Pilski was already at the door. In a tie and pink shirt. Clearly this was what he also wore at home.
‘Hello. Something important must have cropped up, seeing as it couldn’t wait till morning. Please, come in.’ He opened the door wider with a welcoming gesture.
‘Thank you. I didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.’ Bartol didn’t know how to begin the conversation. He hadn’t thought of anything yet. He removed his jacket and stepped inside. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar,’ Bartol replied.
Pilski seemed a little surprised. He’d probably expected Bartol to present him with a brief justification for detaining someone or something like that, certainly not a chat over coffee, but he didn’t say anything and went to the kitchen.
Bartol looked around in amazement. He knew Pilski was getting married, yet everything pointed to him living alone. He had no idea why he had this impression but knew that he didn’t have to go to the bathroom to make sure. The apartment was well set up, although Bartol was certain no woman had stayed there for a long time. Somebody had obviously tried to furnish it well; it was somehow even too correct, as in a furniture catalogue, no needless details, no dried or fresh flowers, no candles, small or large, no framed photographs and other knick-knacks. Once he spied the bike through the bedroom door which had been left ajar, he no longer had any doubts. A not-particularly-romantic bike in the bedroom and a fiancée who’d taken over six months to decide on the colour of the lettering on wedding invitations did not go hand in hand.
Pilski returned with a mug of coffee and, as he sat down, gestured for Bartol to do the same. Then glanced at his watch. Not randomly, it seemed.
‘I can’t say how long this will take. I just didn’t want you to be caught unawares tomorrow,’ began Bartol. Pilski gazed at him with increasing distrust. ‘So, without needless preliminaries: a little after you left, we established that the victim’s name was not Mirosław Trzaska. He’d borrowed somebody’s ID and had been successfully using it for some time. His real name was Jan Maria Gawlicki.’
He couldn’t describe or decipher the expression on Pilski’s face. Nor did he have much time to do so. The bells on the prosecutor’s phone started to chime. Pilski got up and went to the other room without a word. He didn’t close the door. He didn’t seem to care whether Bartol heard him or not.
‘Yes… yes… yes… no, I can’t… I know, choose it yourself, I can’t talk now… But you’ve already chosen the suit! A different idea… then change… But I don’t know what the dress looks like, damn it! I know I’m not supposed to know! I can’t talk now… I don’t know… I’ll call later, I’m working…’
He came back.
‘I’m sorry. People get married severral times, I’ve already had enough of this once. She might have come round if I hadn’t picked up, and brought her mother with her. I apologise once more. I’ll turn the phone off…’
‘It’s all right,’ answered Bartol.
He watched Pilski closely. Before, it had looked to him as if Pilski had turned pale; now he appeared on edge. It was hard to say whether it was because of what Bartol had told him or because of his conversation with his fiancée. Bartol had heard him talking to her numerous times, but he’d never heard him raise his voice like that.
‘I thought for a moment it was a coincidence, but since you’re here, it seems unlikely,’ the prosecutor said after a while.
‘Right,’ agreed Bartol. ‘I spoke to your mother earlier…’ Now he was sure the man had turned pale, and on top of that had started pacing nervously around the room. But not for long; the regular ringtone of a land line resounded in the other room. Pilski just looked at Bartol and, without a word, went to pick up the phone.
‘Yes, I’m at home. You’re calling that number! Yes, I’m working from home… I told you I’d call back.’
Bartol heard the receiver being slammed down. Pilski returned to the room, did not apologise a second time.
‘You were there?’ he asked, as he walked in.
‘Yes, today…’ answered Bartol.
Pilski didn’t say anything for a moment, just wiped the dust from the coffee table, dust which wasn’t there.
‘She breeds dogs…’ he tried nervously to explain. ‘She’s achieved a lot…’
‘Yes, I know, I saw the medals,’ interrupted Bartol. He tried to express a touch of acknowledgement and a lot of indifference, like someone who was rarely surprised. He knew this would be better. It seemed to him that Pilski was suffering, was greatly put out that someone had entered the world of which he didn’t want to boast, one he took advantage of but from which he wanted to escape – through aluminium skirting-boards, designer lamps, pink ties and all the rest.
‘I never met her brother…’ Pilski began after a pause. ‘But I was… no! One thing at a time, please…’ he sat down, resigned.
‘As I said before, we established that Mirosław Trzaska’s the name of a homeless man. We had problems establishing who the victim was… As it is, we went to visit his sister…’
‘Who did you go with?’ Undisguised nervousness returned, as though Pilski could see the shame, the dirt, as though he stank, didn’t fit in.
‘Lentz,’ replied Bartol and saw the relief. Up to now he hadn’t been sure whether Pilski cared in the least about Polek’s jibes; he didn’t seem to pay any attention to them; now he knew.
‘I’m sorry, please go on,’ the prosecutor said in a calmer tone.
‘I spoke to your mother,’ Bartol tried to emphasise the fact, ‘and your name happened to be mentioned. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Thank you for not putting it to me at headquarters.’
‘I won’t say that’s what I had in mind but, above all, time’s of importance. We have two murders committed by one perpetrator. We don’t know whether the victims have been randomly picked. At the moment we can’t rationally connect them, we’re working on it. Be that as it may, one of the victims is your uncle. Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘As I’ve already said, I never saw him… before. She told me the story, but not until I was at secondary school. She was convinced that he didn’t kill the man. She had scruples that she’d misjudged him, that everybody had misjudged him. I believed her at the time. I even had some juvenile plans to go back to the case once I’d finished my studies – for her – that, seeing as he was innocent, I’d prove it…’ He broke off. ‘Some such nonsense.’
‘And what, did you work on it?’ asked Bartol.
‘No, not really. I only checked that he’d pleaded guilty and been released from prison, and that’s where I left it. I used to be an idealist for a while, until I realised that in fact everybody was innocent – in their mother’s, their sister’s and, above all, their own eyes, that it was senseless to dig it all up again… since he himself didn’t want to turn up… I tried to explain to my mother that it wasn’t as easy as all that, that he needed time, and she began to ask less and less frequently. Besides, I got a bit scared… Perhaps it’s a good thing, it would have all come out into the open now…’
‘What would have come out?’ asked Bartol.
Pilski took a long time answering.
‘I also looked into the whole affair about the woman called Elżbieta Garnczek, nice maiden name – Ogrodniczak – but her company’s name tops it all – Elizabeth Garden. I won’t pretend I wasn’t fascinated for a while. She got six years for complicity; her lover, meaning my mother’s brother, took the entire blame for the crime on himself, which you probably know. Her sentence was suspended after three years, which didn’t surprise me at first. It was worse when I read why – not only was it for good behaviour, but also for taking good care of a child which had been born just before the verdict had been announced. Not bad, eh? That was too much for me.’ He broke off and looked at Bartol. ‘Perhaps I had the same expression as yours when I read all this. For a long time I didn’t know what to do. The child could have been my cousi
n. theoretically, but only theoretically because the woman was married at the time and…’ He didn’t finish because something ginger had just flitted between Bartol’s legs, which, as usual, didn’t fit beneath the coffee table. Bartol jumped, knocking the glass surface with his knees. Coffee spilt and trickled.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all he said. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the ginger bushy tail of a cat in the doorway.
‘It doesn’t matter. You could well have got a firight. I’ve got a cat to even things out, an alley cat at that. He likes creeping up like that, although he doesn’t usually leave the other room when strangers are here. I’ll just wipe it up.’ He left and returned a moment later. He looked grotesque with an enormous rag in one hand, a mop in the other, and – on top of it all – a tie with pink circles.
Pilski swung the wet mop quickly and efficiently, concentrating on the huge coffee stain. Bartol sat down, unable to concentrate on anything. He hadn’t suspected a cat to be in the apartment, hadn’t suspected that Trzaska aka Gawlicki could have been either the father of a child born behind bars, or perhaps the murderer of its father, that Ogrodniczka meant Garden.
He stared blankly at the disappearing stain.
‘Going back to that woman,’ Pilski went on once he’d deposited the cleaning implements in the hallway. ‘She must be quite interesting, I guess.’
It seemed the unexpected effort had greatly calmed him down; he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘What’s your guess?’ asked Bartol.
‘A few years after leaving prison she was accused of procuring. The case was dismissed and in the mid-nineties she founded the Elizabeth Garden Fun Factory.’
‘You know quite a bit about her.’
‘I told you it interested me exactly ten years ago. I couldn’t find anything about my uncle. It looked as if he’d disappeared so at the beginning I searched for something about her. I stopped precisely when I read about the child. At that moment I decided to let it go, and that’s what I did. I haven’t thought about it for the past five years.’
‘Something happened five years ago?’ asked Bartol.
‘Don’t catch me out on every word. That’s exactly what I wanted to tell you and had in mind when I said she must have been interesting. I was driving with an ex-girlfriend to Szczecin and some twenty kilometres before the city I noticed a huge wholesale outlet with the sign: ‘Elizabeth Garden Fun Factory’. From outside it looked like a modern warehouse with professional electronic equipment. It stood out a great deal from its surroundings: lots of aluminium, neat car park, trees, lawns and so on. Had I been alone I’d have stopped to see what it was, but I wasn’t and had to wait until I got back to Poznań. I returned and had a look. There were some electronics, true enough, but not many. It’s one of the largest sex wholesalers in Poland, certainly this part of Poland. Mrs Ogrodniczak is a very wealthy woman and the entire strange business belongs to her. That moment simply confirmed that I’d done the right thing not to delve into it all. I never thought I’d ever hear about them again. I often think the wrong things of late.’ He paused. ‘Does she know that the murdered man’s her brother?’
‘Of course,’ said Bartol. ‘I also told her about the funeral. And I think she’s going to have to come to Poznań. Can you tell me anything else about this Ogrodniczak?’ He wanted to return to their earlier conversation.
‘No, I’ve told you absolutely everything I know. I had no intention of getting involved. I was plain scared of what I might come across.’ He fell silent. ‘So there’s still the funeral.’ Again he paused. ‘Please don’t say anything to her about the child, and certainly not that I knew. I don’t know how she’d take it. I’ve got to sort everything out in my own mind.’
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
‘So must I. I’ll go now. We’ll be touch.’
‘Right,’ replied Pilski, getting to his feet. He went to the hall and, without checking who it was, pressed the intercom.
Bartol also got up.
‘I’d like to ask one more thing, where…’
‘I was driving all day with my fiancée. The colour of the car and flowers has to go with yet a different dress. It must be the sixth shade of white. Then I stayed the night at… Besides, you’re bound to meet her. If I don’t open she’ll probably climb in through the window,’ he added with resignation.
‘And did Mikulski also figure in the story?’ asked Bartol, putting on his jacket.
‘No, he definitely didn’t, otherwise it would have rang a bell. The surname might not be particularly remarkable but it’s certainly the first time I’ve heard of anyone being called Antoniusz, well, apart from that other Antonius. I’ve got one more favour to ask. I’m going to back out of this case, go on leave, but I’ll be at your disposal. Please don’t – as far as possible, of course – associate me with the case… At least so that some of your colleagues… For various reasons… You understand?’
‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘Nor do I ask you to promise anything. Just give me some time to get used to the situation, that’s all. I’ve been planning a wedding, not a funeral.’ He didn’t wait for a reply only walked to the door.
Bartol took his leave. He was already on the ground floor when a girl, stiletto heels clattering and jewellery clanking, passed him. She could barely raise her eyelids, heavy with make-up, to throw him an uninterested glance. All her attention was focused on a fingernail, glittering with sequins, which apparently wasn’t glittery enough. It occurred to him that this had to be Pilski’s fiancée who, at the last moment, had resisted climbing in through the window. She looked the part.
Right in front of the stairwell he saw a Mercedes parked haphazardly. The passenger – bored, clicking similar fingernails and wearing a similar cowboy jacket – was a woman resembling the younger one but some decades older and, doubtless for that reason, her glitter sparkled all the more against an even deeper tan.
Bartol was more than horrified.
AprIl dIdN’t fool ArouNd; it wasn’t fine and didn’t stand out in any way. May, on the other hand, right from the very start tried hard not to leave newspaper headlines or television news. Everything was extreme, was the most… since records began, and even the oldest highlanders couldn’t remember such temperatures, such downpours, such gales. Several places experienced tornadoes, cloudbursts, ground frost and heatwaves. Nature tried not to take too much notice and within a week everything that could flower and turn green was covered with flowers and leaves.
It was no different, it was the same in Maciej Bartol’s life.
His girlfriend ended up in hospital. The pregnancy was not as greatly threatened as had initially appeared but, in keeping with May’s logic, the light summer rain turned into a storm of hail and thunder.
He didn’t visit her on the first day, only phoned saying that if there was no need that day he’d come the next since they had a lot of work. She believed him. Polek’s wife helped him out – oh, wonder of wonders – by having already mentioned that the men were working hard on something, that her husband was coming home late and hardly sleeping. Bartol wasn’t coming home later than usual, but didn’t mention that. Seemingly justified, he went to the hospital two days later and brought some flowers. He didn’t quite know how to behave. He tried to be calm and matter-of-fact; said that her health was the most important thing and that all the rest… he stammered – the rest didn’t count.
And it was this ‘rest’ that caused the trouble. One stupid word. The girl started sobbing hysterically; it was impossible to calm her down. The women in the neighbouring beds, who’d previously stroked their bellies gently so as not to move unnecessarily, now looked as if they wanted to get up, crush him to the ground and suffocate him under their weight. A nurse ran into the ward, didn’t ask anything, cast her eyes around and, reflecting the looks of the other women like a mirror, turned him out.
His mother wasn’t phoning so he gathered she must have heard something already
. He called first. She picked up and nothing – silence. When he asked why she wasn’t saying anything she finally replied that a pause in music was also a sound and very expressive at that. When he asked what it was she wanted to express, he was told that she was speechless. She hung up.
Usually – even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t any bad intentions, had just uttered ordinary words which somehow had been misinterpreted – he would have tormented himself from morning to night. Usually, but not now, not now that the cherry trees on the terrace among the tenement roofs were covered in pink blossom.
He saw these trees almost every evening and, more and more frequently, in the mornings, too. The first time was on her birthday. They’d been alone. He’d given her one of his treasures: an old music-box with a ballerina. He’d found it hard to part with; he’d feared she wouldn’t appreciate it.
She did appreciate it; and he didn’t regret it. Didn’t regret it at all. He wound the ballerina up many a time.
He never came across the muscular boy again. They never talked about him, nor did she mention her former relationships; perhaps only once when she said she didn’t want to commit herself because she’d made a long-term investment with a high risk factor in the past and the risk hadn’t paid off. She didn’t ask about his life. Which suited him.
Whether he needed to or not, he visited her. They analysed every detail and every sentence on both the pages marked by a ribbon in the Bible on which murdered Jan Maria Gawlicki’s hand had rested. The pages contained two chapters from the Book of Wisdom. Everything could apply to anything, everyone and every situation: nothing but wisdom. There was also a paper bookmark with the words Credo in unum Deum. A tossup according to Magda. The words of the Apostles’ Creed had been mandatory since 381 AD, a little too long for them to be popular. On the other hand, if they took it that everything in Antoniusz Mikulski’s case had referred to Hope in some strange way, and in Gawlicki’s case everything referred to Faith, then it might fit.
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