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

by Anya Lipska

  ‘Epping Forest,’ he said. He and Kasia had been there last autumn picking boletas – he still had the last two strings of them, dried, their bosky aroma perfuming his pantry.

  ‘Las … Las …’ she said, musingly, before taking off to the back of the shop. Janusz could see her peering at bits of paper pinned up on a corkboard, still murmuring to herself. When she came back, she was wearing an excited expression and carrying a pink Post-it note.

  Seeing Kasia’s familiar hand made his chest contract. What she had scrawled, evidently in haste, were the words Sanktuarium Lasu, and a postcode starting CM16. ‘Forest Sanctuary,’ he read.

  ‘To prawda!’ said Barbara, excitement raising the pitch of her voice. ‘Some kind of spa hotel. When you said “forest” I suddenly remembered Kasia mentioning it a few days ago.’

  CM could stand for Chelmsford. The nearest big town to Epping.

  Janusz tapped the name and postcode into his phone and up popped a website. The Forest Sanctuary and Spa Hotel, Epping Magna. Bingo.

  The Forest Sanctuary Hotel had once been a golf club, but its greens had been ‘lovingly landscaped’ into gardens, and ladies in towelling bathrobes had taken the place of crusty old men wearing club ties. When guests tired of the pool, steam room and sauna, they could take a variety of what the website grandly called ‘treatments’. Janusz clicked through the picture gallery with a mystified expression, marvelling, not for the first time, at the apparently limitless ways in which women could be separated from their hard-earned cash – or that of their husbands. Why, in the Name of all the Saints, would anyone pay good money to have hot rocks piled on their back?

  ‘This Forest place telephoned here?’ Barbara nodded. ‘And did Kasia say what they wanted?’

  ‘We were very busy when they called.’ Her shrug was apologetic. ‘But I think they wanted to talk about offering a nail extension service, for their guests.’

  ‘But who would run it? You two couldn’t leave the shop?’

  ‘Kasia always said we could easily train someone up if we wanted to expand. She was so clever about business.’

  He nodded, it was just like Kasia – even on the day she was moving house – to race out to Epping on a new business enquiry.

  A stricken look creased Barbara’s face. ‘I should have remembered all this before! It’s just she never mentioned it again, Janek, never said she was going there.’

  ‘Nie, don’t worry, Barbara,’ he soothed.

  But to his alarm, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Barbara! Please don’t upset yourself. I’ll check the place out, but it probably has nothing to do with her disappearing.’

  She looked up at him, her eyes like those of a woman drowning, shaking her head. ‘Janek, I hope you can forgive me. There’s something else.’

  The ‘something else’ that burst out of Kasia’s best friend on a flood of tears and self-recrimination left him staggering like a teenage boxer who’s taken his first knockout punch.

  Kasia had been keeping a secret.

  Nineteen

  Kershaw didn’t think anything of it when her old boss DS ‘Streaky’ Bacon called to suggest a drink that evening: after the stabbing, when she’d left murder squad to train as a firearms officer, he’d made a point of keeping in touch.

  They arranged to meet in ‘The Moon’ on Hoe Street, Walthamstow nick’s favourite watering hole. Officially called the Dog and Duck, the nickname was a reference to its absence of any detectable atmosphere. The drinks, however, were what Streaky liked to call ‘reassuringly inexpensive’.

  ‘How are your sessions with the head doctor going?’ he asked, licking foam from his gingery moustache.

  ‘Oh you know,’ Kershaw rolled her eyes, ‘raking over my childhood, all that old cobblers.’ Then, clocking his look, ‘I know … talk the talk. I am doing, Sarge, honest.’ In fact, she was surprised to feel a little twinge of guilt at dissing the shrink, Paula. She was only doing her job, after all.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. The more of a struggle you put up, the longer it’ll drag on. Who are you seeing, anyway?’

  ‘Paula Reeve.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘She seems nice enough, but I don’t think she’s got the first idea what it’s like, being in the Job.’

  A smile twitched at Streaky’s lips. After pausing to dispatch a third of his pint in one epic swallow, he asked, ‘“How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?”’

  She shook her head as protocol demanded.

  ‘“Only one, but it takes twelve visits.”’

  He split open a packet of crisps on the tabletop to form a foil platter, then sprinkled the contents of a bag of salted peanuts carefully on top, before inviting Kershaw to share the feast with a gracious gesture.

  ‘So do you still think you made the right decision?’ he asked, through a mouthful of crisp-and-nut. ‘Giving up a proper career as a detective to join the boys with toys brigade?’

  ‘Yeah. I feel at home in SCO19.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Or I will once they give me my weapon back and trust me not to blow someone’s head off.’

  Streaky snorted. ‘Trust you to use it, more like.’

  Kershaw stared at him: she’d always assumed the whole shrink thing was to find out whether the experience of being attacked outside the Maccy D’s might make her trigger-happy, next time she was out on an op. Now she realised it was just as much about ensuring that – if the situation arose – she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot to kill again.

  ‘Because, much as it pains me to say it, you were a good detective,’ he said, using a dampened finger to pick up the crisp crumbs.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  ‘For a woman,’ he added.

  After buying the next round, she’d just sat down again when Streaky dropped his little stink-bomb.

  ‘So what’s your interest in Steven Fisher?’

  What the fuck? Streaky’s pale blue eyes looked guileless enough, but it occurred to her that the last half-hour’s chit-chat might have been all about putting her at ease – just like he’d taught her to do when interviewing a suspect.

  ‘Steven Fisher …?’ She frowned into her Sauvignon, like the name rang a distant bell, giving herself a moment to think. Decided that the only way Streaky could possibly know about her interest in Fisher was because he’d seen the trail she’d left while searching the database for his criminal record. ‘Oh yeah …’ she said. ‘He’s a distant contact of some guy we’ve got under surveillance.’ That sounded all right. SCO19 did occasionally get involved in surveillance when they had advance intel on armed robberies and the like. ‘I ran a PNC search on him.’ Always good to offer more than was necessary – something she’d learned from the smarter breed of scumbag she’d interrogated over the years.

  ‘Did you come up with anything?’

  ‘Nah. He’s pretty small beer, isn’t he?’ Her eyes wide over the rim of her glass.

  ‘Has been up till now,’ said Streaky. ‘But his name’s come up in connection with a murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ It was all she could do to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Yeah. Nasty business. A mate of his, Bill Boyce, was found hanged from his own shower rail.’

  ‘A staged suicide?’ asked Kershaw casually, all the while wondering if Streaky could hear her heart thumping.

  Streaky snorted. ‘Pretty half-arsed attempt. Especially since he was worked over with a blowtorch first.’

  She made a face. ‘Nasty. Was he a villain?’

  ‘No, he’s clean as a whistle.’ Streaky frowned. ‘No clue as to motive except that he was pals with a couple of local bad boys, including your friend Steve Fisher.’ His gaze fell on her knee, which she realised had been jigging up and down of its own volition.

  She stilled it. ‘Murder sounds a bit out of Fisher’s league, though’ – those pale eyes of his met hers again – ‘from what I recall of his record, I mean, which isn’t much.’

  Streaky dug deep in his ea
r with his little finger, examining what he found there with an impartial gaze. ‘Maybe they had a falling-out over money, or a woman. Fisher’s not been seen for a few days – even missed a friend’s funeral, I heard.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, another lowlife called Jared Bateman. You must have seen it on Fisher’s file. The pair of them got done for handling gear from that Felixstowe lorry job – the one where the driver took a bullet in the spine?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember now,’ she said. ‘So this Jared’s death – is it suspicious?’

  ‘Nah. Household electrocution. Accidental, according to the PM.’ He drained his glass, pointed at hers. ‘Another one of those?’

  While Streaky was at the bar, Kershaw chewed guiltily on a ragged fingernail. The fact that Steve was in the frame for murder put a whole new slant on her bit of freelance detective work for Kiszka. She ought to ’fess up to the whole thing, of course, tell the Sarge what she knew. On the other hand, it wasn’t like she had anything concrete yet. If, as seemed increasingly likely, Steve had murdered his mate after some job, she could get more out of Kiszka by piggybacking his hunt for Kasia. Handing him over to Streaky would only risk him clamming up – or worse, going AWOL.

  The rest of the evening was spent catching up on the latest gossip from the nick. After last orders, out on the street, poised to go in their separate directions, Streaky lit a fag, before fixing his gaze on her through the upcurl of smoke. She wondered if he was going to return to the subject of Steve Fisher.

  Instead he said: ‘By the way, your psychologist – Paula Reeve? The one who’s clueless about the Job?’

  ‘Yeah …?’

  ‘She was a uniform sergeant back in the day. Got a gong for bravery.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Straight up. She disarmed a man with a knife trying to rob a cashier in a Tesco Express in the Lea Bridge Road.’

  ‘Christ, I had no idea.’

  ‘Got a punctured lung for her trouble.’ Turning to go, he threw her a grin over his shoulder. ‘Maybe you’re not such a good detective after all.’

  Twenty

  Just after 9 a.m. the next morning, Oskar’s Transit van peeled off from the mile-long tailback that had slowed the traffic on the North Circular to a sclerotic dribble, and ascended the relatively empty slip road onto the M11 northbound.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ grumbled Oskar as the diesel engine laboured its way up to 60mph. ‘I still don’t see why we couldn’t have waited an hour, to let all the nine-to-fivers get to work.’

  Janusz ignored him. After what he’d learned from Barbara the previous evening, his initial impulse had been to set out for the Forest Sanctuary Hotel there and then, but on reflection he’d decided it would be better to wait and go first thing with Oskar. A lone man checking in for the Forest Sanctuary’s ‘Spa Experience Package’ would surely look suspicious, and if he did find any kind of lead to Kasia’s whereabouts, having the van might come in handy.

  ‘I still say they’re gonna think we’re a pair of pedziow, sharing a hotel room,’ complained Oskar.

  ‘Not with your dress sense,’ said Janusz, grinning at the sight of his mate’s rotund form squeezed into a royal blue jacket made of some shiny, flammable-looking fabric, paired with patent leather shoes in burgundy. ‘Where the fuck did you get that outfit – a joke shop?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Oskar, looking down at his get-up. ‘You said to dress smart! I bought this for an elegancki wedding in Gdansk.’

  ‘What, in 1979?’ asked Janusz. ‘Anyway, I told you – I’m not paying out for separate rooms just because you’re insecure about your sexuality.’

  Oskar gave him a considering look. ‘What’s got you so chirpy today, anyway? Is it the chance of seeing my naked butt in the steam room?’ He did a suggestive shimmy in his seat, causing the van to swerve onto the rumble strip of the hard shoulder.

  ‘Watch the fucking road, turniphead!’ Janusz reached for his cigars. Oskar was right: he was in better spirits today. Partly because he felt he was finally a step closer to finding Kasia; but mostly because of what Barbara had confessed.

  Kasia was pregnant. Saying the words to himself, he felt his mouth curve once again into a foolish smile.

  It explained a lot about how she’d been acting lately, now he thought about it – the drawn look and loss of appetite, the way she’d suddenly given up smoking – as well as the preoccupied, almost secretive air he’d sensed about her. You’re some detective, idiota, he told himself.

  According to Barbara, Kasia had been planning to tell him after they moved in together. Not that she’d be worried about his reaction: the subject had come up on a mushroom-picking jaunt in Epping Forest the previous autumn. They’d been talking about his boy Bobek, and he’d let slip that he wouldn’t mind having another child – the words ‘with you’ left unspoken yet understood. She had shrugged, and smiled her inscrutable smile, but perhaps the exchange had sparked something in her – started her thinking about a new life, in more ways than one.

  Since hearing the news, Janusz had found himself swinging from elation to despair and back again. If Steve had found out that Kasia was pregnant, it was possibly what had driven him to take such desperate measures – having realised that, this time, she was serious about leaving him. In any event, the knowledge of his lover’s vulnerable state made Janusz even more desperate to find her. And the girl detektyw’s involvement only added to the urgency: it was surely just a matter of time before Natalia discovered the shocking mortality rate among Steve’s pals, and sent the balloon up. Now more than ever, the idea of Kasia’s rescue being taken over by the cops filled him with a cold fear.

  The Forest Sanctuary Hotel looked a good deal less impressive when stripped of the glamorising filter of website photography and graphics, although its appeal wasn’t enhanced by a backdrop of a lowering sky and the persistent drizzle which set in just as they arrived. From the tacky-looking entrance board to the static-producing carpet in reception, everything about the place looked to Janusz like it had been done on the cheap.

  ‘Are you all right there?’ asked the girl on reception.

  ‘We’re checking in for the Spa Experience Package’ – words that, until now, Janusz could never have imagined passing his lips – ‘name of Beck, James and Christopher Beck.’ As instructed, Oskar hung back, checking out a display stand of leaflets.

  If the receptionist saw anything odd in the two middle-aged men checking in for a spa package, one with a posh yet indefinably foreign accent and wearing a threadbare military-type coat, the other dressed like an eighties game show host, she was too polite to let it show.

  ‘Double or twin beds?’

  ‘Twin,’ chorused Janusz and Oskar.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the girl, frowning at her computer screen. ‘The system’s playing up today.’ While she tapped away at the keyboard, Janusz dipped his head to smell a bowl of lurid peonies on the desk. Artificial.

  ‘Okay. Your room is ready for you. Let’s get you booked in for your treatments.’ She opened the brochure on the desk in front of him and read out what was on offer.

  Kurwa! This was terra incognita to Janusz, and yet turning down the free session included in the spa package might look suspicious. ‘The, umm, aromatherapy massage with Magda?’ he asked. That sounded straightforward. ‘And for my brother, the one you mentioned with Agnieszka?’

  ‘The VitaMan Special?’

  ‘Yeah, that one.’

  Their room, located in a new annexe attached to the rear of the hotel, confirmed Janusz’s opinion of the place. The furniture looked fairly new but its veneer was already peeling, the cheap foam mattresses were designed to repel boarders, and air freshener couldn’t quite conceal the insinuation of damp which hung about the room.

  ‘What am I having done, Janek?’ asked Oskar, emerging from the bathroom in a white towelling robe. ‘You might have asked me first.’

  ‘No idea, Oskar, I just picked the o
nes with Polish girls. If we chat them up, they might give us something useful. But don’t give the girl a questionnaire, okay? Be dyskretny.’

  ‘Dyskretny, tak,’ Oskar nodded. ‘So … what am I supposed to talk about?’

  ‘Just chit-chat. Talk to her about your blood group diet. Then you can move on to how she likes working here. And don’t mention Kasia – naturalnie.’

  ‘Naturalnie.’ Oskar nodded, adopting a businesslike frown. ‘But it’s okay to ask for a “happy ending”, right?’ He hooted with laughter, slapping his naked thigh. ‘Ah, Janek, you should see your face!’

  Janusz eyed him anxiously. A couple of years back, Oskar had played detective on one of his cases behind his back – earning himself a brutal beating by gangsters. After that, Janusz had never let him get anywhere near an investigation again. It was only because this case involved Kasia – and a pregnant Kasia, at that – that he’d accepted Oskar’s impassioned offers of help.

  Ten minutes later, Janusz was lying face down on a massage table, naked but for an ancient pair of swimming shorts, the sound of panpipes coming through the speakers doing nothing to reduce his anxiety levels. Magda might be a blonde-haired slip of a girl in a white tunic, but he’d felt less vulnerable facing armed thugs.

  She was certainly chatty, though. Within a few minutes he’d learned that she’d been brought up in Krakow, where she had studied for a degree in ‘health and beauty’ – he’d had no idea such a thing existed – and that her boyfriend was English and a graphic designer.

  ‘I went to university in Krakow, back in the eighties,’ he said, trying not to flinch as she started to massage his back and shoulders with pungent-smelling rosemary oil, which she claimed would ‘energise’ him.

  ‘Naprawde? Under Communism? My mama says it was terrible back then. What did you study?’

  ‘Physics and chemistry. At Jagiellonski.’

  ‘Wow, Jagiellonski! You must have been a bit of a brainbox!’

  Janusz grunted, torn between a sense of gratified vanity that his alma mater still prompted respect in the younger generation, and irritation at her use of the past tense.