Entanglement. Part 8

"Yes, I promise."

"Well, we did trace the man, and he turned out to be from od. I even went there to talk to him." Nawrocki fell silent, and Szacki was just about to say "And...", but he stopped himself.

"And he turned out to be a very nice old gentleman. A clairvoyant. He'd once read about the case in the paper, then he'd had a dream about what had happened. He'd hesitated for a while, but in the end he'd called. I know what you might think, but you must admit it holds water."

Szacki agreed reluctantly. He trusted his own instincts, but not retired clairvoyants who called the police anonymously. Except that this time the old boy's visions did match one of his theories. He'd always thought it was no accident the girl had been buried in the grounds of the playschool right next to the high school where her father worked. But he'd never had even the shadow of a clue to draw on. Besides, he'd been afraid his theory might prove correct.

Nawrocki hung up, and Szacki wrote down: "Boniczka - files, father, wait for I.N." He should get on with writing the indictment in the Nidziecka case now, but he didn't feel inspired. He should draft the decisions to discontinue two other inquiries, but he didn't feel like it. He should number the doc.u.ments in an armed robbery case, but he felt even less like doing that - there were four volumes of them. Hopeless paperwork. He should call Monika Grzelka, but he didn't have the courage.

He picked up the stapler, the basic tool for any prosecutor's job, and put it on the desk in front of him. He gathered the papers to one side to make a bit of s.p.a.ce. Good, he thought, let's suppose that's me. And this is Weronika - he got an apple from his briefcase, took a bite out of it and arranged it opposite the stapler. And this is Helka - he put his mobile phone next to the stapler. And my parents - two plastic mugs landed to one side, also clearly facing towards the stapler.

What's the conclusion? Szacki asked himself. That they're all gawping at me and they all want something from me. That I've got no s.p.a.ce in front of me. That I'm the prisoner of my own family, the hook for this entire b.l.o.o.d.y arrangement. Or rather system, as Rudzki called it.

Something was bothering him about the objects scattered on the desk. He felt as if he hadn't arranged everyone. He added his brother, in the form of a box of paper clips, but his brother was on the side and didn't really have any significance. Death, thought Szacki, look for death. Find someone who could have left a sense of mourning behind them. His grandparents? Not especially - they had all died at an advanced age and they'd had time to say goodbye to everyone. Some other relative perhaps? Szacki's mother had a sister in Wrocaw, but his aunt was in good health. His father had a younger brother who lived in oliborz. Hold on a moment. Szacki remembered that his father had had another younger brother too, who had died at barely two years old. How old was his father then? Four, maybe five. He took a cigarette packet from his pocket, thought for a while and placed it next to his father, almost exactly opposite himself. Curiously, his deceased uncle was staring straight at him. It made Szacki feel uneasy. He'd always thought he was named after his grandfathers - Teodor after his father's father and Wiktor after his mother's. Now he realized that his father's dead brother was also called Wiktor. How strange. So had his father named him after his father and his dead brother? Maybe that was why their relationship had been and was still so complicated. And why was that b.l.o.o.d.y dead uncle gawping at him? And did it have any consequences for him? Or for his daughter? Helka was also facing towards the uncle. Szacki's mouth suddenly felt terribly dry and he took a swig of water.

"h.e.l.lo, if you like we can have a whip round to buy you some building blocks," said Prosecutor Jerzy Biczyk sticking his head round the door. For two years, which was as long as they'd known each other, Biczyk had been a puzzle to Szacki. How can you be an idler and a careerist all at once? he wondered whenever he saw Biczyk, with his receding hairline, his crumpled jacket and his tie made of a mysterious Chinese material. Was it possible to produce PVC so thin it could be tied in a knot?

"It must be tough in your village in winter, eh?" said Szacki sympathetically.

"What's that?" Biczyk frowned.

"No need to knock, is there? But keeping the door propped open with a sheaf of straw must get b.l.o.o.d.y windy."

Biczyk went purple. Furious, he thrust a hand into the room and knocked as hard as he could on Szacki's door.

"Better? I was brought up on Hoa Street, so leave it out."

"Really? So there's a Hoa Street on the Nowy Dwor housing estate as well as in the City Centre?" Szacki felt like taking it out on someone.

Biczyk rolled his eyes.

"I heard you'll be working with us on the goods from Central Station."

"Maybe from Monday."

"Great, then perhaps you'd take a look at the files this week, find an expert witness to estimate the market value of the drugs and write a ruling on getting an expert opinion."

"We've had Monday this week already. I was talking about next Monday."

"Be human, Teo. We're buried in work, we're way behind, the remand deadline will pa.s.s soon, and the supervisory board's putting on the pressure."

So you're hurting, thought Szacki. You're afraid you won't shine at the Regional Prosecutor's office, that they won't remember you for ever as that clever guy who was really great at preparatory proceedings, but as the one who couldn't get an inquiry completed within the deadline. Oh dear, maybe you'll have to stay until five a couple of times. You'll survive, boy. Same goes for your pal. b.l.o.o.d.y skivers, and then they complain the loudest when the Prosecution Service gets bad press.

"I won't be able to, sorry. Maybe not even next week," he said.

"Don't joke about it!" said Biczyk, making a face like a spoiled kid. "The old witch must have told you."

"She did mention such an eventuality."

"Have I ever told you working with you is a nightmare?"

"Don't worry. They're going to transfer me. You'll have peace."

"Really? Where to?" Biczyk became distinctly animated.

"To the supervisory board on Krakowskie Przedmiecie. They say they want someone to keep an eye on the inquiries at City Centre. We've been getting worse and worse results."

Biczyk just stuck out his middle finger and left. Szacki replied with the same gesture, but only once the door had closed. He stared at the objects arranged on his desk, removed himself - in other words the stapler - from the constellation and put it on the window sill.

"Time for some changes," he said aloud, stuck a staple in Grzelka's business card and rang the number. She recognized his voice at once, and they agreed to meet at five in Cava on the corner of Nowy wiat and Foksal Streets. As he reached for the armed robbery files, Szacki could still hear her low voice saying what a nice surprise it was. Even when he saw a card attached to the first page with the message: "Expenses sheet - don't forget!" he didn't stop smiling.

V.

In theory, things were looking up. Arranging to meet a girl for coffee - guys do that sort of thing, don't they? Meanwhile Szacki felt like someone whose tooth suddenly starts hurting badly while he's travelling in the wastes of Kazakhstan and who knows the only hope for him is a trip to the local dentist. He was shivering slightly, though it wasn't all that cold, there was a buzzing noise in his left ear, and his hands were cold and damp. He felt like a clown in his suit and coat, while everyone around him was wearing at most anoraks thrown over T-shirts.

Something must have happened in the city because there was an endless chain of trams standing in Jerozolimskie Avenue, and the cars heading for the Praga district were stuck in a gigantic traffic jam. He thought Miss Grzelka would be sure to be late, because it was the exact route that she'd have to take to get to Nowy wiat Street from the newspaper office which was blocked. That was better even - it's always more comfortable to be the person waiting. He pa.s.sed the old Polish Press Agency building, waited for the lights to change and crossed the avenue. He took leaflets from several students. He didn't need them, but Weronika had taught him to take them, because that way you help people whose jobs aren't easy or well paid. At the Empik bookshop there was a poster announcing the arrival of the new Splinter Cell, the third one now. It was one of his favourite games, and he'd be happy to rea.s.sume the role of Sam Fisher, the embittered tough guy.

He pa.s.sed the legendary Amatorska Cafe, ran across Nowy wiat at an illegal point and reached Foksal Street. Monika Grzelka was already waiting in the cafe garden. She noticed him immediately and waved.

"I see you walk at the swaggering pace of a cavalryman," she said as he came up to the table.

"But I haven't got a coat with a crimson lining," he said, offering his hand in greeting.

"The cruel Fifth Procurator of the City Centre?"

"Have no fear - I think the people of Warsaw will prefer to let the beautiful woman go rather than Barabbas." He couldn't believe he was spouting such nonsense.

She burst into sincere laughter, and Szacki suppressed a smile, unable to shake off the shock. What if she'd chosen a different story? One he didn't know? He'd have made a proper fool of himself. He sat down, trying to look confident and a little blase. He hung his coat on the back of the neighbouring chair. He looked at the journalist and wondered if he hadn't judged her too harshly yesterday. She had a freshness and energy about her, which added to her appeal. Wearing a blouse with a black gemstone decorating her neckline, she looked charming. He felt like paying her a compliment.

"Nice tie," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, and thought he'd get revenge by saying how great she looked in that blouse, but he didn't respond. He was afraid it would sound like "Hey, babe, I'd like to screw you standing up".

She ordered a latte and a piece of kaimak cake, he asked for a small black coffee and spent a while wondering what cake to choose. He'd have loved a meringue, but he was afraid he'd make an idiot of himself as soon as he tried cutting it and sent meringue flying in all directions, and would end up paying more attention to the food than to the conversation. He chose a cheesecake. How original you are, Teodor, he dressed himself down mentally. Go on and ask for instant coffee and a packet of Sobieskis, and you'll be a real Polish prosecutor through and through.

She didn't ask why he had called her, but even so he explained that he felt ashamed of how he'd behaved yesterday. He praised her article, at which she just made a face - she must have realized it wasn't in the world champion's league.

"I didn't know enough," she said, and shrugged.

Then she told him a little about her job. That she was worried about whether she'd manage, that she felt nervous dealing with people from the police, the Prosecution Service and the courts.

"Some of them can be brusque," she sighed in a surge of sincerity, and blushed.

Just then his mobile rang. He glanced at the display. It said "Kitten", in other words, Weronika. O G.o.d, could it be possible women were telepathic? After all, he had called her to say he'd be late. Hadn't he? He wasn't sure any more. Rather than answer it, he just turned off the phone. Tough - at worst he'd make something up later.

Miss Grzelka asked if there was any news on the murder case on azienkowska Street, adding at once that she wasn't asking for professional reasons, but out of personal curiosity. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he knew it would be injudicious to do so.

"Yes, there is," he said, "but I can't talk about it. Please forgive me."

She nodded.

"I do have something else for you though - let's call it a present to say sorry."

"I thought the coffee was my present."

"On the contrary, coffee in your company is a present for me." She fluttered her eyelashes comically, and Szacki found it charming. "I'm now writing the indictment for a murder case, and next week we're going to send it to court. It's a very interesting case, I think it might make a good contribution to an article on domestic violence."

"Who was the killer? He or she?"

"She was."

"Any details?"

"I'd prefer not to tell them now. Not at a cafe table. I'll give you a copy of the indictment - it'll all be in there. Then we can talk, if you've got any questions." He thought that sounded as indifferent as he could make it, and that she wouldn't be able to detect any hint of hope in his voice.

"Can you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Give someone a copy of an indictment?"

"Of course, it's a public doc.u.ment prepared by a civil servant. The trial starts from the indictment, and the entire court proceedings are open, as long as the court doesn't have some reason to decide otherwise."

They went on talking for a while about court and prosecution procedures. Szacki was surprised she was so interested. For him it was a laborious bureaucratic burden and a pointless waste of time. Every prosecutor should really have an a.s.sistant to take care of all that rubbish.

"Do you read crime novels?" she suddenly asked, just after they'd ordered a gla.s.s of wine each and requested an ashtray. It turned out the girl smoked, and Szacki was glad he still had two cigarettes left.

He did read them, yes. Some of their tastes were different - he liked the tough guys such as Lehane and Chandler, and she liked the writers who played with the genre such as Leon and Camilleri - but as for Rankin and Mankell, they were one hundred per cent in agreement. For the next half hour they talked about Inspector Rebus adventures. When Szacki glanced at his watch, mentally telling himself off for doing so, it was coming up to seven. She noticed his action.

"I don't know about you, Mr Szacki, but I've got to fly now," she said.

He nodded. He wondered who should suggest they call each other by their first names. On the one hand, she was a woman, and on the other he was about ten years older than her - traditionally either the woman or the older person should do it. What a silly situation. Maybe next time they met it would come up somehow. He reached into his jacket pocket for a business card, scrawled his mobile number on it and handed it to her.

"Please feel free to call if you have any questions, Miss Grzelka."

She smiled roguishly. "Even in the evenings?"

"If you have any questions," he repeated emphatically, thinking at the same time of his switched-off phone and how many messages Weronika would have left by now.

"In fact I have got a question, a personal one."

He made a gesture encouraging her to go ahead.

"Why do you have such white hair?" she asked.

Yes, that was a personal question. Could he tell her the truth? How when Helka was three years old she'd fallen ill with a blood infection. How she'd lain in the hospital on Niekaska Street, barely alive, her thin little body pale to the point of transparency, hooked up to a drip. How he and Weronika had wept in the hospital corridor, huddled together, not sleeping, not eating, as they'd waited for the verdict. How the doctor hadn't promised any improvement. How they had prayed ardently for hours on end, though neither of them was a believer. How he'd fallen asleep in spite of himself and then woken up terrified that he'd slept through the moment when his daughter died and that he hadn't said goodbye to her. Barely conscious, he'd run into the ward where the little one was lying. She was alive. It was seven in the morning, December, pitch black outside. He'd seen his reflection in the mirror and given a silent scream, because in a single night his hair had gone completely white.

"Genes," he replied. "I started going grey when I was still at school. I console myself that it's better to have white hair than be bald. Do you like it?"

She laughed.

"Hmmm. It's s.e.xy. Maybe very s.e.xy. Goodbye, Prosecutor Szacki."

VI.

You have three new voice messages: "Hi, call me"; "What's the point of having a mobile if either you switch it off or you don't take it with you? Call me as soon as you get this message"; "Hi, guess who. If you're still alive, get a loaf of bread on the way home and some cigarettes for me, because I forgot. If you're not, come and see me in a dream and tell me where your insurance policy is."

As he listened to the last one he started laughing. At moments like these he remembered why he'd fallen in love with this girl, the only one who'd been able to regard him with pity when he'd made a monkey of himself at college. G.o.d, how many years was it now? Ten years since the wedding, and how long had they known each other? Fourteen. More than a third of his life. Almost half. He could hardly believe it. At the last minute, just before nine, he'd made it to the shop and got a loaf of bread and some cigarettes. The saleswoman - the same one as eight years ago - had smiled at him. Strange, but they never exchanged a word more than what you usually say when you're shopping. Briefly he thought of saying something else - they'd known each other for so many years, but he paid without a word and left. At home he walked straight into the inner circle of h.e.l.l.

"Daddy, Daddy, why can't I have my birthday at Mc-Donald's?"

"Why haven't you gone to bed yet?" he replied smartly.

"Because Mum didn't tell me to."

"Seriously?"

An armchair creaked in the sitting room.

"That brat is as big a liar as you are," shouted Weronika from inside the flat.

Szacki looked at his daughter, who was standing in the hall with an angelic expression on her face.

"I never tell lies," he whispered.

"Neither do I," whispered Helka.

Weronika came up to them and looked helplessly at the little girl with chestnut-coloured hair.

"Do something, you're her father after all. Tell her she's got to brush her teeth and go to bed, and that she's not having her birthday at McDonald's. Over my dead body."

"Everyone has their birthday at McDonald's," said Helka.