Anya Lipska - A Devil Under the Skin

‘I haven’t come to make confession, prosze pana. I need to talk to you about Kasia Fisher.’

Father Pietruski dropped his gaze, but not before Janusz saw his face sag in disappointment – and something else. Disapproval. Unlike Janusz, Kasia made her confession once a week without fail, so the old boy knew all about their affair, and since he steadfastly refused to recognise even Janusz’s two-decades-old divorce, in his eyes they were both committed and unrepentant adulterers.

‘Come into the vestry,’ he said. Janusz followed him through a side door, noting with a pang how stooped the old guy was getting, and how the sparse silver combover barely covered his age-spotted scalp.

Pietruski lowered himself into one of two dilapidated leather armchairs and waved at the other. ‘ Siadaj. Sit. You’d better tell me what all this is about.’

Janusz sketched out what he knew about Kasia’s disappearance, her failure to show up at work and the couple’s empty flat. When he mentioned that she’d been due to move into his apartment, Pietruski didn’t look happy, but he didn’t betray any surprise either.

Janusz felt his spirits lift. The fact that Kasia had got up the courage to tell her priest she was leaving the marriage dissipated any last whisper of doubt he might have had about her changing her mind.

‘Perhaps she realised the terrible sin she was about to commit in betraying her marriage vows,’ said Pietruski, sending Janusz a reproachful look. ‘A sin you seem determined to encourage her in, despite being a married man yourself.’ He plucked distractedly at the embroidered cover on the arm of his chair.

Janusz tried to tell himself that he was immune to the old man’s disapproval, but he knew that wasn’t true. Pietruski had saved him from self-annihilation when he first arrived from Poland, a skinny nineteen-year-old fleeing a disastrous marriage. He’d wed Marta just weeks after his girlfriend Iza died at a demonstration against the Communist regime – a tragedy for which he held himself responsible. Father Pietruski – still in possession of a full head of hair back then – had found him sprawled across the steps of this very church, insensible with wodka. He had given Janusz a meal and found him somewhere to sleep, later introducing him to the Irish building contractor who gave him his first labouring job.

Janusz shifted about in the armchair – its high leather sides made it narrow and too deep for comfort, and an errant spring in the base pressed insistently into the back of his thigh. ‘I respect your views on how we should conduct our lives, Father,’ he said, making an effort to keep his temper. ‘But the fact remains that Kasia is an adult woman, free to do as she sees fit.’

‘The modern-day doctrine of “please oneself”, you mean? Which has brought people nothing but unhappiness, it seems to me. You do realise, that if she does leave, you can never marry, naturalnie ?’ The look in Pietruski’s eyes was one of profound compassion.

The marriage question meant next to nothing to Janusz – his faith was a hazy affair, grounded more in nostalgia and respect for tradition than in any profound supernatural belief – although he knew what it would cost Kasia to live in sin for the rest of their days together, denied the sacrament of communion.

‘I’m not here to debate doctrine. And I don’t think Kasia has gone missing because she’s suddenly seen the light – I think her husband has abducted her.’

Pietruski blinked rapidly. ‘Surely not? Might they not simply have gone away to celebrate his birthday?’

Janusz stared at him for a moment. ‘It was you who persuaded her to stay till his birthday, wasn’t it?’

The old man lifted his chin. ‘You know very well that I cannot divulge what is said within the sacred confines of the confessional,’ he said – as good as confirming Janusz’s hunch – ‘but I would never apologise for doing everything within my power to preserve the sacrament of marriage.’

Janusz imagined the guilt trip the priest would have laid on Kasia about her plan to leave her husband. He could practically hear the scheming old bastard murmuring through the grille of the confession box: ‘ Stay until his birthday, at least. Surely you owe him that? ’

Abandoning himself to a surge of rage, Janusz jack-knifed out of the chair, freeing himself from its imprisoning embrace.

‘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.

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.