"Ha! What was that all about?" Farnicki chuckled as he slid into the passenger seat.
"That woman was insufferable," Wojcik muttered, starting the engine.
"Tell me about it. They don't just process toxic waste — they are toxic. Let's get out of here. I can't stand this smell any longer. No wonder Agnes got sick."
Farnicki kept glancing in the rear-view mirror as Wojcik pulled away. Only when the gate clanged shut and the red digits of the accident counter receded did he finally exhale. The ache in his chest eased with each lungful of clean air.
"So, what do you make of her, Farnicki — apart from the obvious bitchery?"
"I don't know, sir. The whole conversation felt… rehearsed. As if she had been expecting police to turn up one day — maybe not today, but someday."
"After Michael's smoke-inhalation threat, it's no surprise lawyers and officers come knocking. I would wager accidents like that happen often there. If we spoke to the workers, we would hear plenty of grudges."
"True, but she was too prepared. That lawyer's card was right on her desk, ready to hand over. She wasn't fazed hearing Agnes's name after twenty-five years. Who stays that bitter over someone ignoring orders a quarter of a century ago?"
"You would be surprised how many Marthas there are, Farnicki. Give Glushko another fifteen years and ask if she remembers a certain Inspector Edmond Wojcik — she'll spit in your face," Wojcik said with grim amusement.
"What I mean is, her reaction was off. Agnes's name didn't shock her — but cyanide did. And when you mentioned Dominique, she asked, 'Why Dominique?' It sounded as though she understood why someone might want Agnes gone, but not Dominique. She knows something, sir."
"I think so, too. Hopefully, Mr Oliver Wronski can shed some light."
Oliver Wronski lived in the Zaweçin District, Jade Street 41 — a gated enclave of ostentatious luxury mansions: security cameras, electric perimeter fencing, swimming pools, tennis courts. The driveway gates stood open.
"See that, Farnicki?" Wojcik said, parking directly in front of the entrance. "Decent, honest people don't live in places like this."
Before they could step out, a man appeared in the doorway. Tall, thick wavy grey hair, brown velvet dressing gown, and matching loafers. Wojcik pegged him instantly as a silver fox.
"Hello, gentlemen. Martha rang. She told me what happened and that you were on your way." Oliver shook their hands, voice catching slightly.
"Mr Oliver Wronski, I presume?" Wojcik said. "Did your secretary also mention she threatened us with your lawyer?"
"Oh, did she? Martha isn't my secretary — she is my deputy. I see no reason to involve a lawyer. Please, come in."
They stepped into a spacious modern vestibule. At the rear, an arcaded niche opened onto a marble staircase rising to the first floor. Oliver led them into the sitting room, screened from the hall by a floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinet. A contemporary fireplace faced a round tree-trunk coffee table on black metal legs; two long white sofas flanked it. He gestured for them to sit and offered drinks. Both chose coffee.
Wojcik had been up since six, stomach empty as usual at that hour. Farnicki's breakfast status was unknown, but coffee felt overdue.
"This is surreal," Oliver murmured as a maid served the cups. "I still can't believe Agnes is gone. And Dominique…"
Wojcik gave a concise summary of both murders and explained how the investigation led to AlChemie.
"We're certain the same person killed both women. The only clear link between them is your company. That's why we need you to tell us more about them — and why someone might have wanted them dead."
Oliver nodded slowly. "Let's start with Dominique. I knew her longer. She worked for my father; when he retired and handed the business to me, I kept the old staff. She was professional, loyal, reliable. Not friends, exactly, but I could always count on her at work. I respected her — looked up to her, even. Old-school feminist: took no nonsense, kept the men at arm's length. No office affairs."
He paused, sipped his coffee, discomfort evident.
"I know nothing of her private life or friends. I don't think she ever married. Then Agnes arrived — Almain Chemie back then. Fresh from college, first job. We needed flexible admin cover. She started in Sales, helping with orders, then moved to Accounting — archiving, sorting old invoices. That's when she and Dominique grew close. Agnes wasn't using her degree, and I could see she was unhappy, but we already had a dispatcher. No need for another."
"Miss Glushko said Agnes resigned. Was that the reason?" Farnicki asked.
"Partly. The real issue was Martha."
"Oh?" Wojcik leaned forward.
"Don't misunderstand — Martha's capable. But she can be… difficult. Especially when things don't go her way. Strong personalities clash. That's what happened. They argued constantly over trivial things. Usually, Martha was wrong. It built until Agnes left."
"And where were you?" Wojcik asked. "Couldn't you have stopped the harassment?"
"I wouldn't call it harassment," Oliver said, stung. "But you're right. I should have intervened as managing director. One of my staff was unhappy; I failed her."
"Nevertheless, Agnes sued Almain Chemie shortly after resigning — for a work-related illness," Farnicki pressed.
"Yes. Thyroid issues, I believe. We accepted responsibility and have paid her pension monthly ever since. We're a waste-processing company. Long-term exposure carries risks. We face plenty of criticism, but people forget we provide a necessary service."
"I see. Any idea who might have held such a grudge against both women?"
"None. They were hard-working professionals. Normal lives. After work they went home and kept out of trouble."
"How many staff still remember them?"
"Just Martha and me. We're the core. Everyone else you saw today is relatively new."
"Has Miss Glushko ever been physically aggressive — or made threats — at work?"
"No! How can you even suggest that, Mr—?"
"Wojcik. Inspector Edmond Wojcik. This is Detective Sergeant Ivan Farnicki."
"Your suspicions are absurd — insulting, Inspector Wojcik. I've worked with Martha for twenty-five years. She's not capable of violence."
"Do you live here alone, Mr Wronski?" Wojcik asked, glancing pointedly at the family photo on a side table by the window — changing tack to defuse tension.
"With my wife and three children. The children are at university — away on holiday with friends. My wife… I'm not sure where she is right now."
"You don't know where your wife is?" Wojcik raised an eyebrow.
"She's very active. Sporty. Jogging, tennis, cycling, hiking. I'm not. We agreed long ago to spend free time separately."
They got no further. Wojcik left his mobile number in case Oliver recalled anything useful.
"Well, at least the coffee was decent," Farnicki sighed as they drove away from the estate.
"Every time I meet one of these rich types, my prejudices are confirmed."
"Why's that, sir?"
"Money in the bank, polished exterior — and they're still rogues. Same excuses, same phrases, same shifty eyes darting about while they lie. Wronski gave us nothing but 'everyone was professional, everything was fine.' He's covering, Farnicki. Just like Dirk."
"Who's Dirk, sir?"
"A rich man's son who fell on hard times. College friend. His grandfather sold butter to the Nazis during the Great War — that's how the family fortune started. They were from Gaul originally, came to Lechia after. Dirk loved bragging: cars, foreign trips, wild parties when his parents were away. He and his brother conned people, too. Bought scrapped kitchen gear, did cosmetic fixes, sold it to restaurants and bakers at triple the price. Equipment broke; customers realised they had been had. I remember Dirk in court — smug, certain his lawyer would win because he was rich and successful. Victims couldn't prove the gear was faulty. Until I testified — told the court what he had bragged to me in private."
"Did the brothers lose?"
"Yes. But the victims got nothing. While the trial dragged on, their father declared bankruptcy. Turns out all the houses, cars, businesses, art — everything — was nominally theirs. Assets quietly transferred to creditors and lawyers. The people they robbed got a single cent."
"Bet they made your life hell after you testified."
"Surprisingly, no. People just… forgot me. Same as they forgot Dirk. When a rich man falls, his powerful friends vanish. He ceases to exist in their world."
"That's what I mean, Farnicki. They're all the same. Wronski's involved. So is Martha. We need to uncover what they're hiding — and wipe those smug smiles off their faces."