kilos, then we’ll start to treat your joints or they’ll improve of
their own accord.’ He recalled the words as he slowly mounted
the high, wooden steps.
‘As it is I’m only eating half of what I want. It’s as if I was on
a diet,’ – he praised himself and once more smiled the smile of
good-natured people – ‘while being overweight.’
Generally speaking, he was the least stressed policeman in
the entire station. They’d only once seen him annoyed at work
and that was when the sweet buns, which he’d brought himself,
had disappeared from the table. All ten of them.
Ah, the first floor thankfully, he thought, seeing the number
on the door.
The door opened slowly to reveal a small, elderly man in a
wheelchair, wearing a tie.
‘Good morning, how punctual,’ Mr Edmund greeted him
amicably.
‘Good morning,’ Maćkowiak replied.
I’m in for a wheelchair like that, he thought, but the frame’s
going to have to be stronger.
The apartment was large; too large again, it seemed, for one
man. Even the clutter of furniture – this time from the Gierek
era – didn’t diminish the impression of space. The furniture
was decidedly too low.
‘You live alone?’
‘Ever since mummy died nine years ago,’ said Mr Edmund
pulling a forlorn face.
Maćkowiak didn’t feel all that sorry for him as he studied
the box-like furniture. The same as in his own apartment, but
with one difference; he constantly had to squeeze between the
furniture at home, while here he didn’t even rub against it even
though it stood on both sides of the hallway. For a brief moment,
he envied the old man. He himself lived in three rooms with
his wife, daughter, granddaughter and fat dachshund, Sunia.
A vet had told him that both he and the dog had to lose at least
half their weight. He never visited the vet again.
‘You already know why I’m here,’ said Maćkowiak, and
Mr Edmund hung his head. ‘I’m very sorry your friend has
passed away but we need to talk…’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Are
you feeling all right?’ he asked, seeing Mr Edmund’s head still
hanging. It only now occurred to him that he was dealing with
an old man. He became scared of potential complications, the
wheelchair, the first floor and everything else.
‘There aren’t many of us left, you know, and it’s hard for
those of us who are still around, but what can one do, what can
one do…’ Mr Edmund nodded sadly. ‘One has more friends up
there than here… But I’m not going anywhere yet, my turn will
come, too. Please don’t worry, it’s only my legs that don’t work,
my heart you might envy.’
What a spiteful old man, thought Maćkowiak. He heard
me panting on the stairs, he must have heard. Okay, we’re not
going to beat around the bush.
‘Mr Antoniusz Mikulski was murdered two days ago. Please
tell me when you saw him last, what you talked about. As far
as you remember.’
‘We can talk about cholesterol, too!’ riposted Mr Edmund,
frowning none too sternly.
‘Sorry if I formulated that badly,’ said Maćkowiak, now a
little amused.
‘I spoke to him about two weeks ago, but you must know that
already. We talked about German armaments in Africa during
the Second World War. We argued. I believe that the "Desert
Fox’"… But that probably doesn’t interest you. Anyway, I didn’t
want to argue over the phone, it costs money, so we arranged
to see each other the following week. I went to see him. He
was a bit strange. I asked what the matter was but he didn’t say
anything. Then, after that young man arrived with whom he
had a long discussion about something in the kitchen, he was
absolutely good for nothing. I said goodbye and went home.
I was even a little offended. I never saw him again. No doubt
I should have questioned him more about what was on his
mind. I’m not nosy – usually that’s a virtue – but this time,
obviously…’ He paused then, shaking his head, added: ‘Who’d
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