Where the Devil Can't Go (29 page)

Janusz became aware of an eager expression in Tadeusz’s faded blue eyes.

“So when you see Pawel, will you let him know that the police have officially declared Struk’s death an accident?” he asked. Janusz stared at him. “And tell him it’s safe to come home?”

Just in time, Janusz remembered his role as Adamski’s supposed friend. “Of course,” he said. “The trouble is, I seem to have lost touch with him. Do you know anyone who might have his new phone number, or address?”

The older man subsided against his seat back. “No, nobody at all,” he said. “As far as I know, I was his only friend.”

TWENTY-ONE

Streaky agreed with Kershaw that Hurley might prove more co-operative if the interview took place in the nick, outside his comfort zone.

Kershaw had played it down when she called to ask him to come in. “We’re just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s,” she said, “You know,
routine police paperwork...
” putting on a singsong bored voice.

“Should I be calling a solicitor?” he asked with a nervous laugh, and she chuckled along. “Listen, Alex, obviously you’re
completely entitled
to legal representation.” She paused, letting a note of doubt creep into her voice. “But, to be honest, I didn’t have you down as the kind of guy who would even
have
a solicitor.” If he got the impression that bringing a brief along might put him under some sort of suspicion, well, that would be unfortunate, but it was absolutely not her intention.

Streaky told Kershaw he’d be sitting in on the interview.

“I’m not going to say a word,” he said as they walked down to the basement of the nick, “But after half an hour the little fucker will be so spooked he’ll be spilling his guts just to get away from me.”

“The time is 1130am on March 30th 2009. I am Detective Constable Natalie Kershaw and I am interviewing – Alex, please give your full name and date of birth.” “Uh, Alex Richard Hurley, 21.3.82.”

“Alex, can you confirm for the purposes of the tape that you do not want a solicitor present for the interview?” she spoke flatly, with the air of someone going through the bureaucratic motions.

“That’s right,” he said in a faint voice.

Kershaw consulted her notebook. “Also present is – Detective Sergeant, er, Alvin Bacon.” (
Alvin
? she thought,
who knew
?)

Streaky, sitting to Kershaw’s left and slightly back from the table, produced a paperclip from his pocket and keeping his eyes levelled on Alex Hurley, started to straighten it out. Hurley stared at him nervously, his expression turning to horror as Streaky proceeded to use the length of wire methodically to clean his teeth, somehow managing to imbue this simple, if disgusting, procedure with a brooding menace.

Hurley had expected a friendly chat and a chocolate biscuit. Instead, he found himself in a real police interview room stinking of Dettol, facing the girl detective, who suddenly seemed all cold and serious, and a red-faced gorilla who was coming on like a scary cop out of some movie set in Mississippi – the kind that ended with the camera panning away as the victim is gang-raped in the cellblock showers by whooping Hells Angels.

Not bringing a solicitor had been a big mistake.

“So, Alex,” said Kershaw, giving him a bright and transparently insincere smile, “When would you say you first noticed that Derek and Milo were leaving the key to security behind front desk for each other to pick up?”

“I...I didn’t know they were doing that,” he said, showing her his palms. She left a pause, while Streaky gazed at something on the point of the paperclip he had dug out from between his rear molars, before once again locking his malevolent glare on Alex.

“According to the rosters, you’re usually on night shift twelve days every month, right?”

“Ye-es.”

“And you’ve worked at the Waveney for three and a half years?”

He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, trying not to look at the scary ginger bloke.

“And how far from where you sit at front desk is the security pigeonhole, would you say?”

“Four or five metres?”

“Actually, it’s only
1.5
metres!” she said in a
‘fancy that!’
tone of voice. “I measured it.”

Streaky made a noise between a sigh and growl, like someone who couldn’t wait for the talking to end so he could get his rubber truncheon out.

“By my calculations, there were more than 500 occasions when you were on front desk and Milo or Derek toddled past carrying a jiffy bag and popped it into the security pigeonhole,’ she said fixing him with a curious look. “But you say you never noticed what was going on? Would you describe yourself as
visually impaired
, Alex?”

He shook his head, then a look of cunning flashed across his face. “Here’s the thing,” he said, a little of his previous self-importance returning, “The security pigeonhole is behind me,” he gestured over his shoulder, “And, anyway, I’m always really busy with people checking out around that time.”

Gotcha, fuckwit
. “What time would that be, Alex?” asked Kershaw. He opened his mouth and then, realising he had dropped a bollock, closed it again.

“So you
have
noticed Milo and Derek going to and from the pigeonhole at six am,” she said. “Do you really expect me to believe you never noticed what they were doing? Never said, ‘What’s with the jiffy bag, guys?’” She heard Streaky emit a derisive snort. “Never once been tempted – in
three and a half years
– to check out what was inside?” Her voice dripped with polite incredulity. Alex just shrugged.

She sat back again, dropped her eyes to her notes, exchanging a little look with Streaky out of the corner of her eye.
Yeah yeah, I know: catch him out in a provable lie
.

“Tell me, Alex, have you ever entered the security office?”

“Er, yes... now and again. It’s part of my management training to monitor all areas front and back of house.”

“But that wouldn’t include rifling through the filing cabinet that holds the CCTV tapes?”

“No, of course not,” he said, with a firm shake of the head.

God, he was properly thick
, thought Kershaw.

“You see, we’re running forensic tests on the cabinet and the tapes themselves, and if you
had
touched them, the CSI team are going to find your fingerprints all over the place.”

At the mention of fingerprints, his face froze for a moment, and then crumpled, like a seven-year-old who’d just lost the egg and spoon race.

“We know for a fact, Alex, that
somebody
went into that cabinet and stole some VHS tapes. Not just any old tapes, either – the ones that showed the girl going up to the room with the suspect just before she died.” She left a beat. “So if we find prints on that cabinet that have no business being there, we’re going to assume they belong to the man who tied her up, raped and killed her.” OK, the last bit was her own scenario, but judging by Alex’s sudden sweaty pallor it did the job.

Kershaw could feel the pulse in her neck going
putt-putt, putt-put
. She didn’t think for a nanosecond that Alex was the killer, but it was crystal-clear that the little creep had
something
to hide. She looked down at her notes, giving him time to work out the horrible Catch-22 he was in. The only way he could prove he
hadn’t
been in the lift with the girl would be to hand over the tapes, but that would mean admitting it was him who nicked them.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped. “Listen Alex,” she said, with something of the old mateyness in her voice. “You strike me as someone who’s never been in any sort of trouble” – he nodded rapidly – “So I’m wondering if what’s happened here is that someone has talked you into doing something, without you having
any idea
what you were getting yourself into.”

Alex’s eyes flickered round the interview room – clearly thinking it over.

Finally, in a small voice, he said: “I don’t want to lose my job.”

Kershaw smelled blood in the water.

“I don’t see why you
should
lose your job, Alex, so long as you’re totally honest with us now,” she said, crossing her ankles beneath the desk. “Did you take the key from the pigeonhole after Milo left it there that morning?”

He nodded miserably. “For the benefit of the tape, Alex Hurley is nodding his head,” she said.

“Then you used it to get into security, where you pulled out the VHS tapes for the lift CCTV, and made the logbook entries saying the cameras were out of order.”

“Yes.”

“So where are those tapes now?”

“I haven’t got them,” he burst out desperately, “But I swear, it wasn’t me in the lift with the girl.”

“So what did you do with them?” she felt a needle of panic – if the silly little twat had destroyed them, they’d be mullered.

Alex seemed to clam up again, but at that moment Streaky threw his paperclip on the floor and stood up, breathing hard through his mouth.

Alex looked up at him, and emitted a single whimper.

“I gave them to Andrew Treneman,” he said.

. . .

The Waveney Thameside’s manager proved to be rather more slippery a customer than Hurley. When Kershaw phoned the hotel, she couldn’t even get past his secretary to talk to the guy, let alone get him down the nick for a chat. She left three messages for him throughout the morning, and was starting to wonder whether she should just drive down there and doorstep him, when his solicitor phoned. Treneman clearly wasn’t short of a bob or two: Dearbourne, Bunch and Hassock was a blue-chip firm known for its unstinting work on behalf of the deserving rich: if Godfrey Dearbourne had ever come across the phrase
pro bono
he probably thought it was something to do with the gazillionaire rock star.

“I simply won’t have my client hounded in this way, Detective
Constable
,” said Dearbourne, putting a none-too-subtle emphasis on her rank, “I really must insist on talking to your Inspector to discuss whatever it is you’ve been calling Mr Treneman about.” She let the silly old buffer go on like this for a bit, his approach a familiar combo of bluster, bullying and legalese designed to frighten her, before deciding it was time to get a word in.

“It’s unfortunate that your client has decided not to cooperate with a very serious police inquiry, Mr Dearbourne,” she said. “He is well aware of the suspicious death of a young woman in his hotel five days ago – a case which might very well evolve into a murder investigation – and I’m afraid that we now have reason to believe he is deliberately concealing a crucial piece of evidence.”

“
Concealing crucial evidence
? I hardly think so, Constable,” said Dearbourne, with a condescending chortle. “Mr Treneman runs one of London’s top hotels, he’s invited to the Queen’s Garden Party, for goodness’ sake – he’s hardly a gangster!”

“No, of course not,” said Kershaw, chuckling along. “But if the press get wind of the latest development on the case, I’m afraid his days of patting corgis will be a distant memory.” Dearbourne fell silent. “I’ve just taken a statement from a hotel employee who will swear in court that your client, his boss, instructed him to steal CCTV footage from hotel security – footage that we believe shows the victim with our prime suspect.”

Dearbourne had suddenly gone very quiet, and she couldn’t resist adding: “5-star Hotel Chief Steals Murder Tape,” is quite a grabby headline, don’t you think?” When he spoke again his tone was businesslike, but a whole lot more respectful: “I’ll get back to you within the hour”.

TWENTY-TWO

Janusz was awoken by the pealing of church bells calling the faithful to Morning Mass.
Da dong da da dong
ting...
Da dong da da dong
ting... the final tinny note the telltale sign of a cracked bell.

He told the landlady he’d skip breakfast, and asked for directions to Kosyk, the hamlet the other side of the lake where Witold Struk had lived. After buying an apple pastry from a baker’s shop, he sat at a bench on the sunny side of the square to eat it. A trio of squabbling kids trailed by, on their way to school, judging by the dark blue uniforms and their dawdling pace. They looked about twelve or thirteen –
Bobek’s age
, he thought suddenly.

As he ate, he looked over the landlady’s hand-drawn map showing the three-kilometre walk to Struk’s place. Tadeusz had told him that the house was up for sale and the agent, patently surprised and delighted to hear from a potential buyer, had agreed to show Janusz round that morning. He wasn’t entirely sure what he might gain from visiting the house – but at least he might get to the bottom of Adamski’s supposed career as an antique dealer.

He balled the paper bag and rose to post it in a litter bin.
Come on
, he told himself,
you think you can unearth some dazzling piece of evidence to prove that Adamski murdered Struk
– a fantasy that ended with the bastard doing life in a Polish jail.

The footpath cut through ancient broadleaf woodland, and emerged half an hour later onto the sandy shore of a lake. Its surface quivered like mercury in the morning light, reflecting the chalk stripes of young birch trees on the opposite bank. Janusz paused for a moment, listening to the water whisper and chuckle in the reeds. Then a terrific
Bang!
reverberated off the water, making him drop instinctively to his knees. His gaze scanned the opposite bank wildly.
Was some fucker shooting at him
? The second bang, further away this time, sent a flock of birds flapping out of the trees in the distance. He straightened and dusted the grit from his palms, grinning sheepishly – just some farmer, out shooting crows or foxes. If he didn’t want a backside full of buckshot, he’d better keep his eyes peeled.

Struk’s house stood up above the lake, surrounded by run-to-seed farmland, a good half-hour walk from the nearest house. Old SB men probably didn’t do a lot of socialising with the neighbours, Janusz reflected. Under Communism, the
nomenklatura
, the chosen few who worked for the regime, were considered traitors to Poland, and the SB had been the most hated of all, despised more even than the
milicja
or the gorillas of ZOMO.