by P. J. Nash
At Jinonice Metro station, he pulled up behind a marked patrol car, went to the boot and got his investigation bag from it before locking up. Jinonice Station was a low slab of a building in the southern suburbs of Prague, a node in the commuter hub that connected the tower block estates with the city centre. It wasn’t the quaint, medieval Prague beloved by tourists worldwide. It was the run-of-the-mill Prague where most Praguers dwelt. Small knots of people were being turned back from the closed metro station by uniformed officers.
Walking to the station entrance, Jiri flashed his ID card to the officer guarding the cordon and went down the steps into the station. He saw Sergeant Vaclav Jezek had taken control of proceedings, and everything was running like clockwork under the direction of the ex-military man. ‘Evening, Spikey, what we got here?’ asked Jiri.
‘A young male tourist, from England, according to his passport. Someone tortured him and then slit his throat,’ said Jezek.
‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Be my guest,’ replied Jezek.
Opening his bag, Jiri pulled on a white plastic oversuit and overshoes. He walked towards the carriage where a group of forensic investigators were doing their work. ‘Oh, by the way, someone somebody cut off his dick and put it in his mouth,’ shouted Jezek.
Nathan Road, Kowloon, Hong Kong.
James was in the changing room of a tailors, stepping out of a pair of linen trousers. He’d be in and out of different materials and styles all morning. He was hot, bored and irritable. It was, he thought, time for a smoke. Thankfully, his pipe and tobacco were in his “manbag,” as he called it. The tape-wielding tailor came into the room.
‘Scuse me, you got a place to smoke?’ said James, making the internationally-understood light and smoke signal. The man nodded in recognition and pointed to a curtain which led to another room.
James ducked under the curtain and went through into a large high-ceiling room which had a couple of chairs, a lot of junk and not much more. Soon enough, he’d packed the pipe bowl, struck a match and had taken a calming pull on it. As he sent a thick plume of smoke towards the ceiling, something caught his eye. On the wall hung a number of colour Polaroid pictures pinned to a cork board. James walked across to it and perused the pictures. They were of different men posing in their bespoke suits. He flicked his policeman’s eye across them as he switched his pipe to the other side of his mouth.
Then, an image caught his eye, a memory stirred. In one of the pictures was a jovial man having his dress suit for his wedding fitted. In the extreme left-hand side of the picture was the profile of a man. It was quite blurry, but his shoulder was fairly discernible. On the shoulder was an image of what looked like a furry dog and underneath some sort of motto. It was unclear but something told him what the writing was…
‘Loyaulte me lie,’ said James to himself. He pulled the picture off the wall and pocketed it. It was only a hunch, but the image spoke to him. His policeman’s antennae were twitching
Vasily had been the first one. The fat, sweaty pig, reeking of vodka, cigarettes and cheap aftershave, had taken you by force for the last time. He liked you more than the rest of the girls because you had dark hair. He'd called you a “femme fatal.” Stupid idiot couldn't get anything right. After he'd rolled off you, he'd quickly fell asleep, his base appetites sated. You'd come back from the bathroom after you'd cleaned yourself up and had seen the gun. It was a nickel-plated thing, typical flashy for a gangster with no education and terrible taste in all things. He was snoring fitfully when you slipped it out of the shoulder holster of his jacket which was spread open as he lay on his back.
It was heavier than it looked. You turned it over in your hands. On the side was what looked like a sliding switch. Of course, the safety catch, you'd seen it loads of times in the movies. You slid it off and raised the gun towards him. And pulled the trigger. BANG! There was a flash of light and a blast of heat. The gun kicked, and as it did, your fingers jolted as you fired again. What happened to Vasily wasn't like the movies, though. There was no neat round hole. A massive chunk of flesh had been blown away, and his ribcage was exposed, showing gleaming bone. The second shot had obliterated his face. Somehow, you were calm as you rifled his pockets, took the huge wad of euros and crowns and then threw the bed covers over the piece of meat. Then, you put the gun in your bag, set fire to the bed covers and took the backstairs…
Ned Kelly's Last Stand, Kowloon.
Ned Kelly's Last Stand was an Aussie bar whose origins had been lost in the mists of time. All most Aussie's knew about it was that it had originated as a hangout for Australian soldiers on R and R from the Vietnam War. And that it had, more or less, stayed the same ever since. Whatever its origins, James was glad to step out of the bustling crowds and blasting heat to get his hands around a cold beer.
‘What's on your mind?’ asked Sandersen, who was tucking into a passable Caesar salad.
‘Well, I don't want to mention it here. But let's just say, something jolted my memory while I was in the tailors.’
Coming from a profession where getting people talking was her key aim, Sandersen had found it hard to adjust to being the partner of a close-lipped former policeman who played his cards close to his chest. James had shown some of the classic signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Namely, he had been drinking too much, had difficulty sleeping and was prone to outbursts of anger and melancholy. Both of them were aware of this, and she had made it clear that was she was here for him and also that he needed space.
Something had indeed jogged his memory. But it wasn't a subtle touch on the shoulder. It was a jab straight to his gut. In the picture, there had been a tattoo. “Loyaulté me Lie” the legend had read. “Loyaulté me Lie” emblazoned above the image of a white boar. The motto and crest of Richard III, the last Plantagenet king of England. And the motto and crest of the UK's most notorious outlaw motorcycle gang, The Plantagenets.
James had come across them as a DC back in the UK when he was with Leicestershire Police. A retired motorist had been kicked to death at a rural petrol station. His crime had been to ask the bikers to move their bikes from in front of the petrol pumps. Witnesses were intimidated, and video footage from the forecourt cameras disappeared. As did the key suspect Robbie Simm, the sergeant at arms of the Midlands Chapter. The case had gone cold, consigned to the basement of Leicestershire police headquarters. The warrant for Robbie was still in force, and alerts were still live with Europol and Interpol.
James could see Robbie's file now. Amongst the description under “Distinguishing Marks” was the description. “Right, top shoulder, Tattoo, of white boar and motto, Loyaulté me Lie” James had seen the tattoo during the most frightening drive of his life. He'd been abducted by Bain and two of his henchman. One of them tanned brown by a decade in Australia and bulked out by gym work was, he swore, Simm. His T-shirt sleeve had blown upwards under the harsh blast of the air conditioning as he drove. Finally, he'd seen the writing as he'd been hefted out of the four-wheel drive. Why the fuck hadn't he seen it at the time? Perhaps having a Mach 10 submachine gun poking in his back had caused a memory lapse? More than bloody likely. But now, in the clear light of day, he was ninety-eight per cent sure of it. Why hadn't Robbie removed it? Bikers would rather die than delete their allegiance to a gang. Prison was not an issue for a diehard biker.
Vaclav Havel Airport, Prague
Among the thirteen or so million people arriving at Vaclav Havel Airport, many are tourists, some anonymous business people. Most arrive and leave without causing any fuss. Those who are greeted with a mixture of trepidation and fear are the gangs of men celebrating stag parties. No doubt Havel, the “Playwright President” whom the airport was renamed after in 2011, would have raised an ironic eyebrow at the thought of having thrown off the shackles of Communism, his country faced new invaders. This time not from the East. But from the West.
Already well-oiled and slightly staggering, the group of young men stumbled from the dark int
erior of the crowded jet into the sunlight of a Prague spring day. Amongst the blandly dressed businessmen and tourists, the seven men stood out clad in neon pink polo shirts each with their nicknames emblazoned on the backs. "Muppet" and "Shithead" were two of the party. Following up the rear in a loose-fitting woman's dress and high heels was the groom, the centre of the planned devilry and debauchery. The best man had chosen the venue for the stag party. He'd heard that the women and beer there were both cheap and plentiful. They were here to enjoy both. But the woman watching from the shadows had different plans. For one of them, at least. For him, the experience of the city truly would be worthy of the adjective “Kafkaesque.”
Motol Hospital, Prague.
A few miles from Vaclav Havel airport, Jiri was standing outside a nondescript single storey building which crouched beneath the looming sixties presence of Motol Hospital – the largest hospital in the Czech Republic. His daughter Petra had been born there. The Communist era monolith was so tall, a number of kestrels had made their home on the concrete sills. He was watching one soar and dive as he smoked a cigarette. He was waiting for the preliminary results of the post mortem being carried out inside by Dr Hannah Bila. He heard a whistle and saw her standing there in her green scrubs, drying her hands. He threw his cigarette onto the cracked Tarmac and ground it out with his heel.
‘Well that was something else. Your Englishman was tortured horribly before he died,’ she said, picking up a clipboard. ‘Apart from somebody cutting off his dick, pre-mortem, by the way, they pulled out his fingernails and shoved something made of glass up his ass. He had heavy bleeding from the rectum. Then, she cut his throat. She must have hated him more than I hate my ex-husband,’ she said. ‘So we’re looking for a woman?’ asked Jiri. ‘Yes, I would say so, by the depth of the stab marks in him. too light for a man. Plus, we found Rohypnol in his bloodstream,’ the pathologist said
‘The date rape drug?’ asked Jiri.
She nodded. ‘Yes, he was drugged. I would say so that a smaller assailant could tackle him,’ she added.
‘Have you come across this before?’
‘Yes only last year we had a case in Pardubice. A woman drugged her husband and stabbed him while he was out of it.’
‘He deserve it?’ asked Jiri.
She smiled. "Well, he'd hospitalized her the previous month, broken her jaw and several ribs.’
‘Sounds like he did,’ said Jiri.
‘So, you have a woman assailant for definite,’ added Hannah.
‘A female with a grudge, something sexual?’ he asked.
‘Well, I'm strictly a pathologist. You would have to check with the headshrinkers for sure. But for my ten haller's worth, I'd say that the mutilated penis and the glass up the ass certainly point that way.’
Vasily, you could explain. He was a rapist pig who had enslaved you and deserved to die. You thought that would be the end of it, a form of catharsis, but it ended up being a catalyst.
Somehow, you realised the things that lead you to being exploited by men, could be flipped on their head and used to exploit them. A short skirt, a flash of cleavage, and they stopped thinking with their big head and started thinking with their little one. So why not? But you wouldn’t do it for money. No, you would do it for all Czech women. You remember the day you decided who your prey would be? You were looking after Sarka, your niece. Your sister had said you needed to get over the baby thing. It would happen for you again with the right man. So, off you went, stocked up with sandwiches, crisps and Kofola from Bila.
Sarka loved the tram ride up to Divoka Sarka. It was a large open area of small hills and rocky outcrops just on the edge of the city. A natural wonderland for a six-year-old. You spent the morning exploring the pathways. Sarka ran to the edge of the outcrops and howled like a wolf in pure delight. Later, as you passed the small café next to the outdoor swimming pool, the delicious smell of fried onions wafted across. The wolf impressions were quickly forgotten as Sarka asked for a burger. The sandwiches would keep for another day. You bought the food and a bottle of beer and sat at a picnic table. It was a warm day, so you took off your lumberjack’s shirt and sat in your camisole top. All was idyllic. Until the minibus arrived.
Emblazoned with” Karnage Pub Tours,” it disgorged half a dozen or so drunken young men all wearing T-shirts of the same kind. They weaved past leering at you and making smutty comments in English, as if you didn’t understand. Thankfully, they disappeared inside. You drank your beer and soaked up the sun. It was the first time you had felt good for months. Several of them came outside and did little to disguise their urinating over the information boards describing the legend of the female Czech warrior Sarka, who the park was name after. Then, they disappeared back inside, but not before looking at you like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop window and a volley of lewd comments. You were thinking about going. Then, he appeared, wavering, a bottle of beer clutched in each hand.
‘Scuse me, where can I go for a piss?’ You tried to ignore him. He leant in, beer breath hitting you in the face.
‘You ignorant bitch,’ he sneered. You told Sarka to go inside. She read the situation well and skipped off to the safety of the pub.
‘Look, maybe - how do you say - got off on the wrong foot?’ you said to him. ‘How about a cigarette?’ Reaching into your handbag, you pulled out a packet of Davidoff. He relaxed and nodded in agreement. Your hand went back into the bag as if for a lighter. He leant forward just as you snicked off the cap of your pepper spray and hosed his face. Dropping the bottles in a shower of beer and broken glass, he doubled over in pain. Without thinking, you snatched up the steak knife that had come with your food and jabbed into his leg and twisted it. He fell to the floor and you stepped over him.
‘This is what happens when you piss on my country,’ you said in a voice that sounded like someone else. Someone stronger and angrier than you. He lay there like a landed fish. You kicked him in the side of the head as hard as you could, and he snapped into unconsciousness. You took the tram home. On the way back, you told Sarka the legend of her namesake and how she was a strong female warrior and that no man should ever make her do what she didn’t want to do. As Sarka slept on the tram, you realised you had unleashed something inside of you that would never go away.
Sheraton Hotel, Hong Kong
James was awakened from his slumbers by the pinging of his iPad. He got off his bed and opened the emails he had received. The first was from Dan Collins, a former Northern Territory cop who'd joined James and Sanderesen's investigative firm, Alchemy Investigations. It was a PDF of Robbie Simm's Interpol file. The second file was a blow up of the tattoo James had seen in the photograph in the tailor’s shop. Collins had sent the image to an image enhancement specialist. After some tinkering, blowing up and comparison, it had come back as a one hundred percent match when compared to the photo taken of Robbie’s tattoos taken during a previous spell in prison for possession of firearms.
‘Geez, a fucking ghost is back,’ exclaimed James.
Incident Room, Smichov Police Station, Prague
Jiri was cursing himself for tempting fate. A week ago, as he struggled with a pile of paperwork on a number of tedious low-level crimes, he'd asked the powers above to grant him a decent case. Well, now, he'd been given the whole fucking nine yards with bells on.
All morning he'd been trying to convene a case conference, but a flurry of phone calls had distracted him. First the city mayor had been haranguing him. The oxymoronic message being an ultimatum to catch the murderer, as soon as possible, but keep the murder out of the press.
‘As if I can keep a man carved up like a side of fucking beef and sloshing blood along the floor in the middle of a metro station out of the news,’ Jiri had exclaimed to Karel Svboda, his sergeant and co-investigator, as they smoked a quick cigarette out the back of the police station. ‘And then, I get the British ambassador breaking my balls because one of her citizens gets used for carving practice. She wants us to is
sue a notice to all British people to exercise caution in the city. The bastards at City Hall would have me on traffic duty in Olomouc for the next decade if I did that. Fucking hell. I'm a policeman, not a politician!’
Finally, the case conference got under way. It consisted of Hofschnadir, Svboda, Jezek and the two cops who had been first on the metro train.
‘So, set the table for us,’ Jiri said to Svboda.
‘Ok, our victim is one Martin Owens from Slough in the south of the UK, aged 22. He flew in three days ago for a short trip with a party of six others. One of them is getting married next week. All of them were in a pub just off Old Town Square just before he disappeared. Most of them were too blind drunk or engrossed in a football game to notice. But one guy we spoke to said that he saw Owens talking to a woman who was “fit”.’