Entanglement (18 page)

As he said this, he handed Szacki a small red-and-silver digital Dictaphone.

As the prosecutor took it, he glanced spontaneously at the cross above the door.

You don’t want to believe it, he thought.

In the interview room at the police station on Wilcza Street were: Szacki, Kuzniecow, Telak’s Dictaphone and some spare batteries.

“Do you know how to work it?” asked the policeman, turning the electronic gadget in his large hand.

Szacki took the Dictaphone from him.

“Anyone does. It’s a tape recorder, not a CAT scanner.”

“Really?” Kuzniecow leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “So where do you insert the cassettes?”

Szacki gave a half-suppressed smile. Just enough to show he got the joke. The policeman rolled his eyes and reached for a sixteen-page notebook lying on the table with a dachshund on the cover. He opened it at the first page and in nice neat letters he printed: “Lesson One. Subject: Listening to the tape recorder without a cassette”.

“Can we start now?” asked Szacki. “Or do we have to go to IT class first?”

“Fuck the IT class,” whispered Oleg conspiratorially. “We’d be better off going to the changing rooms. The girls have got PT. Anka promised to show me her tits with no bra in exchange for a bar of chocolate.”

Szacki did not respond. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Kuzniecow just sighed and nodded.

Szacki pressed “play” with great force, as if at least a confession by the murderer were recorded on the Dictaphone. First came some rustling noises, then Telak’s surprisingly high voice:

“Twenty-third of May 2005, ten o’clock. Meeting of Polgrafex representatives and printing-inks wholesaler Kannex. Present on behalf of Polgrafex: Henryk Telak…”

The recording went on for an hour, and was full of incomprehensible printing terms, such as CMYK, pantone, trapping, knockout fonts, etc. Despite Kuzniecow’s prompting, Szacki was afraid to wind it on, in case of missing something. The policeman ostentatiously yawned and drew abstract patterns and naked women in his exercise book, both equally crudely. However, when the next item on the tape turned out to be a company meeting on marketing and sales, Szacki yielded and fast-forwarded, checking every three minutes to see if something was happening. He knew that even so he’d have to listen to the whole thing later on. Maybe he’d come across an argument about money, maybe he’d accidentally find out about pressures at work. That sort of motive couldn’t be excluded.

However, while listening cursorily to this and several more boring business meetings he found nothing to interest him. He felt drowsy at the very idea that he’d have to play it all back again. He needed a coffee. Oleg was happy to leave the room, and came back a few minutes later with two cups of dishwater the colour of the River Vistula.

“The espresso machine’s broken,” he explained, presenting Szacki with a plastic cup.

The display showed there were three more files left on the tape. Szacki had already reconciled himself to the idea that there’d be nothing in them and the Dictaphone would turn out to be a dead end, just like everything else in this inquiry.

He pressed “play”.

“Saturday, the fourth of June 2005, eleven a.m. Constellation therapy with the participation of…”

“Excuse me, but what are you doing?” Szacki recognized the voice of Rudzki, this time not calm and therapeutic, but aggressive and resentful.

“I’m recording on a Dictaphone,” replied Telak, clearly surprised by the attack.

“Please switch it off immediately,” said Rudzki firmly.

“Why? You’re recording our meetings, so surely I can too.”

“Out of the question. You are not alone here, your recording would infringe the privacy of the other patients. The entire therapy will be recorded on video anyway, and the only cassette will remain with me. I repeat: please put it away at once.”

At that moment Telak must have switched the Dictaphone off. Kuzniecow glanced at Szacki.

“Our doctor’s rather nervy,” he said.

Indeed, Szacki was surprised. Also by the fact that none of the other participants in the therapy had said a word.

Two more files. He pressed “play”.

Silence, just quiet rustling, as if the Dictaphone had switched itself on by accident in his pocket. Then came Telak’s terrified voice:

“Saturday, the fourth of June 2005, about… eleven p.m., I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything any more. Somehow I must check this is not a dream, not a hallucination, and I’m not going mad. Can I have lost my mind? Is this the end? Cancer? Or maybe I’m just exhausted? I must record this, after all, it’s not possible… But if I’m dreaming this, and I’m dreaming that I’m recording it, and soon I’ll be dreaming I’m listening to it, then… But anyway…”

There was a knock, as if Telak had put the Dictaphone on the floor. Then there was a scraping noise. Szacki turned up the volume. They could hear rustling and Telak’s rapid breathing,
also a strange smacking noise, as if the man were nervously licking his lips. Nothing apart from that. Maybe he really was seeing things, thought Szacki; maybe he went nuts after the therapy and tried recording his hallucinations. Suddenly the prosecutor froze, and his neck muscles tensed painfully. Out of the tiny speaker came a quiet, girlish voice.

“Daddy, Daddy…”

Szacki pressed “pause”.

“Is it just me that’s screwed up or can you hear that too?” asked Kuzniecow.

The prosecutor looked at him and pressed the button.

“Yes?” wheezed Telak.

“Daddy, Daddy…”

“Is that you, Princess?” The voice sounded as if Telak were dead already. Szacki felt as if he were listening to the conversation of two ghosts.

“Daddy, Daddy…”

“What is it, darling? What’s happened?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Princess.”

A long silence. All they could hear were rustling noises and Telak smacking his lips.

“I’ve got to go now.”

Telak started crying.

“Wait, talk to me. It’s so long that you’ve been gone.”

“I have to go now, Daddy, really.”

The girl’s voice was getting fainter and fainter.

“Will you come and see me again?” sobbed Telak.

“I don’t know, probably not,” replied the voice. “Maybe you’ll come to me. One day… Bye-bye, Daddy…” The final words were inaudible.

End of recording.

“There’s one more on here,” said Szacki.

“Let’s give ourselves a break,” suggested Kuzniecow. “I’ll nip out for a bottle of vodka or a sack of tranquillizers. Oh, and a saucer, a candle and a board with letters so we can summon Telak’s daughter as a witness. Can you imagine the judge getting a transcript like that? Born, resident at, died, statement as follows.”

“Do you think it was Jarczyk or Kwiatkowska?”

“Fuck knows, the voice isn’t like either of theirs.” Kuzniecow tipped the rest of the coffee down his throat and threw the cup at the waste bin, but missed. Brown stains splashed the wall.

“But it was barely audible. Send someone to both of them with some sort of tomfool questions, get them recorded and we’ll have it all analysed for comparison. Your boys at the forensics lab have got some new sound-analysis toys, they’ll be happy to do it.”

“I’ll send someone to Mrs Telak too,” said Kuzniecow.

“Surely you don’t think…”

“I don’t think anything, I’m just a great big Russki. I check and rule out by turns.”

Szacki nodded. Kuzniecow was right. He found it hard to imagine Mrs Telak crossing Warsaw at night to lurk outside her husband’s door and pretend to be their dead daughter. But every day he came across facts that he couldn’t have imagined only an hour before.

He pressed “play” one last time.

“Sunday, the fifth of June 2005, at… five after midnight.” Telak’s was the voice of an extremely weary, worn-out man. He must have been in another place, maybe in the chapel. “I’m recording this for my wife, Jadwiga. Forgive me for talking to you this way, it would be more appropriate to write a letter, but you know how much I’ve always hated writing. Of course I could have made an exception this time, maybe I should have, but I don’t think it really matters. I mean, maybe it matters to
you - it’s always been hard for me to tell what’s important to you and what isn’t.”

Telak paused abruptly, sighed, and after a while he went on:

“But to get to the point. I have decided to commit suicide.”

Szacki and Kuzniecow glanced at each other simultaneously, raising their eyebrows in identical expressions of surprise.

“Perhaps it’s all the same to you, perhaps you’ll ask: Why? It’s hard for me to explain. Partly because I have nothing left to live for. You don’t love me, as I’ve always been aware. Perhaps you even hate me. Kasia is dead. The only thing ahead of me is Bartek’s death and funeral, and I don’t want to wait around for that. I’m sorry to be leaving you with it, but I really am no longer capable of bearing the thought that I’ve got to live through another day. On top of that, today I found out I’m guilty of Kasia’s death and Bartek’s illness. Maybe it’s true, maybe not, I don’t know. But maybe my death will make Bartek feel better. It sounds absurd, but who knows - maybe it’s true. Strange, I feel as if I’m repeating the same sentences and phrases over and over. In any case, I’ve never been particularly close to him in life, maybe my death at least will be a good thing for him. And there’s another reason, perhaps the most important - I don’t want to wait years and years to see my princess again in Nangijala. I know you don’t like that book, and I know there probably isn’t a Nangijala, or a Nangilima, or Heaven or anything else. Just emptiness. But I prefer emptiness to my life full of grief, regret and feelings of guilt. There’s so much death around me - it looks as if I’m dangerous to anyone close to me. All the better for me to go. Don’t worry about money. I’ve never told you this before, but I’m insured for a high sum, and Igor runs a trust fund for me. You’re authorized to use my bank account, you just have to call him. He also knows where I’m insured. The money was meant to be for the children, maybe it’ll be useful for Bartek’s operation if the opportunity arises for a transplant abroad. Kiss him for
me and remember I have always loved you more than you’re capable of imagining. Now I should say: Don’t cry, Jadzia, we’ll meet again in Nangijala. But I don’t think you’ll despair. Nor do I think you’d want to see me after death. So I’ll just say: Bye-bye, darling.”

The recording broke off abruptly, as if Telak were afraid of what else he might say. The final word did not even sound like “darling”, but just “darl”. Kuzniecow set the Dictaphone spinning on the table. They sat in silence, considering what they’d just heard.

“I still don’t want to believe he committed suicide,” he said. “Can you imagine it? The guy records a farewell letter, goes and swallows some pills, but soon after he gives up and does a lot of puking. He gets dressed, packs and leaves. But on the way he changes his mind, grabs a skewer and sticks it in his eye. I don’t buy that.”

“Neither do I,” said Szacki, spinning the Dictaphone the other way. “But I don’t buy the burglar idea either. The anger at the therapy, Jarczyk and her pills, someone - maybe Kwiatkowska - pretending to be the ghost of Telak’s daughter. Too many things are happening for that skewer to be accidental. The trouble is, apart from the fantastic theory of the therapeutic field that transfers hatred from one person to another, we have nothing to suggest a motive.”

“Or we’re unable to see it,” said Kuzniecow, putting Szacki’s thoughts into words, so all that remained was to nod in agreement.

“But we’ll succeed in the end,” Szacki soon added. “For now, tomorrow I’m meeting with the expert, you’re sorting out the sound analysis, you’ll find out who Igor is and interview him. It’ll also be necessary to transcribe what’s on the Dictaphone and give the farewell letter to the widow. Let’s call each other in the evening. Or drop in at my office. I’m sure I’ll be there late,
I’ve got two cartloads of office work to get through. I must go and get a supply of staples today.”

“There’s one more question I just can’t answer,” said Kuzniecow, tapping a fat finger on the Dictaphone.

“Well?”

“Where do you insert the cassettes?”

“I remember I was terribly tired from first thing in the morning.” Those were the first words Mariola Nidziecka said during her interview, seven hours after her husband’s murder. It was two a.m. and Szacki felt like reacting by saying he hadn’t had much rest either, but he restrained himself. Luckily. Half an hour later he knew he had never been, and never would be as tired as Mariola Nidziecka had been that morning.

The woman was thirty-five, but looked forty-five, a skinny blonde with badly cut thin hair, stuck together in strings that hung down her cheeks. She put her right hand on her knees, while her left swung, the elbow bent at a strange angle. Then he found out that five years earlier her husband Nidziecki had broken her arm by laying it on the table and hitting it with a kitchen stool. After five whacks the joint was shattered. Rehabilitation hadn’t helped. Nidziecka had a slightly flattened nose, bent to the left, so she had to breathe through her mouth. Then he found out that two years earlier her husband had broken it with a chopping board. The thin hair could not hide a misshapen ear. Then he found out that a year ago her husband had flattened her ear with an iron when he discovered that she was incapable of ironing his shirts properly. She had screamed so loud that for once the neighbours had called the police. Ever since her hearing had been poor, and sometimes she seemed to hear buzzing.

“Did you ever have a forensic medical examination?” he asked.

Not always, but sometimes she had. Then he found out that her file at the regional clinic was as thick as the phone book. As he read it, he was reminded of historical documents describing the torture of prisoners in concentration camps.