Entanglement (15 page)

“Would you be capable of that?”

Chorko settled herself more comfortably in her chair and undid a button of her blouse. Szacki could feel himself sweating. Was this really happening?

“Of course. I conducted the inquiry until the big shots on Krakowskie Przedmieście took it away from me, I helped write the indictment.”

“That’s not what I meant. Would you be capable of crossing to the other side of the barricades so easily?”

For a while Szacki sat there in silence. Stupid question. If he were, he’d have done it ages ago. What kept him here, if not a childish belief in the sheriff’s star? He was on a civil servant’s wage - a prosecutor in the centre of Warsaw earned the same as one in Sleepy Hollow in the backwoods. No bonuses. A statutory ban on earning extra in any way except by giving lectures, for which he still had to have special permission - assuming anyone would ever offer him such a rare opportunity. No standard working hours, which in practice meant sixty hours a week. On top of all that he had to be present at autopsies and carry out the orders of his numerous superiors without a murmur. In the entire Prosecution Service there were more heads of department than there were directors of state enterprises. Society regarded the prosecutor as the bad guy who releases bandits caught by the good old police. Or else the bad guy who made such a cat’s arse of the paperwork that the court had to let the bandit go. In their turn, the blockheads from the parliament building on Wiejska Street treated the Prosecution Service like their own private army for harassing their political opponents. Oh well, what a shit-hot job, he thought bitterly. It was worth all that grinding away at college.

“That barricade has more sides to it,” he replied evasively, because he didn’t want to confide in his boss.

“But of course, Prosecutor. I can see you in my mind’s eye, sitting in a solicitor’s office, writing out letters giving legal
notice or wondering if it would still be worth chasing a debtor for the extra interest.”

Chorko began toying with the collar of her blouse. Soon she’d lean forwards and he’d be forced to look at her cleavage. And that he definitely didn’t fancy.

“We’ve all got bills to pay,” he said, shrugging.

“But to get to the point, you’ll write the indictment, won’t you? Perhaps we can reach a compromise. Don’t charge them with murder, but with failing to provide help. There’s always something. We’ll see what we can do with it.”

He nodded reluctantly. He’d already thought of that.

“I warn you it won’t be an extremely long or convincing indictment.”

“I’ll initial it anyway. And let me remind you about the inquiry plan for the Telak case and the indictment for the Nidziecka case.”

He nodded and stood up.

“Nice having a chat with you, Prosecutor,” said Chorko, smiling radiantly. Szacki was reminded of the figures in Brueghel’s paintings. He responded with a faint half-smile and left.

Bartosz Telak was sitting in a chair outside his room, playing with his mobile phone.

He liked going to the sauna at the Warszawianka Club in the middle of the day, when there were no hordes of savages and he could enjoy the facilities in peace. He sat on the top bench in the dry sauna until he started to see spots before his eyes and every breath made his throat burn. Finally he left, hung his towel on a peg and walked naked to a large tub full of ice-cold water standing in the middle of the room. Millions of tiny needles stuck into his body. He dived under, and only then did he cry
out. How fabulous it felt. He lay for a while longer in the cold water, got out, wrapped himself in a towel and lay on a recliner in the garden. Igor handed him a bottle of cold orange juice. Yes, there are moments when all a man needs is a little warmth, a little cold and a little orange juice. The lads from the Warsaw Pact - not that he was fond of them - knew what they were doing when they built themselves such a great pool.

Next to him a twenty-something couple were lying so close to each other that if they got a quarter of an inch nearer it’d be sexual intercourse in a public place. By turns they whispered quietly or giggled aloud. He gave a hostile glance in their direction. The girl wasn’t bad-looking, though it wouldn’t have done her any harm to thin out the bush in her armpits and go to aerobics once or twice. The boy was weedy, like all of them in that generation. Skinny little arms, skinny little legs, facial hair like on a piece of pork crackling, ribcage like a consumptive.

“They should put up the prices,” he said to Igor loud enough to be sure the young couple could hear him. “As it is, any old riff-raff can sit here for hours on end.”

Igor nodded understandingly. The couple first went quiet, then the boy whispered something and the girl started giggling like a freak. He wanted to get up and smash him in the face. But he decided not to take any notice of them.

“Well, so it looks like there’ll be no trouble with Henryk?” he addressed Igor.

“Yes, I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about,” he replied. “Szacki should be writing the inquiry plan today, then we’ll know more.”

“When will we get it?”

“This evening,” replied Igor, as if it was completely natural for them to get copies of all the internal documents from all the prosecutor’s offices in Poland.

“Excellent,” said the Chairman, and took a large swig of juice. He liked it when everything was running predictably and perfectly.

Kuzniecow had a son the same age as Bartosz Telak, and lately he never described him in any other way except as an “animal”. “Sometimes I feel like putting a lock on our bedroom door,” he said. “He’s so big and shaggy, he moves like a caged tiger. His mood changes every ten minutes, he’s got more hormones in his blood than an athlete’s got steroids. If we’re going to have a quarrel in the evening, I think to myself: will he come with a knife, or won’t he come at all? And if he does, will I cope? I’m no weakling, but there’s nothing wrong with him either.”

Stories like this merely testified to the fact that Kuzniecow was a jerk. A sick imagination and all those years working for the police had given him bipolar disease. That’s what Szacki always thought. Now, as he sat down opposite Telak junior, it crossed his mind that there might be a grain of truth in the policeman’s strange remarks. The teenager had very delicate papery looks, with black hair and black eyebrows that gave extra emphasis to his pallor. He was very thin, which neither his baggy trousers nor his loose-fitting shirt could conceal. Quite the opposite - his large clothes made him look even more fragile. Szacki knew the boy was fatally ill. And yet in his movements and his eyes there was a predatory look, aggression and desperation. Maybe it can’t be otherwise when the time is approaching to fight for your place in the world? Szacki was incapable of remembering what it had been like to be that age. He’d drunk a lot, wanked a lot and discussed politics with his friends a lot. And apart from that? A black hole. He’d argued with his parents, that was for sure. But had he hated them? Were there times when he’d wished them dead? Would he have agreed
to their death if it were going to guarantee him freedom and independence? He remembered the trial of a teenage matricide from Pruszków who had explained in court: “…and then the idea came into my head of my mother not being there”. Had a similar idea arisen in the head of Henryk Telak’s son?

 

Cautioned
re
criminal responsibility under Article 233 of the Penal Code, his statement is as follows:

 

Five minutes later Szacki felt like scrawling “Bugger all to testify!” in huge letters across the form, because the young man was trying to communicate in nothing but nods and shakes of the head, monosyllables and grunts.

“What do you know about your father going to therapy?”

“He went.”

“Anything else?”

Denial.

“Did you talk about it?”

Denial.

“Do you know the people he went to therapy with?”

Denial.

“Do you recognize anyone in these photos?”

Denial.

Completely pointless, thought Szacki, we’ll never get anywhere like this.

“What were you doing on Saturday evening?”

“Playing.”

“What?”

“
Call of Duty.
”

“One or two?”

“Two.”

“Which campaign?”

The boy settled more in the chair.

“For God’s sake.”

“Russian, British or American?”

“Russian.”

“You didn’t get far.”

“Right. I can’t get past the bit in Stalingrad where you have to fire from the Town Hall window. I’m not able to take them all out, someone always sneaks under and creeps up on me from behind. And when I watch my back, the whole Fascist army comes from the front with their machine guns.”

Szacki nodded understandingly. That mission had taken even him a good few hours of effort.

“Unfortunately there’s no good way,” he said. “The best is to kill off as many as you can first, then watch the rear and use the sniper rifle to pick off just the ones with machine guns. If you hold out for long enough, eventually you get a message about a new task. It’s an idiotic mission, its entire difficulty depends on the fact that they’ve multiplied the usual number of Germans by ten. But on the whole it’s OK.”

“Well, it must have been like that, don’t you think?”

“The war? Yes, surely. You run about blindly with your rifle jamming, it’s nothing but chaos with bullets whizzing past and your friends falling all around you. And all you’re interested in is getting to the nearest pit, hiding in there, throwing a grenade and rushing onwards. The sound is important.”

“I’ve got 5.1 speakers.”

“Congratulations. I’ve got 2.1s, my flat’s too small for 5.1s. But I usually play with headphones anyway because my wife gets mad at me.”

“Mum comes in and tells me she doesn’t want tanks driving through her home. Interrogations are nothing like this in the movies.”

Szacki was surprised by the sudden change of topic, but he replied instantly: “I can’t conduct this interview this way. Why don’t you answer my questions?”

The boy shrugged.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

“You’re father’s been killed, and I want to know who did it and why. You don’t think that matters?”

He shrugged again.

“No, because it won’t bring him back to life again. Besides, what’s the difference whether I answer in full sentences or just say yes or no? Surely the important thing is to tell the truth.”

Szacki put the report aside. He didn’t actually think the boy could know anything that would be evidence in the case. He was concerned about something else.

“And do you wish your father would come back to life?” he asked.

He was expecting Telak to shrug, but he sat quite still, not so much as batting an eyelid.

“Yes and no,” he replied.

“Was he a bad father?”

“He never hit us and he didn’t want us to scrub his back for him, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t shout much either. He was the average boring Polish father. I didn’t hate him or love him. Maybe it’s the shock, but I can’t actually arouse any emotion in myself following his death. I’m telling you the truth.”

Szacki wished his witnesses always gave such frank answers. He gave the boy a respectful nod.

“Did he change after your sister’s death?”

“He aged. But before that only my sister could get through to him anyway, so for me it didn’t matter.”

“Did you blame him for your sister’s death?”

He hesitated.

“No more than anyone else around.”

Szacki thought about the pills found in Telak’s room on Łazienkowska Street.

“Would you be surprised if he’d committed suicide?”

“No, not particularly. I’m more surprised that someone murdered him. What for?”

Good question. Once again Szacki felt very tired. And how the hell was he to know what for? He felt as if it was all falling apart. The theory that someone from the therapy group had killed Telak seemed to him either probable or fantastical by turns. But increasingly the latter. None of the interviews had brought anything new to the case. Obvious answers to obvious questions. Maybe he should give up, commission the police for the entire inquiry and calmly wait for the most probable result - a dismissal, perpetrator unknown.

“I really don’t know,” he replied sincerely. Well, semi-sincerely. He couldn’t have explained it rationally, but he wanted to give the boy the impression that he was stuck on the spot and didn’t know what to do next.

“You’ve got to find the motive, the opportunity and the murder weapon.”

“Thanks. I read crime novels too. Do you know of anyone who would gain from your father’s death?”

“Not me. I’m sure you know I’m ill and will probably die soon.”

Szacki said yes.

“There are three things that can save me: a miracle, the national health service or a transplant at a private hospital abroad. What do you think, which of them is the most likely? Exactly. And what do you think, how much did my chances decrease when I lost my father, the company director? Exactly.”

What could he say? Was else could he ask? He thanked the boy and wished him success with
Call of Duty
. He didn’t even give him the transcript to sign - there was absolutely nothing there.

“Will you be at the funeral on Saturday?” asked Telak junior on the way out.

“Of course.” Szacki scolded himself mentally for not thinking of it earlier. It would probably be the only chance to see Telak’s family and the people from the therapy group all in one place.