A Devil Under the Skin. Anya Lipska

      ‘You care so much about her soul that you never considered she might be in danger of her life,’ he growled. ‘You, who must surely know of his violence towards her?’

      ‘A man striking a woman is an evil I would never …’

      Janusz didn’t let him finish. ‘If she has come to harm because of your interference, I shall never forgive you.’

      The words were out of his mouth before he even knew he’d said them, ringing around the stone walls of the vestry like a curse.

      As he strode up the aisle of the empty church, he could still see the stricken expression on the face of his father confessor as if it were branded on his brain.

Eleven

      While Janusz was quizzing Father Pietruski at St Stanislaus, Kershaw was back home in her flat on the blower to her cousin Jason in Special Branch for the second time that day.

      ‘Any joy?’ she asked.

      ‘Yep. It’s actually one of the easier things you’ve asked for.’

      Kershaw had called Jason right after she’d left Kiszka, to see if he could get hold of the passenger manifest for flight AM47 to Alicante, the one Steve had booked himself and Kasia onto. Jason wasn’t supposed to run checks without signed documentation, of course, but since she was godmother – and occasional babysitter – to his two increasingly boisterous boys, he’d been happy to do her the favour.

      ‘You won’t get into any trouble, will you?’ she asked.

      ‘Nah. We’re always asking the airlines for stuff like that. Anyway, the girl there fancies me.’

      ‘Who can blame her?’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘So, were they on the flight or what?’

      ‘Nope. They were both marked down as no-shows.’

      She felt a little buzz of excitement. Kiszka had been right about one thing: Steve and his wife hadn’t boarded the flight. ‘Thanks, Jason. I appreciate it.’

      ‘No worries. When are you coming over anyway? The boys would love to see their Auntie Nat – and Kirsty was saying the other day we haven’t seen you in ages.’

      Together with Jason’s mum, her Auntie Carol, they were the only family Kershaw had left and yet it must be a year at least, she realised, since she’d been out to Billericay to visit. Since the shooting – in fact, even since she got stabbed – she’d become a bit of a hermit, her life distilling down to a cycle of work, drink, sleep: her only social life the occasional after-work drink or visit to the gym.

      Before hanging up, she promised Jason that once spring finally arrived, she’d come out for a family barbecue.

      Kershaw reached for the last bottle of Argentinian Malbec in the rack, before switching the kettle on instead – she needed a clear head to think things through. Obviously, it was still a major leap from a missed flight to believing that Steve was holed up somewhere, holding Kasia against her will, but she wondered whether she should just play it safe and report Kasia Fisher missing to Walthamstow CID. Coming from her, they might be persuaded to take it seriously. But by the time the kettle had boiled she’d concluded that it would still sit in someone’s inbox for days before any action would be taken. Meanwhile, she was sitting around on her arse with her brain on standby.

      She decided there was only one sensible course of action: do the initial spadework herself, and if she found any solid leads on Kasia’s whereabouts, hand the case over to her old boss, DS ‘Streaky’ Bacon. Congratulating herself on having made the right decision, she opened the cupboard and awarded herself a chocolate biscuit.

Twelve

      The following day, Janusz found himself once again passing through the pillared portico of St Francis of Assisi Residential Home. He’d been hyper-vigilant during the journey from Highbury – but had seen no evidence of anyone tailing him. He’d even considered postponing today’s appointment to check Wojtek Raczynski’s passport, before deciding that it was better to stay busy, if only to try to keep his mind off the Kasia situation. What good would it do her, after all, if he let himself go to pieces?

      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.