Speechless Read online

  Veronika turned to me. She had high cheekbones and eyes wide apart. In fact, they all had. ‘Mr Dąbek wants to know if you have caught anyone yet?’

  ‘Too early.’

  She translated, but she spoke so much that she must have added to my reply.

  ‘What can they tell me about Michal?’

  The older woman’s face clouded over as she replied, until Veronika had to stop her so that she could interpret. I started making notes, fearing that this was going to take all afternoon.

  Michal had done well at school. The translator tried to explain the Polish schooling system, about gymnasiums for the fourteen to eighteen-year-olds and how all students got a good grasp of English before they left school. It explained how all the bar staff and cleaners in the big hotels of the city could speak passable English. Most people in the UK managed English well enough, but adding the ability to speak another language was too much of a struggle. I remembered how I had hated my Welsh lessons at school and how I had loathed all that singing and poetry in the school eisteddfod. My mother had tried to get me to learn Italian but all I could manage were a few words of greeting.

  I focused my attention when Veronika said that once Michal left school, he’d gone on to study computing before enrolling in the army.

  ‘What did he do in the army?’ I asked.

  More Polish.

  ‘He was an engineer. Working on special computers.’

  Michal’s father interrupted her mid-flow and sounded animated, making a turning motion with his hands.

  ‘He says Michal was in Special Forces. He was very proud of his son. He was very well trained and could kill with his bare hands.’ Veronika made the same circular motion.

  Magda was still looking at her feet. I pushed towards her the image of the family photograph in the forest. I could just make out the similarity between the face, smiling broadly into the camera, and the grieving woman sitting in front of me.

  ‘When was this taken?’ I asked.

  Veronika translated and then nodded as the woman replied. ‘Two years ago, before Michal came to England. It was taken in a forest park near to Warsaw.’

  It must have been important for Michal, but was it just a family photograph? I couldn’t help feeling that it had more significance. ‘Who’s the man sitting down?’

  Magda moved in her chair and surprised Veronika when she replied to me directly.

  ‘It is Jo. He is friend of Michal from army. He is good friend.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Pawl and Carrie.’

  The names sounded English, too soft to be Polish.

  ‘Children miss him,’ she added under her breath.

  I had been skirting around the problem of how to tell them about Kamil. Boyd had suggested we didn’t need to tell them. But it would come out soon enough, and there was only one way – simple and to the point.

  ‘Did they know that Michal was gay?’ I spoke directly to the interpreter.

  She stared at me and blinked a couple of times before turning to Michal’s parents and Magda. She spoke slowly this time and there was sensitivity through the guttural tones. I watched as the look on their faces turned from incredulity to anger. Michal’s father stood up and abruptly fisted both hands, which he smashed onto the table, and then he leant towards me, bellowing something in Polish. He kicked the chair from behind him and it fell to the floor. He said something to his wife and they stormed out.

  Magda spoke rapidly until she slumped back. I watched as Veronika ordered her thoughts.

  ‘It is a lie,’ she said simply.

  ‘Is that all?’

  She swept her hand in the air and blew out her cheeks. ‘Lot of other stuff about Michal being in the army and always being a real man. Michal’s father said a lot of things about gays that you would not like to hear.’

  Magda fumbled through a bag on her lap and picked out an envelope that she thrust towards Veronika, spluttering a long mouthful of Polish at the same time. Veronika extracted a single sheaf of paper from the envelope, raised her eyebrows and dropped her chin as she read its contents.

  ‘This came for Michal last week,’ she said, pushing it over the desk.

  It was a bank statement: the words made no sense although even I could interpret the figures.

  ‘Magda knows nothing about this,’ Veronika said. ‘There are 100,000 zloties in the account.’

  I nodded. ‘What’s the exchange rate?’

  I could see her making a mental calculation.

  ‘It’s about £40,000.’

  * * *

  When I arrived back in the CID office two civilians were sweating heavily as they moved a large notice board into one corner. Then I remembered the memo circulated by Cornock to everyone in the team – basically Boyd and me – telling us that the office had been designated as the Incident Room. Once they’d finished I went over, pinned a photograph of Michal onto the board, and stepped back. It always made me pause, that moment when the face appears on the board, a reminder, not that we needed one, that a body was lying dead in the mortuary and that we had a killer to find.

  Boyd looked at his watch.

  ‘We’re late, boss,’ he said. ‘The priest will be waiting.’

  The traffic was light as we wound our way through the one-way system towards Cathedral Road and then down towards Grangetown. I was thinking about Magda and Michal’s parents as Boyd explained about the priest. I’d seen grieving families before, but losing a child in some foreign country must be hard – and then added to that not being able to understand what was happening.

  ‘He’s been in Cardiff for three years,’ Boyd said, raising his voice.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He came from Poland. Apparently the Catholic church is training thousands of priests in Poland. I can’t see it myself. All that celibacy stuff and living like a hermit.’

  I’d never been much interested in religion but I knew that my mother drew comfort from the rituals. ‘My mother says it’s the mystery that’s important.’

  Boyd didn’t reply; he was negotiating past a pizza delivery van parked on a pedestrian crossing. A shower of rain drenched the car as we turned into the car park of the church. I pulled the collar of my jacket up against my neck as we ran for the front door.

  Father Aurek Podolak was waiting for us and he took us through into a large office. I was surprised how young he was – mid-thirties, strong jaw and a firm handshake. He could have been a solicitor or an estate agent.

  ‘I was very disturbed to hear about the death of Michal Dąbek,’ he said, his English confident.

  ‘Did you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘No. But I do know a lot of the Polish community and some of his friends come to mass regularly. I have spoken to them.’

  ‘The Polish community keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘There is a large community from Poland here in Cardiff. They are mostly young and looking for short-term work. Long hours at minimum wage, but they save and then go back to Poland.’

  ‘And have your parishioners heard anything?’

  He sat back in his seat and looked out of the window before replying.

  ‘In the last two years, maybe, I think things have changed. There is much going on that I do not like. The Polish people are not so happy.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  He raised his hands in the air. ‘It is nothing maybe, but I have heard of bad people coming into the city.’

  ‘What do you mean, bad people?’

  ‘There are criminals from Poland who want to take advantage of the young people. You have to remember, Inspector, that most have come here for better life. A lot of the Polish people here in Cardiff are from Warsaw. There is not much work there and the wages are poor.’

  ‘We need something specific we can go after,’ I said. ‘We can’t go on innuendo and rumour. We need something positive.’

  Father Podolak shook his head slowly and gave me a hard look.


  ‘It is difficult.’

  ‘A man has been killed.’

  ‘There are always circumstances that make it difficult for a priest.’

  I could sense Boyd tensing by my side, moving to the edge of the hard wooden chair.

  ‘If you know of any crime then you have an obligation to report it to us,’ I said.

  Father Podolak cast his gaze over the room towards a cabinet full of leather-bound volumes.

  ‘My obligation is to the vow I gave to God and to my parishioners…’

  Before I could debate the finer points of Roman Catholic doctrine, I felt my mobile buzzing in my jacket. I read the message about a fracas in the Polish club and, when the name of the suspect appeared, my heart sank.

  ‘We’ll have to leave this for another day.’

  * * *

  The lights on the unmarked car were broken so we had to suffice with the siren and Boyd’s regular blast of the horn to clear the traffic. The Polish club was an old public house in the docks that had been closed for three years before a community group took it over.

  After half an hour we drew up beside the building, which was surrounded by derelict houses and boarded-up shops. A marked police car was parked at the pavement. When I left our car, I noticed a smell of decaying food and rubbish hanging in the air. A large shrub was growing out of the gutter and water had darkened the wall underneath it. Through the open door I could hear the sound of music thumping and then the sound of voices raised.

  Inside there were two uniformed officers standing by various upturned tables. There was a dark stain on the wooden floor and shards of glass by the edge of the bar.

  The shorter of the officers had her hair pulled back into a pony tail that swung briskly when she moved her head. She had her pocketbook open in one hand.

  ‘PC Gladwyn. Glad you’ve arrived, sir,’ she said, the relief evident in her tone. ‘This is PC Marshall.’

  The second officer was tall and thin with enough pimples to pass for a teenager. I noticed his pronounced Adam’s apple. ‘Sir,’ he said under his breath.

  There were two men behind the bar and another three sitting down by one of the round tables in the middle of the room. One of them had a bruise over one eye that was beginning to turn a crimson colour.

  ‘This is Stefan Majewski, the manager,’ Gladwyn said, nodding to the fatter of the two men behind the bar.

  ‘He was fat pig of man,’ Majewski said.

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘He come inside and wanted to speak to Kamil. Say he kill him. And he show hands and say that he killed many men with bare hands.’

  I stepped nearer the bar.

  ‘We have no trouble here until now.’

  The man next to him nodded his head; the others sitting by the table mumbled agreement.

  ‘He Michal’s father. You know, man found dead in water.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fat man come into bar. It quiet – we have good time; some men watch football on TV.’ He gesticulated towards the large screen in the corner. ‘He was much angry and banged on table saying he wanted to speak to Kamil and to other friends of Michal.’

  I turned to Boyd. ‘Find out where he’s staying.’ Boyd nodded and, fishing his mobile from his pocket, stepped outside. Majewski was whispering to the other man behind the bar when I looked over at him.

  ‘We’ll need statements from you and your friends.’

  ‘We no want trouble.’

  Gladwyn moved towards me and showed me the notes she’d made in her notebook. ‘There are two men who’ve gone to A&E, sir.’

  I glanced up at Majewski. ‘Do you and your friends want to make a complaint or not?’

  ‘We want quiet place.’

  We left Gladwyn and Marshall taking statements and contact details and headed for the hotel where the Dąbek family were staying. The hotel was on a business park near an office block and a builder’s merchant. The car park was empty so we pulled up by the front door. The building looked like one of those timber-framed constructions bolted together in a few days. A man sat behind a small counter watching television as we entered, and he jumped to his feet, obviously pleased at the prospect of custom.

  ‘What can I do for you guys?’

  I carded him.

  His eyes opened wide. ‘Wow. Do you guys really want someone here?’

  ‘Dąbek family.’

  He scrambled through some paper records on the desk. ‘I shan’t keep you guys waiting any longer than a couple of seconds.’

  A woman pushing a trolley laden with various cleaning materials passed us.

  ‘Got it. Room 316. Third floor and you guys can find the lift just behind the door to your right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We took the stairs two at a time. The room was in the middle of the corridor and we thumped on the door, knowing there was someone inside from the music we could hear.

  A woman’s face appeared at the door.

  ‘Is your husband here?’

  She gave a mournful sort of wheeze and let go of the door that had begun to close in my face. I stepped into the room, Boyd following, and we tried to make ourselves understood to her. It wasn’t successful and eventually we gave up and left.

  Outside I cracked open a new packet of cigarettes, found the lighter and then let the smoke sweep through my lungs.

  ‘Where to now, boss?’

  I took another long drag. ‘We drive around.’

  ‘Drive around?’

  ‘Yes. Until we find him.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to Roath or the Vale, are we?’ I was beginning to feel frustrated with the prospect of chasing an angry Pole around the city. ‘Have we got Kamil’s mobile number?’

  ‘Back in Queen Street.’

  I gave Boyd a concerted look that said we needed it. Within a couple of minutes he was speaking to Kamil, warning him about Michal’s father. I was contemplating another cigarette before he’d finished.

  ‘He’d heard. BlackBerry messaging service has been full of it.’

  I nodded. ‘Let’s see if we can find Dąbek.’

  * * *

  My office was crammed and hot and sweaty. Gladwyn sat on one of the chairs by the desk; Marshall stood behind her. Boyd stood by the door and Veronika leant against the wall. I sat bolt upright in my chair.

  ‘So we don’t have a complaint of any sort?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right, sir. None of the injured parties wanted to make a complaint. They’d both sustained injuries but they didn’t want to cause trouble.’

  ‘So we don’t have grounds to detain Antoniusz Dąbek.’

  ‘No sir,’ Gladwyn said, even though it hadn’t been a question.

  Dąbek had been apprehended in a takeaway kebab restaurant, hungry and tired. His wife and daughter-in-law were in a witness room downstairs drinking weak tea and stale sandwiches from the canteen.

  ‘When’s the next flight to Poland?’

  Boyd had done the research. ‘Three hours from Bristol.’

  ‘Is it to where they live?’

  ‘No, sir. The next one to…’

  I raised a hand and said to Gladwyn. ‘You and Marshall take them to the airport and make sure they catch the plane.’

  * * *

  The regular monthly meeting was a comforting routine. I needed that extra assurance. Confirmation that others were like me. Other people who didn’t want to go back to the old ways. Others who wanted to recapture the love of their families, the loyalty of friends and the respect of work colleagues.

  Pity and sympathy were all well and good. People who’d said that I should pull myself together didn’t understand. It was such an infuriating thing to say. It never worked. And it never made me stop drinking.

  I would usually start with a couple of lagers after work with the lads and then by the time I’d got home it had become five pints and I was public enemy number one. Jackie would fly into a rage so I’d drink mor
e and blame her for being selfish and unsupportive. Once I started on the wine I had to finish the bottle and then look for another, before finding the vodka.

  Most drunks just fritter away their lives until the Grim Reaper comes knocking. Families exchange knowing looks at the funeral, making comments like suicide by drinking or sad waste and then get on with their lives.

  When I woke up in a Garda station in the port of Rosslare I knew something had to change. First of all I thought that one of the lads had played a practical joke and locked me in a cell overnight. When I’d heard the unfamiliar accents outside the cell door a dull knot had formed in my stomach. I’d fiddled with my clothing, trying to find my ID but the pockets were empty.

  I’d pissed in my pants and I reeked. The shirt I was wearing had a large stain down the front – I couldn’t remember how it got there. I’d felt the stubble on my chin and realised that I must look awful. I’d noticed a pool of vomit by the toilet in the corner.

  There was loud jolt as the key found its place in the door of the cell. A guard stepped in and gave me a sideways look.

  ‘Jesus. You were fucking shit-faced last night. Heavy night was it?’ he’d asked.

  Truth was, I couldn’t remember. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. I’d gone out for one drink after work. And I’d woken up in a police cell in the Republic of Ireland.

  ‘What…?’ I’d stammered. My tongue had felt like sandpaper.

  ‘We picked you up on the ferry. Truly fucking pissed and fighting like a tinker.’

  I’d felt for my watch. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Two. Do you want something to eat?’

  I shook my head. I’d wanted a hot shower and to clean my teeth. My lips were clung together with saliva.

  ‘Water,’ I’d said and even that took effort. ‘Has anybody…?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We rang your boss. He didn’t sound too pleased. Said he’d call your missus.’

  I could explain it, of course. I always could, to myself at least.

  On the journey home I knew things had to change.