Part 18 (1/2)
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 Ursynow, 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 o.r.g.a.s.ms.”
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 f.u.c.k on those egg cartons?”
”Almost. He tells her to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 b.l.o.o.d.y way.”
”Oleg, please.”
”Write a letter to the chief. You always were a pain in the a.r.s.e, but in this inquiry you've surpa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.
II.
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 impa.s.sively, looking at him like a b.u.mp 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 Gliski 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.