A long time elapsed before they’d noted down and set the previous evening’s statements in order.
The second chapter of questioning started with a second coffee.
‘I know you weren’t in touch with Mr Mikulski but maybe you can remember something, something specific…’ He didn’t have time to finish.
‘I don’t want to but unfortunately I have to suspect something. It’s the windows again.’
He didn’t say anything but his face must have taken on a peculiar expression.
‘Washing the windows this time,’ she added. ‘I didn’t immediately remember about Mrs Krystyna,’ she continued. ‘Mrs Krystyna used to clean my office for a couple of years, and a few other local offices too, as far as I know. I had mixed feelings about her. Not her, perhaps, but the situation, to be exact. She was a good worker. You hardly saw her but could immediately see when she hadn’t been. My best employee, all in all, except that she often asked to be paid in advance. She later admitted, she needed the money to pay lawyers for her sons who were always where they shouldn’t be, not from any fault of their own, of course – they were good lads, it wasn’t their fault and so on. I felt sorry for her. They are her children, after all, but, on the other hand, the computers were mine. Not that she was going to steal them, you understand, it’s not that, but she might have moaned about the cleaning, how hard it was with all those cables, all that equipment, or something like that. The problem resolved itself a year ago. The place was undergoing lengthy refurbishment and Mrs Krystyna wasn’t needed. I was to phone her when it was finished but didn’t – nor did she phone me. I hire through a cleaning agency now and don’t ask about children anymore.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m telling you all this so you don’t jump in with accusations. She’s a good woman and I’ve never suspected her of anything. But I do know that Mrs Krystyna washed Mr Mikulski’s windows and that she has the sons she has.’
‘Did she wash the windows when Mrs Mikulska was still alive?’
‘Yes. Probably for about a year before she died. I remember her telling me that poor Mrs Mikulska had broken her leg washing those windows and it wasn’t healing. It turned out that it wasn’t ever going to heal because she had some sort of cancer. She grumbled something about the same thing being in store for her because she’d almost fallen off a ladder, but better that she fell than the old man because who would look after him – that’s the way it is when you don’t have children.’ She broke off for a moment. ‘We even talked about the Mikulskis a little. I won’t say I didn’t think about those antiques and those children which it’s good to have, the same as I’d thought about my computers, but I didn’t say anything at the time.’ Again she paused briefly. ‘Tell me, please, was it a burglary?’
‘We really can’t say or exclude anything at the moment, although there aren’t any traces of a typical murder involving burglary or assault.’
‘Thank God,’ she sighed with relief.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I saw one of Mrs Krystyna’s sons once, standing with his mother. I only glimpsed him from the car window, but it was enough for me to assess him as being capable – in the worst scenario – of something typical and maybe also some sort of primitive rape.’
‘We have to check it out anyway. Do you remember her surname?’
‘Yes, Bończak. She lived in Rybaki. Please don’t say you learned this from me. It’s unfair on Mrs Krystyna. She was a hard worker and I’ve no reason to suspect her. I’m contradicting myself but…’
He didn’t allow her to finish.
‘I don’t think there’ll be any such need. Would you like to add anything?’ He very much wanted her to add something; he was in no hurry to take the next step which awaited him.
‘No, I can’t recall anything else at the moment.’
‘Did you know Mr and Mrs Mikulski’s son?’
‘I saw him a couple of times.’ Bartol had the impression the question embarrassed her. He decided to continue along this path.
‘And when was the last time?’
‘About ten years ago.’
‘Was he at his mother’s funeral?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I didn’t say I know but I think.’ Two thick furrows cut her forehead. ‘Mrs Bończyk was.’
He watched her stiffen and tense, preparing for an attack. He saw he’d played it wrong and decided not to ask any more questions.
‘I’ll see you down, if that’s all.’
She got up.
‘There’s no need. The building isn’t very complicated.’
‘But I have to accompany you.’
‘Well, if that’s the case.’ Here she smiled, unexpectedly and broadly; in an instant her face softened.
Well, that’s goodbye to fine perfumes, he thought, watching her leave. Beautiful Rybaki, nothing but small fry – every other one with a record since nursery. His men had even mentioned one such fish recently who, born in prison, had waited eighteen years to find himself in there again, was knifed in a fight and died. A career like that, a street like that.
Bartol phoned the local police. Twenty minutes later he already had information concerning both Mrs Bończak and her sons. The sons were doing time like good boys, and Mrs Bończak, surprisingly, was at home.
She’d broken her leg.
Edmund Wieczorek, hiding behind the kitchen window curtain, gazed long and calmly at Matejko Street. There was still time, he thought, about ten, fifteen minutes.
He had the ideal observation point; the four-window bay protruding far beyond the façade of the building practically hung over the pavement. It sufficed for him to wait, and he knew perfectly well how to wait; that’s all he’d done for the past ten years. He’d grown used to it, even liked it.
No force could have torn him away from the window. He knew it was good to know one’s opponent and be properly prepared. Much could be read from the gait and bearing of a man, and he wouldn’t have such an opportunity if he didn’t set eyes on the man until he was at the front door.
Years of observation had turned Wieczorek into a master; that’s how he thought of himself. Many people would, no doubt, have shared this view if they’d only had the chance, but now no more than a few were at all interested in his existence. Such was the curse of the elderly.
Mr Edmund was practically shaking with excitement; only a couple of minutes to go.
‘Just play it right, just play it right,’ he repeated in his head.
Nobody had appeared as yet, nobody who might have been the policeman who’d called.
‘Aha, a car’s just parked, that could be it, no, it’s a woman,’ he was now talking to himself. ‘Ah, there he is, that must be him, fat, heavy. Good, a slow thinker. If he’s out of breath before he gets to the first floor, I’ve got him.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘I’m in for a good time. What a surprise, and so soon. Who’d have thought that old Mikulski… such a bore. Oh, he hadn’t been all that nice lately, hadn’t listened, hadn’t picked up my calls, serves him right. I don’t know much but I’ll think of something. Aha, there’s the bell, great, it’s him.’
He walked up to the door, pressed the intercom, opened the door, adjusted the cushion one more time and sat down in his wheelchair.
‘He’s taking his time. Panting.’ Wieczorek listened to the sounds coming from the loudly creaking, enormous staircase. ‘Good on us, Edmund, just play it right, just play it right,’ he whispered to himself.
Maćkowiak walked very slowly; his knees had been giving him pain recently, both knees. He grimaced first at the tenement, then at the sight of the high stairs.
‘I hope it’s not the top floor, otherwise I’ll go mad. Why is it always me who gets the stairs?’ he complained to himself. ‘I’ll switch to the corruption squad and get high-speed lifts.’ He smiled; he’d prefer to climb even to the very loft.
He didn’t complain to anyone because he didn’t like complaining. As it
was, he knew that everyone would say the same thing his glib orthopaedist had said: ‘Lose at least fifteen kilos, then we’ll start to treat your joints or they’ll improve of their own accord.’ He recalled the words as he slowly mounted the high, wooden steps.
‘As it is I’m only eating half of what I want. It’s as if I was on a diet,’ – he praised himself and once more smiled the smile of good-natured people – ‘while being overweight.’
Generally speaking, he was the least stressed policeman in the entire station. They’d only once seen him annoyed at work and that was when the sweet buns, which he’d brought himself, had disappeared from the table. All ten of them.
Ah, the first floor thankfully, he thought, seeing the number on the door.
The door opened slowly to reveal a small, elderly man in a wheelchair, wearing a tie.
‘Good morning, how punctual,’ Mr Edmund greeted him amicably.
‘Good morning,’ Maćkowiak replied.
I’m in for a wheelchair like that, he thought, but the frame’s going to have to be stronger.
The apartment was large; too large again, it seemed, for one man. Even the clutter of furniture – this time from the Gierek era – didn’t diminish the impression of space. The furniture was decidedly too low.
‘You live alone?’
‘Ever since mummy died nine years ago,’ said Mr Edmund pulling a forlorn face.
Maćkowiak didn’t feel all that sorry for him as he studied the box-like furniture. The same as in his own apartment, but with one difference; he constantly had to squeeze between the furniture at home, while here he didn’t even rub against it even though it stood on both sides of the hallway. For a brief moment, he envied the old man. He himself lived in three rooms with his wife, daughter, granddaughter and fat dachshund, Sunia. A vet had told him that both he and the dog had to lose at least half their weight. He never visited the vet again.
‘You already know why I’m here,’ said Maćkowiak, and Mr Edmund hung his head. ‘I’m very sorry your friend has passed away but we need to talk…’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, seeing Mr Edmund’s head still hanging. It only now occurred to him that he was dealing with an old man. He became scared of potential complications, the wheelchair, the first floor and everything else.
‘There aren’t many of us left, you know, and it’s hard for those of us who are still around, but what can one do, what can one do…’ Mr Edmund nodded sadly. ‘One has more friends up there than here… But I’m not going anywhere yet, my turn will come, too. Please don’t worry, it’s only my legs that don’t work, my heart you might envy.’
What a spiteful old man, thought Maćkowiak. He heard me panting on the stairs, he must have heard. Okay, we’re not going to beat around the bush.
‘Mr Antoniusz Mikulski was murdered two days ago. Please tell me when you saw him last, what you talked about. As far as you remember.’
‘We can talk about cholesterol, too!’ riposted Mr Edmund, frowning none too sternly.
‘Sorry if I formulated that badly,’ said Maćkowiak, now a little amused.
‘I spoke to him about two weeks ago, but you must know that already. We talked about German armaments in Africa during the Second World War. We argued. I believe that the "Desert Fox’"… But that probably doesn’t interest you. Anyway, I didn’t want to argue over the phone, it costs money, so we arranged to see each other the following week. I went to see him. He was a bit strange. I asked what the matter was but he didn’t say anything. Then, after that young man arrived with whom he had a long discussion about something in the kitchen, he was absolutely good for nothing. I said goodbye and went home. I was even a little offended. I never saw him again. No doubt I should have questioned him more about what was on his mind. I’m not nosy – usually that’s a virtue – but this time, obviously…’ He paused then, shaking his head, added: ‘Who’d have thought, who’d have thought.’
Slowly but surely, we’re getting somewhere, thought Maćkowiak, and asked: ‘Would you recognise the young man?’
‘This might disappoint you, but yes. I had a good look at him… I can help draw up an identikit of the man.’
‘Excellent, but you’ll have to get yourself to the police station. We’ll help you, of course.’
‘Please don’t worry yourself. I’ll get myself down the stairs, well, perhaps with a little help. It’s just that I can’t walk for too long.’
Wieczorek had already rejected the option of being carried downstairs yesterday; it could have discouraged them too soon.
‘Then perhaps you could accompany me straight away? That would be best. Your statements could prove very important.’
‘How shall I put it? The pleasure’s entirely mine? Give me ten minutes, please.’ He turned his wheelchair and propelled himself to another room.
‘It’s worked, it’s worked! Good for us, Edmund, good for us,’ he whispered to himself with satisfaction.
Maciej Bartol had been stuck in traffic for twenty minutes and not moved twenty metres. And it wasn’t even rush hour. He was livid, like everyone else. He wondered whether anybody worked in this city or only drove to the centre and back. What were all these people doing? Eleven o’clock, shouldn’t they have been in their offices or at home? He preferred not to think what it was going to be like at three.
He picked up his phone and glanced at his mirrors to make sure there wasn’t a police car nearby. He hated using the speaker mode and hearing the echo at the other end. He didn’t even want to think about some stupid earphones. The prospect of being stopped for driving and talking over the phone didn’t appeal to him either. What driving? – he thought, seeing only three cars manage to jump across the crossroads.
Only two days earlier he had slipped onto the roadside, having been flagged down by a regular patrol car. He’d even heard the boy say: ‘Don’t you know you’re a danger?’ before he’d pulled out his identification and merely nodded his approbation of the authority’s vigilance. The older cop had smiled understandingly and shrugged. Bartol had thought that that was it, but no. The younger one had added, in all seriousness: ‘You ought to be setting an example.' Maciej had been astounded. He thanked the boy for his advice, predicted a career for him, closed the door, drove away and called back.
Finally, he was across the intersection.
He called the police station. The news was good, if not excellent. Maćkowiak was bringing in a granddad who could recognise someone whom Mikulski had argued with a week before his death. At last, human reactions in this still life.
He tapped out his mother’s number, hoping she might remember some Latin dicta. When, after a long while – no doubt she was searching in her handbag for the phone – she replied, he asked: ‘Do you know what Dum spiro spero might mean?’
‘Come over and I’ll tell you.’
He might have predicted this would happen, but he hadn’t.
‘This is serious, mum, take it seriously.’
‘I treat your life very seriously indeed, as well as the life you’ve brought into being. You had a responsible father, your child evidently hasn’t had the same luck, but it’s not its fault. You aren’t twenty anymore for me to feel sorry for you. Your child should be going to school already and have long eyelaashes, just like you-know who.'.’
He regretted having phoned.
‘Are the girl’s parents in Poznań?’
‘Mum, this is not the time!’
‘It was the ideal time to prolong the species so time must be found for the consequences – yes or no? I’m asking you again!’
‘No, she lives alone, her parents live somewhere near Kielce.’
‘Have you thought whether she's got anybody to call if anything should go wrong? Any friends, because she hasn’t got any family! She’s carrying a second heart within her yet hasn’t a soul to speak to! Which phone number did you give her? The private one you hardly ever use? Don’t even answer that, I know the answer. Please arrange for
the three of us to meet this week and no later! It wasn’t supposed to be like this but it is, so welcome to the grown-up world.’
There was a silence but he didn’t dare end the conversation.
‘And apart from that,’ she now said in a gentler tone, obviously deciding enough was enough, "Dum spiro spero means" as long as there’s life, there’s hope’. It’s from Seneca, it sounds like him, but I’m not sure, it could be something from the Bible. Phone me this evening and you’ll find out more. I hope I’ll find something out from you, too. Just tell me, what’s the context of those words, if it’s no secret?’
‘They were found on a murder victim.’
‘I might have guessed. It appears not everybody’s hopeful, so to speak. In his case, somebody’s destroyed the hope, think about that.’
‘Thanks, mum, I will.’ He wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible, and not just because he’d already arrived at his destination.
‘Remember, as your mother I’m still keeping them intact for you – faith, hope and charity – don’t abuse that. I’ll wait for your call or, even better, come over. Bye.’
He parked exactly where he’d wanted to; a rare occurrence of late. He stared at the shabby-looking tenement and couldn’t get out of his car for a long while. It’s all got to fall into place – it’s got to, otherwise I’ll go mad.
The staircase, as nearly always, looked even worse than expected. From the ground to the top floor – on which Mrs Krystyna Bończak lived – it was adorned with messages for the owner or administrator. The authors had taken care over the assortment of coloured sprays, less over the words which were frequently repeated.
The door on which he knocked was less shabby. He heard the clicking of crutches on the other side.
‘Good morning, you can’t even leave a sick woman in peace,’ Mrs Bończak said as soon as she opened the door. He had no idea how, but she knew she was talking to the police.
‘Good morning, Mrs Bończak,’ – he tried to be as polite as possible.
‘Might as well come in, seeing as you’re here.’ She turned, leaving the door open. She could have not let him in, could have kicked up a row, yelled, but she didn’t. Her voice was dispassionate, resigned to everything. He felt sorry for the women, mothers; they all looked practically the same – scared, although the eyes were sometimes aggressive, and the hands tired, always tired.
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