Wojcik didn't linger long either. Shortly after four he left, instructing the dispatcher to reach him on his mobile if anything urgent arose. He didn't expect anything extraordinary that night.
Rain hammered down as Edmond stepped out of the station. He slid into the Lada, started the engine, and rang Mercy.
"Are you still at the shop?"
She ran a small haberdashery selling yarn, needles, and knitting patterns. She hadn't left yet.
"Wait for me," he said. "I'll pick you up."
The downpour blurred the windscreen; the wipers struggled to keep pace. When he pulled up outside the shop, Mercy stood under the retractable awning, arms folded against the chill. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. She ducked in quickly, shaking droplets from her umbrella.
"You're early," she said, reaching automatically for the sun visor to check her hair. She was slender, middle-aged, her dark bob still neat despite the weather. Her grey eyes flicked to the mirror, then to him.
"The new sergeant closed every case I gave him today. All of them. The boy's a try hard. I sent him home early and decided to do the same. They'll call if anything comes up."
"Let's hope nothing does," Mercy replied, smiling. "Tonight, it's your favourite - grilled ribs!"
Their flat was on the fifth floor of a solid block on Resovian Avenue in the New Town, overlooking Culture Park and the slow curve of the Vislok river. Edmond loved coming home: the warm light spilling from the windows, the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen, Mercy moving between stove and television in the living room. The picture would have been perfect if the rooms had echoed with children's laughter and scattered toys.
They had always wanted a family. For reasons no doctor could fully explain, it never happened. Tests showed them both healthy and fertile; perhaps stress, perhaps timing. Eventually Edmond stopped fretting. Mercy was forty-three, he forty. With each passing year the odds shrank. He never blamed her — secretly, he was relieved. Not because he disliked children; the sheer responsibility terrified him. Being an inspector carried risks, however modest compared to street patrol. If something happened to him, Mercy could manage alone. A child, especially at her age, would be different. Yet Mercy still believed — quietly, stubbornly — that it could happen.
"Dinner's ready!"
Edmond had changed into his old tracksuit. He padded barefoot across the parquet, a habit that never failed to irk her.
"Barefoot again? Where are your slippers?" Mercy called from the kitchen.
He mimicked her tone playfully — "Where are your slippers?" — and sat at the table.
The oval platter of grilled ribs arrived, glistening and fragrant.
"Tell me about this new sergeant. What's his name again?"
"Ivan Farnicki." Wojcik chuckled. "As I said, he's a try hard - like we all were on day one. But he's good. Damn good."
"You don't sound entirely convinced."
"I'm convinced he's competent. He proved it today. It's the man himself I'm not sure about. He's hiding something."
Wojcik twisted open a jar of his favourite honey pickles. Mercy usually had to stop him devouring the lot. He fished one out and crunched it before touching the ribs.
"What do you mean, hiding something?"
"Why he came here. He's from Wroclaw," Mercy's eyes widened. "Says he wanted 'a change of scenery.' His exact words — I'm not inventing it. And there's something off about him. He's painfully thin. Emaciated, almost."
"Maybe he's ill?"
"That's what I thought. Nothing in his medical file, though."
"Drugs?"
"No, you daft woman." Wojcik snorted, amused. "Not drugs. It's in his eyes. I think he's carrying some kind of mental burden."
Mercy gave a dry laugh. "Well, he must be, if he swapped Wroclaw for the Sub-Sarmatians."
Edmond nearly choked on a mouthful of rib, laughter bursting out despite the food. He swallowed, coughing, eyes watering, while Mercy grinned across the table.