Beneath the Bleeding

hedging your bets so much that your profile was worthless. It was an incremental process. If you got something right, it made you feel better about doing it next time, and that increased your chance of being useful. Conversely, you only needed to fuck up once and you started from ground zero next time.

So, given that he was recovering from major surgery and feeling slow as a storyline in The Archers, and given that Carol had already rubbished the idea, getting it right about Danny Wade made him feel pretty damn good about himself. If the same person had killed Danny and Robbie, he should be thinking about what connected the victims to each other and to their killer. Maybe he could be useful from a hospital bed after all.

The flat Jana Jankowicz shared with her boyfriend was spotless. It smelled of polish and air freshener. It had obviously come furnished. Nobody that neat and clean would have chosen such scruffy, unmatched and flimsy items. What made it feel like a home were the hand-quilted throws on the sofa and the photos on the walls-printed on a colour printer and laminated, a cheap and cheerful alternative to professional prints and expensive frames. Jana, a round-faced, dark haired woman with an elusive prettiness, faced Paula over a scrubbed Formica-topped table, its edges chipped and scarred. Between them, an enamel pot of strong coffee and an ashtray. The presence of the ashtray explained the strong chemical smell of synthetic fragrances, Paula thought. Her sinuses would go on a protest strike if she had to live here.

Jana had asked no questions about Paula’s reason for being there. She had agreed to the interview with genial resignation and had greeted her politely. It was as if she had decided the safest way to cope with the police in a foreign country was to be meekly co-operative. Paula had a sneaking feeling it wasn’t Jana’s normal style.

Jana thumbed her way through the photos for a second time. She shook her head. ‘I have never seen any of these men with Mr Wade,’ she said, her English only faintly accented. She was, she told Paula, a qualified teacher of English and French back in Poland. Skills her country couldn’t afford too well right now. She and her fiance were here to make enough money to buy a house back in Poland. Then they’d go home. They could manage to make ends meet if they didn’t have rent to pay, Jana reckoned.

She paused at the shot of Jack Anderson. This man, though. I think I’ve seen him, but I don’t know where or when.’

‘Maybe he came to the house?’ Paula offered her cigarettes to Jana. She took one and they both lit up while Jana frowned at the photo.

‘I think he came to the house but not to see Mr Wade,’ she said slowly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. ‘He was selling something. I don’t remember. He had a van.’ She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed. ‘No, it’s no use. I can’t remember. It was a while ago.’ She shook her head, apologetic. ‘I can’t be certain.’

‘Never mind,’ Paula said. ‘Did you ever hear Mr Wade mention a man called Jack Anderson?’

Jana drew on her cigarette and shook her head. ‘You have to understand, Mr Wade didn’t talk about anything personal. I didn’t even know he came from Bradfield.’

‘What about football? Did he ever mention a footballer called Robbie Bishop?’

Jana looked confused. ‘Football? No, model railways. That was what Mr Wade was interested in.’ She spread her hands. ‘He never watched football.’

‘That’s fine. Did anybody come to the house to visit Mr Wade?’ Paula inhaled. Even if the interview wasn’t very productive, at least she could smoke. That wasn’t something you could say about many interviews these days. Even police interview rooms were non-smoking, which some prisoners claimed was a breach of their human rights. Paula tended to agree with them.

Jana didn’t even have to think. ‘Nobody,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think that was a reason to pity him. Some people are happier on their own. I think he was like that. He liked that I was there to cook and clean, but he didn’t want me to be his friend.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way…’ Paula gave a helpless little shrug, the kind that says, I have to ask this and I wish I didn’t. ‘Do you know what he did for sex? I mean, he was a young man, presumably he had sexual desires…’

Jana didn’t seem in the least offended. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘He was never improper with me. I don’t think he was gay, though.’ Paula raised an eyebrow. Jana grinned. ‘No gay porn. But sometimes, those magazines you can get at the newsagents. Nothing very bad. But girls, not boys. Sometimes he would go out in the car without the dogs for a couple of hours. When he came back, he seemed to be a bit embarrassed and he would usually take a bath. Maybe he went to prostitutes, I don’t know.’ She gave Paula a shrewd look. ‘Why are you asking these questions? Are you maybe starting to believe I am telling the truth about not making the pie?’

‘It’s possible Mr Wade’s death is connected to a murder in Bradfield. If that’s the case then yes, it would appear that you’ve been telling the truth,’ Paula said.

‘It would be good if that happened,’ Jana said. A wry smile twisted her plump lips. ‘Getting a job as a housekeeper when the newspapers print that you poisoned your last boss is a bit hard.’

‘I can see that.’ Paula shared Jana’s smile. ‘But if we’re right about the connection, you can bet there will be even more publicity about you not making the pie than there ever was when we thought you had. Maybe that’ll act as a reference.’ She drew the pictures together and put them back in their envelope. ‘You’ve been a big help,’ she said.

‘I wish I knew more,’ Jana said. ‘For his sake as well as mine. He was a good employer, you know. Not demanding, very grateful. I do not think he was accustomed to having someone to do things for him. It would be good if you found the person who killed him.’

Rhys Butler sat with his left arm across his narrow chest, hand cupping his right elbow, right hand covering his mouth and chin. His shoulders hunched, he glared at Carol Jordan from under his gingery brows. His red hair stood up in spikes and clumps, a classic night-in-the-cells hairdo. ‘My client will be pursuing a claim against Bradfield Metropolitan Police for the assault against him,’ his solicitor said sweetly, pushing a strand of her long black hair behind her ear with a perfectly shaped and painted fingernail.

Bloody Bronwen Scott, Carol thought. Proof that the devil wears Prada. Just her luck that the duty solicitor from the night before had been one of the baby lawyers in Scott’s high-profile criminal law firm. And of course, since the case had the potent combination of Robbie Bishop, Carol Jordan and a possibly lucrative civil action against the police, Bronwen herself had grabbed it with both hands. In her immaculately tailored suit and full make-up, she was clearly prepared for the ‘spontaneous’ press interviews she’d doubtless be conducting later that morning. And so the old adversaries faced off across the table again. ‘Good to know he’s come to a decision,’ Carol said. ‘Me, I’m still pondering whether to pursue an action against your client for false imprisonment.’