The Josef Slonský Box Set

by Graham Brack

  ‘That’s a bloody mess,’ Slonský said.

  ‘True, literally and figuratively. If there’s a plus point in this, I suspect he was concussed by the first impact and probably didn’t feel much after that.’

  ‘That’s not much of a consolation to me or him,’ said Slonský, ‘and it doesn’t change the fact that someone ran over a man of ninety.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Novák.

  Dr Vladimír Novák was a pathologist, and a good one at that. He and Slonský enjoyed working together, though it was a matter of professional honour to both to conceal the fact.

  ‘Are you going to tell me it’s natural causes?’ asked Slonský.

  ‘Only if you want to enhance your reputation for rank stupidity. It’s a classic blow with a blunt object, in this case a dark blue Volkswagen Multivan.’

  ‘How can you tell that?’

  ‘Because that guy in the motorbike leathers told me it was a dark blue Volkswagen Multivan. Certainly a dark blue vehicle. There’s a flake of paint on his arm where it must have flailed down the wing as it rolled him over.’

  ‘So the van was damaged?’

  ‘He’s an old chap and he’s frail, but you can’t hit a human being without doing a bit of damage to the vehicle. He was dragged along under the van, so the bumper is likely to be scratched or dented. And that looks to me like a corner off a number plate. We’ll do all we can here and then take him back to the mortuary. I’ll work him up first thing in the morning. No point in working overnight. I don’t think forensics are going to be the key to solving this one somehow. Slonský, if your colleague is going to faint, could she fall in the opposite direction so she doesn’t contaminate the crime scene?’

  Slonský had not noticed Peiperová’s return. She looked pale and was staring at Holoubek as if fascinated by the sight of an old man dumped on the road.

  ‘What do you want?’ Slonský growled.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I thought you’d want to speak to that lady with the brown coat on. She says the blue van had been around for an hour or so before the accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident, Peiperová. Find another word for it. But thank you, I’ll come now.’

  Peiperová nodded and returned to her interviews.

  ‘Looks like murder, then,’ said Slonský.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ said Novák. ‘But that’s not a professional opinion, before you hold me to it. Now push off and annoy someone else.’

  Slonský walked across the road to the small knot of people whom Officer Krob was trying to keep from wandering off. Not for the first time, Slonský wondered whether the inhabitants of Prague were different to those of other cities. Here, there were two common responses to an incident like this. Some would not want to get involved, and would try to sneak off if the opportunity arose. Krob had deployed a lot of crime scene tape to create a sort of pen for the witnesses, and, in a masterstroke of improvisation, had managed to persuade someone to bring coffee and biscuits for them. Indifference to the plight of others was something of a Prague tradition, but you can’t argue with free coffee and biscuits.

  The second response was to concoct evidence designed to ensure that the right person was convicted. In this case, ‘right’ did not mean guilty. It meant morally deserving of punishment, often as a result of some other characteristic of the accused. Being Roma was usually a good start, though many a German motorist had found himself accused of a misdemeanour once his D plate was spotted on the rear of his car. This habit was time honoured. As a very young policeman under the Communists, when cars were rationed and you had to be someone to get hold of one, Slonský had been solemnly tutored by his sergeant to understand that in any road accident involving a car and a pedestrian, it must have been the pedestrian’s fault. Similarly, any collision between two cars was easily explained once you knew which car was the larger one, because its driver could not be culpable. While this was very clear to any policeman, it was difficult to maintain in the face of the united testimony of passers-by that the larger car had reversed at speed into the smaller one, a view expressed all the more vehemently by those who could not possibly have seen the incident in question.

  Eva Urbanová had made no effort to slink away. A woman in her late fifties, she stood squarely facing him. Square was a good adjective for Urbanová, who was around one metre fifty tall and roughly the same across. She wore a cheap brown raincoat and flat shoes with no stockings or tights, and had the corned beef legs of a woman who likes to sit close to the fire on cold evenings.

  ‘Good day, madam,’ Slonský began.

  ‘Are you in charge of this shambles?’ she asked.

  ‘It won’t be a shambles now I’ve taken charge,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Lieutenant Slonský, Josef, Criminal Police.’

  ‘Urbanová, Eva,’ she replied, in the formal manner that had characterized the country since the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

  ‘I understand you’ve seen the van earlier today,’ Slonský said.

  ‘Yes. I told that young bit that. I’m pretty sure it turned up around four o’clock. The driver pulled in down the road and just sat in the cab.’

  ‘What made you notice him?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for the landlord to send a plumber. It looked like the sort of van a plumber might have. Of course, I’ve been waiting a week already, so why I thought that might be him I don’t know, I’m sure. Anyway, he never budged. Just sat there looking in the wing mirror.’

  ‘You didn’t see his registration number, I suppose?’

  ‘No. I can’t read it at this distance. That’s my window up there.’ She pointed vaguely over her left shoulder.

  ‘Where did he park?

  ‘Opposite side of the road in the dotted area.’

  ‘And nobody moved him on?’

  ‘Never a policeman around when you need one. Of course, the place is crawling with them now that old gent’s been knocked over, and look at the parking now.’ She gestured down the road. The parking was impeccable.

  ‘Did you see the old gentleman being run over?’

  She shook her head. ‘You couldn’t see because the tram was in the way. He must have got out at the middle doors. Then I heard this loud engine noise like a racing car, and the van came charging down the far lane. There was a shout and then a loud thump, and some screaming, but I didn’t see anything until the van swept across the front of the tram and turned left.’

  ‘The tram was moving by then?’

  ‘Just started off. There wasn’t a lot of space for the van to get in front, but he wasn’t going to stop anyway, I reckon.’

  Slonský had never had much success with young women in his life, but he was something of a charmer of women of a certain age, so he chanced his arm with Mrs Urbanová.

  ‘My old mother wasn’t very good on her feet, but she made sure she knew what went on in her street.’

  ‘I know the type,’ Mrs Urbanová said. ‘Liked a chat, did she?’

  ‘Not nosey, you understand,’ said Slonský. ‘Just keen to find out if she could help anyone with anything.’

  ‘Public spirited. Not enough of that about.’

  ‘Have you seen the old gentleman before?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she said, ‘many times. He always got off at that stop. He must have lived in those blocks down the road.’

  ‘Which ones are those?’

  ‘See where this road joins the next one at an angle? If you cross to your right there there’s a sort of little oblong with flats around. Then you can walk through to some more. I think he must have lived somewhere there.’ A shocked look came over her face. ‘You don’t think his poor wife is still sitting there waiting with his tea?’

  ‘He was a widower, I think.’

  Urbanová crossed herself.

  ‘Just as well the poor woman went first. It’ll be a comfort to her, God rest her.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ agreed Slonský. ‘You didn’t get a good look at the van dri
ver, I suppose?’

  ‘What do you think I am, a ruddy eagle? I’ll tell you what, though. On this side of the road, not far from where he was parked on the far side, there’s a girl who does hairdressing. There’s nothing much goes on that she doesn’t see.’ She gripped his arm and pulled down on it so he had to bend to follow it. ‘Not official hairdressing, you understand, so don’t say I said anything.’

  ‘I won’t mention it. I’m not interested in someone earning a bit of pin money. Would you mind walking me along a bit and pointing at the right door?’

  Mrs Urbanová did just that. It was around fifty metres so she only needed to stop once to catch her breath.

  ‘Up one flight of stairs,’ she said.

  Slonský climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. It was opened by a blonde woman wearing a pink polyester housecoat. He knew he had come to the right place because there was a strong smell of setting lotion.

  He showed his badge.

  ‘Can we have a word, miss?’

  She looked reluctant.

  ‘It’s a bit awkward at the moment…’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re in the middle of a perm and the timing is important. You carry on. We can talk while you work if that’s okay.’

  She nodded and he followed her in. They turned into the front room where a woman was sitting in a chair swathed in a blue plastic cape. Slonský exchanged greetings with her.

  ‘You may have heard that an elderly man was knocked down and killed in this street this afternoon around five o’clock. It wasn’t an accident. It looks as if the van that ran him over waited for him for over an hour.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ gasped the woman in the chair. ‘If that kind of thing can happen we could all be murdered in our beds.’

  ‘It’s my job to see you don’t get murdered in your bed,’ Slonský explained, ‘and that will be less likely if we can put the driver away for life.’

  ‘Better if you hanged him,’ said the woman in the chair. ‘You hang them once and they don’t kill twice.’

  ‘That’s as may be…’ began Slonský.

  ‘And I’d castrate them first. They won’t need them bits again and it means they wouldn’t breed more criminals to murder us in our beds.’

  ‘You’re right there, Mrs Musilová,’ said the hairdresser. ‘And rapists too. They should get the chop.’

  ‘Goes without saying,’ agreed Musilová. ‘And them podiatrists.’

  ‘I think you mean paedophiles,’ Slonský interrupted. ‘Podiatrists look after your feet.’

  ‘Yes, them too.’

  ‘There’s a lot of men would be less trouble to women if they didn’t have hormones running through them,’ continued the hairdresser.

  ‘The law doesn’t let us hang them,’ Slonský explained, ‘whatever our personal views on the subject. And the Czech Republic, almost uniquely, does castrate sex offenders, if they consent.’

  ‘Fancy that. But I wouldn’t worry about consent,’ said Mrs Musilová.

  ‘Well, I’d ask,’ said the hairdresser, ‘but if they said no I’d do it anyway.’

  ‘That’s not quite how consent works … anyway, to get back to the reason for my visit, the van that ran him over was parked opposite for about an hour from four o’clock. Did you see it there?’

  ‘Dark blue van?’ the hairdresser asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yes, came just as my three o’clock left — say, around ten to four — and was there quite a while. Of course, while I’m working I have my back to the window.’

  ‘You didn’t get a good look at the driver, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I eyeballed him. Black hair, not too long but not short either. Quite thick, straight, not dyed. I notice hair, you see, being a hairdresser. Parted on the left. Just lapping over his ear. He had a small earring in too. It caught the light.’

  ‘Good. His face?’

  ‘Didn’t really see. Clean shaven. Sharpish nose. Heavy black eyebrows. I thought he could do with them plucking. Thin them out a bit. Not a bad-looking lad actually.’

  ‘A lad? Quite young, then?’

  ‘Younger than me,’ laughed the hairdresser.

  ‘Twenty-five?’ Slonský offered.

  ‘And the rest, love. Thirty-five to forty, I’d say. No wedding ring.’

  Slonský glanced out of the window.

  ‘You could see that from here?’

  ‘I can see a wedding ring from a long way off, love.’

  ‘Can’t we all, dear,’ agreed Mrs Musilová.

  Navrátil had found the district police office in Zdiby just before the duty officer shut the door and went home for the night.

  ‘I’ve got an old photo that appears to show a house here, and I was hoping you could tell me where I can find it, if it’s still standing.’

  ‘If it isn’t still standing you won’t find it whatever I say,’ replied the district policeman, who, under direct questioning, was prepared to reveal that his name was Majer.

  ‘That’s my name, not my rank,’ he expanded.

  ‘I realised that,’ Navrátil replied. ‘It’s unlikely that a major would be locking up a little police station.’

  ‘We’re not that little. We have a dinghy and a motor scooter.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now, this picture. Does it mean anything to you?’

  Majer frowned as he studied it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘And it’s still standing?’

  ‘It was when I last looked.’

  ‘How do I get to it?’

  Majer stared into the distance as if this would help him to focus on the question in hand.

  ‘You’ve got two choices,’ he finally announced. ‘You can carry on down this road and turn right. Alternatively, you can go back to the junction, take the main road, and turn left. It’s about halfway down the road. Or up the road, depending which end you come from.’

  ‘And it’s easily recognised?’

  ‘It should be,’ Majer smiled. ‘You’ve got a photograph.’

  Each man headed for his car. Navrátil opted to take the first alternative, staying on the road and turning right. As is often the case on country roads, the inhabitants had parked at all kinds of angles, not anticipating that anyone would actually want to use the road, so Navrátil crawled along, carefully watching both wings to avoid damage to the car. After a few minutes he saw a house on the left that was a possible candidate, so he pulled in and stepped out of the car to get a better look.

  It could have been the one, but then so could the next one or the one after that. Three very similar houses differed only in the decoration applied to them. Looking closely at the photograph, Navrátil ruled out the centre house, whose front path curved rather than following a straight line between gate and front door, and had finally decided the third house was the likeliest candidate when a police car came to a halt beside him and Majer climbed out.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Navrátil. ‘Come to tell me which one it is?’

  ‘No,’ said Majer, looking as if the idea of further assistance had not occurred to him. ‘I live here.’

  ‘You live here? Why didn’t you say?’

  Majer shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘But weren’t you curious about why I’m walking about with a picture of your house?’

  ‘That’s not my house. I live in the middle one. It has a curved front path, do you see?’

  Navrátil counted to five before replying. ‘Yes, I noticed that.’

  ‘Your picture is the house next door.’

  ‘I’d worked that out too. Who lives there?’

  ‘My neighbour, Mrs Grigarová.’

  Navrátil was losing patience. It would soon be dusk and he was keen to get out of the village before night fell. He had seen too many films in which people like Majer became zombies and feasted on the flesh of visitors once darkness arrived.
/>   ‘Look, I don’t suppose you ever met him, but we think this is the house where a policeman called Vaněček lived. Can you think of anyone who lived here around 1979 and might be able to confirm that for us?’

  ‘Yes. My dad.’

  ‘Great. Where will I find him?’

  ‘Here. He lives with us. Come in and I’ll introduce you.’

  Navrátil followed Majer into the centre house, and was surprised to see that the hall was covered with photographs of people in police uniforms. He paused to look at them, which Majer took as an invitation to describe them all.

  ‘That’s me, obviously. That’s Uncle Viktor. So is that. That’s Uncle Ivo — he’s on my mum’s side. That’s Mum in her first uniform. That’s Ivo again, receiving his medal for rescuing a little kid who fell in the river. Now this one is unusual, because both my uncles are in it. You can’t tell because of the riot shields, but the third from the left is Ivo and Viktor is the one putting his helmet back on after someone lobbed a brick at it. And that’s Dad when he first came here.’

  ‘So he was in the police then?’

  ‘Man and boy his whole life. Until he retired, of course.’

  Majer motioned Navrátil through to the front room where Mr Majer senior was reading a magazine about sporting guns. Introductions having been made, Navrátil decided to get to the point and avoid anything approaching small talk.

  ‘Mr Majer, we’re investigating a death this afternoon in Nusle. An ex-policeman was the victim of a hit and run.’

  ‘Call me Benedikt. It’ll be confusing otherwise. What was his name?’

  ‘Holoubek. Edvard Holoubek.’

  Benedikt looked pained.

  ‘Did you know him, sir?’

  ‘Only slightly. But a hit and run is a bad way to die, and it’s doubly bad at his age. Holoubek was a good policeman. One of the few you could trust to be completely straight with you. Of course, I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

  ‘When he was killed he had this photograph in his pocket.’

  ‘That’s the house next door. Why did he have that with him?’

  ‘We can’t be sure, sir…’

  ‘Benedikt.’

  ‘Benedikt. But it seems likely that it was connected with a case from the past that he worked on. We believe the house in the photograph may have been that of another policeman called Vaněček.’