Death Can’t Take a Joke. Anya Lipska
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Monkey, that women made far better detectives than men; even if he’d gone on to spoil things by adding that their superior observational and deductive skills were down to them ‘always being on the lookout for a husband’.
‘Sophie was briefing me on the local drug gangs, Sarge,’ said Kershaw, shooting a supportive look her way. ‘In case Jim Fulford’s murder does turn out to have been a junkie mugging.’
‘Not that you’re going to have any time to spare for the Fulford case, DC Kershaw,’ said Streaky, pointing a rolled- up printout at her. ‘Docklands nick has just told me that you’ve taken it upon yourself to identify some mystery roof diver?’
‘Ah, yes, I meant to talk to you about that, Sarge.’
‘You do know we investigate murders here, don’t you? Which if memory serves, tend to be defined as deliberate slayings at the hands of a third party?’
‘Yes, Sarge, it’s just that I was first on the scene, and since I did all the initial investigations, I thought it made sense for me to finish the job.’ When she said it out loud like that, it struck her how head-girlish it sounded. And she had to admit that, now she had a murder case to get her teeth into, the mystery jumper could prove to be a major in- convenience.
Streaky unrolled the printout with a magisterial frown. ‘Let me see … no identification of any kind on the body … no tattoos, birthmarks or unusual dentistry … no missing persons report fitting the description … number of people working in Canary Wharf tower 7,653 …’ After shooting her a meaningful look, he turned to the second page. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon! If I implied that there were no clues to the identity of the deceased, I was wrong.’
By now, it was Sophie who was sneaking Kershaw the sympathetic looks.
‘PC Percy Plod found a zloty in the gutter!’ Streaky scooted the document onto Kershaw’s desk. ‘With a red-hot lead like that I should think you’ll have the case solved by the end of your shift. It’s a shame you’ll have your hands full, because I was going to give you some more action points in the Fulford case.’ Getting to his feet, he tucked an errant shirt tail back into his trousers, and strode off.
Janusz was kneading bread dough on his kitchen worktop when his mobile sounded.
‘Czesc, Oskar,’ he grunted, holding the phone to his ear with his thumb and index finger so as not to douse it in flour.
‘Ask me what I found out about your friend with the Land Rover Discovery.’
‘I haven’t got time to play twenty questions,’ said Janusz. ‘I’m up to my elbows in sourdough.’
Oskar made kissing noises down the phone. ‘You know, Janek, you’d make someone a lovely wife. I bet you’re wearing a really cute apron, too.’ Then, adopting a concerned voice: ‘You do know that I’ll always be there for you, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘When you finally decide to come out of the closet.’
Janusz held the phone away from his ear as Oskar roared with laughter. ‘Actually, I’m cooking dinner for Kasia tonight, turniphead,’ he said, one side of his mouth lifting in a private smile.
‘Janek, Janek,’ said Oskar. ‘Are you still kidding yourself that she’s going to leave that dupek Steve?’
Janusz leaned against the worktop and let Oskar carry on in this vein for a while. The worst of it was, he knew in his heart of hearts that his mate was probably right. The affair with Kasia had been going on for almost two years now yet she showed no sign of ending her marriage to her lazy, worthless husband.
‘Spare me the relationship counselling, Oskar,’ growled Janusz. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’
‘Keep your hair on, kolego, I was getting to that,’ said Oskar. ‘I dropped in on my mate, Marek, the one who owns a Polski sklep on Hoe Street? You should go there – he sells the best wiejska in London. And his rolmopsy …’
‘Oskar!’
‘Okay, okay. Anyway, it turns out that he knows the guy in the Discovery, the one you saw with that gorgeous bird!’
‘What does he know about him?’
‘He’s Romanian, grew up there when that kutas Ceausescu ran the place. But he managed to get out and went to live in Poland after Solidarity got in – Marek says his mother was Polish.’
That made sense, thought Janusz. Poland had been the first country to throw off communist rule in 1989, making it a magnet for people escaping Soviet-backed regimes all over Eastern Europe.
‘Does Marek know how the guy makes his money?’
‘Tak. He has business interests in Poland, Ukraine, some of the other ex-Kommi states,’ said Oskar. ‘Marek just invested some cash with him actually – he says he’s making a packet.’
‘Shady business?’ asked Janusz.
‘No! He says it’s all totally above board.’
Janusz just grunted. Some people didn’t ask too many questions so long as the rate of return was attractive.
‘Anyway, sisterfucker, listen to this,’ said Oskar. ‘Marek sees the Romanian going to some Turkish café opposite his shop in Hoe Street, twice a week, to drink coffee with the owner.’
Janusz had never had any dealings with London’s Turks, who kept themselves pretty much to themselves, but during the recent riots they’d won his grudging admiration. While the cops had stood by, helpless and outnumbered, as lowlifes looted and torched his local shops, further north in Green Lanes the Turks had lined up to defend their businesses armed with hard stares and baseball bats. When the dust had settled, theirs were the only shopfronts that didn’t require the attention of emergency glaziers.
‘And the girl? Does she go along to these meetings?’
‘Sometimes. But Marek says he’s always there – four o’clock, Thursdays and Fridays, regular as clockwork.’
Marek sounded like a nosy bastard to Janusz. He checked his watch: it was Thursday and just after three. Plenty of time to get up there and back in time to cook dinner.
Janusz still had no idea of the precise nature of the relationship between the girl Varenka and the Romanian. She certainly wouldn’t be the first girl to settle for an older, uglier lover in return for a luxurious life. But was he also her pimp? The scene Janusz had witnessed in Hoe Street, which had ended with the bastard assaulting her, suggested that was a strong possibility.
‘Did you get the name of this Romanian?’
He heard Oskar fumbling with a bit of paper. ‘Barbu Romescu.’
‘You didn’t let Marek know this was anything to do with Jim?’
‘Of course not, Janek! I just dropped into the conversation that I’d seen this seksowna blonde girl getting into a fancy black 4X4 in Hoe Street. You know, man talk.’
‘Not bad. Maybe you’re not as bat-brained as you look.’
‘I was thinking,’ Oskar’s voice became conspiratorial, tinged with suppressed excitement, ‘I could park the van near the café, like I was doing deliveries, and when the Romanian comes out, tail him to his hideaway.’
Janusz grinned at the idea of Oskar and his old crock of a van with the squealing fan belt shadowing anyone undetected. ‘I tell you what, kolego, here’s the best thing you can do. Take Marek out for a drink. Drop into the conversation that you have a mate who’s come into a pile of money and who is looking for investments paying a good return.’
Right