Chyłka woke up in the middle of the night and instinctively picked up her phone to check the time. She thought she had set the alarm, but wasn’t sure. She promised herself for the umpteenth time that she would finally set a weekly alarm.
She cursed as the display blinded her like the headlights of a car. Narrowing her eyes, she saw that she had nearly two hours before she needed to get up. She also noticed a missed call from Zordon.
It probably wasn’t anything important. Joanna put the phone down and rolled over.
But maybe he’d found something? She realised that until she knew, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She switched on the bedside lamp, pulled herself up and leaned on the headboard. She reached for the remote and turned on TVN24, then picked up the phone and dialled Kordian’s number.
‘The person you have called is temporarily unavailable. Please try later. Beep!’
The message annoyed her. How could they know that the person was only temporarily unavailable? What if they had shuffled off this mortal coil?
She put the phone down, sighed loudly, and fixed her gaze on yet another coach crash disaster in Europe. Not the most appropriate material if she still wanted to get any sleep that night. For Chyłka, the ideal TV programme for dropping off to sleep would have been some sort of political talk show – monotonous, calm, slow voices always had a soothing effect on her. Besides, she liked highbrow commentators, though not as much as the king of TVN.
She picked up the phone and tried again. Still temporarily unavailable. This time she felt an unpleasant shiver, as she thought of the number of times the automated voice at the other end of the line may have been wrong. But in Zordon’s case, it was more probable that his phone battery was dead.
Unless someone really had attacked him on the staircase in that Żoliborz hellhole.
‘For God’s sake!’ she muttered and tried again.
Drawing yet another blank, she decided she was making a mountain out of a molehill.
She put the phone down on the bedside cabinet and reached for her book. Joanna rarely fell asleep without reading at least a few pages. Even when she returned home very much under the influence, she would still read a page or two. In recent weeks she had been reading a J.K. Rowling novel, but it wasn’t exactly gripping stuff. She’d been hoping for a murder, but all she got was gossip and internet trolling. On the other hand, it was ideal fodder for a sleepless night.
Unfortunately, not this time. Her eyelids began to droop just before five, and she had hardly managed to put the book down and switch off the light when the ‘Afraid to Shoot Strangers’ solo rang out. In normal circumstances, she’d have cursed anyone who rang while she was dropping off, but this time she sat up immediately and grabbed the phone.
She looked at the display. Old Rusty. He never phoned at such an unearthly hour.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘How quickly can you get to Bielański Hospital?’
‘Depends, am I allowed to break the speed limit?’ Her tone was light-hearted, but she realised something terrible must have happened.
‘Definitely.’
‘I can be there in half an hour,’ replied Joanna, throwing off the duvet and getting out of bed.
‘And without makeup?’ asked Żelazny. ‘And all that other stuff?’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘We’ll go for the second option.’
Chyłka reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging on the wall and pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece so she could talk hands free.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, randomly selecting an ironed blouse from her wardrobe.
‘It’s probably one of our employees. I don’t know anything else. The police don’t have any details.’
‘So how do we know that—’
‘They got a call from someone in Izabelin, no ID, no phone and no money. His wallet was empty. But in his pocket he had a pen with our logo, so they want someone from our office to come and try and identify the poor guy. Apparently . . . well, you know. He’s fighting for his life.’
‘So you called me. How thoughtful of you.’
‘Badyński is on holiday, and I’m not in Warsaw,’ replied Żelazny.
In the company hierarchy, Badyński was more or less on the same level as Chyłka, although Żelazny patently trusted him more than he did her. Badyński got all the sensitive cases, whereas they called on Chyłka when they needed the heavy guns.
‘Are you on your way yet?’
‘Hang on, let me get dressed.’
‘Why bother? Go as nature intended.’
‘In your dreams,’ she muttered before hanging up.
She got there in record time, though she doubted that a pen in a jacket pocket was enough to say that the victim worked at Żelazny & McVay. They handed promotional items out left, right and centre, even if it was just to a client popping in to exchange a few words with their lawyer.
Initially, it crossed her mind that it might be Zordon – and if they had found the person somewhere around the city centre or Żoliborz, she would probably have thought the worst. But Izabelin? What business would Oryński have there? Besides, his only means of transport was the night bus, which probably didn’t go out that far. At least she didn’t have to worry that it was him.
But everything changed when the duty doctor took her to ICU.
Kordian’s swollen face was covered in dressings, but she had no problem recognising him. A transparent tube protruded from his mouth, his eyes were closed and a steady beeping sound announced that he was connected to monitoring equipment.
Chyłka stood transfixed, as if struck by lightning. When she eventually noticed the drip, she began to feel faint.
‘I see this must be someone close to you,’ said the doctor quietly.
Maciej Roske often saw reactions such as these: first disbelief, then shock, and finally denial. It took time to realise that the person lying on the bed was someone close. Before she came into the intensive care unit, this woman had seemed tough, but now she looked like she wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep.
It was hardly surprising. The boy was in a deplorable state, and the beating he’d suffered had clearly only stopped as he was nearing the point of no return.
The doctor looked at the woman, trying to determine who she was in relation to the victim. There were three possibilities: sister, girlfriend or wife.
‘How . . .’ began Chyłka, then closed her eyes and looked down. ‘Is he conscious?’
‘No,’ replied Roske. ‘His injuries are extensive, so we’ve put him in a medically induced coma.’
The doctor turned to Joanna. They were still standing in the doorway, and he wasn’t surprised that she didn’t want to go in. Her mind was still trying to process what her eyes were seeing.
‘Perhaps you could tell me who it is?’
‘Kordian Oryński . . . my . . . my . . .’
She buried her face in her hands and sniffed. He must think she was pathetic.
But she had no other option.
If she had been in any profession other than law, it probably wouldn’t have occurred to her that if she wanted information she’d need to put on a performance. Doctors only ever told relatives about a patient’s true condition. The play-acting was essential.
Besides, no one would ask a distraught relative for ID. ‘My husband,’ she said, revealing her face.
Roske was not pleased. He’d prefer to deal with a girlfriend, because then he wouldn’t have to tell her all the details. Family members, on the other hand, would keep asking until they got what they wanted to know, and they usually wanted to know everything. As if a retroperitoneal haemorrhage caused by trauma to the parenchymatous organs would mean anything to most of them. Instead of pestering the doctors, Roske felt they’d be far better off saying a few prayers in the chapel. Even unbelievers – or in their case, perhaps all the more so.
‘Who . . . how . . .’ began Joanna disjointedly, then stopped and looked at the doctor. She began to tremble.
‘That is what the police are trying to find out,’ replied Roske. ‘I can only say that you’ve got good grounds to feel optimistic. You husband is alive, and however trite this may sound, that’s the most important thing.’
‘How did it happen?’ Chyłka couldn’t keep her voice from cracking.
‘The injuries definitely point to a beating,’ he explained, clearing his throat. ‘Extensive injuries to the body, both external and internal.’ Roske paused, hoping the woman would nod to show she didn’t need any more details.
But she was looking at him expectantly.
‘Apart from the injured tissues and haematomas all over his body, which you . . . unfortunately can see with the naked eye, there are numerous injuries to the skull and ribs.’
‘Are any of them life threatening?’ interrupted Chyłka.
Contrary to what the doctor thought, she wasn’t interested in exactly how many broken bones Oryński had. A quick glance was enough to send shivers down her spine – the boy was practically immobilised by splints and dressings, some of which involved plaster. He looked more like the victim of a motorcycle accident than a beating.
‘There’s no threat to his life at present.’
‘Thank God,’ replied Joanna, leaning back on the doorframe. Old Rusty had said he was fighting for his life, but maybe he’d misunderstood.
She walked into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed – very gently, as if it might collapse under her weight. She placed her hand on Oryński’s arm and cried silently. When she saw his closed eyes, it made her feel weak. Suddenly, all this play-acting felt soulless.
‘It doesn’t look good, but believe me, it could have been worse. The most important thing is that he has no internal bleeding. Other than that, everything will be fine, although it may take a long time to recover fully.’
‘I see,’ said Joanna, and fell silent. She’d suddenly realised that Kordian had probably called her very shortly before he was attacked.
‘Would you like the hospital to notify someone?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I’ll take care of it myself.’
Zordon’s parents, or at least someone else in his family, should be informed. Or perhaps his girlfriend? Chyłka didn’t know much about her protégé at all. For all she knew, he could be married and have a brood of little Zordons – the absence of a wedding ring didn’t mean anything. They had never talked about private matters, and if ever they got too close to it, they quickly turned it into a joke. And she was sitting at the edge of his bed, holding his hand. Beautiful, just beautiful.
‘There is one more thing,’ said Roske interrupting her thoughts.
‘And that is?’
‘Toxicology tests have shown the presence of a psychotropic agent . . .’
‘A what?’
‘Amphetamine. High quality, according to our specialist,’ replied the doctor.
Chyłka fixed her gaze on him, her mind processing this new information. Of course, lawyers took all sorts of substances: some to work more effectively, others to forget at the weekend that they had defended murderers and rapists during the week. But Zordon? Surely not.
But toxicology tests don’t lie. So now, what had looked like a straightforward beating would be seen by the police in a completely different light. Chyłka realised the doctor would have informed them. She looked at him.
‘If you go out into the corridor, you’ll find an officer who would like to have a few words with you,’ said Roske. ‘I hope you understand.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The doctor nodded, then checked the monitor readings and left the room.
Once she was alone with Oryński, Joanna withdrew her hand. She sat motionless for a moment, trying to take it all in. Langer was the link; of that she was certain.
Soon she’d have to face the police officer. He wouldn’t be pleased when she told him she had lied to the doctor, but she would persuade him that she was the boy’s lawyer and that she’d cooperate fully. He was probably only some junior officer, pulled in from the nearest patrol.
She went over to the door and turned around to take another look. She swallowed hard. The sight of someone who’d been hurt so badly was heart-wrenching. Even if it wasn’t anyone close.