she doesn’t believe in divorce.’ She frowned up at him. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’
As the girl’s unblinking gaze skewered Janusz he was reminded of the time she’d interrogated him about a murder, the first time they’d met. He shifted about in the narrow chair. Why had Kasia changed her mind about leaving Steve? The milestone of her recent fortieth birthday suddenly struck him as an inadequate motive for such a momentous volte-face.
To change the subject, he told her about the one-way tickets to Alicante Steve had booked, and his conviction that the couple were still in the UK.
Kershaw chewed at a nail. ‘So you think he strung her a line about a birthday dinner or something to get her somewhere quiet, then sprung the idea of this trip on her?’
‘Yeah. He’s a fantasist. He probably thought he could change her mind with some story about starting a new life in Spain.’
She nodded, that made sense. ‘What kind of guy is he? If your theory’s right, do you think she could be in danger?’
He paused, wondering how much to tell her. ‘He has hit her, a couple of times. I had to have a word with him once.’
She raised an eyebrow, imagining the one-sided nature of that discussion.
Janusz narrowed his eyes, recalling the impression of Steve he’d got from that single face-to-face encounter. Skinny and unprepossessing to look at, yet full of himself, Steve had alternated between braggadocio and aggrieved self-pity. ‘I think he’s a lazy lowlife with a big mouth, but I never thought he’d have it in him … to really hurt her. Not till now, anyway.’
‘Once a wife beater, always a wife beater, in my experience,’ she said, regretting her glib words when she saw his jaw clench in a spasm of distress.
She felt torn. The likeliest explanation was probably the most obvious one – that Kasia had got cold feet about going to live with Kiszka. His caveman looks, the edge of danger about him would no doubt be attractive to some girls, but as life partner material? On the other hand, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued by the story – especially since she knew what a big deal it must have been for Kiszka to ask for help from a cop.
‘Why are you asking me to get involved? Why not just report her missing?’
He lifted one shoulder. ‘Because the police would just assume I was a jilted boyfriend. Even if they did believe me, they’re hardly going to invest serious resources in finding yet another missing person, are they?’
‘Fair point.’
‘So … will you help?’ He drained the rest of his pint, avoiding her eyes.
Kershaw suddenly realised that her pulse was beating a little faster than when she’d first walked in the pub. It seemed that the mystery of Kiszka’s missing girlfriend had got under her skin. She’d need to tread carefully, of course: the last thing she needed was to get herself in any more trouble at work.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she told him.
Janusz bared his teeth in a grin. ‘Another one of those?’ he asked, pointing at her empty wine glass.
After he’d gone to the bar, having waved away her attempt to buy a round, Kershaw realised that there was another reason she’d agreed to help, the return of a feeling she’d almost forgotten. There was something about being around Janusz Kiszka that somehow made her feel more alive.
At Walthamstow Central tube station, heading home to Highbury, Janusz found himself in the midst of a deepening crush on the southbound Victoria line platform, the muffled drone of the announcer overhead saying something about signal problems. Luckily, Walthamstow was the line’s northernmost terminus, so when a train finally did arrive it emptied completely, allowing him to bag a seat. The journey was slow, punctuated by long stops in tunnels, and the fresh influx of rush-hour humanity that squeezed itself onto the packed train at Tottenham Hale triggered a very English symphony of muted tuts.
Right under Janusz’s nose, a guy in his twenties wearing a too-tight suit all but body-blocked an older woman carrying shopping bags to capture a just-vacated seat opposite. Seeking eye contact to establish whether the lady might take offence – an advisable step in London, he had long ago discovered – Janusz wordlessly offered her his seat, and when she smiled her thanks, stood to make way for her. Taking hold of the overhead passenger rail with both hands, he proceeded to direct an unblinking stare down on the discourteous kutas in the suit, who grew increasingly fidgety during the long wait in the next tunnel, before unaccountably deciding to get off at the next stop. Claustrophobic, probably, thought Janusz with an inward grin.
Minutes later, as the train lurched to a halt yet again, Janusz idly scanned the faces of the passengers either side of him, each immured within their own private citadel. A head-scarfed Asian girl, eyes elongated with kohl, playing a game on her phone, a man intently reading an article on London house prices in the Standard, and a white girl with dreadlocks, tinny music spilling out of her headphones. He let his eyes drift back to the man reading the paper. He remembered noticing the same guy amid the crush on the packed platform at Walthamstow. And he’d been reading the same page of the paper then.
No one was that slow a reader. Janusz squinted at the tube map just above his eye level, relying on his peripheral vision to build a picture of the guy. Reddened, pockmarked skin, like someone who’d spent too many years in the sun – or in extreme cold. Forty-five, or thereabouts, around Janusz’s age. Close-cropped hair, balding at the temples. Expensive-looking bomber jacket.
Maybe he was just being paranoid, but Janusz had long ago learned a valuable lesson: in his line of work, a little paranoia could seriously boost your life expectancy. So when the train reached Highbury, he made sure he was first up the short flight of stairs from the platform and into the exit tunnel. Rounding a sharp bend which meant he couldn’t be seen from behind, he broke into a jog, and didn’t slow down when he reached the escalator, climbing it two steps at a time, the metal treads flashing beneath his boots. Highbury was one of the network’s deepest stations and by the time he neared the top, his breathing was sawing like an old tree in a high wind. He slapped his Oyster card on the reader – praying it would work first time – and the gates parted to release him.
Outside, twilight was descending, and Janusz ducked into the pub next to the station where he sometimes had a homecoming beer, positioning himself by a window with a view of the station exit. Twenty or thirty seconds later, he spotted bomber jacket cutting a path through the seething tide of homeward-bound passengers, scoping his surroundings with an alert yet casual gaze. For a heart-stopping moment his eyes lingered on the pub, before he disappeared from view towards the main road.
The guy’s body language appeared unhurried. But his watchful air, the purposefulness of that measured stride – all said professional tail. Suspecting that his new-found friend might double back at any moment to check out the pub, Janusz headed out back towards the lavatories. Down a corridor and past the door marked Gents he found what he was looking for: an emergency exit he occasionally used to nip out for a cigar. It gave onto a quiet backstreet that bore west towards Liverpool Road, the opposite direction to his apartment.
He pushed the bar – and a deafening two-tone wail split the air.
Kurwa mac! When did the officious bastards get the door alarmed? Janusz took off running down the street. No point
