by Graham Brack
‘You said that you quarrelled, sir, but that is not a reason to send your son into exile.’
‘I believed that I was doing the right thing. I hoped that if he moved in other circles he would forget his infatuation with this left-wing tosh he had been imbibing. I thought that if he began to make his own money, his views would come more closely to approach mine. I told him straight that I would give him a fair share of my wealth so that he could follow his own path. If he chose to give it away to those hippies that was his affair, but he could set himself up well with it. However, I reminded him of the parable of the prodigal son, and told him that if he returned there would be no fatted calf.’
‘You did not expect to see him again.’
‘The police had begun to ask difficult questions. Naturally, one defends one’s child, but I genuinely did not know if he had done any of these beastly things that were alleged of those people in the newspapers. But over the years I had made some good friends, one of whom was a very senior man in the police force. He telephoned one day and asked if we could meet in private. I kept a small flat in Frankfurt then, and we met there. My wife was at our main house. I explained to her that I would be late because I was meeting Max. That, perhaps, was a mistake. Would the young gentleman mind pouring me a little more tea, since he is nearest?’
Navrátil did so, feeling the need to bow slightly as he returned the cup to Sammler.
‘A fine young man. They say the young are a waste of time, a disappointment to us, but they have always said that. My parents’ generation said it of us, and look what we achieved in rebuilding Germany after the war! One day we have to get out of the way and let the young ones run things, and if they mess up then they will have their own youngsters to tell them so. Ach! It’s unimportant. So much time wasted on stupid arguments. Now, back to business. As I told you, I met Max at my flat. He was serious, I would almost say pained. He told me that Theodor was under suspicion. He showed me the photograph that you have shown me today and that I hoped had been lost forever, along with some others. Theodor was too clever to do any of the dirty work himself. He followed his old man.’
Sammler gave a short, mirthless laugh and explained his last observation.
‘He specialised in logistics. He obtained the things they needed. He could say that he did not know precisely what they were planning. That may or may not be true. But he made it possible. If they needed guns, he found them. Max produced a piece of paper that broke my world apart and killed my wife. He had an invoice for the delivery of some automatic weapons. Theodor had used my company’s money to pay for these. To do this, he had not forged any signatures. He had signed the paperwork quite openly in his own name, but he had represented himself to the sellers as my agent. My name, my reputation, my entire business life was at stake. This could not be allowed to happen again. I assured Max that I had known nothing of this, and that eventually we would have discovered it, no doubt, during one of our audits and taken appropriate action. He said that any large ship houses a rat or two, and that he could probably ensure that this evidence was lost if I could guarantee that Germany would be rid of Theodor. He would, regrettably, have to keep it for a while to ensure that Theodor did not sneak back. He was apologetic, but I did not blame him. I would have done the same, and he was taking a considerable risk by speaking to me about this at all. And after it was done, he remained my friend, making no attempt to keep a distance from me. He knew how much it had cost me. A man needs friends like Max.’
Sammler paused for a moment. His eyes were damp with nascent tears which he dabbed away as he composed himself once more.
‘When I arrived home Theodora asked me what Max had wanted. I told her exactly what I have told you. Of course, she was heartbroken, but she could see that there was no choice. Theodor must leave us. I told her that she could visit him, but he would not set foot in Germany again. To her credit, she sat beside me as I confronted Theodor a few days later. I told him to choose somewhere to go and offered to help. I thought he would throw it back in my face, but to my surprise he said he would be guided by me. I mentioned a small Austrian bank whose owner I knew quite well. Theodor thought that would be acceptable. I rang the man and told him that I wanted Theodor to get some experience outside the family firm so that he could prove that he had progressed on his own merits. I offered to pay his first year’s salary if they would take him on. I said that they would be doing me a favour if they forgot that he was my son. Of course, they didn’t understand what I meant, and thought I was just saying that I didn’t want him given any special treatment.’
Sammler stopped speaking and licked his thin lips.
‘I have regretted that conversation many times. I misled them. I had let a wolf into their sheep pen. Theodor took the bank off them. He proved to be incredibly ruthless in business. I hope that I had maintained proper standards in my own work. Certainly that was my aim. But Theodor had no such scruples. He has been successful, but at what a cost.’
‘He has never married, sir.’
‘So I understand. I am not surprised. Theodor does not seem to feel the need for relationships. He is not a clubbable man. He joins no societies, shares no interests. I once asked him why he did not have a girlfriend. His answer was deeply shocking to me. I will not repeat his exact words, but he said that every service that can be provided by a wife can be purchased from women more accomplished in those tasks, usually cheaper and without any continuing obligation. His language was extremely vulgar.’
‘If I were to suggest that your son may have resumed his old ways, would it surprise you, sir?’
Klinger asked Slonský to repeat the question before he translated it.
‘Are you sure you want to ask that?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I may be wrong, but I want to see his reaction.’
Klinger translated the question. The old man’s eyes widened and he gripped the arms of his chair angrily.
‘What my son does now, he answers for. I hoped he might have been cured, but is one ever cured of this infection? If it is as you say, it is all the more reason why he should not come back.’
Slonský leaned forward and spoke gently.
‘I am sorry to have had to ask you that. It must have been distressing and I hope you will understand that I would have spared you that if I could.’
Klinger translated, while Sammler acknowledged the apology with a nod.
‘A man must do his duty. I see that. This is yours. I see that too.’
‘I hope that we will — that I will — prove to be mistaken. I have spoken to your son, and I shall have to interview him again. And now I think we should leave you to rest. I am grateful for your considerable assistance.’
Slonský stood, clicked his heels, and offered his hand. The old man shook it. Klinger followed suit, and then Navrátil shook hands too, speaking a few words of fractured German as he did so. Sammler smiled, patted the back of Navrátil’s hand as he shook it, and his eyes filled with tears again.
Navrátil pushed past and left the room first, striding swiftly down the corridor.
‘What did he say?’ whispered Slonský.
Klinger looked puzzled.
‘Something like “I’m pleased to have met your wife, sir”.’
There was another rare event that evening. Slonský was not hungry.
They had left the nursing home in silence, and low in spirit. Slonský was not his usual ebullient self and climbed straight into the passenger seat without even asking who was going to drive. That’ll be me then, thought Navrátil, whose emotions were confused and raw. He had genuinely liked the old man, who reminded him of the grandfather he would have liked to have had. His father’s father had died when he was too young to remember, while his mother’s father was a miserable old git. When the interview was over Navrátil could have cried, and hoped the others had not noticed. They had said nothing, of course, but that did not mean that his face had not betrayed him. He just wanted to go home now, but unfortunately he fac
ed six hours in the car with Klinger and Slonský first, neither of whom was known for their delicacy when it came to other people’s feelings. Being alone seemed so desirable, so Navrátil cut himself off and concentrated on his driving.
Klinger was angry. He believed that Slonský had had no business suggesting that Theodor Sammler had returned to left-wing terrorism without the slightest shred of evidence to back up such an assertion. If Old Sammler had asked Slonský for proof, what could he have said? And the allegation had come out of his mouth, albeit as an interpreter of Slonský’s accusing words. He had given Slonský the opportunity to reconsider, but Slonský had blundered on regardless like the uncouth golem he sometimes seemed to be.
Slonský closed his eyes and rehearsed the interview. For some reason, while Slonský had difficulty with names, could not remember anyone’s birthday other than his own and regularly forgot his PIN number when standing at a bank machine, he had a very good memory for conversations with witnesses. He could see now that his previous interpretations of the evidence were complete bunkum, and part of his brain was attempting to construct a verbal report for Lukas that would somehow explain that the new theory was actually just a subtle reworking of the old one, though differing in one or two minor details like having an alternative motive and killer. If he tried hard he could work through the events of that evening in early February and piece together a sequence that made sense. He could see where some of the evidence that filled the gaps would come from. But some of it would have to come from the murderer, and tricking them into letting it out was going to take a bit of nerve and a lot of low cunning. Fortunately, low cunning was Slonský’s strong point. He could limbo his way past most villains’ defences if he could engineer the right opportunity, and he turned his mind to setting up that encounter.
‘Where do you want to stop, sir?’ Navrátil suddenly asked.
‘Let’s grab a bite anywhere you see,’ said Slonský. ‘I don’t fancy a night away if you don’t mind, Klinger.’
‘I’m always happiest in my own bed,’ came the reply. ‘Let’s stop for a little freshening up, then press on. Even with an hour’s break, we should be home around midnight.’
They covered about half the distance home before Navrátil saw an inn just off the road. Klinger declared that anywhere must be better than that insanitary hole at which they had stopped in the morning, and Slonský had no opinion at all. They ordered their food and sat in a quiet corner, Slonský holding a beer, Klinger contemplating a dry white wine, and Navrátil trying to look enthusiastic about a mineral water when he really fancied a very large vodka. The sort of vodka that guaranteed that you would forget the last day and a half and wake up when it had all gone away.
Klinger straightened the beermat and positioned his wine glass precisely at its centre.
‘So?’ he said.
‘So what?’ asked Slonský.
‘Exactly,’ said Klinger.
Slonský delayed his answer by taking a large mouthful of beer, swallowing it, and licking his lips.
‘Herr Sammler cannot know anything of the events we are investigating, but he believes that his son could be implicated.’
‘He said no such thing,’ said Klinger. ‘He only took your rash statement at face value. He belongs to a generation that respects the police, so of course he didn’t argue. How could he? He hasn’t seen his son for thirty years.’
Slonský’s eyes were diamond hard.
‘He didn’t know why we wanted to know, but he didn’t ask. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? Not once did he ask what we were investigating or why we wanted to speak to him. I think he knew that it must be serious, and it didn’t surprise him. He said he would like to take his son’s word for the claim that he had not been directly involved in any violence, but he plainly couldn’t. He worded it exactly that way. Not “my son told me this and I believe him” but “I would have liked to have taken his word”. He couldn’t take that word because he didn’t believe it. He knows his son is capable of violence.’
‘You’re reading too much into that,’ said Klinger. ‘First, because he was describing events that happened a long time ago, and those distant events become distorted in our memories. Second, because he knows his son bought weapons and maybe he thinks, as any right-minded person would, that there isn’t any real moral difference between killing someone and making it possible for someone else to kill someone. Third, because what you heard was what I told you he said, and perhaps my German isn’t up to such subtle differences.’
‘Then write down the German and we’ll ask another translator what they think. Do it now while it’s fresh in your mind. As to the weapons, someone who buys guns for others to use might be just the sort of person who would pay someone else to strangle a young woman. Doesn’t do his own dirty work, but is quite happy to have the dirty work done for him.’
Klinger could see no point in continuing the argument. He merely snorted to show that he disagreed, then decided to realign his glass on the mat to return some order to a chaotic world.
‘Why strangled, sir?’ asked Navrátil.
‘Because it’s a built-up area with lots of people around and a gun would attract attention, even in the Prague of today,’ Slonský replied.
‘But surely strangling a woman takes time. A knife would be quicker. Putting a pillow over her face when she’s asleep would be easier.’
‘Knives cause blood and blood is messy, Navrátil. Novák would have got us a lot more useful stuff if there’d been a puddle of blood. The murderer would have been spattered and might have been seen leaving, in which event being covered in blood could be a disadvantage.’
‘He might have been seen leaving anyway,’ said Navrátil. ‘He couldn’t know that he wouldn’t meet someone on the landing or on the stairs. If he killed her when Novák says, then there could well have been people about.’
‘He couldn’t leave it any later, Navrátil, or she wouldn’t have answered the door to let him in.’
‘If you’re casting Sammler as the murderer,’ Klinger interrupted, ‘then show us some evidence that she had ever met him, because without that your case falls down. Why would she let a complete stranger in at that time of night?’
Slonský picked up his beermat and tapped it rhythmically on the table top, not so much because it helped him think as because he was fairly confident that it would annoy the hell out of Klinger. He was right about that, even if he was wrong about everything else.
‘Not hungry, Slonský?’ Klinger enquired. ‘The schnitzel is really rather good.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite. Help yourself to anything you like the look of.’
‘Thank you, but no, thank you. I’ve never been keen on second-hand vegetables, however careful their previous owner.’
Slonský picked up his fork again and speared a carrot.
‘I hate waste,’ he said as he chewed. ‘I hate waste even more than I hate carrots.’
Klinger drained his glass and Slonský immediately sprang to his feet.
‘Coming?’ he asked Navrátil, and strode out to the car.
Navrátil guzzled the last of his water and hurried to catch his boss, whilst Klinger decided that one of them really ought to pay the bill.
When Navrátil arrived at the car, Slonský was in the driver’s seat and the engine was running. Klinger took his time, but finally appeared and had to scuttle to shut the door as Slonský took off with Klinger only partly inside.
‘I paid the bill,’ said Klinger.
‘Good,’ replied Slonský. ‘I’d hate to think of you washing up all night while we drove home.’
‘I’ll give you the receipt later, when you repay me.’
‘You can sign it off yourself.’
‘Ah, but this is a homicide investigation, nothing to do with the Fraud Squad.’
‘Only a small fraction of the homicide team is in this car, whereas we’ve got half of the Fraud Squad here, which just shows the importance you attach to it.’
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‘What it shows,’ said Klinger, ‘is that I am not divisible into any meaningful smaller units. And don’t even think of experimenting with your penknife in a lay-by.’
Chapter 22
The morning sun shone low on the Prague rooftops, but appeared to have elevated Slonský’s mood. After a night’s sleep he was obviously uplifted by something or other, because he was charging around the offices like a young pony exploring a new field.
Lukas was more than usually nonplussed.