Wojcik knew from long experience that people could be murdered on any day of the week. Still, he had always felt homicide and foul weather went hand in hand.
As usual, it was raining that morning.
As usual, he was too early.
The only surprise was the call from a community police officer: a woman found dead in her flat on Liberation Street. Presumed murder — otherwise no one would have summoned him. The street name tugged at a vague memory, but he couldn't place it.
Despite years in Resovia, Edmond had never ventured into that corner of the Old Town. The streets looked ordinary enough, yet as he drove the Lada down the avenue the surroundings felt strangely alien.
He had no idea who the victim was. Identity mattered only for the paperwork of an investigation. That detachment explained his outward calm, even now. He had seen too many gruesome scenes to let any one unsettle him. He never knew the victims personally.
Until today.
Stepping into the corridor of flat 25, he glanced into the kitchen. Before anyone spoke her name or he saw her face, he knew. Her body lay slumped across the plastic tablecloth, torso resting on the surface as though she had simply fallen asleep there. On the balcony windowsill sat a black cat, staring with impenetrable eyes. Each time the coroner shifted to take a photograph, fleeting confusion flickered in those feline pupils.
There were plenty of cat ladies in Resovia with wild grey hair. But only one had those impossibly long, bony fingers splayed like tree roots across the cloth. In that instant Wojcik realised he had always stared at Agnes Gott's hands whenever they spoke — captivated, unsettled, by their unnatural length.
A chill spread through his own limbs, not from the corpse. He had seen death too often for that. For the first time in his career, he felt genuine guilt. Agnes had come to them — come to him — begging for help. He had dismissed her. He couldn't deny it, and his conscience wouldn't let him.
"Has anyone contacted Farnicki?" he asked the room.
"Yes, he's on his way," Victor Frank, the coroner, answered.
"Who found her?"
"Her elderly neighbour across the hall - Greta Kaminski. She was heading out early for the Tuesday market and noticed the door unlocked. She went in, found Agnes, called an ambulance. They suspected foul play and rang us."
"Where is Miss Kaminski now?"
"Off to the market. She asked to go after the shock wore off. I saw no reason to hold her. She promised to return soon."
"How long has she been dead?"
"No more than twelve hours. I'll know more after the autopsy."
"Cause?"
"Poison. Smell this." Victor gestured to a glass bowl of leftover rice on the table.
Wojcik leaned in. A faint, sweet almond scent rose from the grains.
"Cyanide. How did she not notice?"
"Not everyone can detect the smell. And look here." The coroner beckoned him closer.
Edmond crouched, suppressing a shiver as he met Agnes's open eyes. Even in death they seemed to accuse him of incompetence.
"She finished the plate and fell forward, face-first into it. But see the mustard smears? She must have scooped rice onto her plate and added mustard for flavour. She never realised anything was wrong."
"Everything edible in the flat needs testing."
"Of course. Though there's precious little: leftover mustard in the fridge, a bit of cheese spread, half a cucumber, four tomato slices in a glass container. Freezer has two slabs of raw chicken breast. Pantry — half-empty jars of buckwheat and spaghetti. Nothing but scraps in this house."
"And cat food?"
"None. A few bits of raw chicken in their bowls. Looks like she fed them whatever she ate herself — which wasn't much," Victor added dryly.
"Excuse me, sir? A word?"
Wojcik followed the community officer down the corridor to a pair of wooden-framed glass doors. Beyond them lay a small, carpeted living room: faded red-and-green check sofa and matching armchair, a wobbly side table bearing a chipped red desk lamp and an unlit white candle on a china coaster. Opposite, a wall of books stretched floor to ceiling on homemade shelves, arranged by size.
Shame prickled at Wojcik. Agnes had been poor, yet her home was immaculate — no cat odour, and evidently well-read. He felt an instant kinship — he was an avid reader himself. But sympathy now was useless. It wouldn't bring her back.
"What is it?"
"I spoke to the residents while waiting for you, sir. Nothing much — except Helena Grom, flat 53 on the fifth floor. She says someone was spying on her last night from that big oak by the church. The voyeur threw something heavy — a stone, she thinks — into their window. Nearly shattered it."
"A peeping Tom in a tree. How original," Wojcik muttered.
"Is Miss Grom still home?"
"No, sir. Left for work – Sarma supermarket. Back at seven tonight."
At that moment Farnicki burst in. Wojcik noted the same white T-shirt and skinny jeans from yesterday; no helmet, hair plastered wet from the rain.
Ivan stopped in the kitchen doorway, staring at the body. He paled as Victor quietly explained the probable sequence.
"Thank you, Officer," Wojcik said, shaking the community man's hand. "The sergeant and I will take over."
Farnicki followed him into the living room, visibly shaken.
"Sir, this is the same woman who came to us yesterday begging for help. You sent her away. She told you someone was poisoning her cats — and now she's dead. Poisoned."
Ivan's voice trembled with reproach; raindrops dripped from his hair, staining the T-shirt darker.
"Yes, Farnicki. I'm not denying my share of responsibility. Blame me all you like — or pull yourself together and help me find who did this. For Agnes."
Farnicki opened his mouth, but a woman's voice called from the stairwell.
"Excuse me? Is anyone there? I'm back."
They met her in the hall: a small, elderly lady clutching two plastic carrier bags.
"I don't dare go inside," she said. "Your colleague said you wanted to speak to me. I'd rather talk in my flat if that's all right."
"Of course, ma'am. Inspector Edmond Wojcik. This is Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki. Miss Kaminski, I presume?"
"Yes, Agnes' neighbour - number 21. Please, come in."
She led them to her kitchen, set the bags down, and put the kettle on.
"Coffee or tea, gentlemen?"
"Coffee, please," both replied.
"Quite right. After a morning like this, you need a proper kick. I was shaken when I found poor Agnes, but the Tuesday market vendors pack up at lunch. I only buy fruit and veg from the farmers."
Wojcik caught Farnicki's eye and gave a sly half-smile behind her back. Clearly Greta relished being first with the news.
"Agnes was murdered, wasn't she? I overheard your people talking. You wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Yes, Miss Kaminski. We have strong reason to believe she was poisoned. Could you tell us about her? Were you close?"
"Good neighbours, more than friends. I would pop in to keep her company, chat about the gossip. I knew her parents — both teachers at the local primary — and Agnes since she was tiny. Model pupil, model daughter. Never gave them a moment's worry. Then after school things went wrong. She fell ill at her first job — an Almain waste-processing firm if memory serves. Won the lawsuit; they pay her a pension for life. But as you've seen, it barely keeps body and soul together."
Greta's voice shook with indignation as she poured coffee into large white mugs and set out biscuits.
"Still, she managed somehow. Kept all those cats fed and cared for."
She fixed Wojcik with a reproving look. "Agnes told me how you treated her, Inspector."
His cheeks warmed.
"You were wrong. No one in this building would harm Agnes or her cats. You've been inside — did you smell anything?" Both men shook their heads. "Exactly. If only everyone kept their home as spotless as she did with all those animals. Mind you, she hadn't much to dust except her ever-growing book collection. I know everyone here. If you're looking for her killer, you won't find him in this block."
"What makes you think the killer is an outsider?" Wojcik asked.
"I saw a man visiting her." Wojcik noticed how Farnicki suddenly tensed up. His dark eyes peered sharply at the old lady, but he relaxed as soon as she continued. "About a month ago. I was leaving when they were at her door. I had never seen him before; Agnes never mentioned him. I didn't like to pry."
"Could you describe him?"
"Tall, handsome, looked well-off. Grey hair, smart cut — younger-looking than Agnes, though probably the same age. Elegant beige coat. Gold watch on his right wrist."
"How did Agnes seem?"
"Surprised but pleased."
"Would you recognise him again?"
"Oh, yes. When he turned to greet me, I swore I had seen him before. He looked exactly like an actor from some famous TV show thirty years back — only older. I can't recall the name."
"Do you know if Agnes had any family?"
"Oh - yes!" Greta hurried out, rummaged in a drawer, and returned with a slip of paper. "Karl Gott, her cousin in Cracovia. Address and phone number. She told me if anything happened to her, contact Karl. I wondered if you might do it — I don't fancy breaking bad news."
"Of course, Miss Kaminski." Wojcik took the note with a nod.
They thanked her for the coffee and information, then stepped into the corridor. Victor emerged from 25.
"Finding this killer will be straightforward."
"Oh?" Wojcik raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Prints everywhere — tablecloth, windowsill, doorknob, dirty dishes. All the same person. Agnes must have had a visitor yesterday."
"Doesn't make him the killer. Someone poisoned her cats. Maybe the cyanide got into her food by mistake."
"Wojcik, you and I both know nothing happens by accident."
"Sir," Farnicki said quietly as they descended, "I think the killer targeted Agnes from the start. Poisoned her food, but she shared everything with the cats. She survived the earlier attempts — until now."
Wojcik frowned — not because the theory surprised him. He had considered it himself. He simply hadn't expected Farnicki to reach it so fast with so little.
"But who would want Agnes dead? She had nothing - no money, no valuables, no car. What's the motive?"
"I don't know, sir. But the more people we speak to, the more we'll learn about her — and this mysterious visitor."
"The community officer already questioned the building, but I would prefer to do it myself. They were rushing off to work; something important might have slipped their minds. Either way, we start with Helena Grom on the fifth floor. She reported the peeping Tom last night."
"Sir, perhaps I could go to Cracovia and speak to the cousin, Karl?"
Wojcik considered. "That would save time. We might finish interviews here today if we split. How will you get there — on your scooter?" He glanced pointedly at Farnicki's wet hair. "And where's your helmet?"
"My fault, sir. Rushed out without it. I was planning the train."
"Take the car." Wojcik tossed him the keys. "White Lada — parked across the street. And Farnicki? Shower and change before you go. You can't turn up in Cracovia looking like a drowned rat."
Farnicki thanked him, promised to tidy himself up, and walked off.
Before heading to the Sarma supermarket, Wojcik detoured around the corner to inspect the oak beside the church. The tree was enormous, the lowest branch more than head high. He jumped, grabbed, tested the pull. It required real strength to haul oneself up. What kind of voyeur would go to that effort for a glimpse through a window? He was more curious about Helena Grom than the pervert.
He searched the ground for the thrown object but found nothing large enough to crack glass. As he turned away, his gaze caught something in the rain gutter by the pavement: a small, heavy cube. He bent and retrieved it. A groove ran down the middle; close inspection revealed transparent engraved letters.
WPD.
The object intrigued him. Perhaps the tree-climber's projectile. He slipped it into his coat pocket and set off for the supermarket.