Where the Devil Can't Go by Anya Lipska Read Free Book Online

today.
    “Something like that, Sarge.”
    “Hmm. Well, I wouldn’t usually be too optimistic about finding a perp in the circs, but having your prime suspect’s name tattooed on the victim’s arse does give you a major leg-up.” More chuckles from the audience. She could only see the back of Bonnick’s PC screen but from his glazed look and half-open mouth she would bet he was watching Arsenal’s top goals on YouTube.
    “I’ll be the first to congratulate you if the Doc says it’s a murder,” said Streaky. “And why is that, DC Kershaw?”
    That threw her. “Ah, because it’s the most serious crime, Sarge?”
    Browning made a two-tone comedy horn noise at the back of his throat, ie ‘you lose’, to more laughter, though there was sympathy in the look Ben Crowther threw her. Ben – the only other DC in the office who’d been to university – was the only one she really clicked with. When the guys were going down the pub it was usually him who asked her along.
    “Why do we like a murder, DC Browning?” asked Streaky.
    “Two reasons, Sarge,” he said in that chirpy blokey tone that got on her nerves. “One, the job goes to Murder Squad but the body stays with us so we get the numbers if it’s cleared up. Two, murder means Overtime .”
    “And what is Overtime, Browning?”
    “The only perk a hard-working detective gets these days, Sarge.”
    “Co-rrect,” said Streaky.
    She managed a grin, taking the stick. Did Streaky prefer Browning to her because he was a guy, or because he was a ranker, like Streaky, instead of a graduate entry cop like her?
    “Any chance of a DNA test on the floater, Sarge?” she asked. “She might be on the database?”
    Streaky gazed at his half-eaten Hobnob.
    “See what you get from the PM first - it’s already costing us three grand. Got to watch the budget, the accountant-wallahs tell me. And get onto MPB – they’ll want photos, dental work, you know the drill.”
    As Kershaw searched her archived mails for the address of the Missing Persons Bureau, she considered her own reasons for wanting DB16’s death to be chalked up as a murder. One, it would look good on her cv; two, she might get assigned to Murder Squad for the duration of the job and get a nice long break from these wankers.

FIVE
     
    Pani Tosik had been insistent about one thing: once Janusz had discovered Weronika’s whereabouts, he was not to contact her himself but simply to report back with the address. The old lady had decided that the best strategy was to forward the girl the ‘heartbreaking’ letter her Mama had sent, begging her to return to the restaurant. But all he had to go on was a single crappy lead: a sticker on the back of the photo of Weronika, printed with the name of a photographer’s in Leytonstone, a couple of miles east of Stratford.
    Janusz took the Northern Line south from Angel, the tube stop nearest his flat, to Bank, where he’d change for the Central Line east. He hated the tube, refused to use it in rush hour, and if there were a crush on the platform he’d head straight back up the escalator. But today he was too pushed for time to do the three-bus Islington to Leytonstone safari.
    Sitting in the half-full carriage, he caught the eye of a little girl, aged about eight or nine, sitting across from him with her mother. He pulled the cross-eyed gargoyle face that used to crack Bobek up at that age. She grinned. Then he noticed the words picked out in sequins across her flat, pink t-shirted chest – FUTURE PORN STAR – and the smile dropped from his face like a theatre curtain.
    As the woman and girl got up to get off at the next stop, the girl sketched a shy wave goodbye, but the mother shot him a searching look. The cheek of it! he thought. You dress your little girl like a trainee whore and treat me like a paedophile.
    He emerged from the shelter of Leytonstone tube still wearing a thunderous frown, and headed for the high street, a raw wind wrapping the trench coat