Polychrome (5 page)

Dum Spiro Spero
.
‘I checked what it means at home yesterday. Which is, more
or less: ‘as long as – to breathe – to expect’. Don’t laugh, I don’t
know any Latin, I don’t even know how I came to have a small
medical dictionary at home.’ Lentz coughed. ‘Anyway, they
don’t look like words usually found on a towel or whatever you
want to call the thing, because it doesn’t look like a towel to me,
especially on a corpse. There’s nothing there about washing
but there is about potential loss of breath. We’ve still got to find
some other maxims in that house. I don’t like it.’
Bartol didn’t like it either. He was surprised, however, that
Lentz was only telling him now. Lentz anticipated his question.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t want to fire away with
infinitives. If it sounds like nonsense then let’s check out what’s
most likely before we learn Latin. Mull it over a bit, you’re good
at that. So long – I’m off to interrogate my parrot. I can already
hear her squawking.’
Somebody was, in fact, kicking up a fuss in the corridor
saying her time was precious, was being wasted.
Bartol, left alone, began mulling it over. He stared
dispassionately at the photographs. Out of plain curiosity. He
wondered why he didn’t feel anything.
Perhaps because everything seemed so unreal, inauthentic;
as a rule, these things looked all too real, too true. As a rule they
looked very human, including what dwelt within the human
being – and was not necessarily dormant.
But here… Even without the Latin on the piece of red cloth,
this was beyond the norm.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to think long about where to
start. There was a call from downstairs. The female architect
was already waiting for him.
He went down to fetch her. Noted that she appeared different
from the previous day. She probably hadn’t slept; there were
shadows under her eyes. He caught sight of her before she saw
him. She was dressed in black from head to toe. The black poloneck, as if made for two necks, almost reached her mouth; her
long fingers barely poked out of the sleeves. Her black jeans
were partially concealed in a pair of high boots.
She couldn’t have wrapped herself up more tightly.
Overalls or armour? She looked quite sexy but he immediately
associated her outfit with the large, grey-brown jumper on her
photograph. Room to hide there, too.
She looked shorter. He studied her for a while before she
noticed him.
‘Good morning, let’s go upstairs.’
‘Good morning. Maybe it is, but you don’t look so good either.’
He was taken aback. Her directness took him a little by
surprise; people were usually tense before being interrogated.
‘I see you haven’t slept well either. Isn’t it a daily occurrence
in your profession – corpses, bad, evil people?’ she continued
once she’d sat down.
‘A daily occurrence, no. Day-to-day business is the same as
yours, different people, various pieces of paper. Thankfully,
not everyone murders other people as often as they’d like.
Something to drink?’
‘Some coffee, please. Instant will be fine, lots of milk.’
She’d forestalled him again.
‘I’m sorry we don’t have a proper espresso machine. Can’t
see us getting one either. You visit this station often?’ He smiled.
‘No, but I can guess by the handle on a door what I’m going
to be treated to. Part of the job.’
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.