Entanglement (26 page)

Three days further on he found two death notices. The first read: “On 17th September 1987 Kamil Sosnowski was taken from us, our beloved son and brother. Dearest Kamil, we will love you for ever, your Mummy, Daddy and sister.” And the second was atypical: “On 17th September Kamil was murdered, our best mate and friend. Old pal, we’ll never forget you. Zibi and everyone.”

He didn’t believe anything would come of it, but he decided he should ask Oleg to find the file relating to that case in the archive.

Mechanically he read the article he’d marked earlier with his pen. “Volume II of the
Universal Encyclopedia
is now available to the public. Issued upon fulfilling the following conditions: presentation at the waste-paper collection centre of a recyclable materials purchase booklet, subscription voucher, identity card and payment of 5,100 zlotys.”

What nonsense. He couldn’t remember the world of Communist Poland well, but it looked as if the film-maker Stanisław Bareja’s satirical account of it was entirely true. Though on the other hand everything must have been simpler then. And funnier.

He took the binders back to the book trolley, bowed politely to the buxom librarian and ran down the stairs, quietly crooning the Michael Jackson hit, ‘Liberian Girl’, but changing it into “librarian girl”. Only on the ground floor did he switch on his mobile phone and realize he’d spent three hours in the library. Bugger, he’d fucked up again. He swore out loud and called Weronika.

 

In America a jury has acquitted Michael Jackson on a charge of paedophilia. Nevertheless the King left the court building looking sad and dejected. In Belarus the militia have apprehended a gerontophile rapist. The youngest victim was sixty-one, the oldest eighty-seven. In Ukraine, councillors in Lviv have passed a resolution necessary for the opening of the “Eaglets” Polish war cemetery. In France, Polish actor Andrzej Seweryn has been awarded the
Légion d’honneur
. In Poland, boring news: nationalist politician Roman Giertych wants to take the Minister for Internal Affairs and Administration to court for not preventing the illegal Equality Parade. Conservative politician Jan Rokita of the Civic Platform party agrees with Law and Justice party leader Jarosław Kaczyński on the issue of vetting people in official posts to expose Communist-era collaboration and declares: “There is a chance for joint government.” Left-wing former premier Leszek Miller has been thoroughly defeated in the primaries within the Łódź branch of the Democratic Left Alliance party, but even so he will be first on the candidate list. In Warsaw the police break up a gang of thieves which stole luxury cars by making the drivers get out to inspect non-existent damage. During the interrogations a gun with a silencer is seized, along with 5.5 pounds of amphetamines and an antique samurai sword. Beautiful weather in the capital city: twenty-two degrees, sunny, no rain.

Bright and early he arrived at Oleg’s place on Wilcza Street. Unfortunately, no one had been murdered that weekend and Szacki was worried that if the policeman didn’t provide him with new information about Telak he’d be forced to work on the drugs case.

They drank coffee out of plastic cups in the police station canteen. In his black fake-leather waistcoat thrown over a greenish T-shirt Kuzniecow looked like a black-market money changer from the old Thousandth Anniversary Stadium that was now home to a seedy bazaar. Szacki was in a grey suit, like a mafia accountant wanting to have a serious talk about business with him.

“I’ve got a voiceprint analysis for you,” said Kuzniecow. “Unfortunately it’s not an expert opinion, just an unofficial one. Leszek did it for me as a favour - normally you have to record comparative material in their special sound-analysis studio. They paid insane money for it - even the sound of electrons in the electrical wires has been silenced - and now they refuse to hear of any other recordings. They’ve got big-headed. But Leszek is all right. You know what, he spends most of his time tuning pianos. He has a fabulous sense of hearing, I’m surprised he bothers working for us.”

Szacki bought a bottle of water to rinse out his mouth after the coffee, which tasted like a wet floor-cloth. Either they’d made chicory coffee, or else they hadn’t cleaned the espresso machine for several years. Or maybe both.

“And what is Leszek’s official opinion?”

“You have no idea what a nutcase he is - I once went to his house, I can’t remember what for. He’s got two rooms in a block in Ursynów, but the child sleeps with them, because the other room is for listening. A tiny table and nothing else - the walls and ceiling are entirely covered with egg cartons, the big square ones.”

“Oleg, be merciful, I’ve got a heap of work to do, and I might have even more. The opinion.”

Kuzniecow ordered another coffee.

“Just hold on, you won’t regret it.”

“I will,” said Szacki resignedly.

“What do you think he listens to in there?”

“Not music, since you ask.”

“His wife.”

“What a good boy. Is that all?”

“No. He listens to his wife having orgasms.”

Kuzniecow stopped talking and looked at him triumphantly. Szacki knew he should stab him with a well-aimed malicious remark to close the subject, but he couldn’t restrain his curiosity.

“Very good, you win. You mean to say they fuck on those egg cartons?”

“Almost. He tells her to masturbate in that room and he records her moans. There can’t be any interference.”

Szacki was sorry he hadn’t closed the subject.

“One last question: why on earth would he do that?”

“For money. He has a theory that women emit a very special noise while climaxing, which is partly beyond the auditory threshold. He wants to synthesize that sound, patent it and sell it to people for advertising. Get it? An ad goes out live on TV, eight out of ten prefer X etc., and you suddenly go wild with excitement, because that recording is built into the advert. Then you go to the shop, see that beer and at once you get a hard-on. And then what? Are you still going to buy the usual Warka beer? You may laugh, but there’s something in it.”

“I even know what. The tragedy of a child who has to sleep with his parents.”

Kuzniecow nodded, no doubt wondering if he too could make a deal out of climaxing adverts, and took a notebook out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Leszek is ninety per cent sure the voice saying ‘Daddy’ is Kwiatkowska’s. Warsaw accent, characteristic intonation, a bit similar to French - maybe the girl used to live in France - and a slightly voiceless ‘r’. Only ninety per cent because the comparative material was everyday stuff. He definitely ruled out Mrs Telak, and Jarczyk too, though here he found more common features. He claims that both of them - Kwiatkowska and Jarczyk - must be at least second-generation residents of Warsaw, and from the City Centre. Their voices also have a similar timbre, quite high.”

Szacki raised his eyebrows.

“You’re joking. You can’t persuade me you can tell by the accent if someone’s from the City Centre or the Praga district.”

“I was surprised too. Certainly not when you’ve only been living there for a few years, but if your grandparents already lived here, then you can. Not bad, eh?”

Szacki agreed automatically, wondering if, after living in the Praga district since birth, his daughter had already caught the proletarian pronunciation of the right bank of the Vistula.

They talked for a while longer about the inquiry, but Kuzniecow didn’t have much to say. Only today would he finally be meeting with Telak’s financial adviser. He’d also sent a man to find Telak’s friends from technical college and the polytechnic and question them about his old love affairs. Finally they quarrelled when Szacki asked the policeman to find an investigation file from 1987 as soon as possible.

“No way,” bristled Kuzniecow, eating a teacake and blancmange. “There’s absolutely no bloody way.”

“Oleg, please.”

“Write a letter to the chief. You always were a pain in the arse, but in this inquiry you’ve surpassed yourself. Just you write down on a piece of paper everything you’ve demanded of me so far and you’ll see for yourself. There’s no way. Or submit an
application to the City Police Headquarters archive. In three weeks it’ll all be ready. I’m not going to deal with that.”

Szacki adjusted his shirt cuffs. He realized Kuzniecow was right. But instinct was telling him he should check it out as soon as possible.

“It’s the last time, I promise,” he said.

Kuzniecow shrugged.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a pal who just happens to work in the archive,” he muttered in the end.

Why doesn’t that surprise me? thought Szacki.

Janina Chorko was looking - luckily - as ugly as usual. This time she had skilfully emphasized her total lack of charm with the help of some black trousers ironed with a crease and a grey knitted top adorned with a monstrously large brooch made of leather. He could relax and look her in the eyes while they talked.

“Sometimes, Prosecutor,” she drawled impassively, looking at him like a bump in the wallpaper, “I get the impression that you in turn are under the impression that you enjoy some sort of special regard in my eyes. That is a mistaken impression.”

Szacki was happy. If she’d decided to be flirtatious again and given him a knowing look, he would have had to change jobs. What a relief.

“Wednesday,” he said.

“Why is that?” she asked.

“For several reasons…” he began, but paused, because a bleep sounded, indicating the arrival of a text message. He’d forgotten to silence his phone.

“Please check what it says. Maybe someone has confessed,” she grinned spitefully.

He read it. “I know this is stupid, but since yesterday I’ve got very fond of my new shoes. Guess why. Coffee? Mo.”

“Private,” he said, pretending not to notice the look on her face. “Firstly, I must have two more days to dig around in the Telak case, secondly, I must get ready for the Gliński trial, and thirdly, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”

“Everyone has, don’t make me laugh.”

“Fourthly, I don’t think that case needs so many people working on it,” he said, trying his best to make it sound as tactful as possible.

Chorko glanced out of the window, pouted her upper lip and made a puffing sound.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she declared, without looking at him, “otherwise I’d have to acknowledge that you’re questioning the way I run the office. Or else that you have doubts about your colleagues’ competence. Surely that’s not what you were thinking?”

He didn’t reply.

She smiled.

“You have until Wednesday. And not an hour longer.”

 

Barbara Jarczyk appeared in his room punctually at eleven. He blinked - once again something started itching in his head. Déjà vu. Barbara Jarczyk looked exactly the same as a week ago. Right down to the earrings. He thought perhaps she dressed differently each day, but kept to a weekly cycle.

He asked a few routine questions. Had anything happened? Had she remembered any facts that she hadn’t told him earlier? Had she been in touch with Kaim, Kwiatkowska or the therapist Rudzki? She replied to all the questions with a curt “no”. She merely mentioned that on Thursday someone from the police had been to see her on a trivial matter. She didn’t understand the purpose of this visit.

“The police take all leads into consideration, it was probably just a routine check-up,” he lied, realizing she didn’t have to know about the voiceprint analysis. “Unfortunately you must come to terms with the fact that until the inquiry is closed such visits might occur even quite frequently.”

She nodded. Unenthusiastically, but understandingly.

“Do you use sleeping pills?” he asked.

She frowned, probably wondering why he wanted to know.

“Sometimes,” she replied after a pause. “Quite rarely nowadays, but I used to be virtually addicted. I had to take a pill every night.”

“Addicted?”

“Not in the drug addiction sense. I had problems, I couldn’t sleep, so the doctors gave me those pills. Finally, taking them became as natural as brushing my teeth at bedtime. I got scared when I realized that. That was one of the reasons why I ended up going to therapy.”

“But do you still take a pill sometimes?”

“Not more than once every few days, once a week. Sometimes less often.”

“Which drug are you using now?”

“Tranquiloxyl. It’s a French drug.”

“Is it strong?”

“Quite strong. On prescription. Nevertheless I’ve taken sleeping pills for a bit too long, so nowadays not just anything works on me.”

“When did you last take Tranquiloxyl?”

She flushed.

“Yesterday,” she replied. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.”

“Do you know why I’m asking?”

“To tell the truth, no.”

He hesitated with the next question. Could it be that Telak
had stolen her pills? In that case she ought to have noticed they were missing.

“An empty bottle of Tranquiloxyl was found in Mr Telak’s room at the monastery on Łazienkowska Street. The pathologist confirmed that shortly before he was murdered Mr Telak took a large number of them, but then vomited. The fingerprints on the bottle are Mr Telak’s and yours. Can you explain that?”

For a change Mrs Jarczyk went pale. She gave him a terrified look. And didn’t answer.

“Well?” he urged.

“I, I, oh my God, I’ve only just remembered now…” she stammered. “Surely you don’t think I, oh my God…”

She burst into tears.

“I’m so very sorry,” she said, searching her handbag for a handkerchief. Szacki would have liked to give her his, but to make matters worse he didn’t have any. Finally she found one, wiped her eyes and blew her nose.