A Devil Under the Skin (Kiszka & Kershaw, Book 3)

by Anya Lipska

Sunk in his thoughts, he suddenly found himself at the reception desk – and did a double-take. Instead of the creamy cheeks of the young Polish receptionist, the face that looked up at him from behind the computer monitor was as brown and corrugated as an Arabian wadi.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said Stefan, peering over his reading specs. ‘Beata asked me to look at her computer. It’s got more viruses than a clap clinic waiting room.’

  ‘And you … can fix it?’ Janusz was having a job concealing his disbelief.

  ‘Heavens, no.’ He chuckled. ‘But I know people who work in IT who are up to speed on these things. I’m just emailing over some details.’ He tapped the keyboard. ‘There, I think that’s gone. Now, I’m guessing you’re here for Wojtek?’

  Janusz found his own way to the conservatory, where Wojtek was waiting for him. He had resigned himself to another lengthy bulletin on the doings of his wayward grandchildren, but this time, the old fellow barely said a word, sitting quietly as Janusz copied his passport details into a notebook. The passport was the old pre-EU kind, its midnight blue cover bearing the cruel profile of the Polish eagle above outstretched wings.

  ‘Haven’t seen one of these in a while,’ said Janusz.

  Wojtek shrugged, failing to take the conversational bait, and took a sip of his tea – no biscuits today – spilling a little down his chin.

  Janusz sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. The papers were full of scandals about the maltreatment of old people in residential homes – stories that filled him with a vision-darkening rage. What kind of skurwysyn would harm a helpless old person? St Francis’s seemed a happy enough place on the surface, but he knew that wherever the strong held sway over the weak, there was the ever-present risk of abuse. What was it somebody once said? Man makes evil like a bee makes honey.

  He hesitated, then took the plunge. ‘They do treat you all right here, do they?’

  Wojtek looked flustered. ‘Tak, tak! Dobrze, it’s a good place.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Janusz handed him a card – the one with his private number – and pocketing the notebook, stood to go. ‘But if you do ever have any problem, then you tell your daughter to call me, okay?’

  As he bade Wojtek farewell, Janusz made a decision to assess the place with a more critical eye. Making his way out of the conservatory, he noticed a staff member playing Scrabble with two old girls. One of the ladies had just spelled out ARSE and they were all laughing like naughty children – the staffer included. En route back to reception, he paused to check out a room in which a gaggle of residents were singing along to a piano. The singing was ragged and out of tune, but they all seemed happy enough.

  Seeing that Beata was back at the reception desk, he paused to admire her complexion – and to ask if Stefan was around. She dipped her head apologetically. ‘Przepraszam pana, but I think I saw Pan Kasparek going out for lunch.’

  Having established that his likeliest luncheon venue was the Wetherspoons opposite the tube station, Janusz was on his way there to ask if he could explain Wojtek’s changed manner, when he saw a missed call on his phone.

  It was from Bill Boyce, the guy he’d chatted to at Steve’s local.

  Bill picked up on the first ring and, after a cursory greeting, asked: ‘Did you see Steve that night, after we met?’ He sounded jittery.

  ‘No …’ said Janusz, improvising. ‘He called to say he couldn’t make it.’

  ‘He’s still not answering his phone.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Do you think you can get a message to him for me?’

  ‘Sure, what’s the message?’

  ‘I’m not being funny, but I’d rather give it you face to face.’

  ‘Okay …Shall we meet at the Pineapple?’

  ‘No. Come to my gaff, in an hour.’ Bill gave him an address. ‘And look, I know it sounds daft, but don’t tell anyone we’re meeting, okay?’

  Janusz navigated his way across two lines of moving traffic towards Wanstead tube, deaf to the hoots of motorists, in the grip of the rushing sensation that sometimes came over him during an investigation: an awareness of wheels and cogs starting to turn faster, unstoppable forces set in motion.

  He found Bill’s apartment on the third floor of a shabby redbrick fifties council block with a view of Leytonstone High Road. The red Meccano jumble of the ArcelorMittal Orbit could be glimpsed over the rooftops, barely half a mile away, although the tide of money poured into the area for London’s staging of the Olympics had apparently petered out before making landfall at this end of Stratford.

  After climbing the dank stairs to the third floor’s outside walkway, Janusz knocked at Bill’s door, but was met only with silence. Shading his eyes, he peered in through the single window, but couldn’t see anything through the crack in the grimy curtains. Recalling how paranoid Bill had sounded on the phone, he bent to push open the letterbox.

  ‘Bill, it’s Janusz,’ he said, speaking awkwardly through the gap. No response came from the empty hallway beyond. Eyeing the mortice lock beneath the Yale, he cursed under his breath – if the door were double locked, then nothing short of a drill or a monkey wrench would do the job. But he was in luck, and forty seconds later he was stepping over the threshold, pocketing his trusty bump key.

  In the tiny hallway, the acrid whiff of burned bacon cut through the unwashed socks smell of a man living alone, but the place was silent: the only sound the muffled shouts of the kids he had passed playing football in the courtyard outside. In the kitchen, touching the back of his hand to the kettle, he found it still warm, recently boiled, and on the worktop a thin blue carrier bag spilled a packet of Bourbon biscuits – no doubt bought in his honour. In the living room, the door onto the balcony hung ajar, and he risked a quick look over the parapet – for a wild moment half expecting to see Bill sprawled below. He checked out the rest of the apartment, a faint yet insistent feeling of dread building in his gut. Finally, there was only the bathroom still unchecked. He stood irresolute for a moment before the half-open door, hearing the blood swish-swishing in his ears, before pushing it open with the toe of his boot.

  Bill was a big man, easily 220, 230 pounds, Janusz would guess. Which would explain why the shower rail from which he hung was deeply bowed and kinked at the point where the belt was tied.

  The protruding eyes, half-open as though he had just woken from slumber, and the tongue protruding through those brilliant white dentures told a pretty conclusive story, but Janusz set two fingers against Bill’s throat below the tight-stretched leather, just to make sure. Already cooling, his skin felt waxy and there was no pulse.

  Kurwa mac! Janusz sat on the toilet more heavily than he’d intended, and tried to steady the whirl and clatter of his thoughts. Bill had died on the point of giving him a message for Steve, a message too important to pass on over the phone. The idea that he’d arranged their rendezvous, even popping out to buy biscuits, only to change his mind and top himself instead, was laughable. He forced himself to look at the body again. Bill’s knees were bent, with his feet touching the floor, and no way could that bowed rail have been strong enough to carry his weight long enough to asphyxiate him. Nie. He’d been strangled before being strung up – a hasty cover-up job that wouldn’t survive even the most cursory examination by the cops.

  Realising that a swift exit would be the better part of valour, Janusz stood to go. Casting a last glance at Bill’s pouched and sorrowful features, he pictured him in better times, a brawny seaman striding the deck of a container ship, full of vigour and a young man’s plans and dreams.

  Seemingly of their own volition, the words of the prayer for the dead rose to his lips. ‘By Thy resurrection from the dead, O Christ, death no longer hath dominion over those who die in holiness …’

  By the time Janusz reached the Pineapple, he’d smoked his way through two cigars and his heart rate was almost back to normal. He approached the place cautiously, checking out the bar through a side-window before venturing inside, but f
ound it near empty today, the only customers two old men nursing pints at opposite ends of the bar. He wondered how it survived. Old-style no-frills boozers no longer served the shifting demographic of the inner city: the white working-class drinkers had largely left, to be replaced by Muslims – and, more recently, by middle-class types who preferred a nice gastropub.

  There was no sign of any of the party whom Bill had been drinking with on Janusz’s first visit, and when he asked the young girl behind the bar if she’d seen Simeon – Bill’s stocky mate with the suspicious stare – she shook her head, her expression as blank as a plate.

  After the shock of finding Bill’s body, he was sorely tempted to have a drink, but decided against. Hanging around on the off-chance of learning something was unlikely to be productive – and might even prove dangerous, especially since the cops would soon find their way to Bill’s local to ask who he’d been talking to recently.

  Thinking about the cops reminded Janusz of the girl detektyw, and her promise to help him find Kasia. The gratitude he felt towards her presented him with an uncomfortable dilemma. He seriously considered telling her what had happened – the mystery call from Bill, finding him strung up in his bathroom like the Christmas goose – before dismissing the idea. Until he’d found out what, if any, connection Steve might have to Bill’s murder, he could see nothing to gain by having a load of nosy cops trampling over his investigation in their size tens. And since Natalia would feel compelled to report his discovery of the body and their recent conversation, that might put her in an awkward position.

  Naprawde, when you looked at it like that, he was doing her a favour.

  Thirteen

  PC Natalie Kershaw had tucked her Ford Ka into a poorly lit corner of the armed response unit’s car park – a spot that still allowed her a partial view of the only entrance. Shivering in the night air, she was finally rewarded, at 22.10, by the sight of Sergeant Toby Greenacre strolling out through the door. She hunkered down in the driver’s seat, but he didn’t so much as glance in her direction before disappearing round the side of the building. Seconds later, she saw his people carrier pause at the security barrier before pulling out into the street. It was a lucky escape: when Kershaw first arrived around an hour earlier she’d almost waltzed straight into the office – before remembering just in time that the Sarge was on late turn till the end of the week.

  It wasn’t until she reached the front door that another thought struck her: would her access card still work? It was a relief to hear the soft click as the lock snapped open, although she also had to suppress a pang of guilt: it clearly hadn’t even occurred to the Sarge that she might break the terms of her banishment.

  Breezing in like she had every right to be there, she made straight for her desk, and fired up the computer. It felt weird to be sitting there in her civilian clobber – wearing her uniform while officially off duty would have really been asking for trouble – but if anyone challenged her, she had her story down pat. She’d lost her phone and with it the contact details of the police shrink everyone knew she was seeing. The place seemed deserted, anyway – the night shift boys must be out on a shout – and with a bit of luck she’d be gone before they got back.

  Kershaw’s first job was to send an email from her Met address to Transport for London. Officially, requests for customers’ Oyster card records had to be accompanied by a form signed by a sergeant or above, and submitted via head office, but she had a TfL contact from her time at Walthamstow murder squad. Terry was the kind of guy who liked hanging out with cops, so he was usually happy to shortcut the bureaucracy in the interests of nailing the bad guys.

  She asked him to check recent activity on any Oyster card registered to Kasia and Steven Fisher, tapping out the address and postcode Kiszka had given her, before finishing with: ‘I’m out and about tomorrow, so could you do me a favour and send the info to my home email? As you know, The System won’t let us log in remotely …’ – capitalising ‘the system’ was a nice touch, she thought – ‘Thanks, Terry, I owe you a pint or three next time you’re down the Moon. Cheers – Nat.’ Her finger hovered briefly over the ‘X’ key but in the end she just pressed ‘send’ – better to stay on the right side of professional.

  Next, she needed to access the Police National Computer. After typing in her password, she hesitated, chewing at the side of a fingernail. If anyone should ever decide to check her PNC search history, she could face some very awkward questions.

  She pressed ‘enter’ with a flourish.

  Fourteen

  In Janusz’s Highbury apartment, Oskar had already put away two bowls of the barszcz that Janusz had made during his marathon cooking session, and was now making short work of a plateful of mushroom and pork meatballs with buckwheat. Finally, he collapsed back onto the sofa with a groan.

  ‘Kurwa, Janusz, you made me break my diet!’ he complained, running chubby hands over his domed stomach.

  ‘Nobody made you, Oskar. You could have just had the soup,’ pointed out Janusz. He set his own plate aside, having managed only a couple of the kotlety. It wasn’t just the memory of poor dead Bill’s mournful face that was spoiling his appetite, but a new and troubling puzzle. What – if anything – did the murder have to do with Steve’s abduction of Kasia?

  Blowing out a windy sigh, Oskar reached for a fresh can of Tyskie. ‘Maybe I just need to accept that I’m naturally big boned.’

  ‘Dobrze. Especially around the ribs.’

  Oskar nodded towards Janusz’s half-eaten meal. ‘You need to eat, Janek, keep your strength up.’ He leaned forward, seeking his friend’s gaze. ‘How’s the investigation going, anyway? Any clues yet about where Kasia might be?’

  Janusz rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘Nie. But I know that neither of them flew to Alicante.’

  ‘Naprawde?’ Oskar’s eyebrows shot up, his face a comic roundel of surprise. ‘How do you know?’

  Visualising the text Natalia had sent him, Janusz wondered whether to tell his mate about the bit of freelance policing she was doing on his behalf. The impulse lasted about half a second. ‘Never mind how I know. I just do,’ he said, before taking a deep swig of his beer. Although he loved Oskar like a – somewhat exasperating – kid brother, he had discovered long ago that entrusting him with a secret was like giving a toddler a Fabergé egg to play with.

  Oskar sat up. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, I asked some of my contacts about that guy, the one with the komiczne name …?’

  ‘Jared Bateman.’

  ‘Tak.’ Oskar chuckled. ‘“Jar-head.”’

  ‘Well? Any joy?’ asked Janusz. After two years spent working as a foreman on the Olympics build, Oskar had amassed a vast network of East End construction contacts, and had agreed to put the word out – see if anyone knew Steve’s best mate. Janusz knew it was a long shot but then he had scarcely anything to go on.

  ‘Somebody texted me back this morning.’ Digging into the pocket of his work overalls, Oskar retrieved his phone and flourished it dramatically.

  ‘Get on with it, Oskar,’ growled Janusz.

  After a few moments of scrolling, he said, ‘Here it is. A contractor called Dermot I used to work with. Says he remembers hiring someone called “Jarhead Bateman” on a big refit job two or three months ago.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In Docklands.’

  ‘And has he worked with him since?’

  ‘Nie.’

  ‘Did Dermot ever hear him talk about his best mate Steve? Does he have any idea where he’s been working lately?’ Janusz was aware of sounding increasingly testy.

  Occupied with draining his can of beer, Oskar could only shake his head.

  Janusz dragged both hands through his hair. What had he expected anyway, he asked himself, from such a slender lead? Reaching for a fresh can of Tyskie, he worked his fingertip under the ring pull. ‘What job did he hire Jared to do, on site?’

  ‘Chief spark.’

  A jet of beer foamed out of the can and all ove
r the rug.

  Kurwa mac! How did someone who’d worked as chief electrician on a building site manage to electrocute himself doing Mickey Mouse DIY?

  Janusz pictured again the puzzlement on Bill’s lugubrious face as he’d related Jared’s unexpected demise. At the time, Janusz assumed he was simply struggling with the haphazard nature of life and sudden death. Now, he realised that wasn’t it at all. Bill had been trying to work out how an experienced spark could do something so suicidally inept as to drill into a live cable.

  Oskar, who had leaned forward to tap him on the knee, interrupted his train of thought.

  ‘Janek,’ he said, a serious look on his face. ‘Did you say there was cheesecake?’

  Later, after Oskar had gone, Janusz sat up for hours trying to work out a plausible connection between recent events. Steve had abducted Kasia to stop her leaving, that much he was confident of. Bill had been murdered while trying to get in touch with Steve. And then there was the ‘accidental’ death of Jared – one of Steve’s best mates – which now looked deeply suspicious, too. And, at some point during his investigation, somebody had had Janusz followed.

  It was hardly rocket science to work out that the common thread in all this was one Steven Fisher; but it was starting to look to Janusz that he might be involved in something even more sinister and far-reaching than kidnapping his faithless wife.

  Kasia

  That’s strange, thought Kasia. I’m underwater and yet I can still breathe.

  She could see the silvery string of bubbles streaming from her mouth as she hung there in the aquamarine water. She laughed, delighted by the discovery. Euphoria enveloped her, a little like the sensation a shot of cold vodka on an empty stomach could produce, but multiplied many times over. Rolling and stretching in the water, she luxuriated in the feeling of weightlessness, all her worries dissipating like the air bubbles into the infinite, limitless blue – the same colour as Mary’s robe in the big window above the altar when Mama took her to church.