Polychrome (18 page)

‘Please tell me what happened?’ Bartol asked quickly, seeing
her come in.
‘He wasn’t suited to it,’ she spoke calmly now. ‘He liked life.
He liked women and they liked him.’ She broke off. ‘But our
mother probably loved him more and it was probably out of
love that she didn’t want to hand him over to another woman.
Maybe if our father had lived… He’d somehow given up on
it… I think Jan even liked this unavailability of his at first. For a
time.’ She broke off again. Bartol couldn’t hurry her, although
he very much wanted to. He was worried he wouldn’t be able
to wash the smell off.
‘I didn’t see her. We visited his parish a couple of times, my
mother and I, but I never saw her. Later they merely said she
was pretty, that she’d got married at an early age so as to leave
home because they were poor, that her husband was strange,
that she laughed at him saying he had nothing in his pants…
Apparently everyone in the village knew and in the end he
found out, too… that what he didn’t have in his pants she’d
found beneath the frock of a priest… You know the rest better
than me.’ She broke off for good and started stroking a spotted
dog which had laid its head on her lap.
‘Please go on.’
‘We lived ninety kilometres away.’ She stopped. The dog,
grateful for being stroked, licked her hand. ‘Far enough not to
know what was happening, but near enough not to be able to
go on living there. I was a teacher in a primary school and was
scared to enter the classroom after break. The children wrote
all sorts of things on the board. They hadn’t thought these
things up themselves, they barely knew how to write… Our
mother died… First I went to Konin, then came here. Perhaps
you’d like something to drink after all? You must be cold ,seeing
as you haven’t taken your jacket off.’
‘No, no thank you!’ He didn’t want to but must have
shuddered at the very thought. The dog which had licked her
hands started licking its balls again.
‘Hmm, you’re disgusted. One can get used to it.’ She smiled.
‘Cleanliness disgusts me. You can’t see the dirt under it.’
‘Please tell me what you know.’
‘Who knows what happened apart from them… Apparently
someone saw the husband spying through the window first.
He knew they were there together. Then nobody saw anything
anymore. Strange, isn’t it? Some say he attacked them… Others
that he was defending himself, that she’d concocted the whole
thing… My brother didn’t kill anyone. He told mother it wasn’t
him… After all, he wouldn’t have lied… I don’t know why he
took the whole blame on himself afterwards. I don’t know… He
didn’t want to see me… My letters came back…’ She broke off
and began to breathe deeper, sniffing. It seemed she was going
to start crying; but she only wiped her nose with the sleeve of
her sweater and pursed her lips.
‘What was the woman’s name? Do you know what happened
to her afterwards?’
‘Don’t you know?’
Bartol didn’t answer.
‘Her married name was Elżbieta Garnczek. I don’t know her
maiden name. They also disowned her. Nor do I know what
happened to her. My brother got sixteen years, she got six for
complicity. I’d even thought at times that she’d waited for him
and they’d run off together somewhere but from what you say…
she didn’t. When and where is the funeral?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Here’s the number to call.’ He pulled out a loose page from
his notebook, which he’d prepared beforehand. ‘As far as I
know, it’s all being arranged by his colleagues from work. They
think he didn’t have a family. Please get in touch with them.’
She stared at the piece of paper a long while.
‘Poznań?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘I never asked… He was so close by…’ Again she hid her nose
in her sleeve. ‘I visit Poznań at least several times a year, during
the show, and sell dogs at Sielanka sometimes… And we never
saw each other… He just didn’t want to…’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Where were you three days
ago?’
‘Here. People know I don’t go anywhere. If I wanted to go I’d
have to ask the neighbour’s son to look after all this or they’d
poison some of my dogs again… People are jealous around here.
It didn’t bother them until I bought the village administrator’s
car for my son because the man couldn’t pay his instalments.
He told everyone how much I’d given him… Ever since then
they won’t leave me in peace.’
‘And where does your son live?’ Bartol asked automatically.
‘Also in Poznań…’ She smiled to herself. ‘He wants to get
married but he’s a prosecutor and doesn’t make much money.’
‘And his name’s Gawlicki?’
‘No, Pilski… After my first husband.’
Bartol was dumbfounded.
He began looking around restlessly. Fortunately, her eyes
weren’t on him. The spotted dog had once more laid its head on
her knees. Bartol couldn’t make out anything pink in the house.
Nothing that would be in character with Pilski. He chased away
another dog which had started fawning on him, and sprung to
his feet. The dogs started barking like crazy again. Anna Maria
Gawlicka, as if torn from her numbness, began to bustle around
the room nervously.
‘I’m very sorry about your brother. I’m sure you understand
that we’ll have to get in touch with you again. Please call when
you come to the funeral, that’ll be easiest. We’ll take your
statement.’
‘I didn’t say I’d be at the funeral!’ she said firmly. ‘He didn’t
want to see me…’ she added much more quietly.
‘Perhaps he lacked the courage. His computer showed that
he often visited websites of dog shows. Maybe he didn’t make
it on time.’ It suddenly puzzled him why he, or anybody else,
hadn’t put two and two together sooner. ‘Please think about it.
One way or another we’ll stay in touch.’
Gawlicka nodded half-consciously and walked him to
the door. He no longer paid any attention to the growling,
barking dogs.
Lentz was leaning against the car, smoking. They took their
seats.
‘Open the window, you don’t exactly smell nice. I’ve already
had the pleasure of meeting breeders like that. So, are you
impressed?’
‘Extremely impressed. Let’s go.’
Lentz smiled to himself and turned on the ignition.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No, you didn’t tell me,’ Bartol cut him off. He wanted to be
alone for a while.

They left Grabno. Lentz didn’t utter another word. Nor did he
say much when Bartol summed up what he’d learned. It seemed
that the romantic story of the forbidden love between a priest and
parishioner, which ended with the hardly romantic murder of a
cuckolded husband – regardless of who had committed the murder
– had also made an impression on him. Lentz was surprised and
horrified, although he wasn’t one to be easily surprised let alone
horrified, especially where human passions were concerned, be
they love or money. Apart from the passing fascinations for his
imagined ailments, he generally approached everything with
indifference and rationality. But this story appeared increasingly
irrational to them both. Everything pointed to it not having
ended many years ago in some village called Great Mocznowo.
On the contrary, the drama continued, with a temporaru pause,
at Mirosław Trzaska, or rather Jan Maria Gawlicki in Poznań, and,
for some unknown reason, at Antoniusz Mikulski; some unwritten
law said that this was not the end and no-one knew in what corner
of Poland that end would come. On all this, they agreed.

Bartol didn’t say anything about Pilski; he simply said that
there was still something he wanted to verify. He had no idea
why he acted like this.

It had stopped raining, the air was clear and the road dry, yet
they passed two accidents. As if to confirm that this wasn’t such
a coincidence, Bartol noticed two new crosses by the roadside.

They didn’t discourage anyone. Including Lentz, who
drove too fast and too erratically. He pulled over, approached,
overtook overtaking cars, like nearly all the other drivers, as
though he were twenty and had three lives ahead of him. As
though in a computer game. As though a child, at least that’s
what his mother said.

Somewhere halfway through their journey, they had to
break abruptly and practically pull over to the hard shoulder,
otherwise a mad young woman in a large four-wheel drive
would have collided with a Fiat 126p head on. She, in her fourby-four cross-country truck, would perhaps have made it to her
town; the other driver, in his little town car, would probably not
have reached his village.

For most of the way, Bartol dozed a little or pretended to.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw more of the same, all at
the same game. As though it were a national sport, continuous
championships, for life or death, or disability.

He didn’t feel like commenting, preferred not to look. Briefly,
he wondered why he hadn’t noticed the crosses on the way
there, when he was driving, but couldn’t find a logical answer.

It was no different in Poznań. There, too, many drivers were
willing to overtake in order to stand at least one car closer to the
traffic lights, as though they’d get trophy points. He felt tired
and annoyed by the whole expedition, and the day hadn’t yet
come to an end.

As soon as Lentz pulled into a petrol station to tank up and
buy some cigarettes, Bartol phoned Pilski.
The prosecutor was at home. He had some time, but not
much; he asked questions. Bartol couldn’t answer any of them
or say how much time he needed, but he was insistent. They
agreed to meet.
Bartol left Lentz at headquarters and drove to the appointed
address. He found it straight away. This time everything was
in character.
Grape-vine
, a new, low-rise block, ugly yet squeezed in
among old tower blocks, acted as darling of the estate and pride
of its owners.
As he passed garages, sunken into the ground floor, Bartol
wondered in which of these stood the village administrator’s car.
He pressed the intercom and before hearing the door open gazed
up. The higher apartments had fairly large balconies. Perhaps that,
too, was a gift from medal winners of various breeds. But no. The
apartment was on the second floor where there were no balconies;
even so, as he climbed the stairs decorated with glass bricks on
the half-landings, all the pens in Anna Maria Gawlicka-Sęk’s yard
appeared in front of his eyes; he could even smell them.
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 cousin. 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?’