Entanglement Read Online Free

excluded. Yes, it might be an interesting case, a nice change after all those run-of-the-mill city murders. A nasty stench, some empty bottles, gore on the walls, a woman who looked thirty years older than the age on her ID sobbing on the floor, the surprised dopey pals, unable to believe one of them had knifed a mate in a drunken daze - how many times had he seen that?
    “No,” he replied. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Question them now - after all, that’s the usual procedure. But you do it, not some constable who was still living with mummy and daddy in the suburbs of Siedlce a fortnight ago - calmly and casually, treating each one as a witness. When did they last see Telak? When did they meet? What did they do last night? Don’t ask about what connects them, about the therapy - let them feel safe, and I’ll have a reason to call them back again a few times.”
    “You’re full of ideas,” said Oleg huffily. “You’re telling me to play with them to prepare the ground for you. Make transcripts, write clearly, have it read through...”
    “Get some lady constable to write it out for you in nice round letters. Let’s meet up in the morning at Wilcza Street; we’ll exchange documents, have a chat and decide what next. I was meant to be going to the sentencing for the Pieszczoch case, but I’ll ask Ewa to go for me.”
    “You’re buying the coffee.”
    “For pity’s sake. I’m an underpaid civil servant, not a corrupt traffic cop. My wife is a civil servant too. We make ourselves instant coffee at work, we don’t buy it for anyone.”

    Oleg took out a cigarette. Szacki only just stopped himself from doing the same. He didn’t want to have just one left for the rest of the day.
    “You’re buying the coffee, there’s no argument.”
    “You’re a filthy Russki.”
    “So they’re always telling me. See you in Gorączka at nine?”
    “I hate that flatfoot’s dive.”
    “At Brama then?”
    Szacki nodded. Oleg saw him to his car.
    “I’m afraid this might be a tough one,” said the policeman. “If the murderer didn’t make any mistakes, and the rest of them didn’t see anything, it’s pretty hopeless.”
    Szacki couldn’t resist smiling.
    “They always make mistakes,” he said.

V
    He couldn’t remember when the weather in the Tatra mountains had ever been so kind to him. From the summit of Kopa Kondracka he had a perfect view in all directions; only far above the Slovak part of the High Tatras could he see some tiny clouds. Ever since he had parked early that morning in Kiry, taken a short walk in the Kościeliska Valley and started to climb up the Czerwone Wierchy - the four “Red Peaks” - the sun had been with him the whole time. From halfway up, where the path began to climb more and more steeply, the dwarf mountain pines gave no chance of shade, and there were no streams nearby, the hike had turned into a route march across a red-hot frying pan. It reminded him of stories he’d heard about American soldiers in Vietnam, whose brain fluid got cooked during the day under their sun-baked helmets. He had always thought it must be nonsense, but now that was how he felt, except that his head was protected not by a helmet, but a beige hat, a souvenir brought back from a trip to Australia long ago.
    As he neared the ridge, black spots started dancing before his eyes, and his legs went weak. He cursed his own stupidity - that of a seventy-year-old who thinks he can still do as much of everything as before. Drink as much, make love as much, hike in the mountains as much.
    On the ridge he sank to the ground, letting the wind cool him, and listened to the frantic rhythm of his heart. Tough, he thought - better to croak on Ciemniak Peak than on Marszałkowska Street in central Warsaw. Once his heart had calmed down a bit, he thought it would be better yet to die on Małołączniak Peak, across the saddle, because it sounded like the name of a bird - much better than being killed by bloody