Anya Lipska - Where the Devil Can’t Go

She took the proffered scalpel and used it to open up a series of incisions in the tissue. What was she supposed to be looking for? Then, bending closer, she saw something – a scatter of bright magenta dots across the pinky-brown surface.

‘These spots,’ she asked. ‘Are they normal?’

‘No, Detective, they are not.’

Waterhouse picked up the kidney and turned it to and fro in the light. ‘These petechiae – haemorrhages – are suggestive of acute renal failure.’

Kershaw frowned at the constellation of dots. ‘What could have caused it?’ she asked.

‘Half a dozen things.’ He pursed his lips. ‘But off the record, I’d put my money on rhabdomyolysis.’ He smiled at the look on her face. ‘Damage to muscle fibres releases a protein called myoglobin into the bloodstream, which can ultimately cause the kidneys to fail.’

‘ Muscle damage?’

‘Yes, rhabdomyolysis is often seen in serious crush injuries, for example.’ He paused, tilting his head. ‘But I think the likeliest cause in this case is chemical. Drug-induced hyperthermia could have raised her body temperature so high that it started literally to cook her tissues.’

Kershaw remembered a news article someone had posted on the noticeboard at uni, about a student who took too many tabs of Ecstasy and nearly died from overheating. The ‘alternative’ types, the ones with facefuls of metalwork, had been routinely off their tits on the stuff, and even some of her fellow criminology students had dabbled, but she’d never been tempted. A few drinks was one thing, but the idea of losing control over her brain chemistry totally freaked her out.

‘You think she OD-ed on Ecstasy?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t dream of pre-judging the toxicology report, of course,’ said Waterhouse. ‘But it’s possible that she died of renal failure brought about by an overdose of MDMA, yes.’

Kershaw tried to picture the scenario, how the girl might have ended up naked in the Thames. Maybe, after a night out clubbing with her boyfriend, they’d gone to bed, and he’d woken up next to a dead body. If he’d given her the drugs, or sold them to her, he could easily have panicked and dumped her in the river.

‘What’s she likely to have experienced, when she OD-ed?’ she asked.

‘A massive surge of serotonin in the brain would have caused a breakdown of the body’s temperature control mechanisms, like a fire raging out of control through a house.’ Waterhouse started scooping the girl’s organs from the chopping board into a blue plastic bag in the sink. ‘When her core temperature exceeded 39 degrees, there would be neuron damage; at 40 degrees, she was probably suffering seizures, followed by coma. When it reached 41, the organs would begin to shut down.’

He handed the bag to the Goth technician who took it without a word.

‘Nasty way to die,’ said Kershaw. ‘Presumably she wouldn’t be in a fit state to get down to the Thames and throw herself in?’

Waterhouse tipped his head. ‘That depends at what stage of the overdose she did so – if indeed that’s what happened.’

He started rinsing his hands under the tap. Over his shoulder, Kershaw could see the Goth girl inserting the bulging bag back into the dead girl’s body cavity, pushing it this way and that, like someone trying to squeeze a last-minute item into an overstuffed suitcase.

Waterhouse snapped off his gloves and checked his watch. ‘I’m afraid I must leave you, I have a court case at the Old Bailey.’

Kershaw said she’d walk with him to the tube. Five minutes later he emerged from the changing room, wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a briefcase.

He held the door open for her with a flourish. Out in the chilly air, she asked, ‘So you reckon this is just a case of one too many tabs of E, do you?’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘I attended a conference in Berlin last month where I met a very interesting toxicologist. He said they’re seeing a rash of these deaths across Europe at the moment.’

They were out on the pavement now. Seeing Kershaw struggling to keep up with his long stride, Waterhouse slowed his pace.

‘The toxicology shows the victims all ingested a counterfeit version of Ecstasy, called para-methoxyamphetamine.’ He shot her a mischievous look. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear it’s more commonly known as PMA.’

Kershaw wished she could take notes, she’d never remember all this. ‘Does it have the same effect as Ecstasy?’

‘It’s similar, but much more dangerous. This chap told me that recently, three young women died in a single night.’

Kershaw raised her eyebrows. If the girl turned out to be a victim of a dodgy drugs ring, it could still be a big case.

Waterhouse strode off the pavement and practically into the path of an oncoming truck – meeting the blare of the driver’s horn with an urbane wave. Kershaw scurried after him.

‘So why do people take this PMA, if it’s so risky?’ she asked.

‘They often don’t know that they are,’ said Waterhouse. ‘Apparently the dealers pass it off as Ecstasy. And although it’s much more toxic, its effects take considerably longer to manifest themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘Consequently, the hapless user often takes further pills, believing that they have bought a weaker product.’

She could see the tube entrance only metres away, and she still had so much to ask him.

‘But if these PMA deaths all happened in Europe,’ she said. ‘What’s it got to do with DB16?’

‘You said in your email that our lady might be Polish,’ said Waterhouse, as if that made everything crystal.

Kershaw screwed her face up. ‘I don’t see the relevance.’

‘Didn’t I say?’ he asked, turning to look at her. ‘The three girls who died in one night – it happened in Poland. Gdansk, I think he said.’

Janusz raised his chin, and ran the razor from throat to jaw line, enjoying the rasping sound of the blade. As he rinsed it under the running tap he felt the prickle on the back of his neck that told him he was being watched.

He turned around to find Copernicus, the big grey tabby tomcat who had adopted him almost a decade ago, standing in the bathroom doorway. Although the cat’s gaze was impassive, his message was crystal clear.

‘Alright, Copetka. I know dinner is running a bit late at Hotel Kiszka,’ said Janusz, towelling off the last suds. With fluid grace, the cat turned and led him to the kitchen cupboard.

After feeding him, Janusz opened the kitchen window to let the cat onto the fire escape and watched as he trotted down the half-dozen flights of stairs. Through the gathering dusk, he could make out the first daffodils under the plane trees that edged Highbury Fields.

These days, it was one of North London’s most select areas. But back in the early eighties, when the latest wave of the Polish diaspora had washed him up on the shores of Islington, the locals – better-off English working-class types – couldn’t get out fast enough. Taking their place were Paddies, Poles and blacks, and a few bohemian types who weren’t fazed by the area’s reputation as crime central. The flat had been a cheap place to flop once he’d split the rent with workmates from building sites. And he’d always liked the view.

By the time his Jewish landlord had decided to up sticks and start a new life in Israel, Janusz had earned enough for a deposit and got a mortgage to buy the place. Now, his only problem was the odd funny look from his newer neighbours, the City types and advertising executives who were taken aback to find a Polish immigrant living next door in a Highbury mansion block. Well, tough luck, he thought, he was here first.