Farnicki had left the office early, but not for lunch.
He was finishing his final report when a ghost-like figure drifted past his desk. No one had heard her enter; she simply floated towards Wojcik's desk. Ivan felt a flush of second-hand embarrassment as the Inspector jolted awake and yawned openly in the woman's face. Wojcik's contempt was unmistakable, raw, and unfiltered. As their argument flared, Farnicki quietly retrieved her file from the drawer where unresolved cases accumulated like dust. He skimmed it quickly: Liberation Street 25, Old Town. The address had haunted him since the day he arrived in the Sub-Sarmatians. Curiosity — and something deeper — compelled him. He decided to follow the cat lady.
Agnes nearly stumbled on the stairs in her haste to escape. She burst through the main doors and halted on the entrance porch, suddenly directionless. The fury that had shaken her subsided, leaving her hollow. A cool June breeze whipped through her tangled hair, slapping strands across her face as though Wojcik's dismissal had not been insult enough.
She was cold. Her thin summer dress offered no warmth; her bony shoulders trembled beneath it. She could not face returning to the office, nor summon the strength to walk home. People streamed past — lunchtime crowds entering and leaving the building, brushing against her, or stepping around her. If she grew any thinner, they might pass straight through.
Like her cats when the chill came, she curled into herself. She sank onto the cold concrete steps, drew her knees to her chest, wrapped long, veined arms around her legs, and rocked gently. Silent tears fell as she mourned her dead furry friends, accepting there was nothing more she could do to save the others.
The sight was unbearable. The scene upstairs had shaken Farnicki. He understood: the last fragile thread of her faith in people had snapped the moment she walked out. They had been her final hope. And they had failed her.
He sat beside her on the steps, careful not to startle her. Agnes did not notice him until he spoke.
"Miss Gott? Are you all right?"
The concern in his voice was genuine. She turned, bewildered, her tear-streaked face registering surprise. Long ago she had stopped feeling shame over her appearance, yet now — caught in her lowest moment by this young, handsome officer — she felt exposed.
"I'm fine, Officer. Thank you for asking," she mumbled, wiping her sunken cheeks.
"I'm sorry - I overheard your conversation with the Inspector. I'm new here; I don't know your case properly. But I thought perhaps I could help."
Agnes gave a bitter laugh as she rose. "Even if that were true, your superior wouldn't allow it."
"I can do what I like in my own time."
She studied him, searching for mockery. She had encountered it before from officials. But his eyes — dark, steady — held no cruelty. People with eyes like that did not torment others.
"Are you hungry, Officer?"
"I wouldn't say no if you were offering lunch, ma'am," Farnicki replied, anticipating her unspoken invitation with a small smile.
"Then come with me. I live nearby."
At that moment Wojcik hurried from the building towards his car, oblivious to his sergeant and Agnes walking away together.
Ivan knew the route to Liberation Street perfectly, but he said nothing and followed in silence. The closer they drew to the building, the tighter his nerves wound. He dreaded being seen — by the one person who must not know he was in Resovia. The person who lived at the same address as Agnes.
As soon as Farnicki's transfer got approved, he took the few possessions he had and went to the Sub-Sarmatians. At his arrival he found a place to rent in the Ram District, not far from the police station and Liberation Street. He also bought the second-hand green scooter Wojcik had made fun of. Buying a car would take too much time and paperwork. He didn't need that, because he had no idea how long he would stay in Resovia and whether he would continue working for the police. Besides, a car would attract too much attention.
His transfer had been a cover: a pretext to relocate to the Sub-Sarmatians and pursue his private investigation. He viewed small-town forces with disdain — lazy, corrupt paper-pushers — and his first day had only confirmed it. The week's cases were laughable: brief incidents barely worth a paragraph, solved in minutes with phone calls and basic logic while his superior dozed at his desk. He conceded Wojcik one point: the work was pointless. It could have — and should have — been done months earlier.
Still, Farnicki was unusually perceptive for his age. He recognised he was overqualified for a mountain town where nothing happened and where bureaucracy and indifference sustained the police force. To survive here he must stay low, feign interest only in the job, avoid drawing attention. Pretending was difficult, especially when certain matters tugged at him emotionally. Like Agnes Gott's case.
His heart lurched as she unlocked the main door to the block. Since arriving he had observed the building only from a distance, never risking approach. No lift: they climbed to the second floor. His person of interest lived on the fifth. He prayed she would not descend and spot him. Mercifully, the stairwell stayed empty. Relief washed over him when Agnes ushered him inside and locked the door behind them.
The flat didn't reek of cats, despite the two survivors waiting patiently on the mat. Agnes' circumstances were modest — bordering on poor — yet the place was scrupulously clean. She led him to the small, cosy kitchen and gestured to the table by the balcony. Farnicki felt immediate guilt when she opened the fridge: scant supplies, barely enough for her to scrape through the week. He could not refuse her hospitality now; it would wound her. While she sliced tomatoes, he stepped onto the balcony to clear his head, leaning on the railing and scanning the quiet avenue below — half expecting to see her.
"What do you think of it?" Agnes called.
"Of what, Miss Gott?"
"The Sarmatians. You said you're new."
"It's… not what I'm used to."
"In other words, you hate it." She set down plates of sliced vegetables, salami, and cheese, then retrieved a glass bowl from the fridge, its small pan lid serving as cover. "I haven't much to offer, but there's left-over rice from yesterday."
Farnicki was ravenous — he had barely eaten properly since moving — but the rice did not tempt him. He declined politely.
"That's fine. I'll stick to the salami and cheese. May I have some bread?"
"Are you from Wroclaw?" she asked, passing the rye-wheat basket.
"Is it that obvious?" A genuine smile lit his face.
"As a matter of fact, it is. You're sophisticated. Not like the locals."
"And you? Local?"
"As a matter of fact, I am." She seemed to like the phrase. "I lived here most of my life. When I was young, I dreamed of Wroclaw or any big city. Then my parents died, and everything… stagnated here."
"Married?"
He knew from the file she never had been, but the question kept the conversation moving.
"No. Though many years ago I loved a man. I thought he loved me. Life disappoints, young man. Nothing is as it seems. Half of my life I lived on hopes and illusions. The other half I've watched them slip through my fingers," Her voice trembled as she confided in a stranger.
"Any other family? Friends?"
The weight of her loneliness pressed on him; his appetite vanished.
"A cousin in Low Lechia - Cracovia. I haven't heard from him in years. He's all the family left. My cats are my closest companions. The old lady across the hall visits sometimes. The neighbours are kind. No one wishes me or my cats harm."
"How can you be so certain? Perhaps you've missed their true feelings?"
"Oh, but I know. I've lived here long enough. The elderly remember me as a child; the younger ones never complain - though they complain about everything else. Ask the residents' committee." She broke off as a black cat with white whiskers leapt into her lap, nudging its head against her chest. She understood at once, fetched a small Tupperware from the fridge, and forked its contents — white meat — into the cat's bowl.
"That doesn't look like cat food," Farnicki observed.
"It isn't. Cat food from the supermarket is too expensive. I give them what I eat. Chicken is still affordable. At month's end, when money runs out, they get fish stock."
"What do you do for work?"
"When I was younger, I worked briefly for an Almain waste-disposal firm. I fell ill — thyroid damage. My lawyer forced them to pay lifelong compensation. It's barely enough, but I manage. Now I knit children's clothes for neighbours — extra cash. You won't report me?"
"Of course not, Miss Gott," He smiled reassuringly, then returned to the cats. "How did you lose them? Why are you certain it was poison?"
"I saw Daisy die. I was reading in the bedroom when she staggered in and collapsed. I thought she had swallowed something. Nothing in her throat. Then she foamed at the mouth and was gone. The others must have died the same. I keep the balcony open; they come and go. Lily vanished one night; I found her dead on the stairs the next day. Today Grey was on the balcony in foam. Fluff and Winnie in the flowerbeds below the window." Her voice cracked; the memories reopened wounds.
"So, you think the poison was outside?"
"Yes. Perhaps treated cat treats - they love those. Or left in the basement. The door has no lock. Cats get in; children follow them. Kids are at risk, too."
"You're right. Where did you bury them?"
"Under the flowerbeds. All five."
"Would you mind if I exhumed them? To test for poison?"
"No - I want to know. Will I get them back?"
"Of course. After the lab, I'll return them. May I come tomorrow after work? I'll take the bodies and check the basement and grounds."
"Yes - please!"
Farnicki thanked her for the meal and tea, then rose to leave. At the door Agnes seized his hand, squeezing it as tears brimmed again.
"Thank you. Even if nothing comes of it, your kindness means everything. I have nothing to give, but what you're doing is priceless."
He rested a hand on her thin shoulder. "No thanks needed, Miss Gott. It's my job. Have a good day."
He squeezed her arm gently and descended the stairs, a gnawing sadness settling in his chest. His visit had lifted her, yet he knew it was likely the brightest moment she had known in years — a rare gesture of decency. He hated how easily other people's pain infiltrated him. Empathy had always complicated his work. In Wroclaw it had; here it would too. A friend once called it the mark of a great officer; a colleague warned it would eventually break him. Both were right. Whatever path he took, he would injure himself or someone else.
When Farnicki returned to the station, Wojcik was absent. He had already closed every assigned case, so he began organising the desk's accumulated dump of dead-end files.
Wojcik reappeared an hour later, weary, and irritable. He was visibly surprised to learn Farnicki had resolved the lot. With no urgent tasks or meetings, he joined his sergeant in sorting the old files. They worked mostly in silence. Once finished, Wojcik dismissed him early.