Polychrome (7 page)

‘Just look at that, some people have all the time in the world
to stare at tiny little notes. Could be a bill of exchange before
the war, but now? Must be a love letter. Hasn’t he got a phone
or something?’ one of them said to the other, loudly enough.

He stood still, hundreds of thoughts racing through his
mind.
Was it a lucky coincidence or sheer chance that he’d found
this Latin twaddle? Maybe he was supposed to have found it?
Or maybe it was all the same to whoever had left it?
He stood there a good ten minutes before climbing into his
car. The frost was setting in again; puddles of slushy snow were
starting to freeze over.
He found the number he’d recently called.
‘Hello, mum.’
‘You’re generous today. I haven’t been home yet, haven’t had
time to check for you.’
‘Can you talk; not driving, are you?’
‘No, I’m still in the parking lot. Why?’
‘Do you have a pen? Can you jot something down?’
‘Uhm, go on.’
‘
Expecto Donec Veniat
.’
‘I’ve no idea what that means but I’ve noted it down and will
have a look. Or no, listen, I’ll give you Magda’s number, she’ll…’
‘No, I don’t want the number of some Magda. Have a look
if you can, if not, we’ll get someone to do it.’
‘As you wish
.
Were those words found on the corpse, too?’
‘No, on some sunflowers, I think they’re sunflowers.’
‘A large circle with little yellow petals all the way round?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then they must be sunflowers. You know as much about
flowers as about women.’
‘You can’t let it go, not even for five minutes.’
‘Forgive me. I don’t react well to sudden changes in status.
Are you surprised? It’s not even twenty-four hours since I heard
I’m going to be a grandmother. Don’t worry, I’ll simmer down,’
she said, calmly now. ‘Drop round this evening.’
‘If I can. Drive carefully, look what’s happening on the roads.
A farce for the traffic police and the whole mess will end up
in A & E.’
‘Listen, son, do I have to remind you that I’ve had my driving
licence some twenty years longer than you? I can tell you what
winters used to be like if you want, and don’t tell me there
weren’t so many cars around because the roads are like they
used to be. Goodbye, see you this evening.’
On the radio, too, there were warnings about driving
conditions. They’re allowed to, he thought enviously. They talk
into thin air and nobody answers back. He listened to the latest
on traffic jams. Not good news; a fury of helplessness overcame
him. The worst combination.
On top of all this, through the rear-view mirror he saw
someone blatantly trying to join the traffic, first choosing the
fast lane to turn left then playing the fool as if he didn’t know
he had made a mistake – anything to outsmart.
The news ran on as though an accompaniment to the
situation on the roads. The ready-made lessons in respect, cooperation, parliamentary babble repeated day after day worked
miracles – the wily feather-brain had numerous imitators.
He switched over to a music station and, half an hour later,
arrived at headquarters.
He met Maćkowiak in the doorway.
‘Well, did you get anywhere with Wieczorek? Do we know
who Mikulski argued with?’
‘Not so fast. I’ve just driven him home. He said he’d had
enough for the day, so it’s enough, although I don’t know
who was more tired – him or the man working with him. The
granddad’s stubborn and keeps saying that’s not it. It’s not easy
to outtalk him, I know something about it.’
‘Maybe he can’t remember?’
‘Don’t even say that to him or he’ll send you off to be examined.
He’s healthy even though he's well over eighty. At that age, my
mother used to ask me where my brothers were and I’ve only got
sisters – four of them. Maybe he just needs time.’
‘Maybe. We’ll see what happens tomorrow. Anything else?’
‘Nothing interesting as far as I know. Polek’s not back yet.
But, talk of the devil,’ he added as Polek appeared at the door
with Lentz.
‘Nothing as far as I’m concerned. Can somebody make
some tea or coffee? The heating’s gone in my car – like the airconditioning in summer – and they say I was born with a silver
spoon in my mouth. Tea might be better.’
‘Raspberry syrup or just lemon?’
‘I know you’re doing your best, Maćkowiak, and I thank you
for it. Carry on working. Ok, who wants coffee or whatever?
I’m making it. I’ve just done some classes in politeness. What
have you got?’
‘Not much. Ah, here’s the new prosecutor.’ Maćkowiak
nodded towards the man searching for the phone ringing
in his pocket. He searched long enough for everyone to hear
the annoying buzz of a fly terminated by the loud slap of a fly
swatter – three times.
‘I didn’t see him yesterday. Who is he?’ asked Bartol.
‘Jan Pilski. He was here yesterday with prosecutor Maczek
but was in a hurry to get back to his fiancée. He’s getting married
and has moved here for her sake, or so he boasted to somebody,
as if it was worth boasting about. We’re going to have to get used
to him. Maczek had an attack of the pancreas last night and is
in intensive care,’ replied Polek.
‘Well, well. The pancreas, just like that.’ Lentz clearly came
to life.
‘No, he liked his tipple, in relative moderation though,
compared to the norm around here. Could happen to anyone.’ He
looked at Bartol and Maćkowiak, then at Lentz and regretted his
last sentence. Lentz started to massage his stomach with interest.
Pilski finally took the call. They couldn’t help hearing what
he was saying because he started to walk in the same direction
as them, a metre ahead.
‘Hello, darling. I can’t talk long, I’m at work… Briefly, it’s
important… all right. Choose it yourself… yes, yes, I know
we’re supposed to decide together… I know, I think pale pink
will look good on the invitations… Yes, especially with dark
pink lettering… I’m not just saying ‘yes’… Who had some like
that… what film was he in… Fine, we’ll go to the printers this
afternoon. Yes, love you, bye.’ He moaned as he slipped the
phone back into his pocket and loosened his tie as though
wanting to believe that was what was stifling him.
The men looked at each other and smiled in sympathy. The
squashed fly suited the situation perfectly.
Pilski walked on to the chief’s office while the rest of them
entered the briefing room.
‘Olaf, did you hear the happily engaged man?’ Maćkowiak
laughed with his entire body.
‘I heard. He’s still got six months to go – if he makes it, cos it’s
going to hurt. If I’ve got the name right, he’s fallen in love with
the daughter of a used car dealer. She’s a token employee of
her father’s company while her mother is a living symbol of the
history of sheet-metal work. Now both women have something
to do from morning to night. They’re probably testing whether
he’ll bear up to it. The wedding, apparently, is in June. I know
her father, he’s a good guy. Assembles model airplanes after
work. This one here’s going to be assembling, too.’ They all
laughed. ‘He made the choice, he gets the deserts.’
Only Bartol stopped laughing and looked at Polek. The
latter quickly changed the subject; the issue of conscious
choices was not so self-evident of late.
‘I must have questioned all the traders I know and one
numismatist. Nobody’s heard of Mikulski. He didn’t sell or buy
anything, nor did he exchange coins. Someone remembered
him from his days as a restorer but apparently he was quiet.
He had a brother high up in the Party so nobody really spoke
to him much in case he informed on them. I’m not surprised.
The man who remembered him thought he’d died long ago.
And you, have you got anything? What about that piece of
fingernail?’ he asked Polek.
‘It needs to be checked out but I think I know the woman it
belongs to,’ answered Bartol.
‘How do you know it’s a woman’s? Is technology so advanced
it can tell that fast?’ asked Polek.
‘Traditional circumstantial evidence. There were traces
of pink nail varnish on the fingernail, as far as I know,’ Pilski
replied, smiling broadly as he stood in the doorway. The door
to which he had made his way earlier must have been closed.
The expression on Polek’s face seemed to say he’d just
decided they weren’t ever going to like each other.
The fly started buzzing again. Pilski muted the ring-tone but
his move was unsure, as if he was scared of what he was doing.
A moment later, he changed his mind; turning towards the wall
he took the call and justified himself quietly. Polek wanted to
comment but Bartol forestalled him.
‘Before we check, we can take it that it belongs to Krystyna
Bończak. She’s the woman who cleaned the windows,’ he said,
recalling her broken and badly painted fingernails.
‘That would fit. It lay near the curtain,’ said Polek, looking
pointedly away from the prosecutor.
‘Could it have anything to do with the case?’
‘We have to take a close look. She’s got talented sons. Got a
boarding scholarship to Rawicz jail, but personally I don’t think
so. I spoke to her an hour ago.’
Perhaps he would still have added something but
refrained, seeing that the new prosecutor, having finished his
conversation, was trying to make his presence known and cover
up the indelible impression he’d made.
‘I’m new here and haven’t met everyone so let me introduce
myself. Jan Pilski, prosecutor. I’ve been assigned to the case
in Prosecutor Maczek’s absence.’ Slowly his voice began to
assume acquired gravitas. ‘An absence which, as you know, may
be considerably prolonged. I’ve already acquainted myself with
the post-mortem and preliminary technical reports. Please
forgive me if the non-legal questions I ask seem banal but –
was really nothing found at the scene of crime, no traces apart
from the fingernail?’
For a while nobody answered; they looked at him
dumbfounded. He differed from them, not only by his pink
tie and hair gel. It occurred to Bartol that life wasn’t easy for
these cultured types either and he didn’t intend to make it any
harder, so he was quick to answer first – not to give Polek, who
was already getting ready, a chance.
‘The question isn’t banal. In ninety percent of cases there’s
always something – a fingerprint, hair, skin, even vestigial
traces – which we can multiply and send off for analysis but
this time, apparently, there wasn’t and that’s what’s so strange
about this already strange case. To sum up: we have two women
fairly loosely connected with the event but we’re going to look
into it. One important lead is the man described by Edmund
Wieczorek. We’re making up an identikit. Apparently he
visited the deceased a week before his death and they had
an argument. As for now, he’s our chief suspect. Apart from
that we’re examining the material in which the dead man was
partially wrapped. It’s quite interesting, as Lentz remarked. I’ve
sent it off for analysis, which he knows, along with the flowers,
which he doesn’t yet know.’
Lentz was a little surprised but didn’t say anything, nor did
the others. All just listened, while Pilski pretended to listen
even while tapping something out on his phone.
Bartol had taken a long time, certainly longer than usual,
trying to explain his suspicions, yet Polek still asked: ‘Come on.
Do you seriously think those Latin words mean anything? If he
wanted to tell us something, he’d have written it in large print.’
‘Perhaps the show’s not for us, perhaps it’s a coincidence,
I don’t know and have no idea how to check. So, for the
time being, let’s be conventional and concentrate on the
argumentative man. If all goes well, we’ll have the identikit
ready by tomorrow.’

All didn’t go well. Edmund Wieczorek paid headquarters
several visits even though drawing up an identikit only takes a
few hours at the most. Sometimes he didn’t feel well, sometimes
his eyes caused him trouble, sometimes he changed something
he’d already changed before. He infinitely taxed everybody’s
patience, which already seemed taxed to the limits. Nobody,
however, could do anything about it – he was elderly and
clearly taking advantage of it. Meanwhile, despite numerous
interrogations, he was the one and only person who could add
anything to the case. The fact that everybody had grown to
like him a little wasn’t without significance either. As soon as
he arrived someone would make him tea with four teaspoons
of sugar, the way he liked it, without even asking. They also
liked to repeat the cutting retorts he made left, right and centre,
which sounded especially amusing coming from an old man.
The prosecutor let himself in for it with his ringtone, infallibly
associated with his future wife and dreams of eventually doing
away with her. The unsuccessful and poorly thought-out
replacement in the form of birdsong, which Wieczorek also
had the opportunity to hear – Pilski’s phone rang frequently
– didn’t help. He acknowledged it with one sentence: the man
shouldn’t have any illusions, there wouldn’t be any birdsong
after the wedding, at most only croaking.

All this allowed him to be tolerated for longer. There were
also many indications that in spite of his age he had a very
good memory.

After many obstacles – the greatest of which was not that the
age of the young man in question turned out to be about forty,
which seemed natural only to Edmund Wieczorek and amused
half of headquarters – they had more than a good identikit
portrait of the suspect.

It seemed only a matter of time before they found the ‘young
man’ although no-one suspected it would happen so fast.
Maćkowiak almost choked on his biscuit when, for what
could potentially have been a boring interrogation, the last
to turn up was one of the lawyer’s clients who’d left the office
on Góralska Street precisely at the time in which they were
interested; he’d been abroad previously.
It was a matter of routine questions but Maćkowiak didn’t
have time to ask them. He recognised the face of the man being
interviewed as that of the suspect. The identikit portrait lay
on his desk; he always kept these portraits so as to ram the
image into his head and remember it when needed – he had no
memory for faces. Yet never before had he recognised anyone
so quickly. Now a man sat in front of him who differed from
the one depicted on paper only by his strange suntan – an
angrily red nose and white rings around his eyes; the desired
effect, it later turned out, of a skiing trip. Maćkowiak obtained a
detention warrant in record time; it was a question of murder, too
many facts spoke against the identified individual, Przemysław
Górniak. Not only did he clearly answer to the identikit but
had been at the scene of crime at the time corresponding to
the event.
The man was completely outraged and horrified by the
allegations. He insisted he’d never been to Mikulski’s house,
that he didn’t know who Mikulski was and that he didn’t even
know the man existed. Nor could he remember whether he’d
gone straight home after visiting Przewalski’s office or not. He
shouted and broke down in turn: that it was all some sort of
farce, that he was going to turn forty in two days and that they
were finally to reveal those hidden cameras; and if it was all a
silly joke he’d even take his own wife to court.
He stubbornly maintained that he had nothing to do with
the case. All that remained was to confront him with Edmund
Wieczorek. Polek and Lentz went to collect the old man, having
first phoned to congratulate him on his successful identikit.
The first thing to surprise them was that he wasn’t at home even
though, on previous occasions, he’d opened the door before
anyone even had time to ring the bell, as though he’d nothing
better to do than wait for them.
They returned to their car and drove away, parked on
a neighbouring street and twenty minutes later arrived at
Wieczorek’s door again. This time they didn’t ring, only patiently
listened. After a while it became clear that the old man was at
home, only didn’t want to open the door; after ten minutes of
persuasion he was in the car on the way to headquarters. He
didn’t utter a word and didn’t want to say why he hadn’t opened.
Nobody had expected such a turn of events. Some of the
information they’d gathered and which started to form a whole –
surprising even the most experienced police officers – came from
the suspect Przemysław Górniak with whom, as it turned out, it
had all begun and, for the time being, ended. The rest Edmund
Wieczorek unwillingly confirmed himself and thus became a
legend. The story was repeated many times on various occasions
and at numerous police training sessions, just as before it had
been repeated at estate agents’ training sessions.
Przemysław Górniak’s presence in the vicinity of the murder
could have been considered a complete coincidence, something
which could not be said of the previous address of his office as
financial advisor. Nine years earlier his office had been right next
to Edmund Wieczorek’s apartment. Górniak had inherited the
apartment from his grandmother and that’s where he started
working. Just as the location had suited him perfectly, especially
in those days, so quite soon it proved to be too small. He’d decided,
therefore, to start chatting up his neighbour, asking whether
he wasn’t planning to sell his place in exchange for something
smaller and cheaper. Perhaps it hadn’t been too polite a move but
Górniak had needed to make a decision and breaking through
to the neighbouring apartment had seemed the best solution.
Edmund had been a little offended initially but after a couple
of days paid him a visit, saying that perhaps it was a good idea;
however, he wouldn’t move until he’d found the right place, and
for this he needed help, obviously.
And that’s how the whole dance had started. For Przemysław
Górniak it lasted nearly six months. The apartment was too
important for him and maybe that was why it took him so long
to admit that perhaps Edmund had no intention, and probably
never had had the intention, of selling his apartment; he was
simply enjoying himself, looking – at least once a week – at
apartments to which he was driven, all the while holding
pleasant and interesting conversations, seasoned with his own
reminiscences.
Górniak hadn’t concluded the matter very politely, so he
admitted. He’d finally sold his own apartment and bought
another which, to this day, served as his headquarters; and had
no regrets. He recounted the story many times later on; he once
even got talking to somebody he knew whose wife worked in
property. He’d been very amused to hear that Mr Wieczorek had
really got going. It wasn’t only apartments he was looking at now;
he was also interested in houses out of town, and when you look
at a house, you might get lucky and be offered tea and cake. The
journey, too, took longer with more time for reminiscing.
Estate agents hadn’t worked so closely with each other at
the time, and Wieczorek’s property was very attractive in those
days and easy to sell as an office, which pulled the wool over
everybody’s eyes. All he needed to do, after all, was find another
place. Many agents were taken in and it took a long while before
news spread through the grapevine about a pleasant, elderly
gentleman on Matejko Street who was having a good time in
a most original way. As far as Górniak knew, Edmund had,
quiet recently, been agreeably driven around by a newcomer
on the market. Edmund Wieczorek more or less confirmed all
this, absolutely denying, however, that he’d never planned to
exchange his apartment. On the other hand, he did admit to
not knowing Mikulski very well, and knowing him only because
he’d once been a postman in Mikulski’s neighbourhood. He
remembered their son when he was still little; the boy hadn’t
been to his mother’s funeral; and Wieczorek later learned from
Mikulski that he’d died abroad. Wieczorek had read about Mrs
Mikulska’s funeral in a newspaper and had gone in the hope
of meeting someone he knew, but hadn’t met anyone. He’d
phoned Mikulski a couple of times, counting on his wanting
some company. Mikulski hadn't wanted any.
He passed on his information totally offended, like a child.
Only the threat of being punished for making false statements
put him into an excellent mood; perhaps it was the very thought
of being taken to court – where he’d never been – or that of
new friends in prison where, as they all realised, he’d no chance
of going.
The only thing that worked was constantly reminding him
of the importance of his statements. All he didn’t want to say
was why he’d picked on precisely Górniak; but he did say that
next time he would chose somebody who was dead so that they
wouldn’t turn up so quickly.