Читать книгу Death Can’t Take a Joke - Anya Lipska, Anya Lipska - Страница 11

‘So you’re saying the cops charged you with Jim’s murder?’ Oskar said slowly, evidently struggling with the effort of processing this cataclysmic news.

‘No, Oskar! I told you, they don’t have any evidence,’ said Janusz.

Janusz and his oldest mate were heading out to Essex in his battered white Transit van, where Oskar was landscaping the garden of some scrap metal millionaire.

‘My solicitor said that the business with the mortgage deeds is a sideshow,’ Janusz waved a hand. ‘He says unless the cops find something really solid, like … a bloodstained knife in my apartment, they’ve got nothing to justify charging me.’

‘And you haven’t?’ asked Oskar, a worried expression creasing his chubby face.

‘Haven’t what?’

‘Got a bloodstained knife in your apartment?’

‘Of course I fucking haven’t, turniphead!’

‘Calm down, Janek! I’m just trying to … establish the facts.’

‘That doesn’t mean they won’t try to frame me for it, of course,’ he growled. ‘You know what the cops are like.’ Growing up in Soviet-era Poland had instilled in him a visceral distrust of the machinery of state that he’d never quite thrown off.

Seeing a traffic light some fifty metres ahead turn from green to amber, Oskar floored the accelerator. The engine responded with an ear-splitting whinny. A second or two later, realising they wouldn’t make it across the junction in time, Oskar applied the brakes with equal ferocity, hurling both of them against their seat belts.

Janusz lit a cigar to steady his nerves. ‘You need to get that fan belt fixed, kolego.’

‘It just needs some WD40.’ Oskar drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘You know, I still can’t believe Jim’s dead – God rest his soul.’ The two men crossed themselves. ‘Poor Marika! When is the funeral?’

‘God only knows. She can’t even plan it until they’ve done the post-mortem,’ said Janusz.

Oskar mimed an elaborate shiver. ‘I tell you something, Janek,’ he said. ‘If I die, don’t you let those kanibale loose on me with their scalpels.’ As the light changed to green, he pulled away. ‘And don’t forget what I told you – about putting a charged mobile in my coffin? They’re always burying people who aren’t actually dead.’

Janusz refrained from pointing out that a post-mortem might be the only sure-fire way of avoiding such a fate. He and Oskar had been best mates since they’d met on their first day of national service back in eighties Poland, but he’d learned one thing long ago: trying to have a logical discussion with him was like trying to herd chickens.

‘Remember that time, years back, when Jim took us to see the doggies racing each other at Walthamstow? Oskar chuckled. ‘Kurwa! That was a good night.’

‘I remember,’ Janusz grinned. ‘You got so legless that you kept trying to place a bet on the electric rabbit.’

‘Bullshit! I don’t remember that.’

‘I swear. If Jim hadn’t been watching your back, one of those bookies would have swung for you.’

They fell silent, smiling at their own memories.

‘So, Janek. How are you going to track down the skurwysyny who murdered him?’

‘That’s why I wanted to see you,’ said Janusz, tapping some cigar ash out of his window. ‘Walthamstow is more your patch than mine so I thought you could do some sniffing around for me – find out if anyone knows this girl, Varenka, or the chuj who likes to use her as a punchbag.’ He pointed his cigar at his mate ‘But keep it discreet, okay, and don’t mention Jim, obviously.’

‘No problem!’ said Oskar, his expression eager. ‘I’ll start asking around right away. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey!’

‘Except they were girls, idiota,’ said Janusz. ‘Which reminds me, ladyboy – how is the “landscape gardening” going?’

‘I’m making a mint, Janek,’ Oskar declared, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You should’ve come in with me when I gave you the chance.’

‘So you’re saying these people out in Essex pay you thousands of pounds to muck around with their gardens?’ Janusz made no attempt to keep the incredulity from his voice.

‘Why wouldn’t they? I was in charge of building half the Olympic Park!’ he said, striking his chest.

‘Yeah, but construction isn’t the same thing as landscaping,’ said Janusz. ‘You wouldn’t know a begonia from a bramble patch!’

Oskar waved a dismissive hand. ‘I get all the green stuff down B&Q,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I see my role as creating the architectural framework.’

Janusz grinned. ‘Let me guess. They think they’re getting Monty Don and they end up with paving as far as the eye can see?’

Oskar shrugged. ‘Some people have no vision, Janek. I tell them, once the bushes and shit have grown up a bit, it’ll look fine.’

The unmistakable tones of Homer Simpson singing ‘Spider Pig’ filled the van – Oskar’s latest irritating ringtone.

‘Hello, lady,’ said Oskar into the phone. ‘Yes, I’m on my way to your place right now.’ He used his free hand to change gear, steering the van meanwhile with his knees. ‘I didn’t forget. A classical statue for the water feature.’ Turning to Janusz, Oskar winked. ‘You’re going to love the one I picked out for you. See you soon.’

Throwing the mobile back into the tide of debris washed up on the dashboard, Oskar said: ‘Once I drop this stuff off at Buckhurst Hill, we can head straight back to Walthamstow and start our investigation!’

Things didn’t work out quite so simply. After they parked up on the broad gravel forecourt of a hacienda-style detached house, Janusz stayed in the van while Oskar unloaded and took the stuff round to the back garden. Even from this distance, he was able to ascertain from the pitch of the conversation that the lady of the house wasn’t entirely happy.

After a good ten minutes, he heard Oskar crunching back across the gravel. A moment later he opened the driver’s side door and started to push a large sculpture of some kind up onto the seat, with much huffing and puffing.

‘Give me a hand, Janek!’

‘Can’t you put it in the back?’

‘This is easier.’

‘What the fuck is it meant to be anyway?’ asked Janusz once they’d manhandled the thing up onto the bench seat.

‘What does it look like?!’ Oskar’s tone was incredulous. ‘It’s a moo-eye, obviously.’ Hauling his chunky frame into the front seat, he slammed the van door and threaded the seat belt around their passenger.

Janusz peered at its profile. He could see now that it was a giant head – a clumsy reproduction of one of the monumental Easter Island sculptures, cast in a pale grey resin intended to resemble stone.

‘It’s moai, donkey-brain.’

‘Moo-eye – like I said!’ Oskar started the van. ‘She said she wanted something classical. How is a moo-eye not classical? They’re hundreds of thousands of years old!’ He shook his head. ‘Now she tells me she meant a naked lady.’

As they got closer to Walthamstow the traffic slowed and thickened. The sight of the huge, implacable stone face gazing out through the windscreen of a scruffy Transit van started to draw disbelieving stares from passers-by and appreciative blasts on the horn from fellow motorists.

Oskar lapped up the attention, returning the toots and scattering thumbs-ups left and right, while Janusz sat in silence, one hand spread across his face. The last straw came when Oskar wound down his window to receive a high five from a passing bus driver.

‘Let me out, Oskar,’ he growled. ‘I can walk to the gym from here. And give me a call if you hear anything interesting.’

He found Jim’s Gym open for business and packed with clients squeezing in a lunchtime workout. The faces were all male and for the most part either black, or Asian and bearded. The iron filings smell of sweat and testosterone filled the air like an unsettling background hum. Seeing Janusz, one of the older black guys, a regular called Wayne who sometimes came to the pub, set down the weights he’d been hefting and headed over. Wiping the sweat from his palms onto a towel, he offered his hand.

‘Terrible news about Jim,’ he said, eyes sorrowful, seeking Janusz’s gaze. They shook hands and spoke briefly, before Janusz continued towards the little office at the rear, where he’d sometimes come to pick up Jim on the way to the boozer.

But as he reached for the door handle, he felt himself engulfed by a surge of grief so powerful he had to steady himself against the doorjamb. This had happened more than once since he’d identified Jim’s body, every time it hit him – the dizzying realisation that he would never again see his mate’s face, nor hear that big laugh.

Inside, he was confronted by the sight of the deputy manager, a young black guy called Andre, sprawled in Jim’s chair, behind Jim’s desk, chatting and laughing into a mobile phone. Bad timing. Two strides took Janusz across the room and before the guy could even get to his feet he found the phone slapped out of his hand and across the room.

‘What the fuck, bruv?!’

‘Show some respect,’ said Janusz. ‘Jim’s not even buried yet. And who said you could take his desk?’

Andre jutted his chin out. ‘And who’s you to tell me I can’t, old man?’

A grim smile tugged at the side of Janusz’s mouth. ‘Haven’t you heard? I’m the new owner.’ No need to tell the guy that he’d already instructed his solicitor to transfer ownership of the gym to Marika.

Andre opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Seating himself on the desk, facing the kid, Janusz lit a cigar. Smoking in here was probably against the law, but with a murder rap hanging over him he figured he could take the risk. ‘I suppose you’ve had the cops down here already?’

‘Yeah, they was in, asking all this and that,’ said Andre, kissing his teeth.

Janusz suppressed an urgent desire to bitch-slap him. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ask about me, did they?’

‘Yeah. Like did you and Jim ever have a fight, stuff like that.’ He gave Janusz an assessing look. ‘I told the feds, you might be big but if Jim wanted to he could’ve put you down –’ he mimed a right hook and a left uppercut, ‘– boof boof … no contest.’

‘You’re right about that,’ chuckled Janusz, leaning across him to tap ash into the wastepaper bin. ‘Listen. Since it looks like we’re going to be working together, I need to ask you some stuff.’

‘Sure,’ said Andre, although Janusz saw a guarded look come into his eyes.

‘Did you ever see Jim with a woman, other than his wife, I mean?’

A broad grin spread across Andre’s face, revealing what looked like – but almost certainly wasn’t – a diamond, set in one of his incisors. ‘You tellin’ me Jimbo had a bit of poon on the sly?’

Janusz shrugged, non-committal. It hadn’t escaped his attention that, on hearing the line of questioning, the guy had visibly relaxed. ‘Did he ever mention a girl called Varenka? Tall, blonde, good-looking – speaks with an Eastern European accent? Maybe she’s a member of the gym?’

‘We don’t get too many ladeeez in here,’ said Andre. ‘They might find themselves a bit too popular, if you get what I’m saying.’ He pumped his arms and hips back and forth, miming rough sex, before creasing up at his own joke.

Janusz bent to grind his cigar out on the waste bin, so that Andre couldn’t see the look in his eyes. By the time he’d straightened up, he was smiling. ‘Do me a favour and have a discreet ask around, would you? You know, I’m going to need someone to manage this place once we’ve got the funeral out of the way.’

‘Absolutely. I’ll get straight on it.’ Andre jumped to his feet, doing a passable impression of the young dynamic manager. ‘And don’t worry about things here – I’m all over it.’

Janusz’s gaze swept the office. ‘Where’s Jim’s laptop, by the way?’

Andre’s gaze wavered. ‘No idea, boss. All the gym records get kept on that old piece of junk,’ he used his chin to indicate a scuffed PC in the corner. ‘Like I told the feds, he took his laptop home most nights.’

Janusz knew that Marika had already checked at home and found no sign of it. Had this little punk grabbed the chance to get a free laptop? Or might there be something on the laptop to help solve the puzzle of Jim’s murder, information someone wanted to conceal and had, perhaps, paid good money to get their hands on? Again, Janusz saw Varenka, long legs scissored across the pavement, after she’d been struck by the bullet-headed man. What did she – or her assailant – have to do with Jim?

Janusz opened his wallet and handed Andre his card, followed by two twenties. ‘Send Marika a really nice bunch of flowers,’ he said. ‘With a message, offering sincere condolences from everyone at the gym.’