in, before Szacki had uttered the final syllable of his remark.
“In all my life I never would have imagined you’d be on first-name terms so quickly! You’re totally forbidden to talk to the press about the inquiry, especially Prosecutor Joker here – send them all to me. I’ll do my best to make sure the rotten egg doesn’t break.”
Szacki had a ready-made opinion on that subject – not for this had someone gone to so much trouble – the killer clearly wanted it to leak out. He’d have placed a large bet on the fact that tomorrow morning it’d be hard to push one’s way through the broadcasting vans here. But if Miszczyk was taking the press on herself, well then – not his circus, not his monkeys. He kept these considerations to himself, and also his view that the lady district prosecutor had just signed up for the centuries-old Polish tradition of sweeping things under the carpet. She could have had a brilliant career in the Church.
VI
Perhaps it was because Oleg Kuzniecow, the police detective he’d worked with in Warsaw, was completely different – burly, bawdy and jovial, always trying to get a stupid joke into every sentence. Perhaps it came down to the fact that he and Kuzniecow had known each other for years, worked together, drank together and used to meet up at each other’s houses. Or maybe it was to do with the fact that Kuzniecow was a real friend of his, and that Prosecutor Teodor Szacki loved him like a brother. Maybe that was why he was incapable, he couldn’t and didn’t want to like Inspector Leon Wilczur.
It was quite another matter that Inspector Wilczur was rather far from being likeable. He had arranged to meet him in the “Town Hall” bar, a dreadful dive in the basement of a tenement house on the market square that stank of the cigarette smoke which had infused every bit of the decor for decades, and was full of weird customers and weird waiters. Szacki was sure that behind the scenes there were weird cooks weirdly preparing weird meat, so he limited himself to coffee and cheesecake. The cheesecake smelt of an old sofa whicheveryone sits on, but no one fancies cleaning. The coffee was real, but made in the cup.
Wilczur looked like a demon. In the gloom and the cigarette smoke, his deeply set yellow eyes shone feverishly, his pointed nose cast a shadow across half his face and his cheeks sank with every avid drag on his cigarette.
“A shot each, perhaps, gentlemen?” The waiter’s tone was funereal, as if he meant a shot of fresh blood.
They refused. Wilczur waited for the waiter to go away, and then started to speak, occasionally glancing at the documents lying in front of him or at a small laptop. Which at first surprised Szacki. The inspector looked more like the sort of person whom one should spare the torture of explaining what text messages are.
“We know Budnik’s version of events, and now we can supplement it with various statements. On Sunday they were definitely at the cathedral at about six p.m., and they definitely left before mass, which starts at seven. We have two independent witnesses to that. Then they went for a walk, and at a quarter past seven they were caught by a camera on Mariacka Street.”
Wilczur turned the computer towards him. On a short recording he could see the vague outlines of a couple walking along arm-in-arm. Szacki magnified the image, and for the first time he was able to see Elżbieta Budnik alive. She was the same height as her husband, with dark blonde hair spilling down her sports jacket; she wasn’t wearing a hat or a cap. She must have been telling him something – with one hand she was gesticulating vehemently; at one point she stopped to adjust her boot top, while Budnik went on a few paces. She caught him up in three small hops, like a little girl, not a mature woman. Next to the solemn Budnik, dressed in a brown raincoat and a felt hat, she looked like his daughter, not his wife. She drew level with her husband at the
“In all my life I never would have imagined you’d be on first-name terms so quickly! You’re totally forbidden to talk to the press about the inquiry, especially Prosecutor Joker here – send them all to me. I’ll do my best to make sure the rotten egg doesn’t break.”
Szacki had a ready-made opinion on that subject – not for this had someone gone to so much trouble – the killer clearly wanted it to leak out. He’d have placed a large bet on the fact that tomorrow morning it’d be hard to push one’s way through the broadcasting vans here. But if Miszczyk was taking the press on herself, well then – not his circus, not his monkeys. He kept these considerations to himself, and also his view that the lady district prosecutor had just signed up for the centuries-old Polish tradition of sweeping things under the carpet. She could have had a brilliant career in the Church.
VI
Perhaps it was because Oleg Kuzniecow, the police detective he’d worked with in Warsaw, was completely different – burly, bawdy and jovial, always trying to get a stupid joke into every sentence. Perhaps it came down to the fact that he and Kuzniecow had known each other for years, worked together, drank together and used to meet up at each other’s houses. Or maybe it was to do with the fact that Kuzniecow was a real friend of his, and that Prosecutor Teodor Szacki loved him like a brother. Maybe that was why he was incapable, he couldn’t and didn’t want to like Inspector Leon Wilczur.
It was quite another matter that Inspector Wilczur was rather far from being likeable. He had arranged to meet him in the “Town Hall” bar, a dreadful dive in the basement of a tenement house on the market square that stank of the cigarette smoke which had infused every bit of the decor for decades, and was full of weird customers and weird waiters. Szacki was sure that behind the scenes there were weird cooks weirdly preparing weird meat, so he limited himself to coffee and cheesecake. The cheesecake smelt of an old sofa whicheveryone sits on, but no one fancies cleaning. The coffee was real, but made in the cup.
Wilczur looked like a demon. In the gloom and the cigarette smoke, his deeply set yellow eyes shone feverishly, his pointed nose cast a shadow across half his face and his cheeks sank with every avid drag on his cigarette.
“A shot each, perhaps, gentlemen?” The waiter’s tone was funereal, as if he meant a shot of fresh blood.
They refused. Wilczur waited for the waiter to go away, and then started to speak, occasionally glancing at the documents lying in front of him or at a small laptop. Which at first surprised Szacki. The inspector looked more like the sort of person whom one should spare the torture of explaining what text messages are.
“We know Budnik’s version of events, and now we can supplement it with various statements. On Sunday they were definitely at the cathedral at about six p.m., and they definitely left before mass, which starts at seven. We have two independent witnesses to that. Then they went for a walk, and at a quarter past seven they were caught by a camera on Mariacka Street.”
Wilczur turned the computer towards him. On a short recording he could see the vague outlines of a couple walking along arm-in-arm. Szacki magnified the image, and for the first time he was able to see Elżbieta Budnik alive. She was the same height as her husband, with dark blonde hair spilling down her sports jacket; she wasn’t wearing a hat or a cap. She must have been telling him something – with one hand she was gesticulating vehemently; at one point she stopped to adjust her boot top, while Budnik went on a few paces. She caught him up in three small hops, like a little girl, not a mature woman. Next to the solemn Budnik, dressed in a brown raincoat and a felt hat, she looked like his daughter, not his wife. She drew level with her husband at the
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