Read A Grain of Truth for Free Online Page A

piece of cake squeezed past his gullet. We’re in for lots of fun, he thought. Sobieraj sat motionless on the sofa, changing into one great big sulk. Miszczyk cast a maternal eye at their cups and the cake platter, and then turned it one hundred and eighty degrees.
    “There’s more jam on this side,” she said in a theatrical whisper, taking a piece.
    Szacki waited a moment, realized that the audience was over, and got up. Miszczyk waved her hand to say that as soon as she finished her mouthful she’d have something else to say.
    “Let’s meet here at seven p.m. I want to see the first witness statements and a detailed investigation plan. Send all the media to me. If I see any personal animosity obstructing you in this case…”
    Sobieraj and Szacki fixed their gaze on the boss’s plump, crumb-coated lips in unison. She smiled at them warmly.
    “…I’ll give you such hell you’ll never forget it. And the only job open to you in any public institution will be scrubbing the floors at the nick. Is that clear?”
    Szacki nodded, bowed to both ladies and took hold of the door handle.
    “Presumably I’m to hand the rest of my cases over to someone else.”
    Miszczyk smiled softly. He realized it was a completely unnecessary question. He was actually insulting her by imagining she might not have thought of that. It must all have been arranged by now, and the secretary would be removing the documents from his office.
    “You must be out of your mind. Get back to work.”
    VIII
    Prosecutor Teodor Szacki was standing in his office, looking out of the window and thinking that the provinces had their plus points too. He had a large office all to himself, which in Warsaw would have been divided into three two-person rooms. He had a nice view of green fields, residential buildings and the towers of the Old Town in the distance. He had a twenty-minute walk to work. He had a safe with the files for his eight current cases in it – exactly ninety-seven fewer than in Warsaw six months earlier. He had the same salary as in the capital, and the excellent coffee in his favourite café on Sokolnicki Street cost him less than five zlotys. And finally – he was ashamed of the fact, but he couldn’t hide his satisfaction – he had a decent corpse. Suddenly this hellish, sleepy hole seemed an altogether bearable place.
    The door slammed. Szacki turned round, adding the thought that he also had a partner who had made PMT into a way of life. He automatically adopted his cold, professional prosecutor’s mask as he watched the principled pussy, Basia Sobieraj, approach him with a folder in her hand.
    “This has just arrived. We should look at it.”
    He pointed to the sofa (that’s right, he had a sofa in his office) and they sat down next to each other. He glanced at her bust, but couldn’t see anything interesting there because it was shrouded in a completely asexual black polo neck. He opened the folder. The first picture showed a close-up of the victim’s slashed-open throat. Sobieraj audibly took agulp of air and looked away, and Szacki was about to pass comment, but he felt sorry and kept his spiteful remarks to himself. It wasn’t their fault or their shortcoming that all the people here added together had seen as many corpses in their entire lives as he had in a single year.
    He put aside the pictures of the corpse.
    “Anyway, we have to wait for the examination. Will you be coming to Oczko Street?”
    She stared without understanding; he had automatically referred to the forensic unit in Warsaw.
    “Sorry – to the hospital. For the autopsy.”
    There was a flash of fear in her eyes, but she quickly took control of herself.
    “I think we should both be there.”
    Szacki agreed, and laid out on the table about a dozen pictures of the razor, carefully photographed from all angles. According to the ruler underneath it, the razor was more than forty centimetres long, with the rectangular blade alone accounting for about