The Josef Slonský Box Set

by Graham Brack

  The printer churned out a second list, this time for Nejedlý. Carefully selecting a lime green highlighter, Klinger set himself to comparing the journeys. There were several occasions when both Nejedlý and Smejkal had been out of the country at the same time, though they had never travelled together. But on the fifth of May Smejkal had taken a flight to Belgrade and had not returned until the tenth; meanwhile Nejedlý had crossed a land border leaving the EU in Hungary to go into Serbia on the seventh. Unfortunately there was no clear re-entry point for the return, but he had used a credit card to buy an Austrian toll road token on the ninth.

  Klinger calculated the mileage and estimated the driving time. It was certainly possible for them to have met up. Was this the link they had been looking for? Savović finds the girls and passes them to Nejedlý. He knows the police are onto him so he wants to leave Bosnia for a while, so Nejedlý introduced him to Smejkal and they all meet up in Belgrade. A couple of months later Savović leaves Bosnia and sets up in Prague in a building that Smejkal frequents. I wonder if he owns it?, pondered Klinger.

  Navrátil stared gloomily into his coffee cup.

  ‘Cheer up, Navrátil! They’ll give you a wide berth if they see you again.’

  ‘More likely they’ll shoot first and take no chances,’ grumbled Navrátil.

  ‘Well, there is that possibility,’ Slonský conceded, ‘but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, how does that list help?’

  ‘I was hoping you were going to tell us that, sir,’ Peiperová replied. ‘I thought you had a reason for wanting it.’

  ‘No, I just wanted the hooligan occupied while Navrátil had a look round. I thought anything involving writing was bound to be slow. What did you find, lad?’

  ‘I didn’t really know what I was looking for,’ Navrátil explained.

  ‘Well, did you find any girls?’

  ‘No, there was nobody. There must be some Bosnians or Serb girls because there were women’s magazines in the Cyrillic alphabet lying around.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘None of them was dated after September.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘And there’s a back door that opens onto an alley. As you come out, it’s blind to the left but it opens alongside the front door.’

  ‘Building opposite?’

  ‘Looks like a shop with offices above. The offices have a door opening onto the alley.’

  ‘Good. So if we need to sneak in the back way we know how to do it.’

  ‘There’s no handle on the back door from the outside, sir. Someone has to let you in. It’s one of those fire doors with a push bar.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘But unfortunately someone has carelessly broken the peg at the top of the door that keeps it shut, sir,’ said Navrátil, who curiously had that very peg in his hand and was displaying it for all to see.

  ‘Navrátil, you are destined for high things in this police force. Peiperová, if you don’t come to your senses soon and give him the heave-ho, you’re going to spend your future sewing increasing amounts of gold braid on his uniforms.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be sewing braid on mine, sir. It’s an age of equality.’

  ‘So it is, and quite right too.’ Slonský leaned over and whispered to Navrátil. ‘I bet she can get one down each trouser leg, lad. Watch yourself.’

  Klinger was puzzled. The building was not owned by Smejkal, which helped to explain why it was in relatively good repair. Moreover, unlike Slonský he had managed to get some useful information about Savović from Bosnian colleagues.

  ‘So basically they don’t know why they’re after him, but they just wanted to know what he was up to?’ Slonský snarled.

  ‘That’s about it,’ agreed Klinger. ‘Savović is a well-known bad boy, who probably has a warehouse or two of ex-army supplies.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Weapons, but also an awful lot of canned food, I hear.’

  ‘A useful person to know if you want to corner the cling peaches market, then.’

  Klinger tipped the last of his espresso into his mouth with a flourish of his little finger. ‘I think they’re more concerned about the weapons than they are about the cling peaches, Slonský.’

  ‘How times change. In the nineties they had plenty of weapons but cling peaches were like gold dust.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not a devotee of canned food myself.’

  ‘Not now, perhaps, but think of those decades when we lived on tinned sauerkraut.’

  ‘I would very much rather not think of those decades and especially not of tinned sauerkraut.’

  Slonský drained his mug. ‘Where’s your sense of Czech heritage, man?’

  Klinger smiled thinly. ‘I place more emphasis on Dvořák, Janáček and Martinů than on sauerkraut as components of Czech heritage, Slonský.’

  ‘You can’t have been as hungry as I was in the sixties. You can’t eat a Dvořák.’

  ‘Undoubtedly true, but irrelevant. Now, to return to the point, Savović has not cleared all his bank accounts, so our colleagues in Sarajevo plainly expect him to return at some point in the future.’

  ‘Any idea how much he has grabbed?’

  ‘Around four million Euros, they think, leaving about six behind him.’

  ‘Four million Euros? You can buy a lot of tinned peaches with that.’

  ‘A possible, but improbable, use of the money,’ Klinger pronounced.

  ‘So do you have any idea what he could be spending it on?’

  Klinger made a steeple out of his fingers and held them in front of his lips for a moment to signify deep thought. ‘Of course, there’s always arms and drugs. But, speaking as an economist, those markets are already well-supplied and there are significant barriers to market entry.’

  ‘He’s got plenty of cash.’

  ‘I was thinking more of the likelihood of being found in a ditch with a bullet through one’s head. Savović has bodyguards but he could never win a turf war against the existing barons who would combine to stamp out interference in their nicely sewn-up market.’

  ‘We know he’s in cahoots with a sex trafficker.’

  Klinger shook his head. ‘We suspect, but we don’t know. But even if he is, it won’t give him a return on that amount of money. There just aren’t enough people who want Bosnian women.’

  ‘Not who are prepared to pay, anyway,’ Slonský agreed.

  ‘That leaves property. Savović could be trafficking with Nejedlý but using most of his money to bankroll Smejkal. Smejkal would have no difficulty in finding a profitable use for four million Euros, especially if they had not been declared to the tax authorities so the interest rate demanded is likely to be lower than the banks would expect to pay. Unless it’s an interest-free, profit-sharing arrangement, I suppose.’

  Slonský shook his head slowly. ‘No, I can’t see it. In time, perhaps; but I can’t imagine Savović handing over that sort of sum to someone he can only just have met. How does he know Smejkal isn’t going to run off with his cash? Even if he got a receipt, it’s not going to help a lot when Smejkal is sitting by a pool in Mauritius.’

  ‘He may not have handed it over yet. He may still be weighing up the deal.’

  ‘So there could be a big sack of Euros under his bed?’

  Klinger wiped his hands on a large white handkerchief. He always felt the need to do that when he came to Slonský’s office. ‘Actually, four million Euros doesn’t need a particularly large sack. You can calculate the size of a pile of four million Euros.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Slonský, always a stickler for accuracy. ‘You can.’

  ‘Well,’ Klinger responded, ‘let’s put it in simple terms for you. That box of paper by the printer holds two thousand five hundred sheets.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘The label on the side says so, Slonský. Use your eyes. If each of those sheets was a five hundred Euro note, a stack as tall as the box would amount to one and a quarter
million Euros. Now, we need to know the size of a five hundred Euro note. I don’t suppose you have one?’

  ‘Have one? I’ve never even seen one.’

  ‘No matter.’

  Klinger tapped a few keys on his mobile phone. ‘160 millimetres long by 82 wide,’ he said. ‘Whereas a sheet of A4 paper is 297 by 210 millimetres.’

  ‘You must be a wow at parties, Klinger. Imagine having all this at the tips of your fingers.’

  ‘I detect a measure of sarcasm in your tone which I shall ignore. Simple multiplication tells us that you could fit 4.75 such banknotes on a piece of A4 paper. Therefore that box of paper could contain the four stacks of banknotes necessary to constitute four million Euros.’ Klinger rose from his chair. ‘Slonský, however entertaining this demonstration, and however fascinating the whereabouts of that money may be to me, I don’t see how it will help you find the murderer of poor Hrdlička.’

  Slonský rocked back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly as the joints were strained. ‘People don’t generally kill other people for no reason. Somebody knew who Hrdlička was and why he was there. Somebody had something to hide. And the prime suspects must be Savović, Nejedlý and Smejkal. Find out what they were hiding, and we may discover why it was worth killing to keep it hidden.’

  Klinger acknowledged the logic with a pursing of his lips and returned to his office, taking care not to touch the doorknob of Slonský’s office with his bare hand, a ritual that Slonský found constantly entertaining.

  ‘Obsessed with hygiene,’ he muttered. ‘I wonder if he’s ever seen the showers in the basement?’

  He took a pair of scissors, a sheet of paper, a pencil and a ruler and set about trying to prove Klinger wrong.

  Peiperová and Navrátil had returned from their respective duties for a debrief at four o’clock as requested. Peiperová had managed to find and speak to some of the women on the list that she had compiled. None of them admitted to having seen Savović in Prague, but a couple were prepared to admit to having met him in Bosnia.

  ‘Will they give evidence that he brought them here?’ asked Slonský.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peiperová, ‘but it won’t help because they say he is just a travel agent.’

  ‘A travel agent?’

  ‘That’s right. They gave him money and he organised bus tickets and the necessary paperwork. They crossed into Serbia, then Hungary, Slovakia and so to Prague.’

  ‘What necessary paperwork?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘False passports.’

  ‘Isn’t that an unusual service for a travel agent to provide?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘It is,’ Slonský conceded, ‘but the offence doesn’t sound like it was committed here, so we can’t arrest him for it. We could deport the girls, but how does that help?’

  ‘And I suppose he’ll claim he didn’t know they were being imported for immoral purposes,’ Navrátil added.

  ‘He’ll probably tell us he thought they were a folk dancing troupe. Anyway, keep in touch with them, Peiperová. When they’re ready to talk, they’ll know who to come to. What sort of day have you had, Navrátil?’

  ‘I tracked down Mr Nejedlý. He claimed that he had been at a business meeting on Kampa Island.’

  ‘The other party confirm that?’

  ‘He can’t remember the other party’s name exactly. And he says the other chap suggested the bar as a venue. And he isn’t a frequent visitor to Kampa so he can’t remember the name of the bar, though he could probably take us there if asked. So I asked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The barman couldn’t swear to the time but was sure that Nejedlý was there at some time during the afternoon.’

  ‘Did he see the business acquaintance?’

  ‘No, they sat in one of the screened booths. He could see Nejedlý who was facing him, but not the other man. And he didn’t see them leave.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. They might not want to be seen leaving.’

  ‘So where does that get us, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think it clears Nejedlý. A very uncertain sighting earlier in the afternoon within easy walking distance of the murder scene isn’t convincing, lad.’

  Peiperová broke into the conversation. ‘If he was making it up, sir, surely he’d pick somewhere a bit further away than Kampa.’

  ‘Bluff and double bluff, lass. Maybe he was banking on us being dim enough to think a real criminal would place more distance between himself and the scene of the crime, whereas actually if he was on the other side of Prague we’d wonder why he just happened to be so far away. Oh, I wish criminals wouldn’t lie to us! It just makes a hard job completely impossible.’

  Chapter 4

  Slonský languidly stirred his coffee and glanced around the canteen. There was nobody he wanted to talk to, which was neatly symmetrical because nobody there wanted to talk to Slonský very much. Lieutenant Doležal was drinking a mint tea, which was the kind of thing you were reduced to when your doctor told you to cut out all forms of excitement, something which probably came easier to Doležal than anyone else. Even Klinger could get more animated, if he came across a particularly well laid out bank statement or a new shape of sticky thing to write notes on for his files.

  Doležal paused in mid-sip, suddenly uncomfortably aware that Slonský was looking at him. Feeling some response was required, Slonský raised his cup in a silent toast, which Doležal acknowledged with a dip of his head.

  ‘Dear God, don’t let him come over and talk to me,’ Slonský prayed.

  Doležal finished his tea and left.

  ‘My prayers are answered. Thank you, God,’ muttered Slonský.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Sergeant Mucha. ‘It’s always nice to be appreciated.’

  ‘You’re not the answer to anyone’s prayers,’ Slonský replied.

  ‘Well, you’re entitled to your opinion,’ said Mucha, ‘but my wife may disagree with you. She prayed for a lifelong scapegoat and here I am.’

  ‘Ah, but why are you here?’ asked Slonský.

  ‘Why are any of us here? It’s foxed better minds than mine. Personally I favour the hypothesis that God likes a laugh, but being omniscient he knows all the punchlines, so he put us here to give himself something to giggle over. Every so often he shakes things up a bit and then wets himself watching us trying to get out of the mess we’re in.’

  Slonský bit into his ham roll. ‘Were you taught by Jesuits?’

  ‘No. Do they go in for that line of thought?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I thought I’d ask. The alternative was a discussion based in the real world where I live and you’re an occasional visitor. So, I repeat, why are you here?’

  Mucha sat down and leaned forward. ‘The pertinent question is why you’re here. I’ve been sent to fetch you because Dr Novák is upstairs waiting.’

  ‘Damn! Forgot he was coming.’

  ‘It’s all right. He’s talking to Captain Lukas.’

  Slonský sprang to his feet. ‘Novák talking to Lukas is definitely not all right. How can I keep the upper hand over them if they can gang up on me?’ He pushed the roll into his mouth so he could carry his cup and open the doors on his way.

  As he left, Dumpy Anna called to Mucha, ‘I know it’s only Slonský, but you’ll get him to bring that cup back, won’t you? Takeaway is in cardboard cups. China is for sit-downs.’

  Mucha waved her concern away. ‘Anna, tell him he’s vegetarian till he brings it back and you’ll have every cup in the building back here by nightfall.’

  Slonský skipped up the stairs and nudged his office door open with his hip, putting the coffee and roll down and greeting Novák in one fluid movement before realising that Novák was not there. Navrátil looked up from his work and pointed down the corridor with his pen. Leaving the snack behind, Slonský strode purposefully to Captain Lukas’ door, knocked and was at the side of the desk before Lukas had finished saying ‘Enter’.

  Lukas had a sour look about him. Alth
ough he was a very experienced police officer he had long been rather squeamish about the work of pathologists and preferred not to know what they got up to. All he wanted was a clear set of findings, and it looked as if Novák had some. The manila folder in front of him was commendably thin.

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant Slonský, Mucha has tracked you down.’

  ‘No mystery, sir. Just having a well-deserved ham sandwich.’

  The dyspeptic look was intensified. ‘Not one for ham, myself. Not police ham, anyway. Rather fatty for my taste. Anyway, we aren’t here to talk about sandwiches. Dr Novák is about to tell us what he has found.’

  Novák opened his folder and gave a light preparatory cough as if about to deliver a presidential address at a university. Slonský flopped into the vacant chair, where his attention was captured by a carrier bag at Novák’s feet.

  ‘You know all the details of the deceased,’ Novák began, ‘so I needn’t recite those. He died as a result of a single stab wound to the brain stem. It was a narrow blade, perhaps one and a half centimetres wide, but at least twelve centimetres long.’

  ‘Spring loaded?’ asked Slonský, whose eyes were beginning to gleam as facts fell into his possession. He found such material enervating and needed very few hard facts to rouse from torpor and begin detecting.

  ‘I can’t rule it out,’ said Novák, ‘but if it was it was a straight spring rather than a side spring.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lukas interrupted.

  ‘Switch blades either swing out of one side or they strike like a snake straight forward,’ Novák explained. ‘If it was a spring loaded knife, it must have been the latter type, because having jammed it through Hrdlička’s neck into his brain stem, the murderer gave it a pretty firm wiggle, and there’s no sign of the blade trying to close, which I’d have expected a hinged blade to do.’

  Lukas pressed a handkerchief to his lips. ‘Wiggled? In the brain stem?’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Novák, completely oblivious to the peculiar waxy appearance exhibited by Lukas or the lip-licking that Slonský was performing. ‘At the base of the brain there’s a little tail that leads down to the top of the spine. Some of the most important parts of the brain are in the stem. You don’t survive substantial damage to it.’