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

by Anya Lipska

  Like a swimmer poised to dive into unknown waters, she took a deep breath and started to talk.

  Eighteen

  It was Janusz’s third visit to the St Francis of Assisi Residential Home, but the first occasion on which he’d actually been in possession of the full facts regarding Haven Insurance annuitant Wojtek Raczynski.

  A middle-aged woman in a smart suit, evidently one of the managers, greeted him today. She directed him up the oak staircase to Wojtek’s room on the first floor, Janusz having requested that their final meeting – to ‘tidy up a couple of loose ends’, as he’d put it on the phone – take place in private. The moment he stepped through the door marked ‘3’, he experienced a sharp-sweet pang of nostalgia, so strongly did the place remind him of his childhood. For although its wide bay window and high ceiling with ornate cornicing were unmistakably Victorian, there was something about the place that took him right back to his grandfather’s study in the ramshackle old farmhouse on the outskirts of Gdansk where he’d spent a good part of his school holidays.

  The room was large enough to accommodate a small sitting room area where Wojtek sat in one of those complicated-looking adjustable armchairs that looked like it could double as an instrument of torture. The walls were hung with prints of Polish landscape paintings in the nineteenth-century style – just like those in his dziadzia’s den. There was even a carved wooden clock with doors above its face, out of which, Janusz recalled, an old man and lady in traditional dress – one carrying a baton, the other a cymbal – would emerge to strike the hour.

  In spite of Janusz’s protests, the old boy struggled to his feet to greet him. His normally ruddy features looked grey, and he seemed, if anything, even more agitated than he had at their last meeting. The difference today was that Janusz had a pretty good idea what was worrying him, and it wasn’t any unkindness on the part of the home’s staff. After they’d exchanged the usual courtesies, Janusz produced his file of documents, which Wojtek eyed like a condemned man getting his first glimpse of the executioner’s axe.

  ‘Just a few questions, Pan Raczynski,’ said Janusz, steeling himself for the task ahead. ‘According to the medical records your GP, Dr Garrett, provided to Haven, you’d suffered some very serious medical conditions before buying your annuity in 2004.’

  ‘Tak.’ Nodding, Wojtek tried to steeple his fingers in front of him but they were shaking so much he set them back down on the chair arms.

  Janusz ran his finger down the printout. ‘In 1994 you were diagnosed with angina … in 1997, diabetes; 1999, lung cancer … All of them life-threatening conditions.’

  ‘Thanks be to God, I was lucky to survive,’ said Wojtek, trying to raise the smile of a man grateful for his good fortune.

  ‘The problem I have is this, prosze pana.’ Janusz shifted in his armchair, having identified what gave the room its potent nostalgic charge: the smell of the pipe tobacco that honeyed the air was the same brand his dziadzia used to smoke. ‘You were treated for all these ailments back home in Lublin, which might explain why the records appear somewhat sketchy … But when I checked with the hospital in Lublin directly, they were unable to find any details of treatment for you, nor any record of the many follow-up appointments one might expect to find considering the gravity of your conditions.’

  ‘Naprawde?’ said Wojtek. ‘Maybe they lost my details. Everything is skomputeryzowane now. In my day, everything was properly recorded, ink on paper, and mark my words, there were many fewer mistakes.’

  It was a brave rally, but from the way Wojtek’s right hand was pawing at the arm of the chair, it was clear he could sense the game approaching its end stage. Just at that moment, Janusz heard a door squeak behind him. He saw Stefan emerging from the en-suite bathroom, his leathery features wearing an expression that was at once sardonic and rueful.

  As Wojtek opened his mouth to say something, Stefan shushed him with a soothing gesture, before laying a hand on Janusz’s shoulder. ‘Good morning, Mr Kiszka,’ he said. ‘Forgive my resorting to the somewhat … Shakespearean stratagem, but Wojtek asked me to be discreetly on hand should he need assistance.’

  Janusz stared at him. Mother of God! Was there anything round here the guy didn’t have his bony beak in? ‘I’m afraid I’m not authorised to discuss Pan Raczynski’s affairs with any third party,’ he said, with an inward wince at the bureaucratic cant.

  Stefan’s grip on his shoulder tightened just a fraction and his tone became authoritative. ‘Wojtek has granted me power of attorney over his affairs, so it’s all quite above board, I assure you.’ As Janusz hesitated, he added, ‘Why don’t you and I go somewhere to talk things through? I think Wojtek could do with a little rest.’ When Janusz looked to Wojtek for permission the old boy nodded, clearly grateful that his ordeal was over – at least for now.

  Outside in the gardens, Stefan ushered Janusz to an old ironwork bench, moving briskly despite his reliance on a walking stick. They sat under a canopy of fruit trees just coming into bud, overlooking the back of the home. Although the pale spring sunshine had burned off the morning chill, Janusz was still glad of his greatcoat; Stefan on the other hand looked perfectly comfortable in just a flannel shirt and his insubstantial-looking tweed jacket.

  ‘What is it that makes you suspicious of my old friend Wojtek’s medical history?’ he asked, fixing those blackbird eyes on him. ‘You know what Poland was like, even after the Kommies were chucked out. The public records were in chaos for years.’

  ‘Nonetheless, doesn’t he strike you as remarkably hale and hearty for a man who’s survived heart disease and cancer?’ Janusz recalled his eureka moment, while feeding Copetka, which had brought something about Wojtek’s behaviour into sharp focus. ‘For someone with a history of type-2 diabetes, he certainly makes short work of a packet of biscuits.’

  Stefan gave a worldly shrug. ‘I have castigated him for his imprudent diet, but people will persist in habits that are bad for their health.’

  ‘He doesn’t even appear to receive any medication from his GP for the condition. According to his medical records, he sees a private doctor for it.’ Janusz raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘So what are you saying exactly? That Wojtek has fabricated all his ailments?’ Stefan’s beetling eyebrows came together to confer. ‘Why in God’s name would he do such a thing?’

  Reaching for his tin of cigars, Janusz lit one. ‘If you buy an annuity, the insurance company has to pay you a monthly amount for ever, guaranteed, until you die.’ In order to work for Haven, he’d been required to attend an interminable weekend of lectures inducting him into the black arts of the annuity business. ‘The better shape you’re in, the less they pay you, because you’re more likely to live to be a hundred. But people with a bad medical history get more, because the stats say they probably won’t last long. It’s the only insurance product which treats a poor life expectancy as a plus.’

  ‘You’re saying that Wojtek benefits financially from having these conditions?’

  ‘Yes. He gets thousands of pounds a year more than someone with a good health record.’

  Stefan whistled, impressed. ‘And that’s why the insurers wanted to check him out?’

  Janusz shook his head. ‘No. That was just a random ID check. They’d have no reason to question the medical report provided by his GP. The idea that someone could alter his medical records – I doubt that’s even on the insurers’ radar.’ He wondered again how it might have been done. Had Wojtek bribed someone – a doctor or administrator – in Lublin Hospital, perhaps? Or the GP himself? One heard about such things, these days.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I shall have to inform the insurance company of my suspicions.’ Janusz shrugged. ‘I imagine they’ll mount a full investigation.’

  Stefan levelled his beady gaze at Janusz. ‘Wojtek is an intelligent man,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But I very much doubt he’d have the skills to devise such a sophisticated fraud, all on his own.’ His expression
was deadpan – like that of a chess player mounting a risky queen swap manoeuvre.

  ‘You … you know all about it, don’t you?’ said Janusz, feeling a total glupek.

  In reply, Stefan simply sighed, before nodding at Janusz’s cigar. ‘Might I trouble you for one of those?’ Taking one from the tin he leaned in to get a light. ‘Can we speak in total confidence, on your word as a gentleman?’

  Janusz shook his head. ‘You know I can’t promise that.’

  Stefan gave a philosophical shrug, as if to say ‘It was worth a try.’ His eyes followed the cigar smoke as it drifted up into the branches overhead. ‘What if I told you that it was I who … modified Wojtek’s NHS records?’

  ‘Really …’ said Janusz, trying to keep from smirking. ‘And how did you do that exactly?’

  ‘You don’t believe an old codger like me could have pulled it off.’

  Janusz raised his eyebrows. ‘No offence, but breaking into the NHS system? Even if it were possible, which I doubt, that would take some serious hacking skills.’

  Stefan smiled. ‘I can see I shall have to tell you a little more about my history.’ He took a cautious draw on his cigar. ‘After the war, I couldn’t go home – I didn’t fancy another extended holiday in Siberia.’

  Janusz gave a little nod: after fighting alongside the Allies, thousands of Polish ex-combatants had returned home only to face brutal persecution by a Stalinist regime which saw them as dangerous opponents of the new socialist order.

  ‘For we Poles,’ Stefan went on, ‘the war continued – only the enemy and the methods changed. Luckily, I’d won medals for mathematics at school, which persuaded London University to offer me a place. After managing to win a first, I offered my services to the War Office, who kindly gave me a job.’

  Janusz frowned, working it out. ‘You worked as a code breaker? For MI6?’

  ‘For sixteen happy years. I’ve never had so much sex in my life.’ Stefan grinned, revealing pointy teeth. ‘But I digress. I liked the work, but loathed the civil service politics, so when computing took off in the sixties, I left to join IBM as a programmer.’

  ‘But you must have retired decades ago.’

  ‘Of course, but I try to stay abreast of the developments in coding – I confess I spend far too much time online, chatting to some very bright young people. Still, it all helps to keep the brain ticking over.’ He aimed a bony finger at Janusz. ‘Mark my words: an idle mind is the fastest route to the boneyard.’

  Janusz eyed the old rogue, still not convinced. ‘But surely NHS security must be cast iron?’

  Stefan gave a rusty chuckle. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.

  ‘Look, if you expect me to believe that you hacked Wojtek’s medical records, you’ll have to explain exactly how you did it.’

  ‘Very well. The first step is to acquire a GP’s username and password – which I’m afraid is all too easy to extract over the telephone from the busy ladies on reception.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘By posing as Josh, from the IT department, who’s trying to fix a problem with the server.’

  Janusz thought about it. Scamming people for security information was a tried and tested method, which he’d used himself in the course of investigations, and he knew that plenty of people kept their username and password on a Post-it note stuck to their computer. Nonetheless, Stefan would sound far too old to impersonate an IT worker convincingly.

  ‘I’m guessing that “Josh from IT” is played by one of your young hacking friends?’

  Stefan inclined his head in assent.

  ‘Okay,’ said Janusz. ‘But then what? You’re saying you can simply alter someone’s medical history?’

  ‘Every system needs to allow corrections and additions. Of course, if anyone who knew their way round the system actually went looking, they’d soon find a record of suspicious alterations to the database – but nobody ever does.’

  Janusz stared at him. He was still trying to reconcile the image conjured up by the word ‘hacker’ with this ancient war veteran in a tweed jacket – and yet, he seemed to be telling the truth.

  Realising his cigar had gone out, he paused to re-light it. ‘Okay. So you add life-shortening conditions to Wojtek’s medical history. They end up in the report that’s sent to Haven. He gets a bigger annuity payment. What did you get out of it?’

  ‘Not a penny. I still have my IBM shares and a decent pension.’ He gestured with his stick towards St Francis’s, its red brick glowing in the sunshine. ‘You know, if this were a private concern it would cost eight hundred pounds a week to stay here, or possibly more. Since it’s a charitable trust, they do keep the fees as low as humanly possible, but even so, this quality of care doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘I fail to see how this is relevant to you and Wojtek conspiring to defraud Haven Insurance,’ growled Janusz, trying to regain control of the situation.

  ‘The residents aren’t wealthy people. They paid every spare penny into pension schemes all their lives, only to find that the annuities they planned to live on in their old age were set to pay out peanuts.’

  Kurwa! Janusz almost dropped his cigar, which had burned right down to his fingers. ‘Are you saying you pulled this NHS records scam for everyone here?!’

  ‘Not everyone,’ said Stefan. ‘Some bought annuities before they arrived, more’s the pity.’ He looked intently at Janusz, his expression serious. ‘As you know, insurance companies pool information among themselves. If you file a report, I’m afraid there’s little doubt it would trigger a full investigation – and that would mean fraud charges, not just against me, but against a number of residents.’

  ‘If it ever came to that, I am sure the courts would be lenient towards elderly people,’ said Janusz.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the old boy shrugged. ‘But they could no longer afford to stay here. And the resulting scandal might even close the home.’

  Janusz cast him a sideways look: Stefan’s profile looked like some ancient desert monument, blasted over the aeons by innumerable sandstorms. He knew what the old bastard was up to: he was trying to take advantage of his natural sympathy and respect for vulnerable old people.

  Unfortunately, it was working.

  ‘So you see, if you turn us in to the insurance company, the consequences for the residents could be katastrofalne.’ Stefan’s habitual air of sardonic amusement had disappeared, leaving him sounding old and defeated.

  Recalling the residents he’d met, and Wojtek’s homely room, Janusz suddenly saw an image of the red tin his dziadzia’s pipe tobacco had come in. The chiselled profile of a handsome naval kapitan smoking a pipe, the backswept lines of a warship behind him. He’d loved that tin, as a boy – had clamoured to be allowed to fill his grandfather’s pipe from it.

  Janusz ground out his dead cigar underfoot, lost for words. After a moment, he got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll … be in touch.’

  He didn’t have long to dwell on the dilemma that Stefan had left him with. A text message from Barbara at the nail bar sent him racing the three stops west on the Central line to Stratford.

  There, a square of fresh plywood replacing the glass panel in the nail bar door told a familiar story.

  ‘When was the break-in?’ Janusz asked Barbara, before they’d even embraced.

  ‘Last night,’ she said, lifting one shoulder – a gesture that reminded Janusz so vividly of Kasia that for a moment, it stole his breath. ‘Our insurance premiums will go up now, of course. And we don’t even keep any cash here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know sooner? I would have come straight down.’

  ‘Bless you, Janek. You have enough to do looking for poor dear Kasia.’ Locking the door behind them she ushered him inside. ‘Is there any news?’

  He shook his head. ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘Nothing seems to be missing. They broke this open’ – she indicated a drawer in the desk at reception, its leading edge splintered – ‘but all we kee
p inside are the spare keys. I’m having the locks changed, naturalnie. And the police were here this morning taking fingerprints.’

  ‘Dobrze,’ he patted her hand. ‘You’re doing all the right things.’

  Her eyes scanned his face. ‘You don’t think it’s got anything to do with Kasia?’

  ‘Nie, nie.’ Break-ins were hardly a rarity in this part of London and Janusz saw no point in frightening her when he had no proof that this was any more than a random burglary – the most likely perpetrator some junkie looking for petty cash. Still, it set his brain buzzing. If Steve had been involved in some kind of heist, and was now falling out with his fellow thieves in murderous fashion, then the break-in could be related. Did one of Steve’s crew suspect him of hiding the proceeds of the job in his wife’s workplace? Whatever the ‘burglars’ had been looking for – having failed to find it, they had no reason to return.

  ‘Listen, Barbara. Do you know if Kasia had any friends in Epping? Did she ever talk about going to visit someone out there?’

  ‘Epp-ing?’ Barbara split the unfamiliar English word into separate syllables. ‘No … I don’t think so. Is it important?’

  ‘Maybe. You said that on Monday mornings she worked from home, on the website, following up emails?’

  ‘Tak.’

  ‘She didn’t mention anything about having to go to Essex on Monday, before coming to work? Something to do with Steve, maybe?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of, Janek. Did you look on her laptop …?’

  ‘I searched the flat but I couldn’t find it.’ Janusz took her hand. ‘Barbara, think hard now, what might take her out of town into Essex?’

  Barbara shook her head, distress clouding her face. ‘Sometimes she would go to meet new suppliers … but I don’t think she ever mentioned Epp-ing.’

  Pulling out his phone, Janusz punched Epping into Google Maps. ‘Sawbridgeworth, Abridge, Nazeing …’ he read out place names that looked within easy reach of the station.

  ‘What’s that?’ She pointed over his shoulder at the great green swathe to the south.