Polychrome by Joanna Jodelka Page A

so.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I didn’t say I know but I think.’ Two thick furrows cut her
forehead. ‘Mrs Bończyk was.’
He watched her stiffen and tense, preparing for an attack.
He saw he’d played it wrong and decided not to ask any more
questions.
‘I’ll see you down, if that’s all.’
She got up.
‘There’s no need. The building isn’t very complicated.’
‘But I have to accompany you.’
‘Well, if that’s the case.’ Here she smiled, unexpectedly and
broadly; in an instant her face softened.
Well, that’s goodbye to fine perfumes, he thought, watching
her leave. Beautiful Rybaki, nothing but small fry – every other
one with a record since nursery. His men had even mentioned
one such fish recently who, born in prison, had waited eighteen
years to find himself in there again, was knifed in a fight and
died. A career like that, a street like that.
Bartol phoned the local police. Twenty minutes later he
already had information concerning both Mrs Bończak and
her sons. The sons were doing time like good boys, and Mrs
Bończak, surprisingly, was at home.
She’d broken her leg.
    Edmund Wieczorek, hiding behind the kitchen window
curtain, gazed long and calmly at Matejko Street. There was
still time, he thought, about ten, fifteen minutes.
    He had the ideal observation point; the four-window bay
protruding far beyond the façade of the building practically
hung over the pavement. It sufficed for him to wait, and he
knew perfectly well how to wait; that’s all he’d done for the past
ten years. He’d grown used to it, even liked it.
    No force could have torn him away from the window. He
knew it was good to know one’s opponent and be properly
prepared. Much could be read from the gait and bearing of a
man, and he wouldn’t have such an opportunity if he didn’t set
eyes on the man until he was at the front door.
    Years of observation had turned Wieczorek into a master;
that’s how he thought of himself. Many people would, no
doubt, have shared this view if they’d only had the chance, but
now no more than a few were at all interested in his existence.
Such was the curse of the elderly.
    Mr Edmund was practically shaking with excitement; only
a couple of minutes to go.
‘Just play it right, just play it right,’ he repeated in his head.
Nobody had appeared as yet, nobody who might have been
the policeman who’d called.
‘Aha, a car’s just parked, that could be it, no, it’s a woman,’ he
was now talking to himself. ‘Ah, there he is, that must be him,
fat, heavy. Good, a slow thinker. If he’s out of breath before he
gets to the first floor, I’ve got him.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘I’m
in for a good time. What a surprise, and so soon. Who’d have
thought that old Mikulski… such a bore. Oh, he hadn’t been
all that nice lately, hadn’t listened, hadn’t picked up my calls,
serves him right. I don’t know much but I’ll think of something.
Aha, there’s the bell, great, it’s him.’
He walked up to the door, pressed the intercom, opened
the door, adjusted the cushion one more time and sat down
in his wheelchair.
‘He’s taking his time. Panting.’ Wieczorek listened to the
sounds coming from the loudly creaking, enormous staircase.
‘Good on us, Edmund, just play it right, just play it right,’ he
whispered to himself.
Maćkowiak walked very slowly; his knees had been
giving him pain recently, both knees. He grimaced first at the
tenement, then at the sight of the high stairs.
‘I hope it’s not the top floor, otherwise I’ll go mad. Why is it
always me who gets the stairs?’ he complained to himself. ‘I’ll
switch to the corruption squad and get high-speed lifts.’ He
smiled; he’d prefer to climb even to the very loft.
He didn’t complain to anyone because he didn’t like
complaining. As it was, he knew that everyone would say the
same thing his glib orthopaedist had said: ‘Lose at least fifteen