The next morning Victor delivered the results.
The kitchen fingerprints belonged to two people: Agnes and an unidentified man. Agnes had died of cyanide poisoning, sometime between noon and 6 p.m. on Monday, 10 June. Cyanide was present in the leftover rice and chicken, and traces lingered on several kitchen surfaces. The cats, by contrast, had died from strychnine; no trace of it was found in the flat.
Agnes suffered from hyperthyroidism — her thyroid gland was mildly enlarged — and was severely malnourished. Her bank account held a few hundred euros, no savings. She had left no will; the flat passed to her sole remaining relative, Karl Gott.
Karl's prints didn't match those in the kitchen. That came as no surprise to either Wojcik or Farnicki. The surveillance footage Karl supplied showed he hadn't left his home or pharmacy in the past thirty days except for Saturday grocery runs with his wife. The camera recorded him opening and closing the shop at fixed times; his car remained parked throughout. Farnicki and two colleagues had reviewed every frame — no anomalies.
"That footage only proves he didn't leave by the front door," Farnicki said, folding a discarded chocolate wrapper into a tiny, glittering square. "He could have slipped out the back, or through a window. Cracovia is two hours by car. He could have driven — or taken a train — after hours, or at night while his wife slept, and returned the same evening."
"You're contradicting yourself," Wojcik replied. "Yesterday you said Karl was too cautious to kill. When I took his prints this morning, I got the same impression. The man's a coward. Murdering a relative in cold blood — even with poison as a clean method — takes nerve he doesn't have."
"You're right," Farnicki conceded. "Poisoning feels more like a woman's method."
"Not necessarily. The killer didn't care about elegance; he — or she — used whatever was available. Strychnine first — failed. Then cyanide. A professional would have stuck to one toxin. Still, speak to the wife. Bring her here. Karl was already moaning about the drive for fingerprints — asked if Cracovia police couldn't just email them over. Said it would save petrol."
Farnicki gave a short laugh. "Tight arse, all right." He dialled the number Karl had emailed.
Lydia Gott had nothing useful. She couldn't recall Karl ever leaving through the back door for more than ten minutes. She had no knowledge of rented cars or secret purchases. After work he invariably stayed home, glued to the television. From the bitterness in her voice, Farnicki sensed she would have welcomed any excuse to be rid of him for a few hours. She wasn't covering for him; if anything could crack his alibi, she would have volunteered it gladly.
They had reached a dead end.
Agnes had no social media, no mobile, no computer. Beyond a ring binder of the year's invoices, she kept no records that illuminated her life. No diary, no personal notes. Landline calls traced to routine tradesmen — plumbers, electricians. Greta Kaminski couldn't recall Agnes's college or workplaces; Karl knew nothing either and the handful of old letters revealed little beyond polite annual updates.
Farnicki's patience frayed. He was accustomed to pressure — homicides, thefts, endless interviews — but this case gnawed at him. He feared Agnes's death would be quietly shelved like so many others in Resovia's files.
He was wrong about Wojcik.
Edmond felt the weight of his own failure too keenly to let this one slide. Guilt kept him dogged. He refused to rule out Karl despite the lack of a concrete motive beyond inheritance. He even eyed Greta Kaminski with suspicion — an elderly woman could kill a neighbour as easily as anyone else.
Progress remained elusive until the end of the following week.
The phone rang.
"Hello? May I speak to whoever's handling the Agnes Gott case, please?" The voice was raspy but lively.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. Who's calling?"
"Dominique Moran. I knew Agnes. I read about her in the newspaper."
"Inspector Wojcik is out but will be back later," Farnicki lied — Edmond was still napping in the Lada. "I'm Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki. I'm working the case. How can I help?"
"I don't know if what I know will be useful, but since I knew Agnes, perhaps I can tell you something that might help find her killer."
"Of course, Miss Moran. When can you come to the station?"
"Would it be possible for you to come here? I don't walk well any more, and I have no car. The bus stop is too far."
"No problem. Where are you?"
"Greenwood 16, just outside town — near Greenwood Stadium."
"What time suits you?"
"The nurse comes this afternoon. I'll be free by six."
"We'll be there at six, Miss Moran."
Wojcik returned moments later.
"Sir, someone leaked Agnes's murder to the press."
"That was me," Wojcik said. "I've a contact at the local paper. I hoped it might prompt someone to come forward."
"It worked. Dominique Moran just rang. Says she might have useful information. She's expecting us at six in Greenwood."
"Excellent." Wojcik smiled and headed for the coffee machine.
***
At five to six the Lada pulled up outside Greenwood 16.
Farnicki had never visited this fringe of the city. The neighbourhood evoked the rural edges of Wroclaw, but with the Sub-Sarmatians' own rugged charm. The stadium marked the boundary; beyond the road stretched dense forest. Miss Moran's house lay at the far end of Greenwood Street.
It was exactly what Farnicki imagined an elderly woman's country cottage would be: small, tidy, blue-painted timber with delicate white fretwork around the windows. A neat gravel path wound from the road through pines that half-concealed the house.
Wojcik parked on the verge. Rain had just stopped. Farnicki noticed fresh tyre tracks in the mud — presumably, the nurse's — and, as they approached, two narrow parallel lines: recent bicycle tracks.
Wojcik knocked. No answer.
"I wonder what an old lady this isolated can tell us," Farnicki murmured.
"Don't judge by appearances," Wojcik replied, knocking again.
"Excuse me? Gentlemen? What are you doing?"
An elderly woman in a checkered tracksuit approached, a periwinkle raincoat folded under one arm. She looked from one to the other.
"Police, ma'am." Wojcik showed his warrant card. "We're here for Miss Moran. She isn't answering."
"Police!" the woman repeated, impressed. "Dom told me you would come. She had something important to tell you. I rang this afternoon after the nurse left — no reply. That's why I'm here."
"And you are?"
"Alice Niebieski. Dom's friend. You won't mind if I stay and listen? I promise not to gossip!"
"Dom's probably in the back — that's why she can't hear you. Wait, she gave me a key." Alice fished it from her raincoat pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside first, calling out. Wojcik and Farnicki followed.
"Dom? Dom, dear? Where are you?"
They waited in the long hallway while Alice searched. She disappeared towards the rear — through a pair of glass doors Farnicki glimpsed what looked like a winter garden — then returned and opened the living-room door.
"Dom? There you are! Why aren't you answering? Were you asleep, you silly — Dom! My God, no!"
A piercing scream.
Wojcik and Farnicki rushed in. Alice stood frozen beside an armchair facing the fireplace. The back of the chair hid the occupant's face. They circled it.
Dominique Moran had been strangled with a black cable. The killer had come from behind, looped it around her neck. She had fought — fingers of her right hand still clutched the cord, the left hung limp. Her blue-grey eyes bulged.
Wojcik felt an involuntary shiver. The dead woman reminded him powerfully of his primary-school teacher: bleached wavy hair in a high bun, tailored navy two-piece suit. The resemblance was uncanny. For a moment he saw Miss Natalia Alexander — the angry, inexplicable bully of his eight-year-old self — staring back.
"Farnicki, call Vic. Miss Niebieski, did you touch anything on entering?"
"No," Alice whispered, still staring.
"Come with me, ma'am." Wojcik gently guided her to the kitchen, poured water from a filter jug into a tall glass, and sat opposite her. He watched her sip, trembling hands deformed by age, quiet sobs rising in her chest.
"When did you last speak to Miss Moran?"
"This morning. I asked how she was and when I could visit. She said not today — she was expecting police. She had something important to tell them about a woman she had known years ago. It was in the paper, but I've forgotten the name."
"Agnes Gott. She was murdered."
"Yes - Agnes. I was so stupid! I should have stopped her!"
"Why do you say that? Did you know she was in danger?"
"No - that's the point! I didn't! I thought it was exciting — giving the police a vital clue to catch the killer. But the killer must have found out!"
"Do you know who Miss Moran suspected?"
"No. She hadn't told me. That's why I kept ringing this afternoon — curious whether she had already spoken to you. We call daily — sometimes more — whenever there's news. When she didn't answer, I assumed she was on another call. Dom knows so many people. So, I came over."
"That's all for now, ma'am. Stay, please. The coroner will need your prints, and we'll take your details."
"My prints? I've done nothing!"
"No one suspects you. We need them to eliminate known visitors. You've been here before — doorknobs, remote, that sort of thing."
"Yes, tea yesterday. We sat in the winter garden."
Wojcik took her wrinkled hand and squeezed gently as she wept in silence.
Farnicki appeared in the doorway.
"Sir? Vic's on his way. Could you come to the living room? There's something you should see."
Ivan led him to a round table by the parlour window — Dominique's workspace. Postcards, leaflets, hobby magazines lay in neat stacks. Farnicki pointed to an open newspaper.
"Look at this. This is yesterday's newspaper. She had circled this part of the Agnes Gott article in a blue marker."
One of the neighbours had seen a mysterious man visiting Agnes Gott a month before she was killed. The neighbour described the man's appearance as that of a movie star.
"Miss Kaminski described a mysterious visitor — a man who looked like an older film star. Miss Moran recognised him from that vague description. That's what she wanted to tell us. The killer reached her first."
"What else?"
"Two things. First, this phonebook," Farnicki returned to the fireplace. A vintage oak telephone table stood beside the armchair: one half cushioned in heavy cotton fabric patterned with concentric cyan, white, and purple circles; the other an open shelf of magazines and papers. A modern phone with colour display sat on top.
Wojcik nodded. "Alice said Dominique phoned friends daily. We'll need to check her recent calls and go through this address book. She may have spoken to the killer. He — or she — suspected she was about to name them and silenced her."
At that moment Victor entered, eyes wide.
"Gentlemen, this is getting grim. A serial killer targeting old ladies in Resovia?"
"Agnes wasn't old — she was my age," Wojcik snapped. "And it's not a serial killer. The primary target was Agnes. Dominique was killed because she knew something. What's the other thing, Farnicki?"
Ivan beckoned him outside, leaving Victor with the body.
"When you parked, I saw tyre tracks — assumed the nurse's. But then I noticed these." He pointed to two narrow parallel grooves in the mud between birches.
"Bicycle tracks. Recent."
Wojcik nodded and returned inside. Victor was working in the living room. Edmond found Alice still at the kitchen table, staring blankly out of the window.
"Miss Niebieski?"
She turned, eyes red-rimmed.
"When did the nurse visit Miss Moran?"
"Fridays, usually two o'clock. Never longer than twenty minutes. Dom had diabetes — the nurse checked her blood and asked after her health."
"How does she travel here?"
"By car."
"Do you know her name?"
"No — but it should be in the black address book in the living room."
"We've found it. We'll look. Does Miss Moran have family?"
"A sister — Veronique Moran. She's in Gaul at the moment. I know her number by heart."
Wojcik passed her his notebook; she wrote it down.
"Inspector, may I make tea while we wait? It's so cold."
"Of course, ma'am."
Wojcik informed Victor of the tyre and bicycle marks. Before returning to the office, he and Farnicki rang the nurse and arranged to speak with her that evening.