Lying and Dying

by Graham Brack

  ‘Because, Navrátil, I don’t yet have the evidence to convict him. It’s all circumstantial and a good lawyer will get him off. I need more, and the best way of getting it is to let people think I’m still looking.’

  Tomáš pricked his ears up.

  ‘You’ve arrested someone? Is that the boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slonský, ‘but don’t talk about it yet. I’m not confident we’ll be able to keep him in custody. He can afford a good lawyer and I wouldn’t be surprised if the slimy creep was at the front desk now.’

  ‘The boyfriend?’

  ‘No, his lawyer. Although “slimy creep” fits both of them.’

  Sergeant Mucha enjoyed this part of his work. The lugubrious desk sergeant had few pleasures in his working day, and aggravating an expensive Prague lawyer came high on his list.

  ‘Come along, Sergeant! You can’t mean to tell me you’re expecting to keep my client locked up like a common criminal.’

  ‘Well, from where I’m standing a common criminal is exactly what he is, sir.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence for that assertion?’

  ‘Not assertion, sir; personal opinion. As for evidence, that will be disclosed to the defence in the usual way at the usual time.’

  The lawyer changed tack. If the sergeant could not be browbeaten, perhaps the unctuous approach would work.

  ‘Perhaps if you gave us an idea of the evidence you have, we might be able to explain away any little … misunderstanding there might be and save you a lot of time.’

  ‘Your client could have saved us a lot of time by telling the truth in the first place, sir. And you’ll know that I am a mere desk sergeant, so I’m hardly likely to give out information on a case the Director has taken a personal interest in.’

  ‘Perhaps I could see the Director and explain my client’s position.’

  ‘I don’t keep the Director’s diary, sir. You’d have to contact his office for an appointment.’

  ‘Very well. I can see I’m getting nowhere here. You are being extremely obstructive, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. One does one’s best.’

  Mrs Gruberová had little more to tell them. She had last seen her daughter at the New Year when Irina came home for a short visit.

  ‘Did she seem happy?’

  ‘Yes, very happy. She said she had been taking driving lessons and was going to order a new car, so she would be able to drive down to see us more often.’

  ‘A new car? Did she mean brand new?’

  ‘Yes. She said she would have to wait for the dealer to get the one she wanted.’

  Slonský mimed to Navrátil to make a note of that.

  ‘Do you know the make of car?’

  ‘A little Škoda. I don’t know all the types. Just a small one, she said.’

  ‘Did she mention the colour?’

  ‘She liked bright colours. She wanted a red one but she wasn’t sure that they did them in red.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we can find the dealer she went to. Did she tell you about any friends in Prague?’

  ‘Just her boyfriend.’

  ‘Did she give him a name?’

  ‘Not that I remember. She said he was quite famous so she never talked about him because she didn’t want the press sniffing round. I said it was coming to something when a girl wouldn’t tell her own mother her boyfriend’s name, but she wouldn’t budge. She could be very stubborn sometimes. Do you think he really is famous?’

  ‘If he is who we think he is, then you would know of him,’ Slonský replied.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ shouted Banda.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sergeant Mucha, ‘you’re the noisy little sod in cell five. Now keep it down or we’ll have to get the police doctor to give you a sedative.’

  ‘I’m your direct superior! I’m responsible for the police in this country.’

  ‘Then you’ve got a lot to answer for,’ said Mucha. ‘They’re a complete shambles. Anyway, you’re nobody’s superior now. You’re the prisoner in cell five in a borrowed jumpsuit. Still, you’ve made the evening paper.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Banda anxiously.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ sniffed Mucha. ‘I only read the sports pages.’

  Chapter 9

  The radio news announced the removal of Dr Banda as Minister of the Interior and introduced his replacement.

  ‘Didn’t take long to sort that out,’ announced Slonský. ‘I bet the Prime Minister had that up his sleeve all along.’

  ‘But now everyone knows that we’ve arrested Banda,’ protested Navrátil. ‘Every step we take will be watched.’

  ‘Probably. But we’ll just keep saying we’re not talking about it. After all, it’s an active crime investigation. We can’t go telling the press every little thing.’

  ‘We usually do,’ said Tomáš.

  ‘I know,’ replied Slonský, ‘but that’s when we want to. Now we’ll keep our counsel and let him sweat a bit. If we put a bit of pressure on, he’ll crack. Speaking of which, Navrátil, let’s drop Sergeant Tomáš off at the police station and get back to Prague. We’ve got some questioning to do.’

  ‘He’s very stubborn,’ said Captain Lukas, ‘not to mention uncooperative.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The Director got nowhere with him.’

  ‘I dare say the Director was constrained by the burden of his position, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He didn’t feel he could give the suspect a slap, sir. Being the Director of the Criminal Police, sir.’

  ‘None of us can “give the suspect a slap”, Slonský. Is that clear?’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to, sir. But it won’t be long before that lawyer of his springs him from custody if we don’t get some more evidence.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been ringing HQ all afternoon asking to see the Director. Fortunately the Director wasn’t available.’

  ‘No, sir, he wouldn’t be. He’s a clever man, sir; he wouldn’t make himself available with this lot going on.’

  ‘And the lawyer is complaining about the way Sergeant Mucha spoke to him. He says Mucha was uncommonly rude.’

  ‘I doubt that, sir. Mucha is rude to everyone. I don’t think he singled out Dr Banda’s lawyer.’

  ‘Well, the Director says it’s our case, so I suppose there’s no harm in your questioning the suspect. But nothing untoward, Slonský! I don’t want this enquiry threatened by an excess of zeal on your part.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ve never been accused of an excess of zeal before.’

  Navrátil had already conducted the same dialogue eight times when he struck lucky.

  ‘I’m looking for a car dealership that may have ordered a car for a young woman, possibly in the name of Gruberová. The chances are that the car hasn’t been collected.’

  ‘Yes, that’s us. A Fabia, I think, with a nippy little engine. Hang on — yes, she ordered one about three weeks ago. It came in on Tuesday but she hasn’t collected it yet.’

  ‘I’m afraid she won’t. The lady has been murdered.’

  There was a little torrent of street Czech down the line.

  ‘Had she paid a deposit?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘A small cash deposit, but not the usual.’

  ‘How much was left to pay?’

  ‘Forty-nine thousand, two hundred and fifty crowns.’

  Armed with this information, Navrátil set off in search of Slonský, but there was no sign of him in his office. On the basis that if he had left the building he would have passed the front desk, Navrátil went down to the lobby and interrogated Sergeant Mucha.

  ‘Has Lieutenant Slonský gone out?’

  ‘No, he’s behind me.’

  Navrátil looked closely, but there was no sign of Slonský there. Anyone is entitled to a hallucination, he thought, but an imaginary Slonský was a real lulu of a vision. It was hard to imagine any street drug that could induce such a sight.

&nbs
p; Mucha observed the puzzled look on the young policeman’s face.

  ‘Behind the wall. He’s questioning a suspect in the cells.’

  ‘On his own? Doesn’t he have to have a witness?’

  ‘Yes and no. Yes, if he were undertaking conventional questioning he would need a witness. But he’s Slonský. He has his own methods.’

  Mucha turned away with a grin and shook his head in admiration for the low cunning of the old detective.

  Intrigued and not a little concerned, Navrátil pushed the swing door open and looked down the spartan corridor. It was bare, except for a power lead plugged into the wall by the third cell on the left, which then snaked into cell six.

  Navrátil began to walk down the corridor, vaguely aware that he could hear music and that he recognised the piece. He could also hear the unmistakable sounds of a prisoner being assaulted. Dull thuds were followed by groans, expulsions of air, and an occasional slap on skin. Fearing the worst, he quickened his pace.

  Cell five was across the corridor from cell six, and as he drew level with the doors he realised that his suspicions were unfounded. The ex-Minister was in cell five, and the top of his head could be seen at intervals as he jumped to look through the door grille. Cell six certainly offered a disturbing sight, but not the one that Navrátil had expected.

  Slonský was sitting on the cot, clutching a pillow to his stomach. At intervals he punched it hard, followed by a cry of pain. When he spoke it was in a higher-pitched voice than he normally used.

  ‘No more! I’ll tell you everything if you just leave me alone!’

  Navrátil opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a signal from Slonský, who held a finger across his lips before continuing, in his own voice: ‘You said that before. Why should I believe you this time?’ He then hit the pillow again. ‘Either you co-operate or you get another one!’

  Navrátil now realised that the power lead was connected to a compact disc player that was belting out Frank and Nancy Sinatra singing Something Stupid. Slonský turned up the volume and then emitted a completely unprovoked howl of pain.

  ‘Not the face, Navrátil! Never hit the face!’

  ‘What’s happening in there?’ yelled Banda from cell five. ‘Who are you beating?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’ Slonský responded. ‘We’ll talk to you later.’

  The track ended, but now Navrátil discovered that Slonský had set it to repeat. He was about to protest when Slonský wrapped an arm round his shoulder and steered him down the corridor to the desk. Only once the door was closed behind them did Slonský speak.

  ‘You nearly fouled that up, lad. Still, I think it went well.’

  ‘He’ll think I’ve beaten a prisoner!’ howled Navrátil.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Slonský. ‘That was the whole point.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘I want him to be pliable when we interview him. I need something to break that arrogant shell of his, and the prospect that we might reach across the desk and give him a biff should do nicely.’

  ‘But he’s Minister of the Interior! He’ll know it’s illegal for police to hit suspects.’

  ‘Oh, Navrátil, Navrátil! What do they teach you at the academy these days?’

  ‘So young, and so innocent!’ agreed Mucha.

  ‘You two are winding me up,’ Navrátil complained. ‘All right, so I don’t understand. Explain it to me.’

  Mucha rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward conspiratorially.

  ‘It’s because he was Minister for the Interior that this will work.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Slonský. ‘It’s a dead cert winner with him.’

  ‘As you rightly point out,’ Mucha began, ‘a police officer mustn’t lay hands on a suspect. And, as you again are correct to remind us, the Minister would know that. But if police regularly slapped suspects, would they tell the Minister?’

  ‘Of course not! He’d be the last …’

  ‘Enlightenment dawns!’ announced Slonský. ‘Exactly, my lad. He’d be the last person to know. In fact, he wouldn’t want to know, because he wants the police to be effective and clear up unsolved crimes, and if a sly poke in the ribs now and then helps them to do that, he’s not going to cramp our style. So naturally our dear ex-Minister takes it for granted that prisoners get clobbered, but that he doesn’t hear about it.’

  ‘It stands to reason,’ Mucha chimed in. ‘Entirely logical.’

  ‘So since he is expecting a bit of police brutality, it’s helpful to fall in with his wishes. If he complains, Sergeant Mucha here will show the register that proves that there was no prisoner in cell six this afternoon, so one can’t have been beaten up. The poor ex-Minister must be deluded. It happens to the finest of minds when they’re in solitary confinement all day.’

  ‘He’s entitled to an exercise period though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Sadly, staff cuts mean that no-one can be spared to accompany him, so on grounds of security we are unable to let him out,’ Mucha declared.

  ‘Nice touch that,’ said Slonský, ‘on account of it was this Minister who said that if efficiency savings meant prisoners didn’t get all their exercise breaks, who cares?’

  ‘Well, he does — now,’ said Mucha.

  ‘It’s been an educational experience for him, then,’ agreed Slonský.

  ‘But what about the Sinatra music?’ enquired Navrátil.

  ‘I like Sinatra,’ Slonský replied.

  ‘Me too,’ said Mucha.

  ‘And I don’t have a CD player at home. If I didn’t play it here I’d never get to hear it.’

  Mucha began to sing.

  ‘And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid, like —’

  ‘— I love you,’ chorused the two older men.

  ‘You’re barking mad, the pair of you!’ Navrátil announced. ‘You pretend to beat up a prisoner and you play music at the same time so you can sing along.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ Slonský interrupted, ‘allow me to correct you there. I don’t sing while I’m thumping suspects. As you’ve just discovered, my singing voice definitely constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.’

  ‘You’re not kidding there,’ said Mucha.

  ‘No,’ continued Slonský, ‘Sinatra has to manage without me. But he does a good job of masking the noises, which means that our diminutive friend in cell five only catches snatches of what is going on, which makes him doubly suspicious. His imagination will come up with things we couldn’t begin to stage.’

  Mucha chuckled. ‘Remember that hoodlum who convinced himself that his mate was being anally gang-banged by the Prague police?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slonský. ‘I never knew how he arrived at that conclusion. But he confessed double quick when we opened his cell door.’

  ‘But when they discover they’ve been conned, won’t they tell the court we’ve obtained a confession under duress?’

  ‘No, Navrátil, because they know by then that there was no duress and that they’ll look like grade A idiots if they claim that there was. Who wants to stand up in court and say that they only confessed because they thought that the sound of Sergeant Mucha pumping up his bicycle tyres was actually due to their colleague being gang-banged by a bunch of shirt-lifters?’

  ‘Lucky he’s so short,’ opined Mucha. ‘It enhances the effect.’

  ‘Too right,’ agreed Slonský. ‘There must be a lot of things in life he doesn’t quite see. Fortunately he’s too short to see that there was nobody in cell six. Leave him to stew a few minutes, then go and retrieve the CD player.’

  ‘Will do. I might give the floor a quick mop too.’

  ‘That’d be good. There’s a theatrical side to you I hadn’t anticipated, Mucha.’

  ‘That’s me,’ agreed Mucha. ‘Give me an audience of one and watch me perform.’

  Navrátil had collected the car dealer’s statement, which Slonský was reading through.

  ‘That’s clear enough. So t
hat explains the forty-nine thousand two hundred and fifty crowns. But what about the other two hundred thousand? If Banda withdrew the smaller sum to pay for the car, what was the two hundred thousand for?’

  ‘Rent? Deposit on a flat?’

  ‘Who knows? And why insert it in Irina’s whatsit? Why not take it back again if it links him to her?’

  ‘Forgot it?’

  ‘No, he can’t have done. Any way you look at it he inserted it after he strangled her. Why give away the money?’

  ‘Maybe it was an impulse.’

  ‘But he came equipped with a plastic bank bag. They won’t have given it to him like that. He put it in there. Do we know for sure that it was the Minister that withdrew the money?’

  Navrátil waved a videocassette.

  ‘Bank security footage from the branch by the castle. You can see the Minister making the withdrawal, and the time and date stamp on the tape matches the date on the bank statement.’

  Slonský laid the cassette next to the bank statement and the car dealer’s statement and scrutinised each in turn.

  ‘What’s wrong, sir? It all fits.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slonský, ‘it all fits. Except for one thing. Banda isn’t an idiot. And we still don’t know why he killed Irina.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be heartbroken. Maybe he fell out of love with her and was worried she would spill the beans.’

  ‘She knew the score. There would be nothing traceable. If it got out it would hardly damage him terminally. One day he would dump her and she’d just have to dust herself off and get on with her life. And why draw out the money if he was about to strangle her anyway?’

  ‘To lull her into a false sense of security? Put her off her guard? If he gave her the cash for the car she’d think he still loved her. Perhaps he’d promised the money — after all, the car was due in that weekend. You can imagine her telling him she needed the money that night to get the car a day or two later.’

  ‘But if he was having second thoughts, why didn’t he tell her to take a running jump before he gave her the money?’

  ‘A pay-off? Sort of “Leave me in peace and I’ll buy you a car”.’