The Josef Slonský Box Set

by Graham Brack

  ‘Very good…’

  ‘But before you start, let’s get some coffee and a pastry. My blood sugar must be low. Is Peiperová around?’

  Navrátil knew how Peiperová felt about being a coffee runner. ‘I’ll go, sir.’

  ‘No need, Navrátil. Let’s go down together, and you can tell me all about it on the way. I’ll just leave a note on the door in case anyone wants me.’

  Slonský scrawled a few words on the back of a circular and taped it to the door glass. Navrátil could not help noticing that it claimed that Slonský had just gone to Peru and might be some time.

  They marched down the stairs side by side.

  ‘Why Peru, sir?’

  ‘Why not? First thing that came into my head. Besides, anywhere in this country and the pests might chase after me. They can’t get to Peru unless I sign off their travel passes, which, of course, I wouldn’t, being in Peru.’

  Navrátil considered, not for the first time, what the world inside Slonský’s head must be like, and decided again that he did not choose to live there any longer than was necessary.

  ‘I rang Sarajevo, sir, to talk about Savović.’

  ‘And what did the capital of Bosnia have to say for itself?’

  ‘I told them we knew where Savović was, but I wondered what the relationship was between him and the other four. Did they expect them to be together?’

  ‘Good question. Did they have a good answer?’

  Navrátil produced the fax bearing the five photographs from his pocket. ‘It seems that Savović and this one, Brukić, are old associates. It wouldn’t surprise the Bosnians if Brukić had come here too. The other three belong to a completely different gang. The Bosnian police had heard rumours that the five of them were combining to make a play to take control of crime in Sarajevo. They anticipated a bloodbath, because the two sides have some heavy weaponry available to them.’

  ‘That’s what happens after a war. People never tidy up properly. There are always unwanted guns left lying around.’

  ‘In this case, some hundred and fifty millimetre mortars and a certain amount of motorised artillery were mentioned.’

  Slonský gave a low whistle. ‘Thank goodness our local hoodlums aren’t as enterprising. I take it that Savović doesn’t have these in a shed somewhere?’

  ‘Not in the Czech Republic, so far as we know. Anyway, the Bosnians decided the best way to deal with this was to tell each group what was known about the other’s plan.’

  ‘A fine example of police transparency. And the upshot was?’

  ‘A nightclub owner found in a wheelie bin. At least, most of him was. They haven’t found one arm and a bit of a leg.’

  ‘He was dead, I assume?’

  ‘Stone dead, sir. And the five took off that same evening and haven’t been seen since. If they’re scattered, the Bosnians are happy. Their concern is that they may be in one place plotting their return.’

  ‘Whereas our concern is that we have enough villains of our own without importing them from other countries. Our second concern is that I’ve left my money in my coat so you’ll have to get these, Navrátil.’

  They collected their coffees and Slonský filled a plate with pastries before dumping it on a tray. Navrátil took out his wallet to pay at the till.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything to eat?’ asked Slonský.

  Some enquiries need a woman’s touch, thought Peiperová. She was ostensibly looking in a shop window, though actually her attention was focused on the woman across the street whose reflection she could study.

  Touring the streets by some dancing clubs, Peiperová’s attention had been drawn to this tall, brown-haired girl. There was something about her street clothes that told Peiperová that she was an immigrant. Her boots were sound, but constructed for warmth rather than style. Although the girl glanced in the windows of the more expensive shops, she did not go in. Instead, she checked out department stores and some of the chain retailers. She bought some cheap underwear and stockings. Looking over her shoulder as she paid for them, Peiperová could see that there was little in the woman’s purse. She permitted herself a wry smile as she reflected that not only would the men have failed to spot this woman’s origin, but they could hardly have followed her inconspicuously around lingerie departments.

  Peiperová had herself been followed by an inquisitive store detective. She had opened her badge and, holding it up like she was checking her make-up in a pocket mirror, allowed the detective to see it. To her credit, the older woman simply melted away, leaving Peiperová to pursue her quarry unmolested.

  The dark girl sat on a bench and bit her nails. Perhaps not conventionally pretty, though undoubtedly statuesque, she marred whatever good looks she possessed by frowning. Her young face was disfigured by worry, which had etched some lines on her brow, and her eyes were purple with lack of sleep. Peiperová dropped on the bench beside her. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not like that,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘One of those. I’m not into girls.’

  ‘Neither am I. I’m a policewoman.’

  The dark girl tried to walk away, but Peiperová’s arm linked through hers and bound them together. ‘I’m not with immigration,’ she explained. ‘So we’re just two girls out shopping together who decided to get a coffee. Okay?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You always have a choice. We can talk a bit over a coffee or I can get heavy and take you to a station. But I guess you wouldn’t feel comfortable in a police station.’ She caught the other woman’s inquisitive look and returned it with a smile. ‘Besides, you look as if you could really do with a coffee.’

  The girl nodded, so they walked together towards a coffee shop.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ suggested Peiperová. ‘The seats out here are a bit public. You won’t want to be seen talking to me.’

  They ordered their coffees and sat in silence for a few moments. The girl played obsessively with a paper napkin, betraying her tension by worrying the folds with her fingernails.

  ‘Have you got any papers?’ Peiperová asked.

  The girl shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the table top.

  ‘What about identification from your home?’

  ‘Identification?’

  The girl had a strong accent and pronounced the word in divided syllables as if it might be easier to understand that way.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Suzana.’

  ‘Is it really Suzana?’

  The girl looked confused as if the idea of using a false name had not occurred to her.

  ‘Yes. I’m really Suzana.’

  ‘Fine. I’m Kristýna.’

  Peiperová offered her hand. Suzana shook it cautiously.

  ‘Where are you from, Suzana?’

  ‘I come from Bosnia-Herzegovina.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Fifteen weeks and two days.’

  ‘You don’t like it, do you? Are you homesick?’

  ‘Please, homesick?’

  ‘Do you wish you were in Bosnia instead of Prague?’

  ‘I miss my home. I miss my mother and father. I am ashamed for them.’

  ‘Ashamed? Why?’

  ‘They think I work in hotel. They don’t know I have to dance here in such places.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘There was no work for me in Bosnia. A man told me he had a little hotel here and he needs waitresses, girls for reception, cleaners. Together this makes ten girls. He sends a bus for us.’

  ‘A Czech man?’

  Suzana frowned and shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Bosnian man. He says to our families that we will be trained here and not to worry but for some weeks we will be in hotel training so we cannot have telephones. This is normal, he says.’

  Peiperová had heard this sort of thing before. The families would not try to contact their daughters for a
while because the explanation seemed plausible.

  ‘So he brought you here by bus?’

  ‘Yes. But it is a long journey. First, we go to Serbia. Then we go to Hungary. We don’t stop nowhere. Then we eat in Slovakia and at last we come here. In Slovakia a Czech man comes on the bus and stays with us. He teaches us to talk a little bit Czech.’

  Suzana sipped her coffee. She took it with plenty of hot milk and sugar.

  ‘Then when you arrived you found there was no hotel.’

  ‘Yes, no hotel. The Czech man says this is no problem because he has other work. We are young girls, so we can be dancers. One of the girls says she has been a ballet dancer but he laughs and says it is not ballet. He has a cruel laugh.’

  She bit her nails again.

  ‘So they made you work in a club?’

  Suzana’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘It is bad work. I don’t like to take my clothes off. But he says if I don’t dance, then there is only one way to earn my fare home, and I don’t like this more. There is a Bosnian girl who says she don’t dance, and they take her away. Next time I see her, she has bruises on face and she does big cry. She tell me men make her to go to bed. One holds her while the other does things then they change places. Then the cruel man tells her no-one will marry her now because she is spoilt. She can walk back to Bosnia but everyone will know she is bad girl who goes with men.’

  ‘Could you introduce me to her?’

  Suzana shook her head.

  ‘I mean, could you take me to her?’

  ‘No, is not possible. This girl is so sad she take knife and cut wrists in bath. The Czech man and the Bosnian have big words about this. The Czech man says now is big trouble for him but the Bosnian tells him he knows people and they can take her body away and nobody ever find it. He says is no big deal anyway. It is not crime for a girl to kill herself.’

  She crumpled the napkin into a ball and used it to stifle her tears.

  Peiperová suddenly remembered the fax that she had in her pocket. ‘I’m going to show you some pictures,’ she explained. ‘I need you to look at them and tell me if you know any of the men you see.’ She unfolded it, and the gasp that Suzana gave as she brought her hand to her mouth betokened recognition. Her hand shook as she pointed at one of the men.

  But it was not Savović.

  The desk phone rang. It was Sergeant Mucha ringing from the front desk.

  ‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’

  ‘You speak in riddles. Why am I pretty?’ demanded Slonský.

  ‘Well, you’d better be because a lot of egg-yolk is on its way up.’

  Slonský hurriedly straightened his tie and rubbed each shoe in turn on the back of his trouser leg. The door was opened and the Director walked in. A uniformed arm was visible beside his hip.

  ‘I can open doors for myself, thank you,’ he announced to the uniformed officer behind him.

  Slonský began to salute, but the Director motioned him to stop. This was a good thing, because Slonský had never been a sharp saluter. What he lacked in grace was matched by a lack of vigour, so his salutes looked like a schoolboy asking tentatively if he might leave the room who decided to scratch an eyebrow instead.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure, sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘I bet it isn’t,’ the Director replied. ‘Kuchař!’

  ‘Sir?’ the officer replied.

  ‘Make yourself scarce.’

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘No. Just do nothing as usual. Maybe you can find someone who needs a door opening for them. Whatever you do, do it somewhere else for a few minutes.’

  Kuchař closed the door behind him.

  ‘Where do they find them?’ sighed the Director. ‘That, Slonský, was the gold medal cadet last year.’

  Slonský was surprised and said so. ‘He came above Navrátil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good God, Navrátil must be thicker than I thought. He always seems so competent to me, but maybe it’s just a long run of beginner’s luck.’

  ‘Or maybe the academy has no idea what the police service really needs these days. Of course, Kuchař’s dad is a member of parliament.’

  ‘It’s just as well nepotism died out with the old regime, sir.’

  ‘It certainly is. Sometimes I think I ought to take a Captain’s job myself. You don’t have this sort of rubbish to deal with. Well, I dare say you’re wondering why I’m here.’

  ‘Boredom? You lost a bet?’

  ‘Close. I’ve been to see Lukas in hospital. The doctors tell me he’s putting on a brave face but this has knocked him sideways. He’s a good man but too conscientious for his own welfare. It seems that he has been ill for some time, but concealed it. The result is that he needed some fairly extensive surgery and he will be off for longer than we thought. In fact, he may not be back before he reaches retirement age.’

  Slonský did not like the way this conversation was heading. ‘Still, it would be a shame to leave him feeling discarded now, sir, after so much devoted service.’

  ‘I’m not discarding him, Slonský, just facing facts. I have to be prepared for any contingency. If Lukas returns all well and good, and I can’t advertise his job while he is still in post. But we need to make proper arrangements to replace him, either temporarily or permanently. I’ve been looking at some personnel files for the department.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah indeed. Yours is a thick one. Quite a few disciplinary notes in it, I see.’

  ‘In my defence, sir, a lot of those were earned under the old regime.’

  ‘And quite a few weren’t. However, there’s nothing in there that prevents your being promoted if you choose to apply. The big thing is that none of the disciplinary hearings involve money or sex.’

  ‘I have no use for either, sir.’

  The Director looked at his briefcase as if it might bear a script for his next utterance.

  ‘I trust you to keep this to yourself. I am not unambitious, Slonský. I am aware that the National Director of the Police Service is retiring next July. That is a little over seven months away. I hope that I don’t come across as conceited if I say that I hope I would be a strong candidate.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, sir. I’d vote for you.’

  ‘Thank you. But if I go, and Lukas still hasn’t returned, there’ll be a risk that there will be nobody around who appreciates your qualities. Put simply, if you aren’t a captain by July, you may never make it.’

  ‘I appreciate your frankness, sir, but I’m completely unambitious. I don’t mind staying a lieutenant until I retire.’

  The Director leaned forward. It was quite intimidating.

  ‘That’s fine, but do you mind having Dvorník or Doležal as your boss? Or a complete stranger brought in from outside?’

  Slonský felt a pang to his heart. That was a low blow. However much he told himself that he had no interest in promotion, he certainly did not want to have to call Doležal ‘sir’. Time for some honesty, he thought.

  ‘I certainly do, sir,’ he said. ‘I would rather swallow rat-poison.’

  The Director stood.

  ‘Then get your application ready or pray that Lukas recovers quickly. He’s a good man, Slonský. When I visited him he told me his concern was that you would not be willing to carry on his good work, so I said I would have a word with you. I’ve done that, and it’s now for you to decide what to do. Personally, looking at this folder and its enclosures, I think you may owe Lukas one. Actually, you probably owe him about eleven.’

  ‘At least.’

  The Director offered his hand, which Slonský took.

  ‘Of course, if you foul up your current case you could be checking passports at the airport six months from now. But I don’t think that’s likely. A positive result would help your prospects, though.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find a likely suspect and frame him, sir.’

  The Director smiled. ‘You’re the offi
cer least likely to do that, Slonský. Kuchař!’

  The door opened and the young lieutenant stood to attention in the doorway.

  ‘Were you eavesdropping, Kuchař?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you accidentally hear anything?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘If you did, forget it at once, or your father will be receiving some of your most interesting parts through the post.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My car, Kuchař.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Navrátil had paid a visit to Technician First Class Spehar who had been fascinated by the question he had to ask, but had referred him to Hynek for an answer.

  Hynek was a person to whom normal dress codes did not apply. On this particular morning he was wearing a black t-shirt bearing an image of a clenched fist and the slogan ‘Anarchy Rules OK’ in English, together with checked Bermuda shorts. His long wavy hair erupted from his cap like a punctured horsehair sofa, and over it all he wore a navy blue anorak. Although he was indoors he had the hood up.

  He offered a large, pudgy hand. ‘Lemme see,’ he said.

  Navrátil held out the helmet and watched as Hynek deftly extracted the earpiece.

  ‘Primitive stuff,’ he said. ‘Wonder which idiot gave him this crap?’

  Spehar examined it, rolling it over as it nestled in Hynek’s bear-paw hand. ‘It’s a model we’ve used, but not lately. The problem is that you can’t encrypt this one on the fly.’ Seeing that the importance of this was not clear to Navrátil, he expanded this view. ‘The microphone collects a signal and sends it to the earpiece. That’s straightforward. But anybody passing by with a radio scanner might intercept it and hear it too. And if you record the signal it’s not much use in court because the defence will say that the signal could have come from anywhere so you can’t prove that it is linked to the person you say is being recorded. So we use a model where the microphone encodes the sound electronically and the receiver unencodes it. You can’t tell as the listener because it happens instantaneously, but it can’t be done with this little chap.’

  ‘Old crap,’ agreed Hynek.