Every district in Resovia had at least one Sarma supermarket, and since Mercy loved browsing different parts of the city on Saturdays, they had visited them all. Even so, Edmond considered the New Town branch the largest, best organised, and most reliably stocked in the city.
Like much of the district's architecture, the Old Town Sarma looked old, shabby, and half-forgotten. Locals called it historical character; Wojcik called it neglected. The store occupied a cavernous former factory — its original purpose lost to memory, though the sheer scale had spared it from being downgraded to a corner shop.
He shrugged as he stepped inside. The place hadn't seen a refurbishment in decades: high factory skylights, exposed brick walls, bare concrete floors. Without proper insulation the vast space felt perpetually cold and damp.
Wojcik asked the manager where he might find Helena Grom. She pointed him to the dairy aisle at the back.
Helena was unloading a trolley of milk cartons beside the refrigerated units. Wojcik could see why someone might fixate on her enough to climb a tree for a glimpse. She wasn't his type — he wouldn't have called her beautiful — but sexy fitted. Her body was striking, and she made sure it stayed noticed. The red-and-green Sarma hoodie was zipped only halfway, framing a white T-shirt stretched taut across her impressive chest. Some slogan was printed on it, but the fabric distorted the letters beyond legibility. She looked like a Minoan figurine brought to impatient, modern life.
She caught him looking as he approached. A smirk flickered — half flattered, half contemptuous — across her heavily made-up face.
"Enjoying the view, pervert?" she asked, fixing him with a hard stare.
Wojcik grinned and held up his warrant card.
"Inspector Edmond Wojcik, Resovia Police Department, Miss Grom."
"Oh. Sorry." Her tone flattened. "This about Agnes downstairs?"
"Yes, Agnes Gott. Your manager said it was all right to speak to you."
Helena shot a venomous glance towards the manager, who was busy at the bakery counter.
"What can you tell me about your neighbour? Did you know her well? Notice anything unusual lately?"
"Nothing, Inspector. I didn't know her. Never even spoke to her. Knew her name, saw her outside with her cats a few times. What would I have in common with a mad cat lady?"
"Why mad?"
"They all are, aren't they? Can't get a man, so they collect strays. Loneliness and cat pheromones send them round the bend."
"Do you have a man, Miss Grom?"
"I'm seeing someone," she said, eyeing him up and down with deliberate flirtation.
"The community officer mentioned something odd happened to you last night."
"Yeah. My friend and I were watching telly in the bedroom — the window faces the church and that massive tree. There was this huge bang against the glass. We looked out: some creep climbing down the tree and legging it. The bastard nearly shattered the window — left a massive crack. Now I've got to explain it to the landlord."
"No matter where I go, it's bloody stalkers," she added, indignant.
"You're not local, Miss Grom?"
"From Wroclaw. Moved here a month ago."
"That's quite a change for a young woman — leaving the capital for Resovia."
"What's so drastic about moving?"
"Remarkable, that's all."
"Personal reasons," she said curtly, shutting the door on further questions.
Wojcik sensed he would get nothing more useful. Whatever had happened the night Agnes died, Helena hadn't witnessed it — or chose not to remember.
"Thank you for your time, Miss Grom. If anything from that night comes back to you — anything at all — call me." He tore a page from his notebook, wrote his mobile number, and handed it over.
She mumbled something unintelligible and turned back to the cartons.
Wojcik left the musty store with relief. Farnicki would be hours yet in Cracovia, so he decided to continue with the other residents. The community officer had supplied a full list of Liberation Street occupants and their workplaces. A handful worked locally; he spoke to them on site. Most he found at home after lunch.
None offered anything of substance. No one spoke ill of Agnes. No one recalled strange visitors — male or female — or unusual noises from her flat the night she died.
The picture remained stubbornly blank. Wojcik hoped Farnicki's trip to Cracovia had yielded more.