Farnicki was working through Dominique's call list from the day she died while Wojcik scoured the internet for articles on Oliver Wronski. A company like AlChemie would feature regularly in local news. Most hits were routine: annual financial summaries, a piece on the name change a few years back, and one lengthy feature on the firm's founding and operations, illustrated with a colour group photo of the entire staff — office workers and factory hands — Oliver front and centre as CEO. Nothing incriminating surfaced beyond the predictable complaints from environmentalists.
Edmond stepped outside for a cigarette. Harry was already there, perched on the balustrade, smoke curling from his lips. He had just finished his shift.
"Mind if I join you, Harry?"
"Of course not, sir." Harry clamped his cigarette between his teeth, fished out his lighter, and lit Wojcik's.
"You seemed annoyed, sir," Harry observed after Edmond drew a deep, poisonous drag.
"I am, Harry. The Agnes Gott case. It's not as straightforward as I expected. What frightens me is that our only real progress came after another woman was killed. The second murder brought us this far — and now we're stuck again. I'm afraid there'll have to be a third victim before we catch the killer."
"I'm no expert," Harry said, "but in the crime shows my wife and I watch, it's always the same: the police only get him when he slips up."
"That just proves what a failure we are," Wojcik said bitterly. "And when the prime suspect is as filthy rich as Wronski, it gets even harder."
"Wronski? Oliver Wronski?"
"You know him?"
"That silly goose? Doesn't surprise me he's on your list. Don't get me wrong, sir — Oliver is a decent bloke. Wouldn't hurt a fly, and he must be a good businessman to be that rich. But he's an idiot! Every weekend he staggers into our bar, drinks himself senseless, forgets his own name. Once I had to peel him off a lamppost. Crazy man! I know his wife, Karolina, too — we're in the same cycling club. She usually rings me or someone else at the bar to drag her drunken husband home. Stupid Mulder!"
"Interesting. How did you call him again?"
"Mulder. From that show about aliens. One of Oliver's high school sweethearts said that he looked like him. That's his nickname. Karolina hates it. When they were younger, they used to have real fist fights because of Oliver's constant flings."
Wojcik stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and hurried inside. He stormed into the office, fired up his computer, and typed furiously. The printer whirred. He snatched the sheet from the tray.
"Farnicki, let's go."
Ivan grabbed his jacket and followed.
"Sir, I found something. Two hours before she was killed, Dominique rang Wronski."
"You've just made my day, Ivan. But first we see Miss Kaminski. We need her confirmation."
"Why, sir?"
Wojcik handed him the printout — an article on AlChemie's founding, the staff photo prominent.
"Harry called Wronski Mulder. Said he has looked like Fox Mulder since he was young. Look at the photo. If Greta recognises him…"
***
"I hope she's home," Farnicki muttered as Wojcik rang the bell of flat 21 on Liberation Street.
They heard an armchair creak, then the quick shuffle of slippers. Greta opened the door, slightly rumpled from a nap.
"Oh, it's you, officers! Come in — I'll make tea in no time."
"No time for tea, ma'am," Wojcik said. "We need you to look at a photo. The man who visited Agnes. Here."
She fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket for her glasses. "Let me see. Oh dear! That's him! The man at her door!"
"This photo is four years old. He may have changed. You're certain?"
"Positive! Hair is darker here, but that's the handsome devil!"
"Thank you, Miss Kaminski."
***
As expected, Wronski wasn't at home on Monday. They spoke to his wife instead.
Karolina was slim, athletic, and had long red hair cascading over sharp shoulders. Everything about her was elongated: nose, arms, fingers, legs. She could have been a high jumper or marathon runner. Fine lines deepened around her eyes when she smiled. Wojcik doubted she would — or could — come to blows with a man, even her husband. First impressions, he reminded himself.
She was tense the moment they introduced themselves, demanding to know why they wanted Oliver. They deflected. She insisted on coming along. Her questions met with silence or vague replies.
***
The accident counter at AlChemie now read 009. No visible incidents in two days — but the workers still breathed the poisoned air, perhaps already carrying the slow cancer inside them.
Wojcik strode into the office without showing his badge. The young woman from last time recognised him instantly and leapt up. Karolina trailed behind the two broad-shouldered men, unable to push past. The employee led them past Martha's door to the far end of the corridor. Another nameplate: Oliver Wronski. The door stood ajar; a shadow flitted inside Accounting opposite.
Wojcik knocked three times, firm.
"Come in."
Oliver looked up from his desk, surprise deepening when he saw his wife behind the officers.
"We would like a private word, Mr Wronski," Wojcik began.
"No!" Karolina snarled. "I'm his wife. I demand to know what this is about!"
"It's about Agnes Gott," Wojcik said. "You weren't entirely honest with us about your relationship with her. You met her a month before she died. Someone recognised you."
A guttural growl — feline, threatening — erupted behind him. Before Wojcik could turn, Karolina launched herself. She vaulted onto the desk like a lioness, claws raking Oliver's face.
What followed was chaos worthy of a farce. Oliver staggered, trying to dislodge his wife as her legs locked around his waist. She rained blows on his head, tearing at his hair. Farnicki hauled Wojcik to his feet; together they wrestled the couple apart. Amid shouts, crashes, and breaking furniture, Martha screeched like a rooster, summoning staff who crowded the hallway. Farnicki pinned Karolina on the floor while Wojcik dragged Oliver outside to the car.
Ivan followed, touching his bleeding nose — Karolina's elbow had caught him in the scuffle. Blood stained his T-shirt. He heard Wojcik start the engine as he approached.
"You all right, Farnicki? Nose broken?"
"Don't think so, sir."
"Broken or not, your wife will face court for assaulting an officer on duty, Mr Wronski," Wojcik barked, glaring into the rear-view mirror at Oliver, who sat bewildered in the back, glancing from one policeman to the other.