Page 12 of Savage Obsession

“Give me your phone.”

“What? Why? No.”

It’s lying on the table in front of her, so I snatch it up and turn it on. This one’s set for facial recognition, easy enough to accommodate. I hold the device in front of her nose until the screen lights up, then, ignoring her heated protests, I turn my back on her to scroll through her texts.

“Gerek Debinbski? This him?” That’s the only name that pops up especially frequently. Her silence is my answer.

I switch to her Facebook account and find his profile. The picture is of an arrogant, middle-class jerk. His entitled gaze peers out of the tiny screen, a leer on his mouth. I imagine that same expression directed at my little girl and let out a growl.

I scan his profile. “An architect?” I breathe. I loathe the prick on sight. “Where does he live?”

“He has an apartment in Sródmiescie.” She rattles off one of the more upscale areas in the city. “But he won’t be there.”

“No? Where, then?”

“I don’t know. He’ll be at work…”

“Where’s that?”

“He’ll be out. On site. He could be anywhere…”

Enough babble. A few keystrokes on my own phone bring up the register of electors in the city and from there I soon have the address in Sródmiescie for one Gerek Debinbski. “Is that your car outside?”

I’m referring to the modest Toyota parked at the kerb.

“Where are you going? Baz, you can’t?—”

“Give me the keys?” I hold out my hand.

“No.” That mane tosses again, but I don’t miss the furtive glance over to her left. To the bunch of keys on the worktop by the sink.

I snatch them up and march for the door. “I’ll be an hour. Don’t go anywhere.”

It’s a been a decade since I’ve lived in Warsaw, but I’ve visited often enough, and I still know this city like the back of my hand. I locate the apartment block with no trouble and park the Toyota in one of the designated disabled spaces outside. The building security system could be an issue, but fortunately, I intercept a couple arriving at the same time as me, laden with groceries.

I reach for the door handle at the same time as the young man juggles three bags of shopping to hit the keypad with his fob. “Here, let me get that,” I offer,

We exchange smiles and pleasantries while I hold the door open for them, then follow them through into the lobby. I nod to the concierge seated at his desk and make for the elevators.

“Can I help you?” he calls to my retreating back.

My curt ‘No’ is enough to silence him.

Debinbski’s apartment is on the top floor, one of a pair of penthouses. I emerge from the lift onto a carpeted hallway adorned with several pieces of hideous modern art, a half dozen or so abstract female nudes balancing on narrow plinths set into alcoves. Clearly the occupants have more money than taste. I approach number seven one zero and contemplate the lock for a moment. A simple enough electronic device, easily dealt with by a strong magnet which I just so happen to have…

It takes me no more than a few seconds to deactivate the lock. I push the door open and slip inside.

The place looks like one of those high-end showhouses you see in magazines. Knee-deep, pale-cream shagpile, low-level leather sofas in a delicate shade of duck-egg blue, an open-plan kitchen, gleaming with disuse but fully equipped with the latest gadgetry. The coffeemaker is gurgling cheerily, suggesting that the occupant is not far away.

A sound to my right alerts me. I slink into a space behind the door and observe as a man saunters out a couple of feet from me. Clad in a lilac-coloured designer shell suit and bare feet, he ambles over to the coffee machine.

“No cream in mine,” I drawl, stepping out.

He whirls, shock and horror plastered across his face. There’s no mistaking the man from the Facebook profile. Slack jaw, a greedy, self-important set to his chin, thinning hair that no amount of expensive products can persuade to quite cover his temples. He gapes at me, mouth open.

“Gerek, is it?” I ask amiably.

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?” He’s reaching for his phone. “Get out or I’ll call security.”

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