by Graham Brack
‘I understand you wish to speak to me about an early case of mine,’ Pilik began.
‘Yes, minister,’ agreed Lukas. ‘The defence of a man named Bartoš.’
Pilik nodded in recognition.
‘Not a case I like to remember.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Slonský, earning himself a stamp on the instep from Lukas.
‘You’ll realise it was a long time ago. One of my very first cases, in fact, and the only client I’ve ever had executed. And, of course, since the Czech Republic no longer has capital punishment, the only one I will ever have.’
‘I suppose as Minister of the Interior you could bring it back, sir.’
‘I could try — if I had the inclination, which I haven’t. I haven’t had it since Bartoš hanged, in fact.’
Lukas did not like the turn the conversation was taking, and intervened to bring it back to safer territory.
‘May I ask how you were appointed to the case, minister?’
‘I’d been in practice only a few months. I had a telephone call saying that Bartoš needed a court-appointed lawyer, and I was next on the list of possibles.’
‘Surely a more experienced advocate should have been selected for a murder trial, sir?’
‘But it wasn’t a murder trial,’ Pilik explained. ‘When I was appointed it was about a series of burglaries. Bartoš was living in Olomouc, but it seemed that he had come to Prague and conducted a string of break-ins. He admitted some but of course he had no real idea where he had robbed. He just walked around the streets looking for likely targets. The police tried to get him to confess to a list of places. Bartoš was sent over to Prague and I went to see him. I think I was allowed about fifteen minutes with him.’
‘That’s not very long, sir.’
‘No, it isn’t, Captain. He agreed that he had confessed to burglaries in a couple of places and he hoped I could get him some allowance for having pleaded guilty. I said I would try, but that wasn’t guaranteed — some judges would inflate the sentence so that they could take off the allowance and it would make no real difference. Then I had a message to say the trial would start in two days and that Bartoš had been charged with murder because a young woman had been killed at one of the houses he’d confessed to burgling.’
Slonský pulled his chair forward to get nearer to his prey.
‘How could he confess, sir? He couldn’t read and write.’
The minister looked acutely uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t know that then. I’d never had a client who couldn’t read before. And he didn’t say anything about that. It was only after he had been sentenced that one of the policemen asked me why I hadn’t questioned the confession.’
‘That policeman wasn’t a man called Holoubek, was it?’
‘I don’t know. It may have been. The name rings a bell.’
‘The newspaper accounts of the trial say that Bartoš kicked up when he heard the charges. Was that the first he knew of them?’
‘Probably. I hadn’t been allowed to see him again. Bartoš can’t have known that I’d tried. He shouted one or two very unpleasant things at me.’
‘I’m not surprised, sir. The prospect of getting your neck stretched tends to put social graces out of your mind.’
‘I did the best I could, Lieutenant. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do better now, but given the poor hand I was dealt, I tried hard to shake the police case. But the judges kept coming back to the confession. The verdict was inevitable. In those days it was often decided before you got into court anyway.’
‘And when Holoubek told you about the confession, what did you do?’
‘Well, of course I went straight to the President of the Court. He was a monster. He said it would be an unnecessary embarrassment to socialist justice if the verdict were shaken in any way, and that for the sake of my career I should let things lie. In any event, he said, it was futile because he happened to know the execution had been carried out. I protested that the date set was still a few days away, but he said that the date was “an administrative decision” that the governor of the jail could vary. Pankrác needed the space so the governor had cleared the cell.’
‘“Cleared the cell”? Is that what they called hanging an innocent man then?’
Pilik was now acutely uncomfortable.
‘It’s not my choice of words. And while he may not have signed the confession, we don’t know that he didn’t do it.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Slonský snapped. ‘He had the best possible alibi. He was already in jail when the murder happened.’
Pilik went pale. Lukas wondered whether he was about to faint and looked around for a bottle of brandy.
‘In jail?’
‘In Olomouc.’
‘But surely the police must have known that?’
‘They did. Why didn’t you?’
‘Nobody told me,’ wailed Pilik. ‘They just told me he’d been arrested there and returned for questioning. They didn’t tell me he had an alibi.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they, sir? Even a complete beginner like you might have got him off if they had.’
Pilik winced involuntarily.
‘I recognise that this incident doesn’t show me in the best possible light,’ he began.
‘No, you’re right there, sir,’ Slonský confirmed.
‘But it was a long time ago. Things have changed here since. You’re old enough to remember what it was like. If someone wanted him convicted there wasn’t a lot I could have done.’
‘No,’ agreed Slonský, ‘but you could at least have tried.’
Lukas was starting to feel a little wan himself, and he still could not see any brandy. He ran a finger inside his collar which felt rather tight.
‘The thing is, sir,’ Slonský continued, ‘the case has been reopened and is likely to be quite a sensation in the press. Whatever we think of what happened, you should prepare yourself for some awkward questions from the media.’ He stood abruptly, causing Lukas to follow suit. ‘Thank you for your time, sir. We’ll see ourselves out.’
As they walked back to Lukas’s car Slonský strode out forcefully, causing Lukas to trot at intervals to keep up.
‘Do you really think the press might get hold of this?’ Lukas enquired.
‘I’m sure of it, sir. You know how they like embarrassing people in power.’
‘Of course, we must not fetter the press,’ Lukas mumbled. Slonský knew what was coming next. ‘But the police don’t come out of this too favourably either. How will we handle that?’
Slonský stopped. ‘I could brief the press first, before they hear somewhere else.’
‘Out of the question! We can’t draw attention to this. Most embarrassing.’
‘How about I prepare a briefing sheet that throws all the blame on the StB? Just in case.’
‘Do you think we could?’
‘Well, they get the blame for everything else. They’ll be used to it by now, sir.’
‘But do the facts bear that interpretation?’
‘Oh, I think they could, sir.’
‘Well, Slonský, let’s hope that the press show no interest. We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Yes, sir. Fingers crossed.’
‘This is good stuff,’ agreed Valentin. ‘Minister of the Interior lets a client hang because he forgets to ask if he can read and write. I can see the headlines now — “What kind of nincompoop do we have running Law and Order?”’
‘That’s good. I like that,’ said Slonský. ‘Another?’
‘Go on then, if you’re paying.’
‘I thought you were taking your earnings to the bank twice a day in a wheelbarrow now.’
‘Things are better, there’s no denying it. But the big money is in television. I do all right. And this little beauty should snag me a bit extra.’
‘Just hang on until after Monday so I get to Bartoš’ mother first. I want her to hear from me before she reads anything in the paper
s.’
‘It’s a deal. Though if he couldn’t read, what’s the chances that his mother will be able to?’
‘Fair point.’
‘How are your little turtle doves?’ Valentin asked.
‘I’m keeping them apart. Navrátil is at the Archives wading through mountains of StB papers. That should occupy him for a day or two. Peiperová has gone home for the weekend. I try to keep her out of the office. That way I don’t have to look at Navrátil’s bushbaby impersonation. Plus she doesn’t actually have a desk.’
‘Cunning,’ said Valentin approvingly.
‘I like to think so,’ Slonský smiled.
Chapter 9
The Slovak police were fascinated to hear from Slonský. In no time at all he was put through to the chief of the City Police, who was polite and keen to be helpful, qualities that would have rendered him utterly unsuitable for employment in Prague.
Slonský asked whether they could ascertain if Mrs Bartošová were still alive and still lived at the address Slonský had. Within moments both had been confirmed. Slonský was impressed with their filing system, until the chief explained that the Bartoš family were well known to the police, having been what are euphemistically called ‘service users’ for many years past. Every policeman in Dolný Kubín knew where the various Bartoš family members lived. They actually lived a little way out of the main part of town, which was a blessing because there was only one route they could reasonably take to get home with their swag. The chief had heard of the hanging but it did not seem to have changed the family’s ways.
‘I need to interview Mrs Bartošová about her son’s conviction. Would you be able to send an officer to ensure everything is done properly?’
‘Of course. Drop in at the police station as you go through and I’ll send someone to guide you and interpret.’
‘Don’t they speak Slovak?’
‘Yes, they speak Slovak, but they’ll probably pretend they don’t understand Czech. And their dialect is a little difficult to follow sometimes. If you shake hands with them, count your fingers afterwards.’
‘Thanks for the tip. I’m bringing a young policewoman with me, Officer Peiperová.’
‘Tell her to wear trousers. The Bartoš house is no place to wear a skirt.’
‘Then I’ll change my wardrobe plans. See you on Monday afternoon.’
Navrátil had expected his search of the StB archive to be achingly boring and unproductive, and he was not disappointed. For a few hours he found nothing but dead ends. It was clear that Vaněček and the StB were not on each other’s’ Christmas card lists, because the files held a number of vituperative and pompous memoranda from the former and some frosty replies from the latter. There were also some notes from various StB personnel to Tripka asking him why he could not control Vaněček better. Tripka replied to one that he was in a dilemma, because Vaněček was a superior officer but he did not always appreciate the wider importance of StB work, so he had consciously withheld some operational material from him for fear that he would impede the investigation. When Vaněček found this out, there had been a very difficult interview with Tripka being threatened with a transfer to the border police. Another exchange caused Navrátil more concern. It looked as if the StB had flooded an area of Prague with prostitutes in order to trap Western businessmen attending a large conference, but Tripka had not told Vaněček. There had been a sharp increase in pickpocketing and Vaněček, who was looking after security for the conference, had ordered the area cleared. The prostitutes were rounded up and taken into custody. The StB had protested and Vaněček, instead of answering them, had taken his complaint directly to the minister, arguing that these tactics would give the Communist system unwanted bad publicity in the West and should be outlawed. To the StB’s surprise the minister, who — as Vaněček knew well — was something of a puritan, had agreed and had instructed them that this sort of provocative action must cease at once. However, his letter had been annotated ‘Be more careful!’ by some StB hand and there was no sign that the security police had paid any heed to it.
It was not until late afternoon that Navrátil finally located a file that related to the arrest and interrogation of Vaněček in 1979. It was surprisingly thin, but that proved to be due to substantial editing over the years that had removed some of the pages. Nevertheless, he settled down to read it and make some notes.
The top of Navrátil’s pencil was soggy, always a sign of deep cogitation. He had scoured the files and kept coming to the same conclusion. There was no reason in those files for anyone to arrest Vaněček. Certainly that had changed. There were a number of file notes concerning ‘Statements made by the witness Vaněček’ which later became ‘Statements made by the prisoner Vaněček’, but those were things he had said after he was detained. Navrátil could find no reason why he might have been arrested in the first place. There was no warrant, no preparatory papers, and indeed the matter did not seem to have been discussed beforehand.
‘So they just pulled him in?’ said Slonský.
‘It looks that way.’
‘Well, there’s a conundrum, then. Even in those days just arresting people at random and beating them to death in custody was frowned upon a bit.’
‘Sir, was he arrested? This bit about “the witness Vaněček” puzzles me. Did he come in voluntarily as a witness?’
Slonský considered for a few moments.
‘He’d have had to come in voluntarily a few times, wouldn’t he? He doesn’t become “the prisoner Vaněček” until the fourth or fifth statement. But I suppose he might have made a complaint that was turned against him. What are the statements about?’
‘In the later ones, it looks like Vaněček is defending himself against a suggestion that he has deliberately fouled up StB operations. He keeps saying that he didn’t do A, B or C. But in the first couple it’s about what he was told and when. There’s a piece here where he’s arguing that these allegations have already been investigated and he was exonerated.’
‘And was he?’
‘Nobody seems to have checked.’
‘But is there ever a specific charge mentioned — any hint that they planned to take him to trial?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘And no report on his death?’
‘Just a file note to say that it happened. 24th May, 1979.’
Showing an unaccustomed display of energy, Slonský picked up the phone and dialled a number he must have known by heart.
‘Novák.’
‘You certainly are. You know you’re my favourite state pathologist and I’ve often said you are a pivotal figure in our fight against crime?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Your inestimable assistance once more. A policeman called Vaněček died on 24th May, 1979. He allegedly had an accident in his garden, which we know can’t have happened. Presumably an unexpected death would have triggered an autopsy?’
‘I know where you’re going. It would only have triggered an autopsy if he was found in his garden. If something happened to him in custody they wouldn’t have called us, would they?’
‘No, I grant that. But why come up with the garden story — which, incidentally anyone with half a brain would know was untrue; even Navrátil spotted that — unless they intended him to be found well away from StB headquarters in some safe place like, say, his garden?’
‘Then the local police would have taken a look at it, and called your lot if they were suspicious.’
‘And if they were too thick to be suspicious?’
‘They’d have called us, I suppose. Or, conceivably, just sent for an ambulance to shift the body and the hospital he was taken to would have called us.’
‘Then, just possibly, somewhere in your archive…’
‘Slonský! Do you have any idea how many files there are in our archives?’
‘No,’ said the detective. ‘I bet you haven’t either. Let me guess — a hundred and two?’
‘More th
an that.’
‘Two hundred and sixty-eight?’
‘Stop playing games. It’ll take an age.’
‘You’ve got a name and a date. Presumably there’s an index. And young Navrátil is sitting here looking bored and would be very happy to come down and help you find it.’
There was the deepest of sighs at the end of the line.
‘I’ll see what I can find. I’ll call you back.’
‘Wonderful. Don’t forget Navrátil goes home at five.’
Slonský dropped the receiver and beamed at Navrátil.
‘When do I ever get to go home at five?’
‘Poetic licence. And I didn’t say whether it was p.m. or a.m.’
‘Are you going to make me work all night like you did…’
‘Enough. That was a mistake. And the girl has a tongue in her head, as I suspect you’re set fair to discover for the rest of your life.’
‘Nothing like that is planned. We’re still getting to know each other.’
‘Can she cook?’
Navrátil was nonplussed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? The single most important fact about a future wife and you don’t know?’
‘It’s not been high on my list of priorities.’
‘Then bump it up, lad. Looks don’t last, but cookery skills do. When everything is beginning to sag and she’s covered in crow’s feet you’ll be able to content yourself with the thought that she can still turn out a good svíčková.’
‘She’s a long way from sagging yet, sir.’
‘Ah, you think that, but it creeps up on you, son. That’s the odd thing about Czech women. For years they’re tall and blonde and good-looking, then you go out for a beer and when you come back they’ve dropped ten centimetres and developed a backside like a carthorse.’
‘Sir, you can teach me about a lot of things, but I’m not sure you’re an authority on Czech women. After all, you’ve been divorced a long time.’
‘I haven’t played hockey for thirty years but I still know what a goal looks like. Look out of that window and show me a single good-looking older Czech woman.’