She took out a cigarette and lit it. He offered her a cup to have somewhere to tap the ash, and thanked providence for sending his office mate on medical leave. Indeed it was a stupid question, but at least something was starting to happen.

"Did he feel guilty?" he asked.

"Of course." She shrugged. "So did I. I still do. Every day I think of all the things we must have done wrong to make it happen. I think about it many times a day."

"And did you blame your husband for your daughter's death?"

"What sort of a question is that?"

"A simple one. She wrote in her letter that she especially loved her father. Maybe their relationship was closer, perhaps you found reasons for her suicide in it?"

She stubbed out her cigarette, closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh. When she looked at Szacki again, he almost ducked in his chair to escape that gaze.

"Forgive my language, but what the f.u.c.k are you trying to insinuate? What on earth are you thinking in that b.l.o.o.d.y civil servant's, badly paid head of yours when you say 'closer relationship'? And please be sure to record what we're saying word for word. Otherwise I won't even sign the page giving my personal details."

"Absolutely." Instead of pulling away he leaned even further forwards over the desk, never letting his gaze drop from her eyes, cold as the Baltic Sea in June. "But please just answer the question instead of showering me with insults."

"My late husband and my late daughter got on perfectly. Better than anyone else in the family. Sometimes I was jealous, I felt left out. It was incredible, they could read each other's thoughts. Whenever they went sailing together they just sent a postcard. Whenever I went on holiday with the children, Kasia made me call her dad every day. You know what it's like. People always say they love all their children equally, and the children also say they love their parents the same. But it's not true. In our family Kasia loved Henryk the best, and Henryk Kasia. And when she committed suicide, half of Henryk died. The murderer didn't so much kill him as finish him off. If by some miracle you ever track him down, maybe you'll pet.i.tion for a lower sentence because he didn't murder a man - it was a semi-corpse."

She spoke the final word in a tone that made shivers go down Szacki's spine. He didn't want to go on with this conversation, but he couldn't just drop it.

"I understand," he said politely. "Now please answer the question."

"What question?"

"Did you blame your husband for your daughter's death?"

She lit another cigarette.

"No one was as close to her as he was. No one knew her or understood her as well. How come he wasn't able to prevent it? I've often wondered about that as I've watched him kneeling by her grave. Does that answer your question?"

"Let's suppose so," he agreed graciously and told her briefly how the therapy had gone on azienkowska Street. When he finished, her face looked like a death mask. He couldn't see a trace of emotion in it.

"We weren't the perfect happy couple. And I often felt I wouldn't have had much objection if Henryk had found someone else and left me. But what you're saying... I have never heard such horrendous nonsense. To say our daughter killed herself and our son has a lethal illness because Henryk wasn't at his parents' funeral? Can you actually hear what you're saying? That it's as if I know that, and desire his death? And what happens? The woman from the therapy feels for me so strongly that she takes your 'sharp instrument' - in other words a kitchen skewer, as I had to find out from the newspaper - and sticks it in his head? Do your superiors know about these ideas of yours?"

She lit another cigarette. Szacki took one out too. His first one.

"Please understand me. Murder isn't like the theft of a car radio. We have to investigate every lead thoroughly."

"If you made as much effort as this for the theft of car radios, maybe there'd be less of it."

In his heart Szacki agreed with her. He knew it didn't make sense to continue the therapy theme. Maybe later, once he knew more. He questioned her cautiously about any potential enemies, but she denied that Telak had any.

"He was pretty colourless, if I'm being honest," she said. "People like that rarely have enemies."

Curious. It was the second time he'd heard that, and the second time he felt he was being deceived.

"May I collect my husband from the mortuary?" she asked on the way out, after closely reading and then signing the statement. Before that he had to add the usual formula at the end, "That is all I have to testify in this matter", and thought that wasn't necessarily in keeping with the truth.

"Yes, any day from eight a.m. to three p.m. You have to call in advance and make an appointment. I'd advise you to instruct your undertakers to do it. Please forgive my frankness, but after an autopsy a person is, if possible, far more dead than before it." He remembered how Kuzniecow had once told him that on Oczko Street there's no atmosphere of death at all, just the atmosphere of a mortuary. "Better have the professionals dress him, tidy him up and put him in his coffin first. Even so you'll have to identify him before the coffin is closed and removed from the forensics lab. Those are the rules."

She nodded to say goodbye and went out. And although she left his room as an exhausted woman filled with nothing but grief and pain, Szacki couldn't forget the abuse she had hurled at the ideas that had emerged from his "b.l.o.o.d.y civil servant's head". If she had started to threaten him at that point, he'd have been terrified.

III.

He glanced at his watch - twelve. Telak's son was coming at one; luckily his mother hadn't insisted on being present at his interview. In theory she had that right, but in practice it was only exercised during interviews with children, not great big fifteen-year-olds. He had an hour. How ridiculous. If he had two, he could write the inquiry plan; if he had three, the indictment in the Nidziecka case. But in this situation he didn't want to get anything started. Once again he felt tired. And on top of that he still had the feeling he'd overlooked something crucial - as if he had some piece of information, maybe even already recorded in the files, that he had failed to notice. He should carefully read through all the material gathered so far. He should also ask around to see if anyone knew of a place with a ball pit where they could hold Helka's birthday party. Anyway, what a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid fashion. In his day everyone got together for birthday parties at their own homes and it was OK. Had he really thought "in my day"? Oh G.o.d, was he really that old?

He made himself coffee.

He took a look at the newspaper.

b.u.g.g.e.r all was happening. President Kwaniewski was appealing to Cimoszewicz to run for President. Why bother to write about such boring stuff? Szacki reckoned there should be a ban on the daily reporting of politics. A two-column article once a month would be quite enough.

Politicians lived in an isolated world, convinced they were doing something madly important all the time, which they absolutely had to describe at a press conference. Then they were given confirmation by excited political commentators, convinced of their own importance, who also believed in the significance of the events, probably just to rationalize their pointless jobs. Even so, despite the efforts of both groups and the ma.s.s attempt of the media to present unimportant information as essential, the entire nation couldn't give a s.h.i.t about them. In the winter Szacki, Weronika and Helka had gone on holiday - they'd been away for two weeks. All that time he hadn't read a single newspaper. He'd come home and everything was the same as before. Absolutely nothing had happened. But when he looked at the press, it turned out the world had been collapsing on a daily basis, the government was toppling, the opposition was tearing its hair out, the Internal Security Agency had compromised itself, the polls were indicating a new line-up every hour, the parliamentary committees were talking themselves to death, etc. The effect: zero.

Just then Maryla came in.

"From the Regional Office on Krakowskie Przedmiecie," she said, put a memo down in front of him and left without another word.

Szacki read it, cursed, picked up his coffee and ran out of the room. At a fast pace he walked past the secretary, who hadn't clopped her way back to her desk yet, knocked on Chorko's door and, without waiting to be invited, went inside.

"Good day, Szacki," she said, peering at him over her gla.s.ses, without removing her hands from the computer keyboard.

"Good day. They've refused the draft dismissal of the Sienkiewicz murder case a third time," he said, putting the memo from the regional office on her desk.

"I know."

"It's nonsensical. If I write an indictment, the court won't just drop the charges against them, they'll make fun of us. And those pen-pushers are perfectly aware of it. They're only interested in statistics and nothing else: to submit an indictment and get it off their plates, then let the court worry about it." Szacki was trying to keep his cool, but the tone of resentment was all too audible in his voice.

"I know, Prosecutor," confirmed Chorko.

The Sienkiewicz murder case was a typical central-Warsaw drinking-den killing. They'd been drinking in a threesome, and woken up in a twosome, the third one having had his throat slashed, preventing him from coming round again. All three men's fingerprints were found on the knife. The two who were still alive swore in unison that they couldn't remember a thing, moreover they had called the police themselves. It was clear one of them was the murderer, but it wasn't clear which - there wasn't even a hint of circ.u.mstantial evidence to identify the culprit. And they couldn't charge both of them. It was an idiotic situation. They had the murderer, and yet they didn't.

"You are aware that if we charge them jointly, even the stupidest lawyer will get them off. If we draw straws and charge one of them, he won't even need one. They'll drop the charges at the first deadline."

Chorko took off her gla.s.ses, which she only used for writing on the computer, and tidied her fringe. Her curls looked as if they'd been transplanted from a poodle.

"Prosecutor Szacki," she said. "I am equally aware of what you are saying and of the fact that the prosecution system has a hierarchical structure. That means the higher up the hierarchy, the closer to our boss, who is usually..." She pointed at Szacki, wanting him to finish the sentence.

"A halfwit with a political t.i.tle, sent here to gain points for his pals in the polls."

"Exactly. But please don't say that to the press, unless you want to spend the rest of your days in the General Correspondence Department. And that's why our officious colleagues from Krakowskie Przedmiecie..." She pointed at Szacki again.

"Are already gearing up for a change of guard, and just in case are trying to be more radical, more uncompromising and tougher than the single egg the Kaczyski brothers emerged from." The twin politicians were famous for their rigid att.i.tudes.

"So if you understand it all so well, Prosecutor Szacki, why do you come in here and make a fuss? I'm not your enemy. I simply understand that if we refuse to kowtow once in a while, we'll be put out to gra.s.s, and less reliable people will be put in our place. Do you think that'd be better for this colourful city or for the Warsaw City Centre District Prosecutor's Office?"

Szacki crossed his legs, straightened his trouser crease and gave a deep sigh.

"I'll tell you something in confidence," he said.

"Is this going to be juicy?" she asked.

He didn't smile. Janina Chorko was the last person on earth he'd want to flirt with.

"A week ago I had a call from Butkus."

"The Lithuanian gangster?"

"In person. They've set the date of his trial for two months from now. He said he isn't sorry, and that if for example I wanted to change the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g on my gown from prosecutor's red to barrister's green, he's ready to pay twenty thousand for the mere fact of taking on the defence, ten thousand for each extended trial date and an extra fifty for an acquittal."

"Would you be capable of that?"

Chorko settled herself more comfortably in her chair and undid a b.u.t.ton of her blouse. Szacki could feel himself sweating. Was this really happening?

"Of course. I conducted the inquiry until the big shots on Krakowskie Przedmiecie took it away from me, I helped write the indictment."

"That's not what I meant. Would you be capable of crossing to the other side of the barricades so easily?"

For a while Szacki sat there in silence. Stupid question. If he were, he'd have done it ages ago. What kept him here, if not a childish belief in the sheriff's star? He was on a civil servant's wage - a prosecutor in the centre of Warsaw earned the same as one in Sleepy Hollow in the backwoods. No bonuses. A statutory ban on earning extra in any way except by giving lectures, for which he still had to have special permission - a.s.suming anyone would ever offer him such a rare opportunity. No standard working hours, which in practice meant sixty hours a week. On top of all that he had to be present at autopsies and carry out the orders of his numerous superiors without a murmur. In the entire Prosecution Service there were more heads of department than there were directors of state enterprises. Society regarded the prosecutor as the bad guy who releases bandits caught by the good old police. Or else the bad guy who made such a cat's a.r.s.e of the paperwork that the court had to let the bandit go. In their turn, the blockheads from the parliament building on Wiejska Street treated the Prosecution Service like their own private army for hara.s.sing their political opponents. Oh well, what a s.h.i.t-hot job, he thought bitterly. It was worth all that grinding away at college.

"That barricade has more sides to it," he replied evasively, because he didn't want to confide in his boss.

"But of course, Prosecutor. I can see you in my mind's eye, sitting in a solicitor's office, writing out letters giving legal notice or wondering if it would still be worth chasing a debtor for the extra interest."

Chorko began toying with the collar of her blouse. Soon she'd lean forwards and he'd be forced to look at her cleavage. And that he definitely didn't fancy.

"We've all got bills to pay," he said, shrugging.

"But to get to the point, you'll write the indictment, won't you? Perhaps we can reach a compromise. Don't charge them with murder, but with failing to provide help. There's always something. We'll see what we can do with it."

He nodded reluctantly. He'd already thought of that.

"I warn you it won't be an extremely long or convincing indictment."

"I'll initial it anyway. And let me remind you about the inquiry plan for the Telak case and the indictment for the Nidziecka case."

He nodded and stood up.

"Nice having a chat with you, Prosecutor," said Chorko, smiling radiantly. Szacki was reminded of the figures in Brueghel's paintings. He responded with a faint half-smile and left.

Bartosz Telak was sitting in a chair outside his room, playing with his mobile phone.

IV.

He liked going to the sauna at the Warszawianka Club in the middle of the day, when there were no hordes of savages and he could enjoy the facilities in peace. He sat on the top bench in the dry sauna until he started to see spots before his eyes and every breath made his throat burn. Finally he left, hung his towel on a peg and walked naked to a large tub full of ice-cold water standing in the middle of the room. Millions of tiny needles stuck into his body. He dived under, and only then did he cry out. How fabulous it felt. He lay for a while longer in the cold water, got out, wrapped himself in a towel and lay on a recliner in the garden. Igor handed him a bottle of cold orange juice. Yes, there are moments when all a man needs is a little warmth, a little cold and a little orange juice. The lads from the Warsaw Pact - not that he was fond of them - knew what they were doing when they built themselves such a great pool.

Next to him a twenty-something couple were lying so close to each other that if they got a quarter of an inch nearer it'd be s.e.xual intercourse in a public place. By turns they whispered quietly or giggled aloud. He gave a hostile glance in their direction. The girl wasn't bad-looking, though it wouldn't have done her any harm to thin out the bush in her armpits and go to aerobics once or twice. The boy was weedy, like all of them in that generation. Skinny little arms, skinny little legs, facial hair like on a piece of pork crackling, ribcage like a consumptive.

"They should put up the prices," he said to Igor loud enough to be sure the young couple could hear him. "As it is, any old riff-raff can sit here for hours on end."

Igor nodded understandingly. The couple first went quiet, then the boy whispered something and the girl started giggling like a freak. He wanted to get up and smash him in the face. But he decided not to take any notice of them.

"Well, so it looks like there'll be no trouble with Henryk?" he addressed Igor.

"Yes, I don't think we've anything to worry about," he replied. "Szacki should be writing the inquiry plan today, then we'll know more."

"When will we get it?"

"This evening," replied Igor, as if it was completely natural for them to get copies of all the internal doc.u.ments from all the prosecutor's offices in Poland.

"Excellent," said the Chairman, and took a large swig of juice. He liked it when everything was running predictably and perfectly.

V.

Kuzniecow had a son the same age as Bartosz Telak, and lately he never described him in any other way except as an "animal". "Sometimes I feel like putting a lock on our bedroom door," he said. "He's so big and s.h.a.ggy, he moves like a caged tiger. His mood changes every ten minutes, he's got more hormones in his blood than an athlete's got steroids. If we're going to have a quarrel in the evening, I think to myself: will he come with a knife, or won't he come at all? And if he does, will I cope? I'm no weakling, but there's nothing wrong with him either."

Stories like this merely testified to the fact that Kuzniecow was a jerk. A sick imagination and all those years working for the police had given him bipolar disease. That's what Szacki always thought. Now, as he sat down opposite Telak junior, it crossed his mind that there might be a grain of truth in the policeman's strange remarks. The teenager had very delicate papery looks, with black hair and black eyebrows that gave extra emphasis to his pallor. He was very thin, which neither his baggy trousers nor his loose-fitting shirt could conceal. Quite the opposite - his large clothes made him look even more fragile. Szacki knew the boy was fatally ill. And yet in his movements and his eyes there was a predatory look, aggression and desperation. Maybe it can't be otherwise when the time is approaching to fight for your place in the world? Szacki was incapable of remembering what it had been like to be that age. He'd drunk a lot, w.a.n.ked a lot and discussed politics with his friends a lot. And apart from that? A black hole. He'd argued with his parents, that was for sure. But had he hated them? Were there times when he'd wished them dead? Would he have agreed to their death if it were going to guarantee him freedom and independence? He remembered the trial of a teenage matricide from Pruszkow who had explained in court: "...and then the idea came into my head of my mother not being there". Had a similar idea arisen in the head of Henryk Telak's son?

WITNESS INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT. Bartosz Telak, born 20th March 1991, resident at Karowicz Street in Warsaw, primary education, pupil at Lycee No. 2 on Narb.u.t.t Street. Relationship to parties: son of Henryk Telak (victim), no criminal record for bearing false witness.

Cautioned re criminal responsibility under Article 233 of the Penal Code, his statement is as follows: Five minutes later Szacki felt like scrawling "b.u.g.g.e.r all to testify!" in huge letters across the form, because the young man was trying to communicate in nothing but nods and shakes of the head, monosyllables and grunts.

"What do you know about your father going to therapy?"