parted by a tall, mournful-looking man with a moustache. After giving Janusz a tiny nod of acknowledgement, he stood beside him looking up at the TV.

‘What is it you are selling, my friend?’ he asked in a soft voice.

‘I’ve just inherited a business, round the corner from here,’ said Janusz, ‘and I’m offering special rates to my fellow businessmen in Hoe Street.’

He turned to receive the box of pastries from the kid, passing a tenner across the counter.

‘If it is a Polish supermarket,’ said the man, ‘I’m afraid we buy our supplies from Costco.’ His gaze flicked back to the television, signalling an end to the conversation.

Janusz pocketed the change the kid gave him. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he said with a grin.

The man didn’t move his gaze from the screen. ‘What sort of business are we talking about then?’

Janusz held his silence until, finally, the man turned to look at him.

‘I suppose you’d call it a fitness club,’ he said. ‘Used to be run by a good friend of mine. It’s called Jim’s Gym.’

The man blinked, once. Left a pause that was just a fraction of a second too long. ‘I’m not familiar with it. But I’m afraid I am not a great exercise enthusiast.’

‘Pity. But if you do change your mind, drop in any time,’ said Janusz, holding out one of Jim’s cards. ‘We do a really competitive off-peak membership.’ When the man made no move to take it, Janusz left it on the countertop.

It was almost dark when he emerged onto Hoe Street and the temperature had taken a nosedive, but after the warm sweet fug of the café he welcomed the clean chilly air. As he navigated his way through the rush-hour throng he reflected on what he’d just done. It had been a moment of impulse, an urge to heave a boulder into the lake, to see where the ripples might meet land. He had no idea whether the Turk who owned the Pasha Café would report back to his Romanian associate. Nor had he any clue to the nature of their dealings, or whether they were in some way connected to Jim’s murder. All Janusz had was a powerful hunch: that the girl Varenka leaving flowers for Jim meant something. And he’d bet his apartment that the ‘something’ would lead him right back to Scarface.

Outside Walthamstow tube, he paused, and pulled out his phone: by the time he surfaced at Highbury it would be past office hours.

‘Czesc, Wiktor! How’s the weather in Swansea? … Oh? Shame. Listen, have you had a chance to check that reg number I texted you? That’s right, a black Land Rover Discovery …’

His big face creased in a smile. ‘Wspaniale! Text me over the address, would you?’

Ten

Kershaw woke from sleep with a violent start, convinced there was an intruder in her flat. She held her breath, straining to hear what might have woken her. Then she heard the fridge door slam, hard enough to clank the bottles in the door against each other. Ben.

She threw herself back down and, putting a pillow over her head, waited for her heartbeat to subside. Just as she was starting to drift off, she heard the ringtone of Ben’s mobile, muffled at first, like it was in his pocket, then getting louder as he retrieved it.

Fuck! Until now, having their own flats – hers at the wrong end of Canning Town, his in leafy Wanstead – meant that even though they spent most nights together, if she felt in need of a bit of space or a solid night’s sleep, she could always escape. It struck her that in ten days’ time, after they moved in together, that would no longer be an option.

Pulling on a dressing gown, she padded into the kitchen where she found Ben, bleary-eyed, a half-eaten kebab in front of him on the table, his mobile clamped to his ear. He looked up, and waved his free hand at the phone, his face telegraphing comic apology.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Great to see you, too. Remember what I said, alright? Yeah, mate, definitely.’

She checked the clock – it was 2.30 a.m.

Ben hung up. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he said, his words indistinct. ‘That was Jamie, checking I got home.’

‘Do you know what time it is?’

With the literalness of the very drunk, he squinted down at his phone. ‘Two thirty-three,’ he said.

‘Did it slip your mind that I’m on earlies this week?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get up in three hours’ time.’

‘I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, too,’ said Ben, an aggrieved expression on his face.

Kershaw snapped. ‘And if you want to get shit-faced on a school night, that’s up to you! But you’ve got no right to come back here crashing around and waking me up!’

‘Fine! If you don’t want me here, I’ll go!’ Ben got to his feet, swaying. They stared at each other for a long and terrible moment.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said finally. ‘I never said I wanted you to go.’

When the alarm started nagging her at half past five it was still dark outside, and properly chilly in the flat – she’d forgotten to reset the central heating timer. Kershaw hated being on early turn at this time of year – the cold she could tolerate, but the shortening of the days as autumn tumbled into winter stirred in her a near-primitive sense of dread.

She made a mug of tea and took it into the bedroom.

‘Ben?’ A muted groan came from under the duvet. ‘You said to wake you before I leave.’

Ben pulled the duvet from his face and blinked a few times. ‘Morning,’ he croaked. Manoeuvring himself to a sitting position, he pulled a penitent face. ‘I’m really sorry I woke you up last night. Twattish behaviour when you’re on earlies, I know.’

Kershaw smiled. It was one of the things she loved about Ben: when he was in the wrong about something, he apologised quickly and with real class. It was a quality she had never really mastered.

‘You’re forgiven,’ she said, handing him his tea.

‘Are we good?’ he asked, throwing her a look under his eyebrows.

‘Yeah, we’re good,’ she told him. ‘So, you never said, how was Jamie last night?’

‘Not good.’ A spasm of distress crossed his face. ‘He’s full of anger, still guilt-ridden for letting Hannah out of his sight – and drowning it all in beer and Jameson’s. He says she’s totally changed – despite the Downs she used to be a confident kid, always nagging him and Cath to let her do the things her friends were allowed to.’

Kershaw remembered that, agonisingly for Hannah’s parents, it had been one of her first trips out alone to buy her favourite Cherry Coke that had thrown her into the path of Anthony Stride. ‘I just can’t imagine what they’re going through, let alone her,’ she said.

‘Do you know the worst thing Jamie told me?’

She shook her head.

‘Apparently, Hannah used to be a real daddy’s girl, but since it happened, she hasn’t let him near her. When she wakes up in the night, Cath’s the only one she’ll let comfort her.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Kershaw. She took a swig of his tea.

‘I saw that … bastard in the street the other day,’ said Ben.

She looked at him, alarmed by the sudden and unfamiliar ferocity in his voice. ‘Really? You never mentioned it.’

‘Didn’t I?’ he shrugged. ‘When I think that he’s free to stroll around while Hannah’s too scared to leave the house, let alone go to school, or go out to play … It turns my stomach.’

‘Do you think the Ryans need some professional help, like family therapy?’

‘What they need is for that cunt Stride to step in front of a bus,’ he said.

She couldn’t remember hearing Ben use the c-word before: of the two of them she was by far the more prolific swearer. As her gaze scanned his face, she thought: Maybe it’s you who needs the therapist.

‘I know you got close to Jamie, to all of them,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’d have done exactly the same, a case like that. But shouldn’t you be thinking about handing over to family liaison by now?’

‘What, now the case is dead in the water, it’s time to dump the family and move on?’

Ben’s voice sounded reasonable, but she saw that his top lip had thinned to a line – the only outward sign of anger he ever betrayed. Tread carefully, my girl, she heard her dad say.

‘No, of course not. It’s just … you know the score; if you go bush over a case like that’ – she shrugged – ‘you’re gonna be less focused on catching the next evil scumbag – the one we can put away.’

Rocking his head back against the wall, he exhaled air through pursed lips, reminding Kershaw of the escape valve on a pressure cooker.

‘I know, I know. You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure seeing me does him any good – I’m only gonna remind him of what happened, aren’t I? I probably should back off a bit.’

‘I think that’s very sensible.’

He grinned, any trace of anger gone. ‘Before you report for duty, Constable, stick me on a couple of bits of toast, would you?’

Kershaw managed to smile back, but an undercurrent of disquiet tugged at her still. She had no problem dealing with conflict – to her, it was part and parcel of a relationship – but she got the feeling that Ben would sometimes simply pretend to roll over to avoid confrontation.

It came to her that maybe the misgivings she’d been having weren’t exactly to do with Ben being too nice, but with his apparent difficulty in being nasty. She was no psychotherapist, but she knew that would need to change when they lived together.

Eleven

The wooden shutter gave a single mournful squeak as it was pulled back from the wire grille.

‘I present myself before the Holy Confession, for I have offended God,’ murmured Janusz.

‘Have I heard your confession before, my son?’ asked the priest.

Janusz peered through the grille for a beat, before realising that Father Pietruski was winding him up.

‘It’s been –’ a surreptitious count of his fingers ‘– a long time since my last confession.’

‘I was thinking you must have run away with the gypsies,’ said Pietruski, bone-dry. ‘Or perhaps even gone home to honour your marriage vows to that wife of yours, not to mention your parental duties.’

Janusz shifted in his seat. Pietruski had been his priest for more than twenty years now, and it seemed he would always have this ability to make him feel like a wayward teenager.

‘You know that Marta and I got divorced,’ he said reasonably. The priest started to speak, but Janusz broke in. ‘Yes, Father, I know the Church doesn’t recognise divorce, but that’s the reality in our hearts.’

Janusz had been just nineteen when he and Marta had wed. The ceremony took place in a fog of grief and wodka, just weeks after the death of his girlfriend Iza, and the marriage had proved to be a cataclysmic mistake. It had, however, produced one outcome for which he felt not a trace of regret. Years after they’d split up, during a single, ill-advised, night of reunion, they had created a child together.

Things had improved between Janusz and his ex-wife over the last year or so, and although he liked to think the thaw in their relations was due to his efforts to be a better father to their fourteen-year-old son Bobek, he half suspected that it had more to do with Marta’s new boyfriend, six or seven years her junior, who she’d met at art evening classes. On the phone to Lublin, where she and the boy now lived, he had heard her laugh in a way she hadn’t done for years – and was glad of her newfound happiness.

‘As for Bobek, I’m a passably good father these days,’ he continued. ‘I flew over to see him only last month and we speak on the phone several times a week.’

‘I see,’ said the priest. ‘So, aside from your personal decision to ignore the unbreakable sacrament of your marriage, are there any other sins you wish to report?’

Janusz thought for a moment. ‘Coveting another man’s wife,’ he said, visualising Kasia, blonde hair tumbling over naked shoulders.

‘Only coveting?’

‘It’s all I’ve had to make do with in the last few weeks.’

‘Anything else?’ Pietruski’s tone had become even more acid.

Janusz hesitated. ‘Murderous impulses,’ he said, his voice a low rumble.

‘Against whom?’

‘Against the skurwiele who killed a friend of mine, Jim Fulford.’

That made Father Pietruski pause and squint through the grille. ‘What a dreadful thing. I will pray for you – and your friend, God rest his soul.’

Both men crossed themselves. ‘But you must leave it to the authorities to pursue the wrongdoers,’ said the priest. ‘You are not God: it is not given to you to look into a man’s soul, to decide how to punish the guilty.’

Janusz’s grunt was non-committal.

‘We’ve spoken before about this anger of yours, my son. And how in the end these negative emotions can hurt only yourself.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Janusz. But he was irritated by his confessor’s recent tendency to couch things this way. He came here for the implacable wisdom of a 2000-year-old Church, not a serving of New Age psychobabble.

‘Is that everything?’ asked Pietruski.

Janusz opened his mouth, on the verge of admitting his plans to get inside Scarface’s apartment later that day, before remembering that it wasn’t the done thing to confess sins in advance. A wise man had once said: Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

‘Yes, Father, that’s it.’

Janusz lingered in St Stanislaus longer than was strictly necessary even to perform the elaborate menu of penances Father Pietruski had seen fit to give him. Wrapped in its cavernous quiet amid the smell of snuffed candles and incense, he allowed himself a few moments to grieve for Jim, but resisted the urge to pray for him. That might undermine his resolve. Vengeance first, prayers later, he told himself.

Finding out Barbu Romescu’s address from Wiktor, his DVLA contact, had been a hundred quid well spent, but the next step – investigating his possible connection to Jim’s murder – would be harder to pull off. Janusz had spent several hours on his laptop and printer the previous night in preparation for the afternoon’s work, which he’d planned to coincide with the Romanian’s second weekly meeting at the Turkish shisha café.

By the time he walked into Romescu’s apartment block, twin needles of blue glass overlooking the old Millwall dock, not far from Canary Wharf, he’d completely immersed himself in his cover story.

Reaching inside his overalls, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to the skinny guy on reception, who, in a couple of years’ time, might be old enough to start shaving.

‘Tower Management. Leaking air-conditioning unit in apartment 117,’ he said. How had he ever managed to do his job in the days before the internet, he wondered. Back then, even discovering the name of the management company would have taken hours of phone bashing, and as for photoshopping its logo into a fictional work docket? The idea would have been the stuff of science fiction.

‘I’m really sorry.’ The guy handed the document back to him with an uncertain shrug.

Don’t tell me they’ve changed companies or something, thought Janusz.

‘The concierge is off sick,’ he went on. ‘I’m just a temp from the agency, filling in.’

Alleluja!

Scowling, Janusz looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’ve got four more jobs after this one so I haven’t got time to muck around.’

‘I’ll see if the residents are at home.’ The kid punched out a number on the phone.

With every passing second that the phone went unanswered, Janusz allowed himself to relax a little. He made a production of shifting his half-empty toolbox from one hand to the other, as though it weighed a ton.

Finally, the kid hung up. ‘They’re not in,’ he admitted, gazing up at Janusz like a baby rabbit encountering a bear.

‘Look, here’s the drill,’ sighed Janusz. ‘You take me up to 117 and let me in, I do the job, you sign the docket afterwards to say it’s done.’

The kid was already shaking his head. ‘I can’t. The agency told me I mustn’t leave reception under any circumstances.’

Janusz checked his watch again and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to explain that to the people in 117.’ He started to walk away. ‘Tell them to phone the office to rebook an engineer.’

He hadn’t even reached the door when the kid called him back. ‘What about if I give you the master key and you go up on your own?’

Janusz felt a pang of guilt at the kid’s anxious expression. ‘I don’t know … I’d like to help you out, but strictly speaking, it’s against company regulations.’

‘Who would know, if neither of us says anything?’

Janusz took a moment to examine the toe of his workboot. ‘Go on then,’ he said, finally. ‘But keep it to yourself, or we can both kiss goodbye to our jobs.’

Barbu Romescu’s apartment was located on the 11th floor and his front door, like all the rest, was fitted with a state-of-the-art electronic lock. Janusz slipped the master card into the slot. A green light winked at him. As he pushed the door open, he grinned to himself. The first rule of security: humans were always the weakest link.

When he saw the apartment’s open plan living area, Janusz gave a low whistle. Whatever the nature of Romescu’s mysterious ‘business interests’, they apparently paid very handsome returns. Light coming through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows flooded the enormous room, bouncing off the highly polished wooden floor, some sort of golden-coloured hardwood. To his right stood a gleaming, minimalist kitchen. He looked it over with an ex-builder’s eye, noting the way in which the designer, not satisfied with hiding every appliance from view, had even eliminated door handles from the black acrylic units.

Testing how they worked – the merest touch on the surface caused it to swing open silently – Janusz chanced upon the fridge. He surveyed its contents with an expression of mystified disgust. Having worked alongside Romanians on building sites he knew they could put away pork, dumplings and a good feed of beer with as much gusto as any God-fearing Pole, yet all Romescu had in his fridge was vegan yoghurt, a tray of alfalfa sprouts, a carton of egg white and some goji juice.

Padding around the living area, Janusz had to admit that it wasn’t half bad for a dodgy Romanian ‘businessman’. The furniture looked expensive yet elegant, and the artworks on the walls were the kind you might find in an upmarket yoga studio. The largest, at around three metres across, was a rather good hyperrealist painting of a butterfly in flight, sunlight making its pale blue wings translucent.

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