Inspector Edmond Wojcik folded his newspaper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. The news was always the same: rising violence, delinquency, a crumbling economy, scandals. Reading the papers felt like listening to urban legends. He knew — or had at least heard of — the places and people in the articles, yet the stories were so outlandish and horrific that he could scarcely believe they were true. In a strange way, it made him feel fortunate. The Sarmatians still shielded his town from the madness of that other, fantastical world the media described.
He climbed out of his old Lada and eased the door shut. There was no central locking; he had to turn the key by hand. He tugged the handle twice to be certain it was secure. The flaking paint on the roof caught his eye again — a reminder that the car needed repainting. He never seemed to find the time. The on and off friction of the flashing light only worsened its state.
Wojcik earned enough to buy a modern car, but he had no desire to. The Lada had belonged to his father, the man he had been closest to in the world. In all those years the old thing had never once let him down. If you take good care of things, things will take good care of you, his father used to say. Wojcik still believed it.
Only two cars stood in the police station car park: his and Harry's. Harry had to finish cleaning before they opened; Wojcik could never sleep more than six hours. That was why they were always the first to arrive.
Insomnia had plagued him for years, though nothing in his personal life or career seemed to justify it — at least, that was what he told himself. Something always jolted him awake: a nightmare, a sudden rush of panic, or a sound he thought he had heard outside. Rather than lie there reading or staring at the television, he preferred to get up and come to work.
He stepped through the open doors of the station and nodded to Harry, who was mopping the entrance hall.
"Good morning, sir," Harry said.
The janitor was ten years older than Edmond, yet he never addressed anyone who worked there informally.
"Morning, Harry! How's the foot?" Wojcik asked, shaking the man's hand.
Harry had been off for a week after losing control of his bicycle on a rain-slick June road and tumbling into a ditch. He had fractured his right ankle trying to break his fall. Even so, he had told his employer he would be back within the week rather than sit idle at home.
"Better, sir. Cleaning's a bit slower, but the painkillers are helping," Harry said apologetically, as though his reduced pace needed excusing.
"Take it easy, Harry. Don't overdo it or I'll send you straight home to finish recovering! You weren't supposed to be back yet," Wojcik warned, though secretly he was glad to see the janitor. Harry's week away had revealed just how slovenly the rest of them could be.
Harry scrubbed the toilets and kitchen daily and, every Monday, mopped the floors and took out the rubbish. They hadn't managed to find a replacement cleaner for the short gap, and since Harry had promised to return quickly, they had waited. In that single week, the station had turned into a tip.
"I won't, sir. Promise," Harry said, returning to work the moment Wojcik rounded the corner of the second flight of stairs.
The heavy wooden double doors with their glass panels stood slightly ajar. A faint breeze carried the scent of floral cleaner. Harry had done the offices first and left the windows open to let in the summer air.
Wojcik walked to his desk, hung his coat over the back of his chair and — though he had been the last to leave on Friday — checked the trays and envelopes out of habit. His mind, however, kept drifting to the new assistant he would meet today.
He had worked with Carl, the previous Detective Sergeant, for just over ten years. They had never been friends, but as the two newest faces at the time they had leaned on each other. Carl had made it plain from the start that he loathed the job. Still, he always arrived on time and did what was asked. Beyond that he remained distant, uninterested in anyone else's problems. Everyone knew better than to approach him with questions; he simply passed them to Wojcik. They had argued about it often, but the Inspector's reprimands changed nothing. He had never sacked Carl. A lack of enthusiasm, he reasoned, was not sufficient grounds.
A decade passed that way until Carl announced he was leaving to open a fishing-tackle shop. Wojcik hadn't thought him a bad man, but he was quietly relieved the decision had been Carl's own.
They waited months for a replacement. Few candidates applied. Few people wanted to move to the Sarmatians to join its police force — even in Resovia, the administrative capital of the Sub-Sarmatian region. Young officers were not eager to devote their lives to law enforcement in a remote mountainous area where, as everyone said, nothing ever happened. The local mountain mentality didn't help either.
Then, unexpectedly, the Chief of Police in Wroclaw rang. A young recruit had requested a transfer to the Sub-Sarmatian department.
Ivan Farnicki. Twenty-four. Graduated from the police academy with distinction. Good family, no partner, no children. A little over a year in the Wroclaw force, during which he had earned a medal for valour after saving hostages in a terrorist incident. Why someone with that record would abandon the capital for their quiet backwater was incomprehensible to Wojcik. Whatever the reason, he intended to find out.
He rocked gently in his chair, staring out at the sickly grey sky that promised rain at any moment. The spring had been wretched; every morning rain, every night the relentless drip on the roof keeping him awake. Summer had brought no improvement.
The rasp of a scooter engine broke his thoughts. A young man on a green moped pulled into the car park. Wojcik assumed a delivery boy — until the rider dismounted, removed his helmet, and made his way straight inside without waiting to be announced.
"Inspector Wojcik?" The young man stopped in the centre of the room.
"That's me." For some reason Edmond felt a flutter of nerves hearing his name spoken aloud.
"I'm Ivan Farnicki, sir."
Wojcik half-rose to shake hands as Farnicki approached. He studied the newcomer and could hardly reconcile the figure before him with the photograph in the file. The file showed a fit, healthy officer in uniform. This young man — thin, pale, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, helmet tucked under one arm — looked diminished, almost fragile.
The eyes were the same, though. Dark. Piercing.
"I didn't expect you so early," Wojcik said, breaking the silence.
"I wanted to meet you before the day starts, sir. Introduce myself. Get my instructions."
"That's commendable." Wojcik couldn't quite keep the scepticism from his voice. "Were you always this keen in Wroclaw?"
"I love the job, sir," Farnicki answered simply, sidestepping the tone.
"You don't have to be here at dawn. My officers - especially the sergeants – need to be rested when they start. My early hours are my own problem. If I need you outside normal time, I'll call. Where are you living, by the way?"
"Renting in the Ram District. Not far."
"I know it. Is that why the scooter?" Wojcik glanced out at the little green machine parked beneath the tree. "Most people here have cars. Even when theirs packs up, they would rather walk than ride something like that."
Farnicki gave a small, dry smile. "I don't suffer from an inferiority complex, sir."
Wojcik chuckled despite himself. The new sergeant was not easily rattled, though he clearly hadn't enjoyed the gentle ribbing about the moped.
"Why did you leave the capital?" the Inspector asked abruptly.
"I wanted a change of scene. Saw you were looking for a sergeant. Applied." The reply came without hesitation — too smooth, too practised.
Wojcik knew it was rehearsed. He let it pass for now.
"Ready to start?" he asked, studying Farnicki's face more closely.
"Yes, sir!" The young man's expression brightened noticeably, relief flickering across it when he realised the personal questions had stopped.
Wojcik pretended not to notice.
"That's your desk," he said, pointing to the empty table by the window opposite his own. "And here are the files for this week. Theft mostly — one case of criminal damage to council property. No murders, no serious assaults. You're in luck."
He handed over the folder.
Farnicki carried it to his desk and began reading at once, with evident enthusiasm. Wojcik watched him work, then watched him greet the colleagues who drifted in one by one.
He liked the guy immediately. And yet he worried. Ivan had brought nothing — no lunch, no bag, nothing to suggest he had planned to stay the day. Wojcik made a mental note to send him home at midday to eat.
He saw Farnicki as an opposite extreme to Carl: the eager show-off trying to impress everyone. Wojcik distrusted both kinds. He preferred balance — people who chose moderation over passion or apathy. A single temperate officer could outlast five enthusiasts and as many idlers. He would rather a case be solved slowly and correctly than rushed into mistakes that wasted everyone's time later.
Still, he checked himself. First impressions could be wrong. He resolved not to judge the new sergeant too harshly — not yet.