hour in the morning – and indeed had been since seven-thirty – serving a variety of breakfasts and coffees to a predominantly youthful clientele, none of whom seemed in a great hurry to leave their conversation and newspapers to engage in the world of work. It felt a bit young to Carole, the kind of place she might have thought twice about entering on her own; she was glad to have Jude and Zofia with her.
The girl ordered for them, because she recognized the waitress also to be Polish and had a quick incomprehensible exchange with her. She would have a latte, Jude a cappuccino and Carole a ‘just ordinary coffee, black, thank you’. Zofia also established from the waitress that Marek was not in yet. Another exchange in Polish followed, which left both the girls laughing.
“She says,” Zofia explained, “it is good we fix to meet Marek at eleven. That means he will be in time for his twelve o’clock shift. He is not a good…what do you call it?”
“Time-keeper?” suggested Jude.
“Yes, that is it. So I know Marek has not changed. Always when Twarz are going to play some place, the other ones in the band are waiting for Marek.”
He finally put in an appearance round twenty past eleven. When he took off his anorak, he was wearing black trousers and a black shirt with the logo of the cafe embroidered on its short sleeves. Tall with a shaven head and mischievous blue eyes, Marek Wisniewski was greeted by Zofia with a kiss, immediately followed by what was clearly a dressing-down. Neither Carole nor Jude could understand a word of it, but the tone of voice and the body language made the nature of what the girl said absolutely clear.
When she had finished, Marek looked sheepish but not really cowed. “I tell him,” said Zofia, “it is bad to not be good time-keeper. It is bad for the image of Polish people here in England. Already people worry about us taking jobs. They call us ‘spongers’. We must show we are efficient and hard workers, so people cannot criticize us for that.”
Then Marek, completely unsubdued by his carpeting, was introduced to Carole and Jude. He smiled, shook hands and greeted them in English which was adequate, though his accent was much thicker than Zofia’s. He said how desolated he had been to hear of Tadek’s death. “He was good friend of me. I not really good musician, but he support me when I in band with him.”
Zofia had got out her blue notebook and was poised to record any information they got from Marek. Carole, too, was eager to get on with the business of investigation. “Did you see a lot of Tadek since he came to England?” she asked.
“A few times I see him. We are both busy with work. It is not always easy to meet. But we stay in touch… messages, texts on phone.”
“That’s a thought,” said Jude. “What happened to Tadek’s mobile phone? It wasn’t among the possessions that the police gave you, was it, Zosia?”
The girl shook her head. “Perhaps the police keep it still? To check the phone calls my brother make?”
“I should think that’s quite likely,” said Carole.
“Or perhaps,” suggested Marek, “the phone is taken from his room by the person who take his other things.”
“You’re certain that other things were taken from his room?”
“Yes. I go there to meet with Tadek at end of December. His room is like his room always is in Warsaw. Cassettes, CDs all over the place. And of course his guitar. When I go there two weeks ago none of these things is there.”
“So it does sound like someone cleaned them out,” said Jude.
“To avoid incriminating themselves,” added Carole. Then she fixed the focus of her pale blue eyes on the young Pole. “Zofia told us that you had said her brother definitely came over here because of a woman.”
“This is what he tell me, yes. With Tadek it is always a woman.” He and the girl exchanged wistful grins. “Always it is the big romance.”
“Which is not how you treat women, Marek,” said Zofia knowingly.
He grinned with shamefaced cockiness. “No, with me it is always the big sex.”
“So this girl you have just been away with for a week…?”
“It is very good, Zosia. Good sex.” He grinned again. “Now I think over. Time to move on.”
“You do not change, Marek.”
“I hope not. I like women very much, but not one woman,” he explained for the benefit of Carole and Jude.
Carole didn’t think tales of his philandering were really germane to the current discussion. “This woman,” she said, firmly redirecting the conversation, “did you know her name?”
“Tadek do not tell me. But he say she is very beautiful, he has never felt like this before, she is the one.” Again he and Zofia exchanged rueful smiles.
“Did he say where he’d met her?”
“Yes. It was at a music festival last summer. In Leipzig.”
“Ah,” said Jude, pleased to have at least one of her conjectures confirmed. Zofia wrote down the new fact in her notebook.
“Did he say whether the woman was older or younger than him?” asked Carole.
“No, he do not say.” Marek looked at Zofia for endorsement as he went on. “But with Tadek it is always older woman, no?”
The girl nodded. “Well,” said Carole, “there seems a strong likelihood that it was this woman…this older woman who cleared out his room of all his music stuff.”
The boy shrugged. “Perhaps. Do you know who this woman is?”
“We may do.” But Jude didn’t give any more information about Melanie Newton.
“I think,” said Zofia, “that Tadek would have written songs for this woman.”
“Oh yes,” Marek agreed. “Always if he is in love, he write songs.”
“But he didn’t play you any?” asked Jude.
“No. Tadek knows I not very good with music. Only a drummer. When he was asked about the line-up for his band, he always say old joke: “Three musicians and a drummer.” I join Twarz because I like other people, not because I have musical talent. Which is why,” he added philosophically, “the others ask me to leave. So no, Tadek does not play me any songs. If he want to discuss songs, it is always with Pavel.”
“I told you about him, Jude,” said Zofia. Then she explained for Carole’s benefit, “Pavel is the other song- writer in the band. Very close friend of my brother. They write songs together sometimes. If Tadek write a song, he probably show it to Pavel.”
“What, he’d post a copy to him?” asked Carole.
She had turned on her the young person’s stare that is reserved for Luddites and other dinosaurs. “No, he’d email the MP3.”
“Oh. Right,” Carole responded, as though she had a clue what was being said.
“Why didn’t I think of that before?” exclaimed Zofia.
“You speak to Pavel since Tadek die?” asked Marek.
“No, he is playing music in Krakow. But I will email him, ask if he has received anything from Tadek. If my brother had written new songs, I am sure he would have sent them to Pavel.”
“Aren’t the police likely to have been in touch with him?” asked Jude. “They would know the connection between the two of them.”
“Perhaps, The police in Poland maybe are following this up.”
“Speaking of the police,” said Carole severely. “I think you, Marek, should be in touch with them.”
“Oh?” Immediately he looked defensive, guilty even.
“The fact that you had been in Tadek’s room on the afternoon he was killed is something of which they should be informed,” she went on in her best Home Office manner.
“You think so?” the young man pleaded.
“Certainly. It’s your duty to do it. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Marek wretchedly.
¦
As she drove the Renault demurely along the coast road towards Fethering, Carole announced, “I’m very glad that Marek’s going to tell the police what he knows. It may be relevant to their enquiries.”
