Authors: Joanna Jodelka
‘And what, the rest isn’t important?’ he asked, annoyed.
‘Everything’s important and I know you’re seeing to it.
And keep an eye out for any other maxims. There were two in
Mikulski’s house, there ought to be at least as many here. You
didn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Your intuition was spot on when
you asked about Mikulski today. Well done. I’m off to do some
work. We’ll see each other tomorrow.’
Bartol quickly reached the front steps leaving Gawroński
– who didn’t know how to react to the surprise registered on
the faces of the few technicians who’d have to add the gift of
prophecy to their boss’s many talents – slightly stunned.
He went outside and, for a moment, stopped halfway down
the steps. He breathed in air which, with the tiniest bit of goodwill, could have been called fresh.
He couldn’t say that he was entirely surprised, that it hadn’t
already occurred to either him or anyone else, but vague
connections, as Pilski described them, were one thing and
the certainty that they were dealing with the same man, the
same murderer, with something they’d never dealt with before,
was quite another.
He’d already come across a double murder in the past, a
double suicide at that, but the murders had been committed
at the same time and without a stage setting.
Polek, standing on the stairs, tore him from his semi-stupor.
‘I’ve heard the news. Are you sure it’s the same guy who did
Mikulski in?’ he asked without beating about the bush.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ replied Bartol.
‘Well then go and tell that prosecutor. He’s by the
ambulance.’
‘Let him be, Olaf. I’m going to question the old woman,
then go to the station. You check whether we haven’t ever powwowed with this Trzaska or got any mutual acquaintances. And
when you talk to people, ask them where he got the glasses
from. Maybe somebody’ll know something.’
‘I’m to ask about his specs?’ Polek asked as if his reputation
would suffer.
‘Yes, the ones on his nose to be precise. They’re also adorned
with a Latin maxim. Do your best. And get Maćkowiak to go to
that night shelter. See you.’
It wasn’t far but he drove to the neighbouring house. He
didn’t intend going back to that place, not that day anyway; it
was too crowded and his thoughts were too scattered.
He got into his car and almost automatically called his
mother. It was the quickest way to find out what the words
could mean.
‘Hi, mum. I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘What, more Latin?’ she was quick to enquire.
‘How do you know?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise.
‘You rarely miss me so much as to call so soon after we’ve
just seen each other. Besides, this reminds me of something,
I’m still on the ball. Watch and learn, I’m not going to be around
forever. Appreciate it as it comes.’
‘I do. Mum, do you know what "
Speculator adstad de sui
’"
might mean?’
‘I’ve no idea, but wait, I’m on the internet. Spell it.’
Bartol spelled the words and waited as instructed.
‘I can’t find anything here, unfortunately. Phone the expert
you called before.’
‘The problem there is that he wrote very nicely but said
there wasn’t any connection between the two dicta.’
‘Some expert. He could at least have said that he couldn’t
find any but to immediately go and say that there wasn’t one –
since there must be some sort of link.’
‘You’ve put that very nicely, thank you.’
‘Listen,’ she began after a while. ‘You remember me telling
you about the girl Magda who spoke so beautifully about
medieval symbolism? I told you to get in touch with her then.
Besides, I wanted to get you to meet her before you’d any
responsibilities… Never mind, water under the bridge,’ she
added more quietly, as if to herself.
And that was why he hadn’t phoned her at the time. He
remembered how, before he’d told her about the pregnancy, she’d
suddenly been interested in some Christian iconography so as to
tell him about the fine young woman she’d met. What beat it all
was her asking him to go and return a dictionary she’d borrowed
from the girl. He hadn’t gone; he’d been sure she’d taken the
dictionary especially so that he could get to know the young
woman, like kids in a nursery. He’d had it up to his ears with
this match-making. He hadn’t wanted any new acquaintances,
neither then nor later; although things turned out otherwise. His
intuition must have been good. And he wasn’t in the mood to meet
anyone now either, but felt there was no way out. He would have
had to get another translation from the man who’d tried to be
agreeable but whose whole body communicated just how much
he couldn’t abide ignoramuses like him.
‘Do you still have her phone number?’
‘I do, and what of it? It’s nothing to me whether you meet
her now or not.’
‘Don’t bicker, mum. This is serious.’
‘All right, all right, I was only looking for the number. I’ll
send you her card. Her name’s Magdalena Walichnowska. I’ve
jotted somewhere here to call before twelve or after eight in
the evening.’
‘Magdalena Walichnowska, that’s nice. To call after 8pm?
Is she pretty at least?’
‘Now stop being silly and stop complicating matters. I’ve
had enough for this year.’
‘Oh, come on! I was only joking. Just send me the number,
okay?’
‘You know what? Go buy yourself another sense of humour
because the one you’ve got must be some sort of reject, price
reduced several times. Bye!’
A moment later a message arrived with the number. He called
immediately even though it was outside the stated hours. After
five rings, the answer machine replied: ‘I must be doing something
more interesting than taking calls. Record your message!’
He didn’t intend to leave a message, decided he’d phone later.
He put the phone aside, drove off and turned. He didn’t even
manage to shift into third gear before he had to slow down. A
large four-wheel drive appeared from behind the bend and
came towards him at great speed, turned left and stopped
before the freshly laid foundations of the future house. It must
have braked like that only to make mud splatter as high as the
roof, proof that it had been driven in the country.
‘Fine,’ he said to himself out loud. ‘They’ve come of their
own accord. That’s one thing less to think about.’
He thought he’d ask the new arrivals some preliminary
questions about whether they’d seen anything or not. Before
he saw them he heard a booming guffaw and a squeaky giggle.
He looked at the couple climbing out of the car. The man must
have been coming up to fifty, was quite fit and quite wrinkled; the
woman was too young and wearing loud colours.
No doubt, when buying the trousers which were too tight
and the polo shirt a tiny bit too small, he hadn’t been able
to resist admiring himself and had pulled his stomach in as
much as he could; not more than a metre away from any mirror,
however, he’d already forgotten to do so. She, less than twenty,
bravely copied him and wore clothes which were too small.
He was in something like an unfastened, coloured, leather
jacket, she in a loose jacket, the top of which was two sizes
smaller than the jumper beneath it, a jumper which didn’t
cover her belly anyway.
As he got out of the car, Bartol decided to fasten his own
jacket. He found it cold so was all the more amused by the
couple in love, who clearly couldn’t care less about the weather.
As Bartol started to approach them, the man turned towards
him with determination, stopped, drew himself up straight,
assumed an offensive stance and attacked: ‘What do you want?’
Bartol pulled out his ID, recited the usual formula and
introduced himself. The offensive stance became defensive
but not devoid of aggression.
‘Come about that cement I had stolen two days ago, have
you?’
‘No, no I haven’t,’ Bartol replied calmly.
‘Of course not. As if the police cared!’
‘I think they do. Please report it to the local station, I’m from
another department. Most probably between 4.00 and 6.00pm
yesterday afternoon your neighbour, Mirosław Trzaska, in that
house next to yours, was murdered. Perhaps you saw something?’
The girl stopped smiling, the man, too, grew very serious
but a moment later regained his vigour.
‘We were at a show yesterday and, anyway, we still live in
Poznań, don’t we Niunia?’
Niunia nodded and clung harder to the man’s arm. She was
so tiny she could easily have been his younger daughter.
‘That can be proved, can it?’ Bartol asked just in case.
‘Of course it can. We weren’t alone. Wacek took some
photographs. Remember, Niunia?’
Niunia remembered.
‘Did you know Mirosław Trzaska?’
‘I don’t hang out with this rabble. Well, just look around.’
Bartol didn’t intend to look around; he was finding the man
more and more irritating.
‘All this is just spoiling my view.’ The man indicated his
not-yet-existent windows.
‘They’ve all lived here a long time and you’re new, as it
happens.’ Bartol started to enter into an unnecessary discussion.
‘So what? I’ve bought ten hectares here, and one for Niunia
because she wants to plant some flowers, and I’m going to buy
some more, and for Niunia, too. That bit with the forest next to
it because she wants her own mushrooms. So there!’
He glanced at Niunia, who pulled a sweet face as if she’d
just been given a lollipop, and stuck out a bust which could
not go unnoticed.
‘Well, I didn’t want to tell you. It was supposed to be a present
from the Easter bunny,’ the man gushed. After a moment, he
continued: ‘I don’t intend to get to know anybody here for
the time being. I’ll wait. Admin says there’s no problem with
building permission because the land’s poor and the farmers a
load of crap. What do they have, you tell me? Five hectares. And
they’re going to build a dual carriageway to Buk nearby. Down a
bit and we’re here. I’m going to fence all this in and turn it into
a private compound. You should buy something here yourself.
They’re dumb peasants, selling for a pittance.’ His good mood
was returning as he looked at Niunia’s beaming face.
‘I don’t intend to buy anything!’ replied Bartol, quite angry
now, but not wanting to enter into any kind of conversation.
‘Please report to police headquarters in Poznań tomorrow
between eleven and twelve o’clock.’
‘What for?’
‘In order to make a statement.’
‘Niunia, too?’
‘Niunia, too.’ He tried not to raise his voice. ‘Here is my card.’
He gave one first to the man – he was standing closest – and
as the latter slipped it into his wallet, he gave one to the girl.
Unwittingly, for a split second, his eyes rested on the breasts
popping out of the girl’s low-cut top. Niunia seized the moment
and stuck her breasts out even further, tilting her head to one side.
Her expression indicated that the money wasn’t being wasted.
Bartol, a little disconcerted at being caught sneaking a look,
swiftly asked: ‘May I note down your details?’
‘But of course!’
The man pulled out his driving licence, the girl her ID.
‘I told you to get yourself that licence,’ said the man to
Niunia. He didn’t need to say this but probably did so just to
hear the answer.
‘Why? You’re such a good driver and I’m scared of driving
by myself anyway,’ she replied, gluing herself to his arm again.
Bartol returned to his car. He finished noting down the
couple’s details and once more glanced at the four-wheel drive.
The man was phoning somebody; Niunia was gazing out at
her new allotment by the forest. It seemed to Maciej as though
she’d grown in stature; she was not sticking her breasts out so
much but had raised her chin. He thought that, if Niunia waited
a little, she’d grow into quite a loaded young lady. He glanced at
her again. She was still staring at her future land; he was sure
she was even licking her lips. She’s not as stupid as she makes
out, he thought. She’ll wait.
He said goodbye and decided to let Maćkowiak question
the couple the second time around; he had no wish to see
them again.
He crossed the road to the house where the woman who’d
reported the murder, lived. The gate wasn’t pulled-to and
probably couldn’t be. Last year’s stalks beneath the windows
didn’t resemble any garden plants. A path trodden across the
grass and mud led to the front door which, in an old-fashioned,
uninviting way, gave on to the yard.
Then, in the yard, Bartol saw something which he wouldn’t
have expected. Dozens of nearly new cages, large and small
and all in perfectly good condition, served as aviaries for an
enormous number of colourful birds. He’d have called them
hens and roosters except that none of them resembled what
he’d describe as poultry. Some of the hens had the appearance
of small sheep, while the roosters looked like proud and stately
eagles with nearly twenty-centimetre long feathers on their
enormous talons.
There were all sorts, colourful and beautiful. Bartol stared,
fascinated by the madness parading in front of him. These
follies which he was looking on could have served some
ordinary purpose, but surely only by chance. What they
manifested was the artistic flair of nature and man, who also
liked to tamper.
He fixed his eyes on a small, proud cockerel with an
enormous, multi-coloured, glistening tail, which didn’t walk
but strode like a Tyrannosaurus Rex and closely observed him.
The bird wasn’t peacefully inclined, that was for sure. Bartol
wasn’t scared of animals on the whole but he’d never open that
particular cage.
He’d have stood there staring for longer had he not heard a
squeak and the loud grating of the bedecked front door against
the ground.
‘
And where did you spring from?!’ First he heard the croaky
voice, then saw a head appear from behind the door-frame.
‘Police. Mrs Regina Konopka?’ he asked, standing below. He
didn’t even attempt to walk in her direction.
‘Then show me those, you know, those papers.’
‘Here you are.’ He pulled the ID from his pocket. He might
just as well have pulled out a road sign, she wouldn’t have been
able to see it in that light or at that distance, but it sufficed.
‘You’d better come in then.’ She opened the door wider.
He climbed steps as dilapidated as the ones he’d climbed
before. From that point Mrs Konopka marked the way forward.
Meandering, she led him to a room downstairs. It couldn’t have
been further from the front door but must have been the most
presentable. In the meantime, he took a good look at her. The
wrinkles etched into her face spoke a great deal; for example,
that the last time she’d smiled whole-heartedly must have been
during the ‘60s or ‘70s when a neighbour had broken her leg
or some such incident.
The house, too, was in character with its owner, who
clearly didn’t like cleaning but did like to cover everything
with colourful, poorly ironed tablecloths. The room in which
they sat resembled all the others except in two things: in the
place of honour stood an enormous television set also on a
flowery tablecloth, and in the armchair – covered with a larger
tablecloth - slept a young man.
‘He’s asleep. He’ll probably sleep for a long time because I gave
him the pills those doctors of yours gave me. He’s upset about this
Trzaska man,’ Regina declared with concern in her voice.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Bartol was aghast. Taken
aback at first, he quickly concluded that if the pills weren’t
supposed to harm an elderly woman they certainly wouldn’t
harm a young lad.
‘God never bestowed me with good health, I’m ill with blood
pressure, don’t feel well,’ she said, putting on an ailing face.
‘Have you told a doctor? Shall I go and get you something?
One of the medics might still be around. And what is your
blood pressure, high or low?’
‘I’m ill with blood pressure!’ she informed in a tone which
brooked no argument. ‘I don’t need any of their medicine,’ she
added.
‘Fine.’ He’d no intention of arguing with her. Her blood
pressure was clearly so awful it couldn’t be measured. ‘Let’s
talk about how you found Mr Mirosław Trzaska and what was
your relationship.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ she started yelling.
It suddenly dawned on him that their conversation was
beginning to sound like some cheap joke – and because of him.
‘Nothing. I’m only asking whether you knew him well.’
‘What do you mean, well? Normally! He was new. Bought
the house from the Ławeckis. Always greeted me but didn’t go
to church.’ She emphasised the last words plainly and firmly.
‘That’s people for you nowadays, no fear of God in them, like
those opposite. Have you seen those tramps? When I think how
I sold him that land by the road… My son didn’t want to,’ she
admitted honestly, ‘but I promised him those hens. Bought myself
that television and did right. Why should I watch the world in
some tiny box? I went on pilgrimages, too. Prayed for my boy not
to bring anything like her home, you saw, didn’t you?’
Looking at her face he didn’t know whether she’d been to the
sanctuary at Licheń or Łysa Góra, the supposed site of a witches’
coven, unless it was one of those combined pilgrimages, two in
one for the balance.
‘So how did you guess that something had happened to
Mr Trzaska?’
‘That mongrel howled all day and all night. Howled before,
too, because why keep it indoors? But a bit too long this time.
I went over, knocked and – nothing. So I brought the ladder
which was leaning against the wall up against the window. A
bit scared I was but…’
‘Couldn’t you have asked your son?’
‘Why should I? Besides, I didn’t like him going there. The
man said all sorts of nonsense to him. Maybe he was some sort
of pervert? How could I know what I was going to see through
that window?’ she added reasonably.
‘Right, and what did you see through the window?’ He must
have been finding everybody tiresome that day.
‘He was just sitting there, without moving. I ran home and
phoned. It’s a good thing the phone was plugged in because that
one there’ – she pointed to her son – ‘unplugs it at times. It didn’t
bother him when there were those quiz shows where he knew the
answers and we couldn’t phone, but now I know the answers and
phone sometimes, he yells at me. No good he is, just like his father!’
Bartol looked at the sleeping son and thought that even
if the lad had wanted to smother his mother with a pillow he
wouldn’t have succeeded: she was the kind who’d suck oxygen
in through the feathers.
But he had to ask even though he didn’t want to talk to her.
‘Can you tell me where you and your son were yesterday
between four and six in the afternoon?’
‘Why?’ she asked, taking offence.
‘Please don’t upset yourself. It’s just procedure.’
‘Procedure! What procedure?!’ she started to shout.
It didn’t surprise him; he’d expected her to shout.
‘Please answer me,’ he asked as calmly as he could.
‘It was Hela’s turn yesterday,’ she said as though there were
no need to explain anything.
‘Hela’s turn for what?’ he asked calmly again.
‘We meet every week at a different friend’s house.’
‘That was from when to when, and where was your son in
the meantime?’
‘Where was he supposed to be? With me. We meet at four.
He takes us there then brings us back. It must have lasted until
eight yesterday or I might have got home even later. After that
TV serial, you know, where all these people have got problems,
the one…’
‘That means what time?’ He wasn’t interested in what
problems people had.
‘The neighbour will know better because she wears a watch.
I don’t like wearing one,’ she replied, offended by his lack of
understanding for the misfortunes in episode 518.
‘Please tell your son to report to police headquarters
between eleven and one tomorrow. I’ll leave you my business
card. He can call if it doesn’t suit.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Procedure. Haven’t you seen that in this television over
there?’
‘I have, too.’
‘Well, there you are. Please pass it on to him. And one
more thing. Was anyone lurking around here recently? Any
unknown cars drive past?’
‘Those punters are always hanging around, but apart from
that I haven’t seen anything.’
It took him a long time before he realised, in a roundabout
way, that she didn’t mean punters but hunters.
He glanced in sympathy at the lad again and said goodbye
to Mrs Konopka. He really did feel tired. Her eyes followed him
as she stood at the door. He didn’t stop by the birds; he didn’t
want to provoke another discussion. She clearly did.