The nurse was a stout, kind-hearted woman who arrived visibly shaken by the news of Dominique's death. She confirmed her weekly Friday visit: two o'clock to half past two for the routine diabetes check. Dominique had been stable, cheerful even. No one else had been in or around the house. The nurse had seen no bicycle on arrival or departure. She had nothing more to add.
"It looks like our mystery man — the one who resembles a film star — is the killer," Farnicki said pensively, gazing at passers-by through the rain-streaked windscreen.
"It does," Wojcik agreed. "Dominique knew both Agnes and the murderer. She probably didn't suspect him of killing Agnes at first — just recognised him from the newspaper description. She must have rung him, careless enough to mention her discovery. Our killer is reckless. The moment he realised she was about to name him, he acted. Jumped on a bicycle — meaning he lives nearby — and cycled over. He had three and a half hours: nurse leaves at half past two, we arrive at six. He knew her routine. Most likely because she told him herself. They were close. Her call records should lead us straight to him. I'll request the logs for yesterday and today."
***
It proved less straightforward than expected.
On Saturday morning — before the nurse's visit — Dominique had spoken to at least twenty different people. Friday's tally was double that.
"What on earth could an old lady have to say to so many people?" Farnicki exclaimed, staring at the printout of call times and numbers.
"Something worth killing for," Wojcik growled.
Farnicki took Thursday's list; Wojcik Friday's. Edmond also tried Veronique Moran, Dominique's sister, but the call went unanswered. He made a mental note to try again later — then his phone rang.
"Oui, bonjour. Puis-je parler avec madame Moran, s'il vous plaît?" Wojcik asked in Gallic, startling Farnicki. Ivan spoke Almain and Pan-Slavic fluently; he had assumed his inspector knew another language, but not this one.
"Je m'appelle Edmond Wojcik. Je suis inspecteur de la police de Resovia. Il s'agit de la sœur de madame Moran." He waited while Veronique was fetched.
"Good evening, Miss Moran. Edmond Wojcik, Inspector, Resovian Police Department. I'm sorry to inform you that your sister, Dominique Moran, was found dead today at her home, Greenwood 16."
Silence stretched. Wojcik heard her breathing deepen.
"Miss Moran? Are you all right? Is someone with you?"
"Yes - my husband is here, Inspector," she said, voice trembling. "How did she die?"
"Murdered, I'm afraid."
"Murdered?!" The word rose into a strangled squeal.
"Someone entered the house and strangled her with a cable. She didn't see her attacker — he came from behind."
"Who was it?"
"We don't know yet. We're investigating. But we believe it's the same person who killed another woman a week ago. Your sister contacted us today. She seemed to recognise the suspect from a description in the newspaper and wanted to tell us something. We were too late."
"Who was the other woman?"
"Agnes Gott."
"Agnes?! They killed poor little Agnes, too?"
"You knew her?"
"The last time I saw her was twenty years ago," Veronique said, steadying herself. "She had just graduated and worked briefly at our company — covering maternity leave. When her contract ended, she moved to another firm where my sister was an accountant. We didn't realise at first. Then Dom and I were chatting about colleagues; she mentioned a young woman who had started there — elegant, polite. I asked the name and realised it was the same Agnes. We both liked her. I don't recall the details, but Agnes was forced to leave. After that, I never heard from her."
"Do you remember the name of the company your sister worked for?"
"At the time it was Almain Chemie. The name changed several times before and after."
"Thank you, ma'am. We'll look into it."
"Where is she now?" Veronique asked, voice cracking.
"At the city morgue. Her body will be held until you can arrange collection."
"I'll take the first flight to Lechia."
"I'll inform the morgue. Thank you, Miss Moran."
He hung up. Farnicki watched him expectantly.
"Farnicki, look up Almain Chemie — the toxic-waste firm Agnes worked at twenty years ago. The name has probably changed."
"Of course, sir." Ivan typed rapidly. "Did you find something?"
"I think we're finally getting somewhere. Both women worked there at different times. It has come up too often. Answers are there. What about you?"
"I've checked ten numbers so far. Mostly middle-aged or retired women. Nothing suspicious." He paused. "Found it. Now called AlChemie. How original," he snorted.
"Excellent. Note the address. Open tomorrow?"
"Morning, yes."
"Good. We'll visit. Let's call it a day — it's already eight."
"But the phone list —"
"Tomorrow. We can narrow it once we know who at AlChemie knew both Agnes and Dominique.