Farnicki was walking a razor's edge. He understood now how criminals must feel when the police close in and every lie has to be wrung out under pressure. Only he was no criminal. Yet he had done everything possible to appear one.
He despised himself for not telling Wojcik about his visit to Agnes. He knew it would make him look guilty — and in the panic that followed, he had frozen.
The panic, masked as confusion, had begun that morning with the coroner's call. At first, he refused to believe it.
Agnes Gott – murdered.
Just yesterday he had sat in her kitchen, sharing scraps of food and conversation; the next morning she lay dead. Poisoned, like her cats. He dragged on yesterday's clothes from the floor, raced out without his helmet, and broke every traffic rule tearing through the rain to the Old Town.
As Victor explained how Agnes had died, Farnicki knew instantly: she had been the target all along. The cats were collateral. The killer had not realised Agnes fed them whatever she ate herself. Only blind luck had kept her alive through the earlier attempts.
Then rage surged.
The person ultimately responsible was his superior, Inspector Edmond Wojcik. Ivan ground his teeth even thinking the title. How someone so indolent, so patronising, had risen to inspector baffled him. The memory of Wojcik's cool deflection when confronted still made his blood boil.
Worse came the terror of exposure.
When Greta Kaminski mentioned a man visiting Agnes, Farnicki's mind flashed to his own lunch there. His fingerprints were everywhere; he had been the last to see her alive that day. Mercifully, Greta had not meant him — but his presence in flat 25 remained unexplained, visit or no visit.
Then Wojcik mentioned Helena Grom.
Farnicki had underestimated her. He never imagined she would report the incident to police. She was the type who ignored other people's troubles unless they touched her directly. A gas explosion on the ground floor? She would swear she heard nothing if the blast never reached her landing. But a shattered window meant repair costs — and she would happily shift the bill to the landlord.
He was in deep water, yet he kept his composure and seized the escape route: offering to inform Karl Gott in Cracovia. He never doubted Wojcik would agree. The inspector was lazy; any chance to avoid hours on the road would be welcomed. Handing over the Lada was an unexpected bonus. In the meantime, Farnicki could think, plan, and continue dodging Helena Grom.
The drive took two hours. Traffic had eased by the time he reached the highway. The car saved time and hassle, but Wojcik's Lada was no pleasure: no air-conditioning, radio limited to a classical station and a news channel interrupted by dull interviews, no sat-nav. Farnicki navigated with phone directions, glancing at the screen while driving.
He located the address without difficulty. Karl Gott lived in an old, prestigious district — wide streets, easy parking, the kind of place only the wealthy could afford. Farnicki wondered what the man did for a living. The answer arrived immediately, and it set his nerves alight.
Gott's Pharmacy occupied a squat grey cube of a building, its vast display window fronted by a private car park. Farnicki arrived at lunchtime; the spaces were empty. He parked, approached the glass door, and slipped inside just as the pharmacist strode forward, keys in hand.
"Excuse me, sir! What is it with you people?! It's lunch time - we're closed!" The slender man with dirty-blond hair tied in a low ponytail snapped the words, white coat flapping.
"Your sandwiches will have to wait, sir," Farnicki said quietly. "I'm sure you can spare a few minutes for a police officer."
He produced his warrant card. "Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki, Resovia Police Department, Sub-Sarmatians. I need to speak to Mr Karl Gott."
"I'm Karl Gott. What does the Sub-Sarmatian police want with me?" His voice cracked.
"It concerns your cousin, Agnes Gott. May we speak privately?"
"Agnes? Yes - of course. Wait, I'll lock up."
Karl ushered him behind the counter and through a door into a cold, cavernous storeroom: six long racks of medicines, bandages, syringes, scissors. In one corner stood a white table with two chairs, an electric kettle, and a coaster holding three chocolate-chip biscuits.
"My wife lunches at work; my assistants have gone. No interruptions here." Karl snatched the kettle and biscuits, stowing them on a high shelf.
Farnicki gave a short, humourless snort. He hadn't expected hospitality, but the greedy concealment of the biscuits confirmed he wouldn't even be offered water.
"So, Agnes. How is she? Has something happened?"
"I regret to inform you, Mr Gott, that your cousin Agnes was found dead this morning in her flat on Liberation Street. Her neighbour, Miss Greta Kaminski, discovered her and provided your details. Agnes had asked her to contact you if anything happened."
Farnicki paused.
"Oh, God! Agnes dead?" Karl's voice trembled. "The last time I saw her we were children. Our fathers were brothers; we visited each summer. Then we grew up, the reunions stopped. She rang twice a year at least - I think I still have some of her letters. How did she die?"
"The autopsy will establish time of death precisely. Cause: cyanide poisoning in her food."
"Poisoned?! That's monstruous. Who would kill Agnes?"
"That's what we're trying to establish, Mr Gott. In recent phone calls or letters, did Agnes ever mention anyone she feared or strongly disliked?"
"To be honest, Detective, our conversations were never intimate. We just confirmed we were both still alive and well. She asked after my wife, my business. We never shared anything personal. Sad, really. I'll inherit her flat — I'm her only remaining family — but we were never close."
His eyes gleamed with sudden curiosity. "You've been inside. What state was the place in?"
Farnicki ignored the question, steering the conversation elsewhere.
"A professional query, Mr Gott. Cyanide isn't sold in supermarkets. It's tightly controlled — yet pharmacists and chemists have legitimate access for certain uses."
Karl's expression shifted. The eager glint vanished as the implication landed.
"What are you implying, Detective? You think I killed my cousin for her flat? Look around — this is mine! And this is only the shop. I have a modern house, a pool, for Christ's sake. Why would I want some flea-ridden old flat in Resovia? It's worthless. The contents? Nothing to sell. Maybe a few pence for the books as waste paper."
"How do you know she had cats?" Farnicki asked softly.
"What?"
"You said you hadn't seen her since childhood — before she became the cat lady. And only someone who has been inside would know there's nothing worth taking except the books."
Karl's grey, red-rimmed eyes darted side to side, searching for an escape. Confusion, guilt, rage flickered across his flushed face. He found nothing to say.
"I think you should leave, Detective Farnicki," he muttered.
As Farnicki rose, a door slammed at the back of the storeroom. A furious female voice echoed off metal racks and concrete.
"Karl! Where are you, you miserly bastard? Who gave you the right to cap my credit card? That's my money! You've no business meddling in my accounts. I couldn't even buy a decent lunch today because of you, you son of a bitch!"
She stormed between the shelves, shoving boxes aside in search of her husband. She froze on seeing Farnicki.
"Lydia, calm down," Karl growled, teeth grinding. "I noticed your online spending and took precautions — for your own good."
"That's my money, arsehole! I'll do what I like with it. I'm sick of this. And for your information, I've been to the bank. They've blocked your access to my account. Try anything else and my lawyer will be in touch."
"Lydia, we'll discuss this later," he hissed. "This is Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki. He was just leaving."
"A detective? Don't tell me you've scammed someone again!"
"Shut up! He came about my cousin's death."
"Is Agnes dead? The same Agnes you mentioned recently? You said when she died, you would inherit her flat in Resovia — and property there was very profitable."
"Shut up, you stupid bitch!" Karel bellowed, spittle flying.
"No, let your wife speak, Mr Gott," Farnicki said coolly. "This is useful for the investigation."
"What investigation?" Lydia demanded.
"Miss Agnes Gott was murdered, ma'am. Poisoned."
"And you think Karl did it?"
"I'm accusing no one — yet. I'm gathering facts. Mr Gott, I suggest you review your diary and provide a full account of your movements over the past month — hour by hour. This isn't a taunt; it's good advice. Supply precise whereabouts and we can eliminate you. At present, you are our sole suspect. You'll need to attend our station for fingerprints. Here's my card. Contact me any time. Email all details to this address. Good day."
Farnicki walked unhurriedly to the front door. Karl followed, unlocked it, and watched him climb into the Lada and drive away.
Relief washed over Karl as the strange policeman disappeared. He had looked forward to Agnes's flat — but not like this, not so soon, not so complicated. If only that stupid cow of a wife had kept quiet. Now he faced a trip to the Sub-Sarmatians for prints. He considered asking the Cracovia police to take them and fax the results — saving petrol — but after Lydia's outburst, that would only confirm he was stingy. He couldn't risk it.