by Graham Brack
‘No doubt about it. Though it’s stretching the truth a bit to call him a policeman.’
‘That seems to have been Holoubek’s opinion too, sir.’
‘It would be. Vaněček was a deadweight. He minced around in his dress uniform any chance he got — hang on, I’ll show you what I mean.’
Before Navrátil could stop him, Benedikt had pushed himself out of the chair and could be heard rummaging in a cupboard. He returned after a couple of minutes with a dog-eared paperback book with a slate blue cover.
‘Police handbook from the seventies.’ He flicked through the first few pages. ‘There you are. Nineteen seventy-two. There’s Vaněček.’
Navrátil found himself looking at a passport-sized photograph posed in the classical Communist portrait position, with the left shoulder nearer the camera, the head turned slightly to the subject’s left as if looking beyond the photographer’s right shoulder. The cheap paper made the photograph look slightly blurred, but Vaněček proved to be a rather portly man with plenty of space on his chest for his many medals.
‘What did he get all those awards for?’ asked Navrátil.
‘God knows. Shutting up and keeping out of the way would come high on the list. How he managed to stand upright with that lot dangling off his front I don’t know. They had specially stiffened uniforms, you know, to take the weight of the metal without tearing.’
‘And he lived next door.’
‘Not while he was in the service. He was retired before he came here, and not voluntarily either. Some kind of cock-up on his watch, it was said. Of course, Vaněček was very keen to give me his side of it, and I was just as keen not to hear it. I knew his sort. They’d put good men at risk by their carelessness. It didn’t surprise me if the stories were true and he’d done the same. He said he hadn’t.’
Benedikt rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘One funny thing, though. He didn’t seem to care much what the other villagers thought, but he was very concerned that I should believe him. At the time, I didn’t.’
‘And now?’
Benedikt looked at his hands, inspecting the backs of his knuckles carefully as he thought.
‘It’s not evidence, of course, but his death was very peculiar.’
‘That’s what we’re really interested in. The autopsy report said he fell on a fence and penetrated his chest.’
Benedikt laughed out loud and stood up, causing Navrátil to follow suit.
‘Follow me, young man.’
They walked together to the back door, which Benedikt flung open. He stepped into the garden and invited Navrátil to do likewise.
‘Tell me — where in these gardens can you see any fence you could fall on? It’s barely changed these thirty years. The only fence I can see next door has wooden rails running horizontally across the posts. It’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I don’t doubt for a minute that Vaněček fell on a fence somewhere — it’s too daft a story not to be true — but it wasn’t in his garden.’
‘Did you know the StB had come for him?’
‘Officially, no. They wouldn’t tell a district policeman like me. The first I heard was when one of my men came tearing into the office to see if I was still there. He’d seen the car going down this street and he couldn’t think of anyone else the StB would want to talk to. I, on the other hand, was concerned about my wife and son. Those swine weren’t above getting to a man by arresting his family, so I got myself over here as quickly as I could. They were helping Vaněček into the car. Odd, isn’t it, how police put a man into a car? They push gently down on his head so that he won’t bang it on the roof, then they take him away and kick him to death, hang him or throw him onto a stake. He looked at me very briefly, and I’ve never seen a man look so terrified. I didn’t see him again. But it’s the fact that the StB came for him when he’d been retired for a while that made me wonder if there was something in his story.’
‘Which was?’
‘I didn’t pay it much attention, because in those days the truth was irrelevant. If those above you disciplined you, it was pointless spending time on proving yourself innocent. It only annoyed them. I thought Vaněček should just get on with his life and stop trying to change his history. But, for what it’s worth, and bear in mind that I know none of this first hand, he claimed that he had been tipped off that a group of students were producing pornography. He raided a clandestine press and it turned out that they weren’t producing pornography, but political pamphlets, and one of those he arrested was an StB operative who had to blow his cover to get out of the cells. Some of those involved were foreign students. Now, normally anything involving foreigners would go straight to StB, but he said nobody told him foreigners were involved. Vaněček protested his innocence but Tripka produced a memo that he said should have alerted Vaněček. Do you know Tripka?’
‘I’ve heard of him. StB liaison, I believe.’
‘At the time, yes. He came back into the mainstream and was a deputy director of police when he retired. Well, the memo was a turgid thing, but it was the usual story — a line at the bottom of page nine that might have been relevant. Vaněček wasn’t convinced and argued that the sentence referred to something quite different. He wouldn’t let it drop, and after a few months they came for him. He was writing letters to the Party hierarchy, talking to journalists and so on. Stupid of him, because the journalists were all good Party members too. That’s all I know.’
‘Is his wife still alive?’
‘I don’t think so. She only stayed on here for a month or so, then the house was reallocated. After all, he qualified for it, not her.’
‘Any other family?’
‘Never heard of any. Certainly no children.’
Navrátil inspected the photograph again.
‘I’d love to know why Holoubek thought that looking into Vaněček’s death was worthwhile. They barely knew each other, according to his account.’
‘Why do we do anything? To revisit our past. To set the record straight. You see, you young people think that history is fixed but your future can be changed. Actually, those of us who lived through Communism know that the past can be rewritten any number of times but your future depends on things you can’t change. And because the past may change, it’s important to learn how to forget. As I get older, I find it becomes easier. Nowadays I forget all sorts of things.’ Benedikt smiled with a touch of resignation. ‘Sometimes it’s good to forget,’ he added.
Chapter 6
Štajnhauzr was an impressive sight, waving his arms energetically to direct other policemen, pedestrians, onlookers and the television crew which had just arrived. He saw Slonský returning and marched across to him.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first, Lieutenant?’ he enquired.
‘Let’s get the bad news out of the way.’
‘It won’t make any sense unless I tell you the good news,’ Štajnhauzr replied. ‘The good news is they’ve found the van. The bad news is that it’s in flames. However, there is potentially some very good news.’
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re an aggravating little sod?’ asked Slonský.
‘Yes, quite a few, but I ignore them. One of the officers who arrived first decided he couldn’t put the fire out, but he might be able to preserve some evidence, so he used his toolkit to get the steering wheel out of the van.’
Slonský was astonished. ‘It could have exploded at any time,’ he gasped.
‘Yes, but that’s Officer Trousil for you; full of guts, or no brains at all, depending on how you want to look at it. Anyway, he’s bringing the wheel over to give to the forensics team.’
‘Team? What team? There’s Novák, but I haven’t seen any others.’
‘I assumed there’d be more coming.’
‘I don’t think there are any more. And if there were, I bet Novák wouldn’t pay them overtime.’
Peiperová coughed gently.
‘I’ve got names and addresses,
sir, but there’s not much useful from them, and the officer is asking if he can get them more coffee.’
Slonský glanced across at the makeshift pen where Krob was dealing manfully with the small crowd he had enclosed with his tape. The old detective motioned to Peiperová to follow and walked slowly across to see Krob.
‘Officer Krob? A word, please. Peiperová will look after these people for a few minutes.’
Krob looked hugely relieved.
‘Sir?’
‘A job well done, lad. Very resourceful of you. Did you pay for the coffees yourself?’
‘I got the coffee free, but I bought the cookies.’
‘Got the receipt?’
Krob produced a sliver of paper from his notebook. Slonský took it, glanced at the total and repaid Krob for the biscuits.
‘I’ll get my expenses quicker than you, and with less argument.’
Slonský tried to address the witnesses, but they were too busy haranguing Peiperová. Some wanted to go, whereas others were happy to stay if further coffee was likely to be forthcoming.
‘Quiet!’ yelled Slonský. ‘Thank you all for your assistance. The ladies can all go. Officer Peiperová and I will talk to each of the men as quickly as possible. Please give your names and addresses to Officer Krob while you’re waiting.’
Krob wondered whether this meant he had been involuntarily transferred to the criminal police, but the truth was much more prosaic. Slonský had merely taken his assistance for granted.
The crowd was dispersing. They had been questioned, and it was getting too dark for them to see what was going on in the road, so there was no point in staying. Novák had completed his work and had supervised the removal of Holoubek’s body. Despite Slonský’s scepticism a trio of scenes of crime technicians had appeared and were combing the road surface. The traffic diversion was working as smoothly as could be hoped so Štajnhauzr was ready to leave the scene and belatedly end his shift.
‘Štajnhauzr,’ Slonský called. ‘Could you do me a favour?’
‘If I can, Lieutenant.’
‘Could you drop Officer Peiperová back at her barracks? She’ll give you the address.’
Štajnhauzr agreed readily, and Peiperová thanked Slonský. Although exhilarated by her first real case, she was dead on her feet.
‘I’ll see you at seven,’ said Slonský. ‘Wear civvies. We’re going to find Holoubek’s flat and search it, so dress appropriately.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Peiperová was about to salute, but recognised just in time that saluting when you are in plain clothes looks silly. She followed Štajnhauzr to his car and left Slonský to have a few words with Novák.
‘Anything useful on the wheel?’
‘Yes, a plastic bag, and it’s staying that way until I can get it back to the lab.’
‘Come on, Novák. It wouldn’t be hard to do a quick test for fingerprints.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Novák conceded, ‘but it might ruin other trace evidence, spoil the evidence trail, introduce contamination and make me even later for my supper than I already am.’
‘Do you want to pack up and join me for a beer and sausage somewhere?’
Novák looked Slonský in the eye. ‘Do I look like the sort of person who is devoted to beer and sausage?’
‘No,’ said Slonský, ‘but you could slum it for once. We don’t all sip kabinett Riesling and suck anchovies for fun.’
Novák looked at his watch.
‘All right. Just the one. You can have what you like, but we’re going somewhere that does a decent glass of red, and you’re paying.’
Slonský draped an arm round Novák’s shoulders.
‘Of course, old friend. You’ll enjoy it, trust me.’
‘Trust?’ stammered Novák. ‘You?’
‘I thought I might find you here,’ said Navrátil, who could not help noticing a number of beer glasses on the table, along with Novák’s head. ‘What happened to Novák?’
‘He’s tired,’ Slonský explained. ‘It’s lifting all those heavy glasses.’
‘Novák drank this much?’
‘No, Novák drank two glasses. With a teeny-weeny double schnapps in each.’
‘You spiked his drink?’
‘Of course not, Navrátil. What do you take me for? I ordered and he said “I’ll have what you’re having”, so he only has himself to blame.’
‘I thought Novák only drank wine.’
‘And from now on he probably will. But it’s been educational for him. He now knows what a beer tastes like.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Navrátil. ‘He knows what a beer tastes like after it’s been spiked with a double schnapps.’
‘Good point,’ agreed Slonský. ‘Now, are we going to engage in Jesuitical debate all night or have you got something for me?’
‘It was Vaněček’s house. He told his neighbour — a policeman called Majer — that he had been stitched up for crossing an StB operation.’
‘Holoubek said that.’
‘So he did. But the story Holoubek had isn’t the same as Majer tells. Holoubek said it was to do with currency offences, whereas Majer says it was an underground publishing press.’
Slonský shrugged his shoulders expansively. ‘Does it matter? And do we have any reason to favour one story over the other?’
‘Majer has a more detailed story.’
‘Maybe Majer just has a better imagination. Anything else?’
‘Majer doesn’t think Vaněček died in his garden. There’s no fence he could have fallen on.’
‘Isn’t now or wasn’t then?’
‘Both.’
Slonský gulped a large, satisfying mouthful.
‘I knew it. So who came for Vaněček?’
‘Probably StB. Majer knew nothing about it beforehand, so it’s unlikely to have been ordinary police.’
‘Hang fire, young Navrátil. We’d tell them now, but it didn’t always happen then. It’s suggestive, but not conclusive.’
‘Fair enough. But they came for him after he’d been retired a few months. He was telling everyone he’d been hard done by.’
‘Are you going to sit down? If you are, I’ll give you a hand to shift Novák.’
‘It’s all right, sir. I’ll get a stool.’
A waiter glided alongside the table.
‘A large glass for my young friend. Novák says he has had enough. And if you can persuade the horse to give another sample, you can refill that.’
Navrátil had his notebook open.
‘I wasn’t going to have a drink, sir.’
‘Nonsense. You can’t watch me drinking. I’ll feel lonely. And, as you know because I’ve told you so, beer is the essential lubricant that moves the cogs of the Slonský brain. Even that example of farmyard urine. Now, exercise your own brain. What could have provoked the StB to come back for Vaněček after he had retired? For some reason, they wanted him removed. They’d be pushing on an open door with the police force then, because that’s what most police seem to have wanted too. But they’d achieved that. Why do they need to beat him up and kill him?’
‘Was the killing an accident, or deliberate?’
Slonský mulled it over.
‘Holoubek didn’t voice any suspicions, and he knew more than we do. Maybe it was just an interrogation that went wrong.’
‘And the suspect ended up dead?’
‘Oh, it happened all the time, lad. You didn’t know he had a dicky heart, or sometimes they did themselves in for fear of further pain.’
‘How could they do that? Weren’t they searched for anything that could harm them?’
‘Yes, but I’ve known one throw himself down a stairwell. Mucha will recall that one; if I remember rightly he was at the foot of the stairs when the fellow landed. Do we know where Vaněček was buried?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Find out first thing tomorrow. If it’s a grand affair it was probably an accident. When it’s deliberate th
ey don’t care what people think of the headstone.’
Navrátil noted the order on his pad.
‘So they remove him,’ Slonský continued, ‘but they give him a smart house in the country outside Prague. That looks to me like an endgame. That’s saying to Vaněček “This is where it stops, so make the most of your new home, because you’re history now.” Then two or three months later they’re back to give him a hard time.’
‘Majer says he’d been writing letters and mouthing off trying to get himself reinstated.’
‘Then he really was as big an idiot as Holoubek said. But they could have ignored that. In those days he wouldn’t get an audience if they didn’t want him to. So we’re drawn to the conclusion that Vaněček knew something and was threatening to reveal it. And that might be about the Válková case, or it might not. We’ll have to see what Vaněček was up to during that time that could account for it. First thing tomorrow see if his personnel file is still in existence. I doubt it, but these things get overlooked.’
‘I thought I was looking for his grave first thing tomorrow?’
‘You are. And you’re looking for his personnel record. You’ll have to learn to multitask if you’re going to make it to the top, lad.’
‘Can you multitask then, sir?’
‘Yes. I can drink coffee and write out your dismissal notice at the same time. Now, drink up your beer and then you can help me get Novák to your car. You can drop him off on your way home.’
‘Where does he live, sir?’
‘I don’t know, Navrátil. You’ll have to find out. That’s what being a detective is all about.’
Chapter 7
It was ten to seven, and Peiperová was standing in front of Slonský’s desk.
‘Sit down, girl, and stop making the place look untidy. Untidier than it actually is, anyway.’
‘Thank you, sir. Where, sir?’
‘Have Navrátil’s chair. He’s going to be a few minutes late today. It seems one of his drinking companions spent the night on his sofa and he has to take him home first.’