Marek was almost certain the murderer wasn't on the list of people listed in Manekin. According to the doctor, the body was found about an hour after death. No one would be foolish enough to stay at the crime scene and wait for the police. He was really interested in the people who left the premises around two o'clock, immediately after Kroński's death. However, someone on the list could provide some valuable information.
He glanced over and over at the seemingly random collection of names, addresses, workplaces, and contact numbers. He could already see how the people beneath them would try to cover up their little sins, plant foolish lies, consciously or unconsciously throwing obstacles in his way. Surely a married man would say he met with a work colleague for purely business reasons and stayed up until three in the morning, while a provocatively dressed student, accompanied by a man who could be her father, would claim he was a friend of her father's and was supposed to get her a job.
Marek's task was to weed out the irrelevant details and get to the heart of the matter, carefully hidden by those who were supposed to facilitate, and often hinder, his work. The people he called witnesses.
Thinking of details that didn't fit the typical robbery pattern, he passed doors on either side of the corridor that led to a certain person who could help him solve the murder at the Manekin. A misplaced hope, despite his professional routine, always lingered in his heart whenever he was about to speak with the first witness.
This witness was waiting for him in the bank, behind a half-open door adorned with a sign reading "Deputy Director," in a small office bathed in summer sunlight. However, the heat, which was natural for this time of year, wasn't felt. It was probably the two fans running at high speed. For a moment, Marek had trouble distinguishing individual objects, when suddenly the light assaulted his eyes, accustomed to the darkness of the corridor, and the blurred dots merged into a blue mass.
"Good morning, Deputy Commissioner Marek Leśniewicz, police," he said to his shapeless companion.
"Ah, yes, I remember you. Artur Kowalewski, nice to meet you." A dark figure approached and shook his hand. He was a handsome brunette dressed in a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. "You're probably here about that murder, right?"
"That's right. I'd like to ask you a few questions. I hope you're not angry about yesterday's incident. We were just fulfilling our duties.
" "Duties, everyone has theirs. Please sit down." He gestured to the seat at his desk. "A very sad event, this murder. Would you like something to drink?"
"No, thank you. I won't take up much of your time." Marek sat down, pulled out a notebook and pencil, and studied his interlocutor. Although he looked to be in his early thirties, he had the dignity of a long-serving husband and a responsible father. However, the wedding ring on his right hand was missing. "What time did you come to Manekin yesterday?"
"About ten. Maybe a few minutes before.
" "Who was with you?
" "My friend Marta...
" "Could you tell me her name?" Marek interrupted.
"Marta Nowak. There was also her friend Aneta Wiśniak...
" "That famous crime novelist?
" "Yes, that's her. Have you read her books? They're wonderful.
" "Frankly, I'm a fan of hers. But let's not get off topic. Who else was with you then?
" "A friend from work, Rafał Domański."
"Is he working today?
" "No, it's Saturday. Most people have the day off.
" "We don't, unfortunately. Neither do you." Marek gave his interlocutor a meaningless, clerical smile and pulled a familiar list from his pocket. He glanced over the items.
"I like my job.
" "Me too, in my own way. Rafał Domański wasn't on the attendance list yesterday. Aneta Wiśniak too.
" "They left early.
" "When?
" "Because I know... Probably around two o'clock.
That's when Kroński was killed," Marek thought.
"Don't be surprised by my question..." He deliberately paused. "How many times and at what time did you go to the restroom?
" "A body was found there, right? Once, five minutes after midnight. I remember it perfectly because I checked my watch then.
" "Did you see anything suspicious there?
" "Nothing at all. No bodies, no blood. Nothing like that." He smiled.
"I see. And in the club anyway?
" "Actually, yes. Some guy bumped into Aneta and knocked her down. Rafał even tried to follow him and teach him some manners, but the other guy quickly disappeared. He was clearly in a hurry. Aneta sat there for another ten minutes, and then Rafał escorted her.
"What did the man look like?
" "I don't remember.
" "Where could he have gone?
" "Probably to the restroom. That's why I mentioned it.
" "How do you know that's where the body was found?"
"Leaving aside the police's interest in the restroom at three in the morning yesterday, it's in the newspaper." Marek realized he hadn't read the morning paper. He thought the man would show him an article about the murder, but he just looked around the office.
"Do you often go to Manekin?
" "Every weekend.
" "Does the name Jan Kroński mean anything to you?
" "No, should it?"
Marek looked into his eyes, searching for a hint of a lie. He was telling the truth... Or he was faking it well.
"The investigation is confidential," he replied evasively. "Okay, I won't bother you anymore. Could you just give me the contact information for Ms. Aneta and Mr. Rafał?
" "Aneta lives with Marta... Although, strictly speaking, Marta lives with Aneta. Do you have the address?
" "Yes, yes. I do. And Mr. Rafał?
" "Just a moment." He took one of the small office cards and scribbled an address. He handed it to Marek.
"Thank you, goodbye."
As he left the office, he was worried about the crush of people to question. The pub's regulars, the employees, the owner, and the victim's potential family... Over fifty people at the outset. To be divided into two.
Of course, he didn't forget to analyze Artur Kowalewski with a cold, policeman's eye. Very young for a bank vice president. Probably ambitious and good at what he does. Or maybe he has influential parents. He wouldn't kill a guy for a gold watch and a cell phone. Unless this case had a double meaning... He answered questions quickly, didn't hesitate. He already had a prepared version. But that's no surprise, after all, they had an appointment. He preferred not to drop in on people from those circles unannounced.
Although he didn't show it, he was very interested in Aneta Wiśniak. A crime novelist at the crime scene. Was it a coincidence?
A walk through the Old Town turned out to be a brilliant idea. The summer sun had always had a positive effect, instilling optimism, awakening a kind of natural hope that sometimes lurks in unpleasant moments. Even the sight of the Manekin club wasn't the slightest bit frightening. Or rather, it should have been.
Aneta herself was surprised by her initial reaction. She had written so many times about death, victims, murderers, often very brutal ones. Three novels, dozens of short stories, complex intrigues, false leads, elusive perpetrators... And yet, the news of a real corpse where she was staying made her uneasy. Not about future events, but about the past.
It was the feeling felt by would-be passengers of a crashed plane, or pilots diverted to another plane at the last moment. It was the awareness that death had passed close by, had almost tripped, stepped on the feet of a defenseless human being, and dropped her scythe. It left a mark, a certain indelible, unpleasant odor, though she hadn't noticed the incident herself.
This reasoning reminded her of the man who had hit her the previous day. He was walking toward the restroom. He was in a hurry. He didn't have a scythe, nor a dark robe with a large hood, but he could have been a creature that brought death with it.
But these darkest thoughts were already banished by the magical power of chocolate ice cream, the nearly cloudless sky, and the company of a friend. The few drinks Marta had convinced her to have certainly played a part in that.
They were laughingly returning to the tenement house, to the old-fashioned room with the large window. They were already at the building itself when Aneta noticed the wooden front door ajar. What could it be? A thief? Well, who else? But in this quiet neighborhood? Or maybe it's the murderer from Manekin? Maybe he's come hungry for excitement to commit another crime?
"Marta... Do you see that?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"What? Oh, shit... Do you think it's a thief?
" "I don't know. Should we call the police?
" "They won't even come when called. What will you tell them? That the door's open?
" "Isn't that enough?
" "What do you think?
" "So what?
" "I don't know. Maybe we should go in and check?
" "Are you crazy? There might be some dangerous guy in there.
" "Uh, come on!"
Aneta, though curious about the situation, was afraid to enter her own home. Her heart was beating faster than usual, her breathing became shallow, and a shiver ran down her skin, a feeling she knew more often from books than from reality.
She didn't resist, however, and, pulled by her hand, crossed the threshold right after Marta. The old door creaked shrilly and shattered the silence. The sound seemed deafening, especially since only a slight hum came from outside. The hallway, as always, was dim. They both stopped and listened. What madness, Aneta thought. She wanted to tell Marta to go back and fetch her neighbor, but even saying a word filled her with dread.
Suddenly she heard footsteps on the stairs to her right. The women's hands instinctively squeezed tighter. Aneta froze. Her heartbeat seemed as loud as the screams of people being flayed. The sounds on the stairs were not repeated.
"I have a weapon," Marta said loudly. "Go down slowly."
Aneta was terrified by her behavior. What was she doing? The thief would see they were defenseless and have no qualms.
"Me too," replied the male voice. "And what are we going to do with this treasure?"
Marta seemed confused... and frightened. She was clearly searching for a way to catch the thief, but couldn't think of anything sensible.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to buy time.
"And you?"
Aneta pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 112.
"I live here," Marta said.
"That's interesting. And I'm with the police.
" "Show me your badge." A metallic object emerged from behind the wall. It reflected the blinding sunlight. It could just as easily have been a police badge as a crushed beer can. Despite everything, Marta calmed down, and Aneta ended the call. "Okay, how did you get in here?
" "It was unlocked.
" "Jesus!" Aneta shouted. "I didn't lock the door before I left. It was just nerves...
" "Ugh..."
"So?" the man said. "Can I come out and show myself?" Without waiting for an answer, he descended the stairs and approached Marta. "Well, well. Quite a bluff. I fell for it.
" "Don't I know you from somewhere?
" "Deputy Commissioner Marek Leśniewicz. I was at Manekin yesterday. Marta, right? And is that our famous crime novelist?" he turned to Aneta.
"I don't know if she's famous," she replied. She felt the blood rush to her face, causing her to blush.
"Don't be too modest. All my colleagues read your books. I apologize for the situation, but the door was ajar. I thought he was a thief.
" "We are too...
" "I see I've scared you ladies. I actually came to ask a few questions. Can I have a few minutes?
" "Upstairs, please. Would you like some tea?" Aneta looked at the policeman. This dark-haired man with a youthful face, dressed in a checked shirt and jeans, looked more like a science student than a police officer.
"Why not," he replied.
"You don't look like a policeman," Marta pointed out.
"Yes, I know." He grinned, "everyone tells me that. It's very helpful in my work."
Led first up the stairs, then through a short hallway, he found himself in a room unlike any he'd ever seen before. The enormous room, with a large window opposite the door, laden with furniture straight out of a museum, and piled high with painting tools and paintings on one side, made an incredible impression on him. Despite the objects scattered in all directions, there was plenty of space.
"Does this entire building belong to you?" he asked.
"Yes. I inherited it.
" "Don't you rent out the rooms downstairs?
" "I used to. But my passion requires peace and quiet, and good tenants are hard to find.
" "I understand." He glanced around the interior again. There was a hidden order, invisible at first glance. The beds were made and dusted, the desk empty except for a thick stack of A4 sheets of paper that caught his eye. "Are you working on a new book?"
"Yes, but I'm having some difficulty. Please sit down.
" Marek took a chair at the table, the only one not hung with women's clothes. He felt awkward, as if he were sitting in a private dressing room. In fact, he immediately guessed the purpose of this room. It was a dressing room, a study, a bedroom, and also a guest room, all rolled into one. Although it seemed that guests rarely visited this place.
"I'd like to speak to Mrs. Marta first, if I may.
" "Of course," Aneta said. "I'll go make some tea." She soon disappeared behind the door, the only trace of her presence being the soft sound of footsteps.
"Forgive me if I'm a little nervous," Marta said after a moment. She walked over to the bed, which was buried in art supplies, and sat down on the very edge. "A knifeman in a mannequin is an unusual occurrence. Such a peaceful place...
" "I feel guilty. We caused a bit of a stir yesterday. And then there was that would-be thief today," he said with a smile. "And how do you know the victim was stabbed? I didn't say that at the club yesterday.
" "No? I must have read it in the newspaper." She placed the current edition of the daily on the table. Marek saw the headline on the front page: "Murder in Mannequin." Very original, he thought.
"These journalists are quick. They could have written down the murderer right away.
" "Probably the driver," she said, earning a charming smile from Marek. "You know, it's just Aneta's little joke."
"Mine too."
He glanced at the slightly open window in the wooden frame. Behind the glass stood a proud Baroque church. This Aneta has taste, he thought, this place...
He asked standard questions, received standard answers that partly matched what other witnesses had said, partly not. It wasn't anything extraordinary, though. No one could remember everything precisely; some denied their poor memories and filled in details off the top of their heads. Still others were hiding secrets, large or small.
The most important events, however, were consistent, and Marek was already piecing together a picture of the situation in his head.
Not for the first time that day, Aneta felt like the heroine of her own novels. The detective's questions were strangely familiar, even though her experience with the police was limited to a statement about a stolen bicycle over ten years ago.
She said she rarely came to Manekin, and only at Marta's urging, that she hadn't seen anything suspicious, that a man had indeed bumped into her. She even gave a few details about his appearance—everything she could recall.
The policeman, who looked like a student, was writing in his notebook, sipping tea without sugar, asking questions, sometimes looking suspiciously, other times smiling broadly, trying to learn something about the novel she was working on. Finally, to Aneta's surprise, he asked if he could come over sometime with the book and ask for an autograph.
"Again, I apologize for the awkward situation," he said, stepping out into the yard.
Aneta returned to the room with the large window, collapsed heavily onto the bed, struggling with her thoughts for a moment, then looked Marta straight in the eye and began:
"Listen... You told the policeman you learned about the knife...
" "You were eavesdropping!" Marta interrupted.
"Never mind. I've been with you since morning. You haven't even glanced at that newspaper..."
Aneta wasn't the only one eavesdropping. Marek stood by the open window, leaning against the worn brick wall, silently grateful that the area was quiet and that he could hear the two women's conversation. But as he waited for Marta's explanation, he heard footsteps from around the corner. Immediately after, church bells rang out, announcing 3 p.m. He wouldn't hear anything else. With a quick movement, he pushed himself away from the wall and headed for his car.
The desk at the police station was cluttered with seemingly insignificant items. Sheets of paper, some loose, some clipped together, CDs, pencils, pens... In reality, however, this arrangement hid a few gems, which Marek had already inspected.
Kroński turned out to be the owner of a large clothing store in the city center and an apartment a hundred meters away. He employed ten people. Marek knew this store. Inexpensive, but quite decent. Suits, shirts, ties, a separate section for women's clothing. No Armani, typical "no-name" items, or domestically manufactured products.
Kroński's accounts in three different banks totaled almost one hundred and fifty thousand złoty. Marek didn't know what to think. At first glance, it seemed like a lot, although the store could have generated significant revenue. But the guy wasn't investing the money, just keeping it in his account? A businessman? He was probably saving for something.
That night, two ATM withdrawals of ten thousand złoty were made. At 2:13 a.m. and an hour later. The killer couldn't have taken it all at once because of the hold some banks impose. There was still almost twice that amount left in the account. Why didn't he wait two hours and withdraw everything? Maybe he was afraid the police would find the body and the victim's credit cards would be under surveillance? Unnecessarily...
Exactly, Marek thought, why didn't I think of that sooner? Besides... I wouldn't have gotten anything done in the middle of the night anyway. Now there's no point in watching.
Nevertheless, he called the bank and asked them to call him immediately if anyone withdrew money from Kroński's account. Why? A slim chance. If the killer hadn't withdrawn the money last night, he certainly wouldn't do so later. But maybe...
Then he checked the cell phone network information. Tracing was out of the question. The trail had stopped a few dozen meters from the club. The thief had probably thrown away the SIM card and removed the battery. So he wasn't an amateur. However, the phone records had to be checked. Kroński hadn't sent any messages for the past two months, and the only ones he received were from the network. No wonder. When you have a good business plan and per-second billing, text messages are no longer profitable.
Finally, there was something he hadn't yet investigated, something he'd pinned his greatest hopes on. Something he'd been waiting for, something waiting for him. Film from three cameras mounted in the Manekin.
Watching such recordings was something of a ritual for Marek. It always aroused in him a strange excitement, a perverse, voyeuristic curiosity. It was better than anything he saw in the cinema or on television. He felt then that he knew everything about the perpetrator, and the perpetrator knew nothing about him. About him, the perfect observer.
Whenever he learned about the crime scene tape, he was the first to pick out the smallest details from the usually blurry image. But there was something about those scenes from action movies where a police officer sits in front of the screen for half the day, memorizing each frame by frame. He had experienced this himself. Until then, he had only encountered recordings of thefts, burglaries, and the occasional assault. And murder? That would be something...
He sat in the chair behind his desk, fingering a compact disc with its mysterious contents. He stared at his youthful reflection in it, ignoring the sunlight filtering into the room through the half-open blinds, or the footsteps in the hallway. He simply stared like a connoisseur at a glass of good wine before tasting it. And waited...
"Hi. Sorry I'm late," Rosiecki's voice snapped him out of his trance.
Marek didn't even turn around, just glanced at his watch. It was twenty-five past five. You're late as hell, he thought, "you were supposed to be there at five."
"Well, hi," he replied, sighing deeply. He wanted to ask if he was also this late for his meetings with the girls.
"I have a lot of information.
" "Me too.
" "So who's starting?"
Marek swiveled in his chair, put down the CD, and said bluntly:
"Around two o'clock, some guy knocked out a woman.
" "I know.
" "He was rushing to the restroom. Interesting, isn't he? At two o'clock, which was when Kroński was killed.
" "Yes, because that guy was Kroński."
Oh, damn, you're good, Marek thought, really good.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Several people confirmed it. Tall, blond, fair complexion, close-cropped beard, dark suit. Right. Nothing specific, but when you add that it was when...
" "Yeah. Do you know who the woman who was hit was?
" "Marilyn Monroe?
" "Almost. Aneta Wiśniak. The crime novelist.
" "Good. She kills to get inspiration for her next book."
"What's more, I was at her place today and talked to her tenant. She was also at Manekin.
" "This is getting interesting..."
"Yeah. And our Polish Agatha Christie was eavesdropping on the conversation.
" "How do you know?"
Marek wasn't going to answer that question. He didn't want to mention the knife thing either. He figured he'd listen to Rosiecki first.
"I just know. What about you?
" "I talked to the guy who found the body.
" "So?"
"And nothing. If it weren't for a small detail. Remember how the body was positioned when we arrived?"
"No, what?
" "Leaning against the left wall of the cabin.
" "Yeah... Indeed. So what?
" The guy said it was the other way around. "
He could have been wrong. Or maybe he tipped the body over.
" "No, exactly. He was sure. And he said he didn't move anything." He opened the cabin door, got terrified, and ran to the bartender. Think about it, he has no business lying. If he were involved, he wouldn't have found the body.
" "Yeah. Did you read the bank information?
" "Surface-wise. Twenty thousand disappeared from the account."
"The killer knew the PIN.
" "He could have squeezed it out of Kroński. He had a knife, after all.
" "Oh, and would Kroński have told him? If I were him, I'd have given him the first numbers I saw. The guy couldn't have checked anyway.
" "Well, maybe he was following him earlier? He saw him enter his PIN in a supermarket or something. A lot of people pay by card these days."
"He followed him for a long time, peeked at the number, and only killed him in the nightclub restroom? Is that the stupidest place you could think of. Besides, from what you're saying, Kroński was in a hurry to get to the toilet. Was he so stressed that he bumped into some girl?
" "And a crime novelist, at that. I see you haven't been idle.
" "Well. I have something to relax you. The footage from the cameras at Manekin.
" "Shall we watch it now?
" "Do you have any popcorn?"
Another day of the investigation. A day preceded by a sleepless night in front of the monitor, started with strong coffee and a conversation with the inspector, a summer day when he should have been sunbathing on the beach, not meeting the autopsy guy. He glanced at his watch. It was half past eight.
Behind the door stood a man of about forty in a white coat, thin and short, with a bald spot on his head and glasses on his nose. He was preoccupied with something, focusing all his attention on the inside of the sink. When the police entered the room, he turned his head and studied them for a moment through thick glasses.
"Hello, gentlemen," he said.
"Hello," Marek said. It was the first time he'd seen this man, but he wasn't in the mood for politeness. He stood up with his left foot and slammed his right against the doorframe. Everything was irritating him. "What is it?
" "A double-edged blade, about fifteen centimeters long," the stranger replied. He didn't seem offended by the direct remark. He didn't seem capable of any emotion. Marek saw him as a joyless man, without a will to live, doing boring and unremarkable work. The kind you'd meet in an office, a shop, or a bank teller. Even on a sunny Sunday. "Three punches to the stomach," he continued. "None of them were directly fatal. The work of an amateur.
" "None?" Rosiecki asked. "So how did he die?
" "He bled out. It took a long time.
" "How long?
" "It's hard to say exactly. Probably half an hour."
Marek felt something cold run down his spine.
"The guy was dying for half an hour locked in a toilet, and people were walking past like nothing had happened," he said. "Didn't he make any sounds?"
"He was probably unconscious. Because besides the stab wounds, there are signs of a blow to the head. Something blunt and hard.
" "Could it have been a wall?" Rosiecki asked.
"Yes, it could have been anything. Anyway, I won't bore you with the technical details. It's all here." He handed Marek several sheets of paper stapled together. The small letters looked like they were taken from another alphabet. "Is that all? Do you gentlemen want to see the body?"
"Wait," Marek said. He remembered Marta Nowak. "Do you know what gender the murderer was?
" "The force of the blows suggests a male, although that doesn't settle the matter."
The man in the lab coat asked again if they wanted to see the body. They didn't. They thanked him and left. First from the room, then from the building.
"One thing puzzles me," Rosiecki said once they were in the car. "If Kroński was bleeding to death in the toilet, who bumped into that woman at 2 a.m.?
" "The answer is simple. Someone resembling Kroński."
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