Wojcik rang Farnicki early the next morning.
"I'll pick you up. AlChemie is on the far side of town — northern industrial zone, opposite Greenwood."
The Wroclaw Highway was deserted on Saturday mornings. Resovians used it to escape to country retreats, leaving Friday night and returning Sunday evening.
"Funny," Farnicki remarked. "A Wroclaw Highway in Resovia."
"Most towns in Lechia name something after Wroclaw," Wojcik began — only to be interrupted by his mobile.
"Inspector Wojcik. Yes, good morning. I would like to order a hundred. With the department initials. When can I expect them? Monday or Tuesday? Perfect. Thank you."
"What was that?" Farnicki asked as Edmond hung up.
"Office supplies. Ran out. Emailed yesterday. They'll deliver next week."
Wojcik slowed on a sloping bridge, turned left just before it, and stopped at a barred electric gate. Above it hung a sign: DAYS WITHOUT AN ACCIDENT. Red digits below read 007.
Farnicki frowned. "So, there was an accident seven days ago?"
"Ten years back there was a major explosion at a toxic-waste plant round here. I read about it but didn't note the company name. Probably AlChemie. The fumes were bad enough that Miwoçin residents had to seal windows and doors for days."
"Speaking of fumes - what's that smell?!"
Farnicki craned towards the window. The odour was not foul so much as acrid — poisonous. Each breath stung deeper.
They entered a single-storey administration block through a poorly fitting plastic door. A narrow passage ran between two panel walls, horizontally divided by long transparent windows. To the right: a tidy office, four women at perimeter desks staring at screens. They had heard the visitors but chose to ignore them. To the left: a chaotic room, desks shoved together, papers piled in the centre. Two operators shuttled between computers and large photocopiers, adding to the mound without pause. They glanced up but made no move to assist.
Wojcik rapped sharply on the right-hand window and pressed his warrant card against the glass. The women startled; expressions shifted from irritation to unease. The nearest stood and slid open a panel.
"Inspector Edmond Wojcik and Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki, Resovia Police Department. We would like to speak to your manager."
"Mr Wronski isn't in today. Martha Glushko is deputy. One moment."
She hurried to a rear door, beckoned them through, and led them down the dim corridor to another door in near darkness. Beyond lay a bright atrium under a convex skylight. A single passage continued deeper into the administrative core, but the woman knocked on the only door in the atrium. A black nameplate read Martha Glushko in white lettering.
Wojcik wrinkled his nose — the faint chemical tang irritated his sinuses. Glushko was a Borderlandish surname. He disliked Borderlanders. He tried to suppress the prejudice, but the brusque voice from inside — "Come in!" — only sharpened it.
"Martha, two policemen to see you," the woman whispered.
"Policemen?! Let them in."
She opened the door. The office was stark white: walls, ceiling, furniture, laptop, printer. The effect was clinical.
Nevertheless, the white paint can't bleach your black soul, Wojcik couldn't refrain himself from thinking as he studied the short, not young woman.
Martha rose from her white desk chair. Short grey hair parted centrally, small rectangular metal-framed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, dry lips, no trace of make-up or lip balm. Her pale blouse and three-quarter trousers bore a faded blue-and-yellow floral print. Wojcik thought she looked like a toxic colleague in every sense.
He spoke before she could.
"Inspector Edmond Wojcik. Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki, Resovia Police Department. We would like a word."
"Is this about Michael?" Martha asked, voice small. "He threatened to sue over smoke inhalation. Said his lungs were burned in the factory. I told him he knew the risks when he signed on."
"No, not Michael. Though, that sounds worth investigating," Wojcik said pointedly.
"Then what?"
"Agnes Gott. We believe she worked here twenty years ago."
Martha's demeanour changed instantly. Anger flashed in her pale blue eyes.
"You remember her, Miss Glushko?"
"Remember her? Oh yes. We hired the brazen little thing straight out of college. At first, she was fine — did as she was told. But the longer she stayed, the more she showed her true colours. Disrespectful!"
"And I assume she was disrespectful only to you?" Wojcik asked, voice flat.
"Yes. And I don't care for your tone, Officer. I was her superior; she was meant to follow orders, not question them constantly. Whatever that manipulative woman told you about me —"
"Inspector. And Agnes never had the chance to tell me anything. Someone murdered her."
Martha staggered back and dropped into her chair. "Murdered? When?"
"Last week. Cyanide poisoning. Several earlier attempts failed — her cats ate the poisoned food instead."
Martha nodded slowly, as though the detail fitted something she already knew.
"And yesterday Dominique Moran was strangled in her home."
"Dominique?" Martha stared in disbelief. "Why Dominique?"
"That's what we would like to know. We were hoping you could help. When Agnes died, we had no leads. Then yesterday morning Dominique rang us — she had recognised the suspect from the newspaper description and wanted to tell us something. We arrived too late. Her sister said Dominique once worked here, and Agnes had been her colleague for a time. That's why we're here."
Wojcik watched her fidget with the hem of her blouse, waiting.
"We also know Agnes received lifelong compensation from your company for a work-related illness," Farnicki interjected, breaking the silence.
"Nonsense," Martha snapped. "The cheek of her — claiming a work-related disease! After our argument she resigned. Soon after, her lawyer accused us of making her ill. There was no illness! She was a scheming snake who found a way to milk the system!"
"The autopsy disagrees, Miss Glushko," Wojcik said calmly. "Hyperthyroidism — thyroid enlarged. The compensation was justified. And as for milking the system, the pension barely covered food. Our coroner confirmed she was malnourished at death."
Martha's lips curled. Wojcik savoured each measured word, letting her feel the implication: your company poisoned her life long before the cyanide.
"I was wondering," he continued, "do you keep poisons like strychnine and cyanide on site?"
"We're a waste-processing firm — of course we do," she said, feigning uncertainty. "But I fail to see what our operations have to do with Agnes's or Dominique's deaths."
"On the contrary, Miss Glushko. Every clue points here. If cyanide hadn't killed Agnes, malnourishment or her thyroid would have. In every scenario I smell your factory. Both women once worked for AlChemie. You're in deep."
Martha flushed crimson. Farnicki sensed she was seconds from lunging across the desk. She took a shaky sip of water and stood.
"That is a grave accusation, Inspector. You cannot barge in and accuse a company — or its staff — of murder. Our lawyer wouldn't approve. Here are his details." She snatched a business card from the desk corner and thrust it at Wojcik.
"Thank you. But before we go, I would like your boss's address. Since he's absent today, I may as well visit him directly."
"I don't think so. Any further questions go through our lawyer."
"I could. But I suspect your boss would prefer to hear of our visit firsthand and decide for himself whether to speak. After all, he has the final say here — you're only second in charge."
Martha's lips pressed into a thin line. Her hand trembled as she opened a drawer, tore a sheet from a notepad, scribbled an address, and slapped it on the desk.
"I'll inform Oliver of your visit," she hissed, eyes averted.
"That's very kind, Miss Glushko," Wojcik replied in his mildest tone.
The moment the door closed behind them, Martha hurried across the room and pressed her ear to it. She waited until their footsteps faded, cracked the door to check the atrium, then returned to her desk and dialled.
"Hello? It's me. Where are you? Two policemen were just here — I think they've found something."