The Josef Slonský Box Set

by Graham Brack

  Navrátil accepted the challenge. He watched patiently for a while before triumphantly pointing along the street to his left.

  ‘There! The woman in the wine-coloured coat.’

  Slonský took a brief look and sniffed.

  ‘Obviously a foreigner, Navrátil.’

  He left the room before Navrátil could argue.

  Slonský was in a quandary. The canteen had run out of anything containing meat. There was an egg roll, and several types of salad, some of which contained bits of meat, but he risked inadvertently eating something green in trying to pick them out. Not only that, but the lady behind the counter advised them not to touch the pastries, which were two days old.

  ‘The salad is very fresh,’ she said.

  ‘I went straight from breast milk to meat,’ said Slonský.

  ‘Well, I’m not giving you breast milk and we’re out of meat,’ came the reply.

  The queue was growing restless. There was only Navrátil in it, but he was restless enough for any number of others.

  ‘Out of meat? What sort of canteen runs out of meat?’ whined Slonský.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the assistant, and returned in a few moments with a hunk of salami and a bread roll.

  ‘Bless you, Anna,’ Slonský whispered. ‘I was just telling Navrátil that a good Czech woman looks after her man’s stomach.’

  Anna smiled.

  ‘You also said that Czech women sag — ouch!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Navrátil. Was that your shin? Don’t hold the queue up, lad. Grab your coffee and pay up.’

  No sooner had they taken their seats than Mucha beckoned from the doorway. Slonský beckoned him in return. This continued until Mucha gave in.

  ‘Novák says you’re to come and get it.’

  ‘The little devil. Usually he plays hard to get.’

  ‘He also says he can’t take it out of the building so get your backside in gear and get over there before he goes home at five.’

  ‘Clock watcher. Navrátil, ask Anna to put these coffees in a takeaway cup. I’ll eat my sandwich while you’re driving.’

  ‘And what will I do with this?’ asked Navrátil, indicating his half-eaten egg roll.

  ‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll heave it in a bin and get something edible. Come along, lad, we can’t keep Novák waiting.’

  Novák peered at them over his glasses.

  ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘I’m the detective,’ said Slonský. ‘You’re not trained for it.’

  ‘True. But if I’m signing stuff out of the archive that has a bad smell about it I want to know what it’s all about before I hand it over. And I have the upper hand because I have the file.’

  Slonský reached inside his coat and pointed his gun at Novák.

  ‘And I have this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t pull the trigger,’ Novák scoffed.

  Before Navrátil could stop him, Slonský pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud click.

  ‘You complete idiot!’ yelled Novák. ‘It’s just as well I’ve got iron bowel control. That could have been loaded.’

  ‘It is loaded,’ said Slonský. ‘But the safety catch is on.’

  Novák snatched the gun.

  ‘Slonský, the safety on this model disengages when you grip hard and pull the trigger.’

  ‘Does it? I forgot that. Just as well that I also forgot to load it, then.’

  Novák held it sideways to remove the magazine, and was rewarded by seeing Navrátil dive towards the ground.

  ‘Navrátil? What are you doing?’

  ‘Saying a Hail Mary,’ was the reply.

  ‘I’ve been shot,’ Slonský announced, ‘and it’s not so bad.’

  ‘You have? Where?’

  ‘In a warehouse,’ said Slonský. ‘And I was not running away from the enemy, whatever anyone tells you. It was a ricochet.’

  Novák handed the disarmed gun back.

  ‘It wouldn’t be a great feat of marksmanship to hit your backside, Slonský.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Slonský, ‘but it was round a corner. I wouldn’t have minded, but it was a police bullet. And they wanted to charge me for a new pair of trousers.’

  Novák opened the dog-eared file.

  ‘First things first. He didn’t die on 24th May. It was the 28th.’

  ‘But his police file says he died on the 24th.’

  ‘No doubt it does. But the local police at Zdiby found him in his garden on the 28th.’

  ‘Couldn’t they tell he’d been dead four days?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘Apparently not. They remarked on the absence of rigor mortis, but that had passed off by the time he was found. The photographs of the body are monochrome, but you can clearly see that his face is livid. There’s simply no way he could have died in the posture in which he was found, propped up on a loose fence post, which, incidentally, doesn’t match any of the others in the garden. He died lying face down. I’d guess he was injured and thrown on a cot with his head hanging over the edge. The actual cause of death was a series of blows to the chest. The fifth to seventh ribs on the left side were all broken and the skin was pierced. But you can see from this picture that the skin was pierced from the inside by a piece of rib, rather than from the outside by a fence stake. It looks as if he suffered from a flail chest. The ribs broke in two places so that whole segment of ribcage wouldn’t move when he breathed. There’s a pleural tear as well.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘The pleura is the sac inside the chest. If the broken rib rips it, the lung on that side has trouble filling and air can enter the chest cavity. It’s painful and it’s life threatening. Without serious medical care he’d have less than a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.’

  ‘And the cover story is nonsense?’

  ‘Unless the fence wore boots, complete bunkum. I’d say Vaněček was kicked repeatedly while he was lying on the ground, then dumped on his bed to die.’

  ‘And the pathologist said that too?’

  ‘That’s the interesting bit. He obviously knew the truth, but he didn’t dare tell it, so he was crafty. He wrote what he was told to write, but he left plenty of clues to those of us who know these things so we could see plainly that he knew what really happened. Look here, for example. He measured the top of the fence post and notes that it was eighty-three millimetres in diameter. But he puts that in table 5 and immediately below he notes that the wound he labelled C measures 117mm across. He’s telling us that the post can’t have made that wound. Again here, he notes that the body was found on 28th May and that death must have been a little before that, but he says he knows this because there were only early signs of skin blistering. But skin blistering happens around day five after death. He knows the death occurred on the 23rd or 24th.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a risky thing to do, sir?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘Very risky,’ Novák replied. ‘He must have known that his work could be reviewed by a second pathologist who could have shopped him. But if it was, nothing seems to have been said. The file was put away, and until today that’s where it has been.’

  Slonský was leafing through the file slowly.

  ‘Bastards,’ he said finally. ‘This wasn’t an interrogation. This was a punishment killing. I thought they’d accidentally killed him, but it’s clear they didn’t expect him ever to leave alive. They wanted it to look like an accident, but you can’t accidentally kick a man to death. They didn’t want him to go to trial, so they didn’t need to charge him, because a charge would be irrelevant anyway. Whatever Vaněček was saying, they weren’t going to let him go on saying it.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’ demanded Novák.

  ‘Good question. But we’ve got some names.’

  ‘Have we, sir?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘We know who signed the witness statements. That’s your next job, lad. Decipher the signatures and see if they’re still alive. The pensions office may help ag
ain.’

  ‘Surely you’ll never get a conviction after all this time, Slonský,’ said Novák.

  ‘Perhaps not. But when I look them in the eye, they’ll know that I’ll know, and I’ll make sure they never forget I know. I want them to toss and turn every night for the rest of their lives.’

  Slonský marched through the door and indicated the clock over Mucha’s counter.

  ‘Time you went home, lad. Have the weekend off. On Monday, find those StB hoodlums. And have a look through that file Mucha gave me. You may spot something I’ve missed.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. Have a good weekend.’

  ‘I won’t. Remind Peiperová I’ll see her at seven to drive to Slovakia.’

  ‘I will if I see her, sir.’

  ‘“If I see her”? Of course you’ll see her. Around six o’clock on Sunday evening, I’d guess.’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘Because she won’t be able to escape from her family until late on Sunday afternoon, but her mother will accept that she wants to get back to Prague before dark. Then all you need is a knowledge of the train times from Kladno and it’s pretty elementary, really.’

  Mucha coughed loudly.

  ‘Sorry, Navrátil, one of the servants is trying to attract my attention. What is it, Mucha?’

  Mucha adopted the fawning posture of a peasant addressing his lord, his eyes fixed on the floor and his head bowed.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s somebody waiting here to see you.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘It’s a lady,’ said Mucha, tipping his head to one side to indicate a woman in a cheap raincoat sitting on the bench against the wall.

  Slonský scrutinised her closely.

  ‘That’s not a lady. That’s my wife.’

  Chapter 10

  Věra Slonská stirred her coffee slowly. It contained more sugar than was good for her.

  ‘Still got your sweet tooth, then?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s my only vice.’

  ‘Apart from running off with second rate poets, that is.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. No need to tell everyone.’

  ‘Really?’ Slonský boomed. ‘Don’t you want people to know you dumped your husband to shag some greasy slimeball?’

  ‘All right, I can understand you’re upset.’

  ‘Upset? I lost two years of my life to the bottle. I finished up in a one-room flat on my own for thirty-five years so I think I’m entitled to be upset.’

  ‘You could have found someone else. Someone better than me.’

  ‘That’s true. There’s no shortage of women better than you, but I didn’t realise that at the time. I was heartbroken and you didn’t care.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘You mean you were dancing in the nude and accidentally fell onto his penis?’

  Věra pulled a handkerchief from the cuff of her blouse and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘I know I did wrong. I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me. Can’t we be a bit more civilised about it?’

  Slonský bit his lip.

  ‘I’ll try. Why hunt me out now after all these years?’

  Věra sipped her coffee and replaced it delicately on her saucer before speaking.

  ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t just one out of work poet but an entire writers’ workshop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were always a lesbian?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I give up.’

  She took a deep breath. The canteen was a very public place for this sort of discussion but Slonský had refused to go anywhere more private, claiming that she would pretend to have been attacked if there were no witnesses.

  ‘My relationship with Petr didn’t last long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A bit less than a year.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that? Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Nobody else?’

  ‘I was wounded. I understand what I did to you because he did it to me. He took me skiing in the Tatras and walked out. I had to find the money for the hotel bill. I sold my wedding ring.’

  ‘Some justice in that, I suppose.’

  ‘Josef, I was miserable. Have some compassion. I knew you wouldn’t have me back and I knew I’d been incredibly stupid and ruined it all.’

  Slonský pushed a crumb round his plate with his fingertip.

  ‘You don’t know that because you didn’t ask.’

  ‘I didn’t need to ask. You made it very clear what you thought of me when I was packing. As I recall words like slut, whore and scumbag were used.’

  ‘Nothing personal. I say that to all the wives who leave me.’

  ‘I got a job as a filing clerk and tried to start again. But I never found a man to settle down with. They just wanted a fling. I wanted to put down roots.’

  ‘Was this in Prague?’

  ‘Not at first. I worked in Slovakia for a while, but my mother was ill, so I came home to Prague. I thought I might go to one of the places we used to go to see if I could bump into you, but then I remembered how angry you’d been and it didn’t seem like a good idea. After Mum died, I moved out of town and got a flat.’

  ‘So what made you come back now?’

  ‘I saw an article in the newspaper about you and that German banker. There was a photograph of you. You haven’t changed much.’

  ‘Of course I have. I’m around fifteen kilos heavier for a start.’

  ‘Twenty-five, probably. But your eyes are the same. And while I said some spiteful things about you, I knew you were one of the few honest policemen in town. I never doubted that, Josef.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate your endorsement. But it still doesn’t explain why you came to find me.’

  ‘I have a confession to make. There’s something I didn’t tell you that you have a right to know.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me I’ve got children?’

  ‘No, of course not. The thing is, we’re still married.’

  ‘What?’

  The small number of diners in the canteen turned instinctively to see what had happened.

  ‘What do you mean, we’re still married?’

  ‘Simple statement of fact, Josef. When Petr deserted me, our divorce had not come through, and I never completed it. Actually, I never got round to asking for one. I told you I had, but I hadn’t. You can check if you want.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. And you’re not getting half my pension.’

  ‘The only way I’d get anything is if you were killed in service, and then it wouldn’t matter to you.’

  ‘I’d rise from the grave to put a stop to it. Just because I’d be dead doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be bloody furious.’

  ‘I don’t want your money. I wanted to tell you where we stood in case you’d found someone else and had inadvertently been a bigamist. I’d have put things right for you if I could. Then I’d get out of your life again. Josef, I’m sorry for what happened and I know I can’t put it right now. I’d like us to be friends if we can, but I understand if that’s too difficult for you.’

  ‘Difficult? I wish it was impossible.’

  ‘You loved me once, Josef.’

  ‘I loved bootleg Barry Manilow recordings once, but I’ve grown up.’

  ‘Well, I’ve tried…’

  Věra picked up her handbag and turned to say goodbye, but Slonský was running to the door.

  ‘Stay there,’ he barked. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  Slonský was gone about twenty minutes, and when he returned he was flushed with excitement.

  ‘Sorry. Just needed to check something. Look, I need to get back to work. I really don’t know where we are. This has all come as a big shock to me. Leave me your address or phone number and I’ll give you a call in a few days. I’ve got a big case on and this isn’t the time to be making important decisions. Once it’s over, I’ll
give you a call.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Věra wrote her telephone number on a paper napkin, then put her coat on and picked up her handbag.

  ‘It’s good to see you. I thought you might hit me.’

  ‘I’ve never hit you. I don’t hit women and I despise men who do.’

  ‘I know. But nobody ever provoked you like I did.’

  ‘True. But that still doesn’t justify hitting a woman. You know what I always used to say. A gentleman wouldn’t hit a lady, so any man who does can’t be a gentleman, therefore…’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to keep his gentleman’s parts. See, I do remember. Goodbye, Josef. Don’t forget to call.’

  ‘Goodbye, Věra.’

  He walked her to the door, waved one last time, and walked back to his office, lobbing the crumpled napkin into a waste bin as he did so.

  Personnel would have a lot to answer for if Slonský were in charge. Fancy leaving a door unlocked. Well, not unlocked exactly. Just locked with a lock that was so basic a passing stranger with a picklock could open it really easily.

  Slonský had been here a few times on disciplinary matters, so he knew his way round quite well. The filing cabinets filled a wall in the back office. Although all new records were kept electronically, they had never quite got round to entering all the old paper records into the computer system. Slonský’s own record was still partly on paper, but he resisted the urge to edit it. However you looked at it, his presence in the personnel department after hours with the lights off would take some explaining. He would come up with something — he always did — but it was not easy to think what that might be.

  He found the folder he wanted and scanned the postings its subject had held. From 1972 to 1974 he had been at a listening station keeping an eye on the Americans. It was obvious, once you knew what to look for.

  He returned the folder to its drawer, switched off his flashlight, and opened the office door just enough to slip outside, shutting it with a gentle click as he did so. He finally exhaled, turned, and found himself face to face with Navrátil.

  ‘Jesus Mary! You made me jump. What are you doing here?’