Part 3 (1/2)
Teodor Szacki signed his name on the ”Prosecution Reference File”, made a note that an inquiry was being conducted ”in the case of the taking of the life of Henryk Telak in the church building rooms at 14 azienkowska Street, Warsaw, on the night of 4th-5th June 2005, i.e. an offence covered by Article 148, paragraph 1 of the Penal Code”, and stopped writing at the box marked ”versus”. Unfortunately he would have to leave it blank. Experience had taught him that investigations conducted ”in the case of” were definitely more than likely to finish many months later with a doc.u.ment being sent to the Regional Prosecutor's office asking them to approve a decision ”to dismiss by reason of failure to identify the offender, in accordance with Article 322, paragraph 1 of the Penal Procedure Code”. There in the record you entered the words ”perpetrator unknown”, and took it back to the archive with a bad taste in your mouth. Better to have a suspect from the start, then you didn't have to wander about in the dark.
He carefully read through the material provided by Kuzniecow, but didn't conclude much more from it beyond what the policeman had told him. Nothing had been found during the searches; the only deviation from the norm was an empty bottle of sleeping pills left by Telak in the bathroom. Strange, thought Szacki, someone taking that sort of pills shouldn't really be getting up at night, dressing and leaving. He wrote on a sheet of paper: ”medicine - prescription, fingerprints, wife”. All they had found in Telak's suitcase were some clothes, toiletries and a book, a crime novel called Headland of Pseuds. Szacki had heard of it - apparently it was largely set in Warsaw. He was ready to bet a hundred hard-earned zlotys that the word ”prosecutor” didn't appear in it once, and that meanwhile a brave lone cop did it all by himself, including establis.h.i.+ng the time of death. In Telak's wallet there were some doc.u.ments, a little cash, a video library card, some family photos and some lottery tickets.
He wrote: ”wallet - examine”.
Nothing to latch on to. Nothing.
There was a knock at the door.
”Come in!” said Szacki, looking at his watch in surprise. Kwiatkowska was not supposed to be there for half an hour.
In came a girl he didn't know. She was about twenty-five, neither pretty nor ugly, a brunette with curly hair cut short and rectangular gla.s.ses with opalescent frames. Quite slender; not particularly his type.
”I'm sorry I didn't call in advance, but I was just pa.s.sing and I thought-”
”Yes? What brings you here?” Szacki interrupted her, praying to himself that she wasn't a lunatic coming to complain about electricity being put through her keyhole.
”My name's Monika Grzelka, I'm a journalist-”
”Oh no, Madam,” he interrupted her again. ”The Prosecution Press Spokesman has his office on Krakowskie Przedmiecie - he's a nice fellow, I'm sure he'll be happy to answer all your questions.”
That was all he needed. A young thing, only good-looking enough to work in radio, to whom he'd have to explain the difference between suspect and accused, and even so she'd screw it up in her article. Undaunted by his manner, the girl sat down and smiled radiantly. She had a nice, intelligent, impish smile. Infectious. Szacki clenched his teeth to stop himself from smiling back at her.
She reached into her handbag and gave him a business card. Monika Grzelka, journalist, Rzeczpospolita - one of the serious dailies.
He reached into a drawer, took out the Press Spokesman's card and handed it to her without saying a word. She stopped smiling, and he felt mean.
”I don't think your name is familiar,” he said, to erase the bad impression.
She blushed, and he thought he'd done pretty well.
”I used to do local council issues, but from today I'm writing about crime.”
”Is that a promotion?”
”Yes, sort of.”
”It won't be easy to write a crime column in a boring enough way for it to appear in Rzeczpospolita,” he noted.
”I actually came here to make your acquaintance and to ask you for an in-depth interview, but I can see nothing will come of it.”
”I'm not a lawyer, I'm a civil servant,” he said. ”I don't need advertising.”
She nodded and glanced around his shabby little room. He was sure she was stifling a nasty comment, such as: ”Right, you can tell it's public sector in here”, or ”And there's no hiding it”.
”If you don't wish to talk about general matters, let's talk about one in particular. I'm writing about the murder on azienkowska Street. You can of course tell me a lot of official lies, but then you won't have any influence on what appears in the paper. Or you can tell me the truth, but I doubt you will. Or you can at least tell me the half-truth, then I won't have to print all the rumours from police headquarters.”
He cursed mentally. Sometimes he felt as if asking the police for discretion was about as effective as printing out the secrets of an inquiry on posters and sticking them up on advertising pillars.
”Surely you don't expect me to have any truths, half-truths or even quarter-truths about what happened the day after a murder?”
”So what did happen?”
”A man was murdered.”
She burst out laughing.
”You're a very rude prosecutor,” she said, leaning towards him.
Again, it cost him an effort not to smile, but he managed it.
”Two sentences and I'll be off.”
He thought about it - it was a decent offer.
”One: a man, Henryk T., forty-six years old, was murdered on Sat.u.r.day night in the church buildings on azienkowska Street with the use of a sharp instrument.”
”What sort of instrument?”
”A very sharp one.”
”A skewer?”
”Perhaps.”
”And the second sentence?”
”Secondly: the police and the prosecutor are a.s.suming that Henryk T. was the victim of a burglar whom he ran into by accident, but they are not excluding the possibility that it was a premeditated murder. Intensive operations are under way to identify the offender. For the time being no one has been charged.”
She finished taking notes.
”A good-looking man, dresses beautifully, has a nice voice and talks like a fax from the neighbourhood policeman.”
He allowed himself a faint smile.
”Please don't write more than that about the case. It might cause us harm.”
”Now it's please, is it?” She stood up and zipped her handbag shut. She was wearing a cream skirt above the knee and black flat-heeled shoes that showed off her feet. He noticed a red mark on her leg; while they were talking she had kept this leg casually folded on her knee. ”And what will I get for that?”
”You might find out a bit more, when others will get nothing but a fax from the city police.”
”And might it be possible to invite you for coffee? And will you talk to me in a language generally regarded as Polish?”
”No.”
She hung her bag on her shoulder and strode briskly to the door. Before closing it, she looked at him and said: ”I don't remember the last time a man treated me as badly as you have, Prosecutor. I'm sorry to have taken up your time.”
And she was gone. Szacki was sorry too. Irritated, he got up from his chair to hang up his jacket, and walked into a cloud of perfume left behind by the journalist. Romance by Ralph Lauren - Weronika used to wear it. He loved that fragrance.
WITNESS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT. Hanna Kwiatkowska, date of birth 22nd July 1970, resident at Okrzeja Street, Warsaw, has higher education, teacher of Polish at high school No. 30 in Warsaw. Relations.h.i.+p to parties: none, no criminal record for bearing false witness.