moment seemed on the brink of saying more, but instead gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Just be careful.’
He patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, Barbara, I can handle Steve.’
Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the Victorian terrace within sight of the Olympic stadium where Kasia and Steve lived, wondering what he’d say if he did encounter her husband. Their paths had crossed once before, after Kasia had turned up to meet Janusz sporting a black eye that make-up couldn’t quite conceal. After Janusz had coaxed out of her what had happened, he’d paid Steve a surprise visit, pretending to be Kasia’s cousin over from Poland, and given the chuj a taste of what it felt like to be on the wrong end of a fist. It seemed the encounter had achieved the intended effect – according to Kasia, he’d never raised his hand to her again.
It suddenly occurred to him that Kasia’s impending departure might have changed that. Was Kasia lying in a darkened room, ashamed to go out, wearing the souvenirs of her husband’s ungovernable rage? As that image rose before him, Janusz knocked on the front door of their maisonette louder than was really necessary. Far from being worried about bumping into Steve, he was starting to look forward to it.
When, after a second knock, it was clear that there was nobody home, Janusz pulled out the bump key he always carried with him. Twenty seconds of jiggling later and he was inside.
‘Kasia?’ he tried. ‘Steve?’ Nothing.
It was strange to be back here. The woodwork had been painted in one of those dreary heritage colours that Kasia liked – and she’d probably done the graft, too, no doubt while Steve was down the pub talking up his latest moneymaking scheme.
The place was as clean as a teardrop – even the skirting boards betrayed not a speck of dust – and the citrus smell of cleaning product sang in the air. The only sound was the discreet burble of the fridge freezer in the kitchen, where he found nothing out of place but for a single upended coffee cup in a rack on the draining board. He checked the fridge, which held a cling-filmed plateful of pierogi, a pint of fresh milk missing an inch, and a chiller drawer full of plastic wrapped vegetables, with use-by dates a couple of days hence.
So far, his professionalism had allowed Janusz to case the joint as if this were just another investigation, but he was finding it hard to fight down a yawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. Where was Kasia? And Steve? What the fuck was going on?
He realised he’d been putting off checking the bedroom till last. Grow up, he growled to himself as he opened the door.
Still, seeing the double bed, it was hard not to visualise Kasia lying there beside her husband. Janusz shut his eyes, trying to retrieve something she had said to him one night, early on in their relationship. How had she put it? Something like ‘the physical side of the marriage died a long time ago’.
The bedside tables bore no sign of any of the paraphernalia of illness – no water glass, no box of tissues. He tried the drawers of one, finding nothing more exciting than a Bible in Polish, a pair of women’s sunglasses he recognised as Kasia’s and a few female bits and bobs. Then he tried Steve’s side. Some survival book by an ex-SAS man, a few old lottery scratch cards (all losers – just like the fucker who bought them, he thought savagely) and a tatty photo of Kasia and Steve holding ice-cream cones, which looked like it had been taken ages ago, on holiday somewhere.
They were both smiling, and Kasia’s hair was blonde, as it had been when he’d first met her. Seeing the sprinkle of youthful freckles across her nose he felt a tugging sensation in his chest. Folding the picture carefully so that Steve disappeared, he pocketed it, before starting to leaf through the SAS survival guide, a look of scorn growing on his face. A look that dissolved at what he found, tucked towards the back of the book.
It was a printout of a booking confirmation made out to Steven Fisher, for two seats on flight AM47 from Luton to Alicante. The second passenger name: Kasia Fisher. Janusz checked the departure details. The flight had left at 11.30 that morning.
Oskar paused in the act of conveying a forkload of gulasz to his mouth. ‘It’s simple science, Janek. As long as you eat according to your blood group, the excess weight will just fall off naturally!’
The two friends were having a late lunch in their favourite café, the Polska Kuchnia in Maryland, and Oskar was keen to proselytise about his latest fad diet.
‘You see. This is protein.’ Oskar gestured towards his plate with a professorial air. ‘So being blood type B, I can eat as much of it as I like.’ There was a moment’s silence while he dispatched the forkful, following it down with a swallow of beer that made his throat bulge.
‘Because of your blood group.’
‘Dobrze. Type B dates from the time when man was nomadic, so I can eat most things and still lose weight.’ He spoke with the modesty of a man disinclined to boast of his good fortune.
‘Right. And this is all based on your ancestors having a varied diet – because they travelled around a lot.’
If Oskar detected any sarcasm, he ignored it. ‘That’s right. I just have to avoid hydrocarbons.’
‘Carbohydrates.’
‘Tak, like I said.’
Watching Oskar take a glug of beer, Janusz toyed with the idea of explaining nutrition to him, or indeed the fundamentals of evolution, but he knew he’d only be doing it to put off the moment when he’d have to broach the Kasia situation. Pushing aside the meal he had barely touched, he told him the news.
‘Kurwa mac, Janek!’ Oskar wiped his mouth with a balled napkin. ‘You should have said before!’
Janusz felt his chest tighten at the distress on his mate’s chubby face. He might not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but since Janusz’s mother and father died, many years ago, Oskar was the closest thing to family he had.
‘I know how it looks,’ said Janusz. ‘But I don’t believe for one minute she’s gone off to Spain with Steve.’
‘But what about the flights?’
‘I don’t think she went on any flight. Her favourite sunglasses were still in the flat. Anyway, she’s not the type who’d leave a fridgeful of food to rot.’
Oskar popped another can of Tyskie, his face furrowed, and topped up their glasses, avoiding Janusz’s eyes. ‘You don’t think … Is it not possible …’
‘That she had second thoughts about moving in with me?’ Janusz growled. ‘No. I mean, of course it’s possible. But I know there’s no way she’d go without telling me – she’s not a coward. And she wouldn’t leave Barbara hanging like that, either.’
‘So what do you think happened, Janek?’
Janusz stared at the ceiling, trying to visualise for the hundredth time what might have happened between Saturday afternoon, when Kasia had left his apartment, and now.
‘I think he’s taken her somewhere.’ Voicing this unwelcome thought, he recalled how preoccupied she’d seemed recently. Had she been frightened – despite all her denials – about what Steve might be driven to do as her departure became a reality?
‘You mean taken against her will?’ asked Oskar, eyes
