ownership of the gym and its assets to Marika Fulford, which rather puts the mockers on his supposed motive for the murder.’
‘I’d love to have a crack at interviewing the wife, Sarge,’ said Kershaw. ‘Now the dust has settled, she might have remembered something that could give us a lead?’
Streaky folded his arms across his belly and gazed enquiringly at Kershaw. ‘I’m confused, Detective. Haven’t you got an anonymous suicide to identify at one of London’s most famous high-rise landmarks?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that Sarge. I spent the whole day interviewing the security team down there and I’m drawing a total blank …’
Raising a finger to silence her, Streaky screwed up his eyes. ‘Listen. Can you hear that?’
‘Sarge?’
‘I thought I heard the distant strains of a violin. Spare me the sob story, Kershaw. The quicker you deliver a name for your roof diving chum, the sooner you can start doing the job I employed you for.’
‘Right, Sarge.’
As Kershaw walked away, Streaky started whistling a tune. It took a couple of minutes before she realised what it was: the old Weather Girls song ‘It’s Raining Men’.
When she got back to her desk, Sophie Edgerton passed over a post-it note. ‘The pathologist who did the PM on your Canary Wharf suicide called. He said to call him back on his mobile.’
Kershaw tapped out Nathan King’s number with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Hi, Dr King? It’s DC Natalie Kershaw. Investigating officer on the Canary Wharf Tower fatality.’
As King gave Kershaw the lowdown, Sophie watched her colleague’s expression travel through a series of emotions: from neutral professionalism, through bewilderment, culminating in outright incredulity. Finally, she spoke.
‘You’re fucking kidding!’
Thirteen
Janusz stood in the living room of his mansion flat looking out over Highbury Fields – the grass still silvered here and there by last night’s frost – and savoured the smell of the
bigos
cooking in the kitchen. He didn’t usually eat much at lunchtime, but he had some good-looking
zywiecka
he was keen to try
and the sausage, pork rib, and sauerkraut stew would be good insulation against the unseasonably cold weather. Perhaps he also felt the need of comfort food to fortify him for the afternoon’s sombre task: visiting a stonemason to help Marika pick out a headstone for Jim.
It looked as though England was in for a series of proper winters, not as bitter as the ones he remembered from Poland, but enough to knock over the puny transport systems on a regular basis. Back home, childhood winters had meant blissful weeks of igloo building and skating on frozen rivers – he recalled his mate Osip losing the top of his ear to frostbite one year. His thoughts drifted to Bobek: it would be good to have him over to stay again soon. In a couple of years he’d be more interested in girls and motorbikes than in his boring old man.
Christmas
, he decided. He’d ask Marta if the boy could spend a few days of his school holiday in London.
His entry phone buzzed. It was Oskar.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you on your phone
and
email all morning, Janek,’ he complained before he’d even got through the door.
‘That fancy phone you made me buy ran out of juice again. And I haven’t turned the laptop on yet.’
Oskar tutted. ‘You need to stay connected,
kolego,
especially in your line of work.’ He sniffed the air. ‘
Bigos
?’
‘
Tak.
’
‘Good. I haven’t had lunch yet.’
‘What was so urgent, anyway?’
‘The Romanian!’ said Oskar, beaming. ‘He took the bait we laid for him!’ He did a little jig of triumph, short legs pumping.
‘The story you spun Marek about having a rich mate with money to invest?’
‘Yeah! I told him you’re a businessman who just inherited a pile of cash, and also dropped your fancy apartment in Highbury Fields into the conversation.’ Going over to the bay window, Oskar looked out,
‘I’d love to have a crack at interviewing the wife, Sarge,’ said Kershaw. ‘Now the dust has settled, she might have remembered something that could give us a lead?’
Streaky folded his arms across his belly and gazed enquiringly at Kershaw. ‘I’m confused, Detective. Haven’t you got an anonymous suicide to identify at one of London’s most famous high-rise landmarks?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that Sarge. I spent the whole day interviewing the security team down there and I’m drawing a total blank …’
Raising a finger to silence her, Streaky screwed up his eyes. ‘Listen. Can you hear that?’
‘Sarge?’
‘I thought I heard the distant strains of a violin. Spare me the sob story, Kershaw. The quicker you deliver a name for your roof diving chum, the sooner you can start doing the job I employed you for.’
‘Right, Sarge.’
As Kershaw walked away, Streaky started whistling a tune. It took a couple of minutes before she realised what it was: the old Weather Girls song ‘It’s Raining Men’.
When she got back to her desk, Sophie Edgerton passed over a post-it note. ‘The pathologist who did the PM on your Canary Wharf suicide called. He said to call him back on his mobile.’
Kershaw tapped out Nathan King’s number with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Hi, Dr King? It’s DC Natalie Kershaw. Investigating officer on the Canary Wharf Tower fatality.’
As King gave Kershaw the lowdown, Sophie watched her colleague’s expression travel through a series of emotions: from neutral professionalism, through bewilderment, culminating in outright incredulity. Finally, she spoke.
‘You’re fucking kidding!’
Thirteen
Janusz stood in the living room of his mansion flat looking out over Highbury Fields – the grass still silvered here and there by last night’s frost – and savoured the smell of the
bigos
cooking in the kitchen. He didn’t usually eat much at lunchtime, but he had some good-looking
zywiecka
he was keen to try
and the sausage, pork rib, and sauerkraut stew would be good insulation against the unseasonably cold weather. Perhaps he also felt the need of comfort food to fortify him for the afternoon’s sombre task: visiting a stonemason to help Marika pick out a headstone for Jim.
It looked as though England was in for a series of proper winters, not as bitter as the ones he remembered from Poland, but enough to knock over the puny transport systems on a regular basis. Back home, childhood winters had meant blissful weeks of igloo building and skating on frozen rivers – he recalled his mate Osip losing the top of his ear to frostbite one year. His thoughts drifted to Bobek: it would be good to have him over to stay again soon. In a couple of years he’d be more interested in girls and motorbikes than in his boring old man.
Christmas
, he decided. He’d ask Marta if the boy could spend a few days of his school holiday in London.
His entry phone buzzed. It was Oskar.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you on your phone
and
email all morning, Janek,’ he complained before he’d even got through the door.
‘That fancy phone you made me buy ran out of juice again. And I haven’t turned the laptop on yet.’
Oskar tutted. ‘You need to stay connected,
kolego,
especially in your line of work.’ He sniffed the air. ‘
Bigos
?’
‘
Tak.
’
‘Good. I haven’t had lunch yet.’
‘What was so urgent, anyway?’
‘The Romanian!’ said Oskar, beaming. ‘He took the bait we laid for him!’ He did a little jig of triumph, short legs pumping.
‘The story you spun Marek about having a rich mate with money to invest?’
‘Yeah! I told him you’re a businessman who just inherited a pile of cash, and also dropped your fancy apartment in Highbury Fields into the conversation.’ Going over to the bay window, Oskar looked out,
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