Page 65 of Dead Fall

‘Nice to meet you too,’ Cassie murmured to herself.

*

In the Polish café, Babcia fixed the young girl who took their order with a beady stare and interrogated her in Polish. The poor girl looked terrified, but whatever she said in return seemed to satisfy Weronika. ‘Dobzre,’ she said, handing back the menu.

‘What was that about?’ asked Cassie.

‘I was checking that they use proper dried ceps in the pierogi and not some cheap imitation,’ said Babcia. ‘You can’t be too careful, eating out.’ Then she took Cassie’s hand across the table. ‘You have shadows under your eyes. Is something bothering you, tygrysek?’

Cassie dropped her gaze. No way was she about to tell Babcia what happened last night. Not only would she be terribly upset – who knew what she might do? She might be old but she was made of tough stuff, forged in Stalinist Poland, might even take the law into her own hands to deal with someone who’d hurt her granddaughter.

‘It’s Bronte – you know, Sophia. I guess her murder has got under my skin because we were in the same class.’ She shrugged. ‘I just can’t bear the thought of the killer getting away with it.’

Babcia’s eyes grew hooded. ‘Her mother needs a resolution too.’ She stopped to let the waitress lay their cutlery and pour their water from a proper old-fashioned china jug. ‘Dziekuje,’ she thanked her, before going on. ‘She said a strange thing to me earlier today.’

‘What?’

‘She said that she had “always been afraid that God would take Sophia”.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘As a punishment for sin.’

‘Sophia’s sin? What had she done that was so bad?’

Babcia shook her head, her gaze inwards. ‘I don’t know. The drugs? Sex with bad men? But you should forgive your own flesh anything. Anything.’

‘Did she say any more?’

‘No. I think she regretted saying it. She changed the subject.’

The girl brought their pierogi, swimming in melted butter and topped with crispy onion, and they started eating.

‘That priest dude gives me the creeps,’ said Cassie with a visible shudder.

‘Father Michaelides.’ Babcia pulled a worldly sigh ‘He’s very traditional, like most priests of his generation. I heard that he barred a woman in her thirties from taking communion because she had two children, both in their teens, and therefore wasn’t in a state of grace to receive holy wafer and wine.’

‘Because it meant she must have been using contraception? Jeez.’

Babcia nodded. She impaled a pierogi on her fork, but before taking a bite, paused, frowning. ‘I’ll tell you something strange. Chrysanthi makes konfesja every week with the other women, but twice I’ve been to mass at that church and she didn’t go up and take communion either time.’

FLYTE

Monday morning saw Flyte and Streaky driving north to an industrial estate where the ambulance call centre covering Camden was located. Rather than going through the bureaucratic process of emailing a request and waiting for permission, his strategy was simply to turn up in person.

‘Nothing concentrates the mind like the flash of a warrant card,’ he told her with a wink as he parked in the near-empty car park. He hauled himself out of the pool car and Flyte followed, her nerves still jangling from the ride: Streaky appeared to have picked up his driving technique from one of those old TV cop series.

They made their way into the call centre – housed in a nondescript low-rise red-brick building that could have been a storage facility were it not for the row of ambulances parked outside.

‘Why bring me though?’ Flyte asked him, after they’d announced themselves at reception. She’d been wondering why he was allowing her to take such a big role in his investigation.

‘Oh, it never hurts to have a pretty face along,’ he said.

She saw his wind-up grin in time. ‘Very funny.’ Before going on, ‘Just don’t go thinking any of this means I’m going to pull my punches when it comes to compiling my report.’

‘What, even if I treat you to a pie and mash afterwards?’ asked Streaky.

They’d been advised that 8 a.m. would be the optimal time to visit, offering the nearest thing to a lull after a night of mayhem. And as the manager ushered them onto the open-plan call-centre floor, there was a definite ‘after the deluge’ feel about it, and the smell of sweat and stale coffee in the air. At the first desk they came to a woman in her thirties, wearing a dark-green uniform, stretching and yawning.

---