Where the Devil Can't Go (32 page)

The documents all appeared to relate to a single SB informer, recruited in 1981, referred to throughout only as
TW Sroka
– Secret Collaborator ‘Magpie’ – and his case officer had been Lieutenant Witold Struk. From what Janusz could glean, Magpie had been a regular source of high-level information regarding pro-democracy activists: their clandestine meetings, planned strikes and vigils, as well as their mistresses, drinking problems and gambling habits.

Magpie’s job clearly brought him into frequent contact with dissidents in
Solidarnosc
and the Church, but Janusz could find no clue to his identity or even his occupation. The informer might have been anybody – a male prostitute, a priest, a piano tuner... the SB had been an equal opportunities employer. Magpie’s targets, too, were only ever called by their cryptonyms, names such as ‘hunter’ and ‘redhair’ clearly referred to personal traits, while ‘cutter’ and ‘blackboard’ appeared to hint at the victim’s occupation.

One of Magpie’s victims, a target called
Papiezek
, earned more entries than all the rest put together. The intelligence on him was invariably cross-referenced to several other files, and several entries recorded Struk’s persistent demands that Magpie produce more detailed information on Target
Papiezek
’s activities. He was clearly a well-connected figure, but once again Janusz could glean no clues to his true identity.
Papieziek
could be a surname, but that was hardly likely. The name could also be taken to mean ‘little pope’, so he might have been a priest, or a union leader or intellectual given to long speeches – the codename a mocking reference to his ‘preaching’.

Towards the end of the sheaf, Janusz found a series of entries, beginning in May 1985, which recorded Struk’s weekly meetings with Magpie and the delivery of his ‘
wyplata
’ – his wages. The SB often paid their informers sweeteners, usually in foreign currency, to reward them for the risk they were running and to make them financially dependent. Struk, however, appeared to find his role as paymaster demeaning. “
Lieutenant Struk once again requests that the delivery of TW Magpie’s wage packets be handled by a more junior officer
” was a typical entry.

Several entries in similar vein followed, and then, on 19th August 1985, Janusz came across a new twist in the story. “
Lieutenant Struk wishes to record his respectful recommendation that in the light of Magpie’s character and unsocialist attitudes
,
the Service should consider discontinuing his wage packets and ending its relationship with him.
”

Lieutenant Struk evidently nurtured a dislike of the Magpie so strong he was willing to risk his own position to attack him. Perhaps he had even been the one to name him after the greedy bird, infamous in folklore for stealing shiny baubles.

The final act of the drama came on 11th September 1985. The entry said simply: “
Lieutenant Struk will henceforth relinquish his duties as case officer and take over the reorganization of filing systems for SB Office 371. Lieutenant Grazyc will assume responsibility for Lt Struk’s collaborators
,
and for future delivery of TW Magpie’s wage packets.
”

Janusz sat back on the bed frowning. He was no expert on the SB hierarchy, but it was pretty obvious that Comrade Struk would have viewed his transfer – from managing an important informant to tinkering with filing systems back at the office – as a big fat kick in the teeth for a loyal servant of the struggle. Magpie appeared to be more important to the SB top brass than one of its own senior officers.

He closed the file and rubbed his eyes. What had he learned from it all, anyway? He still couldn’t imagine what possible link there might be between Adamski and Struk.

As he fiddled restlessly with the file ties that held the sheaf of documents together, his eye fell on something he hadn’t noticed before. A tiny fragment of paper, clinging to the green string of the file tie. No, not paper, he realised, holding it under the bedside light – thin card. Pale and buff-coloured, the type that medical files used to be written on. There had been a further page, a cover page, at the front of the bundle, which had been removed. Feeling suddenly bone-weary after the day’s drama, Janusz leaned against the pillow to mull it over. Within seconds, sleep reached up and grappled him down like a great bear.

When he awoke, the room was almost dark, and according to the phosphorescent hands of his watch, he had slept for more than three hours. A fierce gurgle from his gut reminded him that his last meal had been a breakfast pastry. Gathering the documents together, he stared at them again, willing them to surrender their mysteries. Something stirred in the back of his mind – but in his befuddled state he couldn’t quite join the dots. It would have to wait till he’d filled his belly and had a good night’s sleep. He scanned the room, looking for somewhere to hide them, but decided to take them with him – he wouldn’t put it past the hotel landlady to nose around his room while he was out.

At
Pod Kotka
, he burned his tongue forking down a
bigos
that the barman warmed up for him in the microwave, with half a dozen gherkins and the best part of a loaf of light rye on the side.

Once his plate was cleared away, the barman leaned across the counter. “You chose an exciting time to be in town,” he said, eyes bright with intrigue. “There’s been a
shooting
.”

Taking a cigar out of his tin, Janusz raised his eyebrows politely. “Really? Hunting accident?”

“No!” said the barman. “An old woman up at Kosyk was out collecting kindling on the roadside, when she hears a shotgun blast. Nothing unusual in that – but a minute later a man comes running out of the forest, shirt soaked in blood!”

Kurwa!
So the shot
had
hit Adamski.

“You’re kidding! Where did he go?” he asked, feigning gossipy interest.

“She says he and another man jumped into a car and drove off! The police were in here at lunchtime, asking if any strangers had been in.”

Janusz didn’t like the sound of that.

“Did she recognize him? Or see who shot him?” he asked.

The barman shook his head. “No, her eyes aren’t too good. Everyone’s saying it must be gangsters from Gdansk, you know, a drug deal gone wrong.”

After another good half hour listening to the barman re-tell the tale from every possible angle, Janusz asked to borrow the local newspaper and took himself off into a corner. He was half-inclined to beat a retreat back to the hotel, but that could look suspicious, and anyway, he was hoping Tadeusz might turn up. He wanted to find out why Struk would spend good money advertising antique furniture when he didn’t appear to own any. Three hours and three small beers later, Janusz concluded that the old man was having a night off the sauce. Giving the barman a wave goodnight, he headed out into the darkened alleyway.

Janusz was no more than five metres from the archway leading to the street when two dark-clad figures wearing baseball caps suddenly filled the passageway. He froze. Then, as one of the men reached inside his jacket, he dropped into a fighter’s crouch, throwing a wild uppercut at the one nearest him. A split second later, he found himself lying face down on the ground, half-conscious, with his skull still singing from the impact of a blunt object, and the press of cold steel on his wrists.

Do gangsters use handcuffs
? he remembered thinking, before the unmistakable crackle of a radio made him realise that he’d just punched a cop.

. . .

Kershaw had experienced her first ever taste of public praise from Streaky in the weekly meeting that afternoon. Okay, it
was
only seven words – “Good work on the Waveney Hotel case” – but the queasy look on Browning’s face was proof, like she needed it, of their rarity value. She’d drawn a big sigh of relief to see that Ben Crowther wasn’t in the meeting – the more time that passed before she had to face him, the easier it would be, although every time she checked her phone and saw there was no new message from him, she had to confess to feeling a bit, well,
miffed
. She had no desire to go out with Ben, she told herself – lovely as he was, it would be way too awkward working alongside him – but all the same, it would have been nice to be asked.

After the meeting, she went to the kitchen to make a brew and bumped into Browning, who was pouring boiling water onto a Chow Mein flavour Pot Noodle. No wonder he was such a pasty little fucker, all the garbage he ate. Remembering their last exchange, when she’d basically called him a brown-nose, Kershaw pulled an insincere smile – she really should learn to keep her gob shut – and took a mug off the shelf. Stirring the evil-smelling Pot Noodle with a knife, Browning asked: “Want some?”

“Er, no. Thanks, all the same,” she said, suppressing a look of disgust, as she refilled the kettle under the tap.

“Really?” he smirked, “The word is you can’t get enough...Chinese,” – she looked up sharply, but his expression was bland. He picked up the steaming carton. “You have to be careful with Chinese food, though,” he said. “We were down the pub a couple of nights back, and guess who came in, looking a right state?” He slid her a look. “Ben Crowther.”

What the f
... “Oh yeah?” she said, pulling the tea bag tin off the shelf.

“Yeah,” said Browning. “Apparently he had a crispy duck with all the trimmings the night before...but he was
really
regretting it.”

He picked up his steaming Pot Noodle, looked pointedly at her chest, then straight in the face, eyes twinkling with malice: “Yeah. He said it was minging – if he hadn’t been completely wankered he would have sent it back.” With that he sauntered off, leaving her standing there like a dick, a teabag dangling from her fingers.

That dirty fucking
... She pulled out her phone to check what Ben had said in his text back to her yesterday morning. ‘
Yeah hd fab time 2
,
c u @ office
,
Bxx
’ She couldn’t detect any hidden hostility, unless ‘
see you at office
’ could be interpreted as some sort of a veiled threat? She tore a strip of skin from the side of her thumbnail, making it bleed. What next? – ‘
I screwed Natalie Kershaw
’ scrawled on the bog wall?

She told herself to calm down: Browning’s jibe about Ben calling her a minger was obviously just spite, but that aside, she had to face facts – the only way the nasty little pervert could have any idea she’d shagged Ben Crowther was if lover boy let it slip in a moment of bar-room bragging.

Janusz fingered the spongy lump on the top of his skull and watched the police car’s headlights illuminate the road ahead through half-closed eyes. His head was pounding after the blow from the cop’s baton. The two
policja
had said barely a word to him since they bundled him into the back of the car, but then he could hardly expect friendly chit-chat after the smack in the jaw he’d given the shorter, pudgier one, who was now doing the driving.

Mother of a whore!
What a fucking
idiota
– lashing out like that. If only he’d remembered that cops wore those stupid bloody baseball caps these days. His mind raced at the prospect of what faced him for assaulting a cop: a prison stretch was surely inevitable.

When they drove straight out of Gorodnik, he thought nothing of it – maybe the town didn’t have a proper police station – but what happened next made his stomach turn over. The taller, more senior cop, a bony-faced guy in his fifties, muttered something to the driver, and they turned off the road, taking a narrow dirt track into the birch forest. Janusz’s mind started doing somersaults: what the fuck was going on? Were they gonna work him over for the punch he threw – or worse?

After a few minutes, they drew up in a clearing, and the tall cop opened the back door, gestured for Janusz to get out. He obeyed, keeping his cuffed hands visible in front of his body, his eyes glued to the nine millimetre holstered at the cop’s hip. Once upright, he said: “Listen, there’s been a big misunderstanding,” spreading his hands as wide as the cuffs would allow. The wind in the trees roared like distant surf, and he wondered wildly if it would be the last sound he heard. The cop dropped his right hand to his side – and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Smoke?” he asked. Blinking at the turn of events, Janusz took one, and a light from the cop’s brass Zippo. Then, after taking a leisurely drag on his fag, the cop produced a dog-eared Polish passport and started flicking through it. Janusz didn’t need to see the face on the final page to know it was his: they must have picked it up from the hotel before coming to find him at the bar.

“Listen,” said the cop conversationally, “We know you took a little tour of Witold Struk’s house, pretending to be a buyer.” The guy was surprisingly well spoken, thought Janusz.

He shrugged. “Well, it’s true I’m not looking to buy right now,” he admitted. “But I am thinking of buying a holiday home round here at some point, so I was just curious to see what I might get for my money.”

“
Naprawde
?” said the cop, head on one side. “I heard it was because Tadeusz Krajewski was bending your ear with some crazy theory about Witold Struk being murdered.”

Shit.
That barman must have ears like a bat. Janusz took a drag on his cigarette – no easy manoeuvre with both wrists cuffed – pressing his right forearm into his chest at the same time. He felt the reassuring crackle of the SB documents, still safe in the inside pocket of his coat.

“And the shooting near the Struk place, right after you met the agent there,” said the cop. “I suppose that was just an unfortunate coincidence?”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Janusz, shaking his head, “but I didn’t see anyone running round with a gun while I was at the house, I swear”.

The cop took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out with a sigh. “How old are you?” he asked, finally.