Death Can’t Take a Joke. Anya Lipska

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      After hanging up, she gave herself a stern chat. Too nice?! If you don’t want to end up lying dead and undiscovered in some grimy flat being eaten by your own cats, Natalie Kershaw, you’d better waken your ideas up.

      She was pushing open the office door when there came a familiar voice in the corridor behind her.

      ‘Ah! DC Kershaw!’ It was her old boss Detective Sergeant Bacon. ‘I see you’ve acquired a new hairstyle.’

      ‘Yes …’ Suddenly self-conscious, her hand flew to her blonde hair, newly styled in an asymmetric cut, one side three inches shorter than the other.

      Hitching up the trousers of his ancient suit, he squinted down at her hair.

      ‘If I was you, I’d go back and ask for a refund,’ he confided. ‘Whoever cut it must’ve been three sheets to the wind.’

      ‘Yeah, I’ll do that, Sarge,’ she grinned. He’d gained even more weight, and lost a bit more gingery hair from the top of his head, but he was still the same old Streaky.

      ‘Anyway. Your arrival couldn’t be more timely – we’ve got an old chum of yours in interview room 2.’ Opening a door labelled Remote Monitoring Room, he winked at her. ‘You can watch it all on the telly.’

      After Streaky shut the door behind her, and Kershaw took in the hulking figure slouched in a chair on the video feed, she was properly gobsmacked.

      What the fuck? The last time she’d laid eyes on Janusz Kiszka had been in Bart’s hospital, after he’d got himself on the wrong end of a vendetta with a Polish drug gang. Since Kershaw’s conduct in that case had earned her a disciplinary hearing, the sight of the big Pole’s craggy mug, today of all days, was about as welcome as a cockroach in the cornflakes.

      Hearing Streaky finish reading him the official caution, she forced herself to concentrate.

      ‘According to the statement you gave my colleague yesterday,’ said Streaky. ‘You’re aware that your friend James Fulford was stabbed to death on his doorstep at around 5.30 p.m. on Monday?’

      Fuck! Kiszka was being questioned about a murder?

      ‘Could you just refresh my memory as to your whereabouts at that time, Mr Kissa-ka?’

      Kershaw grinned. Streaky knew perfectly well how to pronounce Kiszka’s surname: he was mangling it deliberately to wind him up.

      ‘The William Morris Gallery,’ said Kiszka.

      ‘Go to a lot of galleries, do you?’

      He shrugged. ‘I showed the other cop the text Jim sent me. He said he was going to be late for our meeting, so I had time to kill.’

      Streaky paused, letting the word dangle in the air.

      ‘The trouble is, Mr Kiss-aka, I had one of my most experienced officers take your photo down to this … furniture museum – and there wasn’t a single member of staff who remembers you.’

      ‘It’s the only photo I had to hand,’ he hefted one shoulder. ‘It isn’t a very good likeness.’

      Streaky opened the file in front of him and leafed through some papers.

      ‘Of course, this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a police interview room,’ he went on, fixing his suspect with a deadpan stare. ‘You were questioned in the course of another murder investigation a couple years back: one that involved drugs, shooting, and three dead bodies if memory serves.’

      ‘I’m a private investigator – it’s an occupation that sometimes requires me to deal with unsavoury characters,’ said Kiszka, staring right back.

      ‘I’ll bet it does,’ said Streaky, his voice heavy with irony. ‘But you never really explained how someone who claims to make his living chasing bad debts and missing persons ends up in a Polish gangster’s drug factory.’

      ‘Does your file mention that if I hadn’t been there the body count would have been even higher?’ he growled.

      Streaky dropped his gaze. Advantage Kiszka, thought Kershaw.

      ‘Remind me how it was that you and James Fulford became friendly?’

      ‘Like I told the other cop, we met on a building site back in the eighties.’

      ‘And in all that time since then, you say you’ve just been drinking buddies, good mates, right?’

      ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, pulling a tin out from his pocket.

      Kershaw wrinkled her nose, remembering the little stinky cigars he smoked.

      ‘No smoking in here I’m afraid, Mr Kiss-aka,’ said Streaky, pointing at a sign. ‘So, you’ve never had any involvement in this gym he runs in Walthamstow?’

      Kiszka shook his head.

      ‘No business dealings of any kind with each other? No property deals, for instance?’

      ‘No, nothing like that.’

      Kershaw noticed he’d started tap-tapping his index finger on the cigar tin. A sign of impatience? Or a guilty conscience?

      Streaky inserted the tip of his little finger into his ear. After rooting around for a few seconds, he examined the results of his excavation with a thoughtful expression.

      ‘How old are you, Mr Kiss-aka? Fifty-something?’

      ‘I’m forty-five,’ he growled.

      ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Streaky, feigning surprise. ‘Still, lots of people find the old memory banks start to let them down in their forties, don’t they?’

      ‘My memory is perfectly serviceable,’ he drawled – but Kershaw could tell from the set of his jaw that he was struggling to control his temper. For all his apparent cool and his old-school way of talking, Kiszka could still make the air around him buzz with the possibility of violence.

      Streaky took a document from the file in front of him and pushed it across the table.

      ‘For the benefit of the tape, I have passed the interviewee a copy of the deeds held by the UK Land Registry for Jim’s Gym, Walthamstow, dated the 11th of November 1992.’

      Kiszka picked up the document.

      ‘Would you care to confirm that that is your name on the first page, Mr Kiss-aka?’

      As he examined it, the furrows on Kiszka’s face deepened.

      ‘We all have forgetful moments,’ said Streaky. ‘But I’m finding it hard to believe it slipped your mind that you’re the owner of Jim’s Gym.’

      Kershaw gasped. Game to Streaky!

      She held her breath as Kiszka opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He pushed the document back across the table.

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