Lying and Dying

by Graham Brack

  ‘And the home didn’t check?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it. I’ve spoken to the woman in charge. She says she wasn’t involved —’

  ‘Funny how they never are.’

  ‘— but the man seemed respectable, had some papers that seemed to show that he knew Mario, and Mario didn’t say he didn’t know him.’

  ‘Because Mario was thinking about life with horses again. So does he know where he was taken?’

  ‘Not a clue. He’s actually not slow-witted. He just hasn’t had much schooling and he gets angry because he can’t express himself, says Valentin.’

  ‘How did Mario get to the metro?’

  ‘He says his uncle dropped him by car nearby and told him to wait there until he was collected at lunchtime.’

  ‘And did we follow him when he left?’

  ‘He got into a taxi that was already occupied. Olbracht tailed him on his bike but lost them. When he found the taxi again, it had a different fare. The driver told him he set them down at Florenc.’

  ‘So they could have gone almost anywhere in Prague. Damn! What about Valentin?’

  ‘He says he’ll meet you in the cellar, and you would know where he meant.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I only hope I get there in time.’

  ‘You think he’s in danger?’

  ‘Yes, but I also think he’s planning on getting very drunk.’

  In fact, Valentin was relatively sober when Slonský arrived, having been collected by Navrátil on the way.

  ‘Don’t ever give me a scoop again,’ he whined. ‘My nerves won’t stand it.’

  ‘You wanted it,’ said Slonský.

  ‘That was before I knew I was going to get threatened over it.’

  ‘Threatened? Who threatened you?’

  ‘Mario said his uncle wanted me to tell his story, and I had to do that even if you tried to stop me, otherwise his uncle would be very angry with me.’

  Slonský had a coffee, having once more refused a beer. Valentin wondered if he was sickening for something. Slonský stirred it slowly with his spoon, having dumped a ridiculous amount of sugar in it.

  ‘You going to drink that or ice a cake with it?’ Valentin asked.

  ‘Hush, I’m thinking. Tell me what Mario said about himself.’

  ‘He said he was nineteen, under the Court of Protection, has to see someone regularly, doesn’t know where he lives. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘When did he meet uncle?’

  ‘End of last year. He says it was before the snow came.’

  ‘That could be August in some places. He can’t do better than that?’

  ‘No. But he says it wasn’t too far from here. Originally he came from somewhere to the east, because he remembers being taken to Frýdek-Místek as a boy. He thought it was a funny name.’

  ‘Did you show him the photo?’

  ‘I showed him the censored version from the newspaper. He thought it was funny.’

  ‘Funny? Why funny?’

  ‘Well, because they hadn’t got any clothes on.’

  ‘Did you ask him what happened in that swimming pool?’

  ‘No, because it seemed unkind when someone had taken advantage of a young man to put him in that position.’

  ‘You idiot! You empty-headed, balding drunken idiot!’ snapped Slonský.

  Valentin was more than a little hurt.

  ‘I’m not balding,’ he complained. ‘Thinning a bit on top, maybe. But not balding.’

  ‘That’s not Mario! Damn! I should have seen this.’

  ‘Seen what?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘He’d probably told the real Mario to make himself scarce, so the chances are he couldn’t find him again in a hurry. Even if he knows where he is, he’s probably back in Austria waiting to be summoned when the occasion arose. There wasn’t enough time between my seeing Sammler and your story appearing for him to get Mario back. But Sammler had a spare Mario up his sleeve. He probably spotted there’s enough resemblance to pass a quick inspection, given that we don’t have really detailed photographs of Mario. But he invited you, with no photographer. That’s what he meant by alone. He wasn’t warning off the police particularly — he wanted you to come without a photographer. No photos, no video, just your word for it that you’d met Mario.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know? I never met the original Mario.’

  ‘Exactly. But Sammler knew that if Mario 2 just told the truth about himself, that would be your story. And he frightened you into publishing it, because that generates the crime that hadn’t been committed before.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I told Sammler that the Soucha picture didn’t show a crime. Sammler didn’t know that the age of consent for these things is fifteen here. But if Mario is under the Court of Protection, Sammler doesn’t need a crime. He just broadcasts what a scandal it is that the Czech Republic can’t protect its mentally-deficient people from this kind of abuse. It becomes a story about Soucha taking advantage of a simpleton and the State not being sharp enough to prevent it. Damn!’

  Navrátil was confused. ‘How do you know it’s not the same person, sir?’

  ‘I know some youngsters with mental problems are uninhibited, but they know what they’ve done. Mario didn’t react as if he knew what was happening in the photo. But more to the point, the photo was taken in the summer — remember the flowers? — whereas Mario says he met uncle before the snow came. If he’s a Roma boy, he’ll know the seasons. “Before the snow” is late autumn, not summer. Mario 2 was a late addition to the plan. More likely, he’s Plan B, to be fished out if Plan A went tits up.’

  ‘So what happens if I write that he was an impostor?’ asked Valentin.

  ‘Sammler gets angry. We need to keep you safe somewhere.’

  ‘So what if I write that he wasn’t an impostor?’

  Slonský considered this option for a moment.

  ‘You’d be an even worse journalist than I took you for. But I suppose Sammler would be happy, and it can’t harm Soucha more than he’s already hurt.’

  ‘But it gives the initiative back to Sammler, sir,’ protested Navrátil. ‘How does that help us?’

  ‘It gets him off Valentin’s back. And Sammler might relax if he thinks the plan is back on track.’

  ‘He can’t relax, sir. He has to press it home while it’s in people’s minds.’

  Slonský muttered a few words that he must have picked up in the street when he was younger.

  ‘Okay, this is what we’ll do. Valentin, get your editor to trail the story. Run something in tomorrow’s edition saying you’re going to have a really big story the day after. You can even say it’s an astonishing development in the Soucha case. That should keep you safe, because Sammler won’t polish you off when you’ve declared your intention of running the story he wants.’

  ‘One extra day. Big deal. Pardon me if I don’t turn cartwheels.’

  ‘It’s one extra day for you, but it’s enough for us. Come on, we’ll drop you by your office. Sleep there tonight.’

  ‘Sleep in the office? How can you get any sleep in a newspaper office?’

  ‘I’ll buy you a nightcap.’

  Slonský headed for the car while Navrátil and Valentin trotted along behind.

  ‘Am I balding?’ whispered Valentin. ‘Would you call me balding?’

  Chapter 24

  Slonský rarely slept well, and his brain clicked over relentlessly as he rolled back and forth across his pillow. He recalled the first sight of Irina Gruberová’s purple face, the grey snow beneath her, the policemen who refused to leave their warm car. Gruberová’s eyes fixed on his, begging him to help her by catching her killer. He saw the body on the slab, the photograph of the intimate dinner, the look on Banda’s face as he dropped his coffee cup into the evidence bag. Every moment of the enquiry was compressed into a single, short, restless night. Towards the end the visions started to cycle, always ending with a laughing Sammler walking free as Slon
ský found himself behind bars, looking out at a failure. He knew Sammler was guilty, but he could not prove it. And yet the evidence must be there somewhere. Whenever a crime was committed, evidence was left behind. All he had to do was find it. The proof is out there.

  He turned his pillow over to find a cool side. Sammler is running this now. Sammler calls the tune, and we react to him; we have to wrest the initiative out of his hands and grab it for ourselves, Slonský told himself. But the Slonský in his dreams had no idea how that might be done. Putting the story in the newspaper bought them time, but it meant Sammler was still making the pace. Things were happening because he wanted them to. Slonský had to find something unexpected that threw Sammler’s plan out of kilter. He pictured a smoothly running piece of black, antique machinery; pistons moved, cogs turned, steam hissed, and the machine pressed implacably on; Slonský had a large spanner and planned to push it into the gearing. He had no idea whether it would work or not, whether the engine might explode or even suck him in, but it was the only way of stopping the engine that he had. It had to be tried, because not to try was unimaginable. Slonský waved the spanner above his head like a banner, thrust it fearlessly into the slowest-moving gearwheels, and let go. That was when he woke up, and hence failed to discover what would happen if he did that.

  Valentin’s story ran as a lurid red splash across the corner of the front page. He had interviewed Mario, it said, and the exclusive interview would appear tomorrow, when they could devote enough space to do it justice. There would also be an exposé of the incompetent management of a certain young people’s hostel, which one of Valentin’s colleagues was working on.

  Slonský was cleaning his gun once again. Parts littered the desk.

  ‘Can you put that back together again?’ Navrátil enquired.

  ‘In my sleep,’ said Slonský. ‘It’s pretty well all I did during my national service. Take them apart, put them together; take them apart, clean them, put them together.’

  ‘Sir, I know it’s not my place to question —’

  ‘Then don’t. Do I know what I’m doing? No. I’m flying by the seat of my pants. Last time he confessed, but there were no witnesses. This time there will be. He won’t confess if he knows you’re there, so I’ll have to ensure that you aren’t there. But you won’t be far away. I’ll be miked up and you’ll be listening in.’

  ‘Why don’t we just bring him in, sir?’

  ‘Because he’ll shut up until his lawyer gets here, then they’ll walk out of the door. Simple as that. If we want to nail him, he has to think it’s an even game. He has to think he can taunt me with what he’s done and get away with it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a recorder, sir?’

  ‘Too bulky. I couldn’t use the recording anyway without a caution and all that jazz.’

  ‘But you can’t use my statement either.’

  ‘I can if he doesn’t object. And once he realises you’ve heard it, he’ll know that the game is up. He can argue all he likes about circumstantial evidence, but if two policemen heard him confess, it’s hard to claim he didn’t.’

  Navrátil nodded and got out of his seat.

  ‘Can you give me ten minutes, sir?’

  ‘Half an hour until we move off. Where are you going?’

  Navrátil jerked his thumb.

  ‘Church up the street, sir. Thought I might pop in and … collect my thoughts.’

  Navrátil gently closed the door behind him.

  ‘Say one for me while you’re there,’ mumbled Slonský.

  Slonský telephoned Sammler’s secretary to make an appointment. It was all terribly difficult, he was told. Unfortunately Dr Sammler had a string of very urgent appointments today. Slonský expressed the opinion that this might be a stalling tactic. How about 11:30? No, Sammler would be in a meeting with the Deputy Secretary at the Ministry of Finance. It started at 11:00 and was expect to last an hour. Then, after lunch, he had a meeting planned with some German businessmen who were funding a shopping mall. That couldn’t possibly be postponed, because they were on their way there from Berlin. It would certainly take all afternoon until 16:30. Sadly, he would not be free then either, because he had to prepare for a speech he was giving at a dinner that evening for an Austro-Czech Society of some kind. Lunch? No, Prague Businessmen’s Circle, meeting at 12:30 across the river. It would take time to get there and back given the traffic.

  Slonský said that he understood, and that tomorrow would do. Half an hour should be more than sufficient. He had some new evidence that he needed to put to Dr Sammler that seemed to contradict the statement he gave the other day. A few moments later, Slonský had an appointment for 11:45 next morning. He allowed himself a small smile as he returned the handset to its cradle. The pressure on Sammler was building.

  Navrátil was waiting by the car when Slonský emerged.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘City police office, District 1. It’s on Letenská.’

  ‘Why there, sir?’

  ‘It’s got a car park.’

  Slonský climbed in, which seemed to leave little option for Navrátil but to do the same.

  ‘Put your foot down, Navrátil. It would be good to be there by half past eleven.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Navrátil, this investigation is henceforth being conducted on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know. At least, not yet. Patience, lad, patience.’

  Navrátil pulled up by the police office and waited as he had been instructed. Slonský emerged after a few minutes with a uniformed city policeman and approached the car, motioning to Navrátil to wind the window down as he came closer.

  ‘Right, Navrátil, listen carefully. I’ll turn the mike on now. Can you hear it through your earpiece?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to stand just past the bend there. This officer has his instructions. Your job is to follow me when I tell you. Is that clear?’

  ‘You’ll be in a car, then, sir?’

  ‘That’s the plan. Either that or I’ll be running bloody fast to keep up with one.’

  Slonský and the police officer marched up the street past the Ministry of Finance and disappeared from sight around a right-hand bend. Navrátil had very little idea what might be planned, and the small amount he understood did not appeal to him in the slightest.

  The policeman busied himself ignoring the traffic chaos developing around him and keeping an eye peeled for the beige Mercedes. Slonský’s instructions were unusual, but since they amounted to doing his job particularly well, he was happy to follow them. His boss seemed to know Slonský and had vouched for him, so that had to be all right.

  The Mercedes had pulled out of the Ministry of Finance and was coming along the road towards them. The registration number was right, so the policeman stepped off the traffic island waving his arms to flag the Mercedes down. It came to a halt and the driver wound down the window.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. You pulled straight across that lane without signalling. Just because you’re driving someone important doesn’t mean you can ignore the rules of the road, you know.’

  ‘I did not!’ protested the driver.

  ‘Right, out you get. Hands on the roof of the car.’

  Sammler leaned across to speak through the window.

  ‘Officer, I have an important meeting. Please send the fine to my office and we’ll pay it.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that, sir. Endangering other road-users can mean you lose your driver’s licence.’

  ‘I didn’t endanger anyone,’ the driver argued.

  ‘I’m not arguing here,’ the policeman replied. ‘We can continue this at the station. It’s just down the road there.’

  ‘And how am I going to get to my meeting?’ Sammler expostulated.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But he isn’t driving you. I suppose you’ll have to drive yourself.’

  Sammler snorted in annoyance, then open
ed the nearside rear door and walked round to the driver’s side. He had to watch those other idiots who might have taken his door off, so it was a surprise to him when he sat down to find Slonský sitting beside him, who promptly clicked the central locking button.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Slonský. ‘Move off in your own time.’

  ‘And why should I do that?’ asked Sammler.

  ‘Because I’m pointing this at you,’ replied Slonský in his most guileless tone, holding his gun in his gloved hand.

  ‘You wouldn’t use it,’ Sammler replied scornfully. ‘It would be plain murder.’

  ‘Not if you were armed too, sir. There’s a gap in the traffic now.’

  Sammler pulled out and began to follow the flow of cars.

  ‘But I’m not armed, am I, Lieutenant?’

  Slonský dug deep into his coat pocket.

  ‘Fortunately I have a spare, sir. If I’m forced to shoot you, I’ll casually drop this by your body as I perform the kiss of life very ineffectively.’

  ‘That’s not standard issue, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s a Makarov pistol. The East Germans had them. I got this one off an East German army officer I helped during an exercise.’

  ‘Helped? How?’

  ‘I stood him upright and took the weight of the heavy gun off his chest.’

  ‘You stole it?’

  ‘Technically, I took it off him because he was too drunk to use it safely. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I have a thing about letting drunks get into fights when they have semi-automatic weapons on them. I just never got round to giving it back. It’s their own fault. The Germans told us to make ourselves scarce before the military police got there. I thought being a patriotic gentleman you’d appreciate the attention to detail, sir, giving you a German gun.’