Free The Dark Lady by Sally Spencer

he was going to be killed?” he demanded.
    â€œMore or less,” Woodend agreed.
    Rozpedek shook his head vigorously. “I swear to you that I had no idea he would be murdered.”
    â€œAn’ what about any idea you might have had
since
the murder?” Woodend pressed on. “Has any of your friends said anythin’ to make you think that they could have been involved?”
    â€œNo,” Rozpedek said. “But even if they had done, I would not tell you.” He stood up, walked over to the drinks cabinet, and poured himself another shot of vodka. “I do not know who killed Gerhard Schultz, but whoever he is—” he raised the glass and knocked back the vodka – “I salute him.”

Five
    W oodend stood in the doorway of Westbury Social Club bar and looked around him. The German and English tables were fully occupied – Karl Müller presiding over the former, and the red-faced Mike Partridge in charge of the other. There was only one person at the Polish table, a thin-faced young man who must have missed the war by a good ten years.
    â€œI’m goin’ to have a quick word with that Polish lad sittin’ all on his lonesome over there,” the chief inspector told his sergeant. “An’ while I’m havin’ my chat, you could do a lot worse with your time than get the ale in.”
    As he crossed the room, he was aware of several sets of hostile eyes following him.
    Aye, well, I’ve never been much of a one for enterin’ popularity contests, he thought.
    He reached the Polish table and, uninvited, sat down. “I’m Chief Inspector Woodend from Scotland Yard, as you probably remember from earlier,” he said to the young Pole. “Now if the answer to this question is no, you probably won’t understand a blind word I’m sayin’ in the first place, but are you one of the ones who don’t speak any English?”
    â€œI am Mariusz Wasak,” the Pole replied. “My parents left Poland when I was baby, and I have been in England for most of my life, so the language is no problem to me.”
    â€œBut despite the fact that you don’t remember your homeland, you’re still a Pole at heart, aren’t you?” Woodend guessed.
    â€œI am a Pole to the very bottom of my soul,” the young man replied with a sudden intensity, “and one day, when the communists have finally fallen, I will return to my homeland.”
    â€œIf I was you, I wouldn’t hold my breath while I was waitin’ for that to happen,” Woodend advised him. “Can I just get one thing clear? You were one of the ones who went back to Zbigniew Rozpedek’s house on the night of the murder, weren’t you?”
    Wasak raised a surprised eyebrow. “You pronounce his name better than most Englishmen seem to manage,” he said.
    â€œI always try to pronounce people’s names correctly,” Woodend told him. “It’s the least they’ve got a right to expect. Now would you mind answerin’ the question please, Mr Wasak?”
    The young Pole nodded. “Yes, after the bar closed, I went back to Zbigniew’s house.”
    â€œAn’ what did you do when you got there?”
    â€œWhy do you need to ask me? Surely Zbigniew must have told you that himself.” Woodend whistled softly. “I’ve just left his house, but you already know about it,” he said.
    The Pole gave him a thin smile. “When you have been here in Westbury Park a little longer, you will learn that there are very few things which can be kept secret,” he said.
    â€œThere’s one secret nobody seems to know the answer to,” Woodend countered, “who the bloody hell killed Gerhard Schultz? Anyroad, to get back to my question, it doesn’t matter what Mr Rozpedek told me – I’m askin’
you
what you did when you got back to his house.”
    â€œWe played