Fog by Kaja Malanowska

Author:Kaja Malanowska
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2021-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

31

The police cars pulled up in front of the Mostowski Palace before three. Inside, it was strangely quiet for that time of day; there was only a distant sound of music and a low, vibrant singing. They stopped and looked questioningly around the courtyard.

‘Goddammit,’ said Rogowski. ‘It’s the Warsaw Police Choir. The old man told me to be there.’ He pulled a face. ‘You go,’ he said to Chlorine. ‘And you.’ He poked Kap. ‘But first get the girl behind bars. You two’—he turned to Wiktor and Sawicki—‘deal with the Georgian right away. I gotta see a doctor. I think the fucker broke my nose.’

Sawicki and Wiktor took the side stairs to the second floor. Okrushvili had a canvas sack over his head. He kept stumbling and holding back, trying to resist.

‘Move it, you son of a bitch!’ said Sawicki.

He pulled open the door of the interview room, shoved the Georgian inside and sat him down on a chair. Okrushvili groaned. In one bound Wiktor was next to him. He grabbed him by the throat, squeezing the sack. His expression was so fierce that Sawicki flinched.

‘You hurting, you little shit?’ Wiktor said. ‘And we haven’t even started to talk…You don’t like sitting? Then stand.’ He hauled Okrushvili to his feet and fastened his cuffs to an exposed hot-water pipe. ‘All right,’ he said, out of breath but satisfied. ‘Wait here. We’re going for a smoke.’

Okrushvili sat down, wheezing. Once Sawicki had called the duty officer to guard the prisoner, they left the room. In the corridor they bumped into Kap; he was explaining something in an undertone to Dagmara, who stood hunched up against the wall. Sawicki had the fleeting impression that the secretary was scared. But he was too wrapped up in the interview to dwell on it.

‘Weren’t you going to the concert?’ he said sourly in Kap’s direction. ‘You better shift your ass, be a shame to miss all that culture.’

Kap sidled off towards the music.

Fifteen minutes later Sawicki and Wiktor went back upstairs and paused in the corridor, observing the Georgian through the small window in the interview-room door. Okrushvili was standing by the wall, rocking like someone suffering from hospitalism.

‘Looks scared,’ Sawicki said.

‘Little turd.’ Wiktor gave an ugly smile. ‘For an immigrant, he’s not stupid…We don’t have much time; we need to get everything out of him by morning. You go in first and play good cop. I’ll be bad cop. I’ll be in in a minute.’

Marcin grunted in agreement. He entered the room, dismissed the duty officer, then unfastened the Georgian from the pipe and took the sack from his head. Gregor’s face was crimson and bathed in sweat. He had difficulty catching his breath.

‘Sit down.’ Sawicki indicated a chair, and sat on the other side of the desk. He took out a notepad. ‘Last name?’

‘Okrushvili.’

‘First name?’

‘Gregor.’

‘Nationality?’

‘Georgian.’

‘Citizenship?’

‘Georgian.’

‘Hands on the table!’ Sawicki roared unexpectedly. ‘And sit up straight!’

Gregor straightened up.

‘First name?’

‘I already said—’

‘I’m not asking what you said, I’m asking what your first name is!’

‘Gregor.’

‘Last name?’

‘Okrushvili.’

‘Good. That’s how you answer.

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