by Graham Brack
‘How may I help?’ Barbora asked. Even her grammar sounded expensive.
Peiperová introduced herself and Jerneková, and invited Barbora to sit, which the older woman did once she had selected the least stained chair in the room.
‘We’re trying to get some sort of idea who Adalheid Rezeková may have been meeting in the week that she disappeared,’ Peiperová told her, ‘but it seems that she was choosy who she shared personal information with. We heard that the two of you had some shared interests and wondered if you were able to help us.’
‘If I could, of course I would want to, but I’m sure she never said anything to me about any men in her life.’
‘It may not have been a romantic attachment,’ Peiperová prompted.
Barbora frowned and appeared to be searching her memory. ‘Did you know that Adalheid was once married?’ she asked.
‘So we understand.’
‘It was not, it seems, a happy time for her, and it ended in divorce. Adalheid had rarely spoken of it to me until around a month ago, when I walked into this office and she was reading a letter. She had been crying.’
‘The letter upset her,’ concluded Jerneková.
‘Perhaps, but I’m sure that her main feeling was one of anger. I asked her if something was wrong, and I thought she was going to tell me, but after a moment or two she folded the letter, threw it in the drawer of her desk, and said it was nothing important. We chatted about whatever it was I’d come to say to her, then as I was leaving she took the letter out again.’
‘Can you tell us anything about it?’ asked Jerneková.
‘It was typed — or, at least, not handwritten. A standard piece of A4 paper folded into quarters, with only a line or two on the back. But the odd thing — dear me, you’ll think I’m terribly inquisitive going on like this — was that it wasn’t signed. It just ended in a line of typing.’
‘An anonymous letter?’ Jerneková asked.
‘So it seemed. But it was clear that Adalheid didn’t want to talk about it, so I let the matter drop. Then a few days later we went to a concert together and we were having a little supper at the Café Slavia beforehand. She seemed rather detached, and I asked her if she was quite well. She apologised and said that she was fine, just a little preoccupied, and then she said that she couldn’t decide whether to let sleeping dogs lie. I asked in what sense, because that sort of sentence could mean anything or nothing, and she said that someone had been in touch with her asking if she wanted to know what really happened to her husband. I’d always understood that he was killed in some kind of accident, but she explained that they’d been divorced by then and when she heard of his death it hadn’t provoked any sort of sympathetic feeling. I rather got the idea she’d expected something of that kind — he was fond of a drink or two, you see. But she said that it was one thing if he’d got drunk and driven into a wall and killed himself, and quite another if someone could prove that it hadn’t been that way.
‘She felt nothing for her ex-husband, but she had a kind heart and she would have hated an injustice done to anyone, so if there was some foul play involved, she would not have wanted to let it go unnoticed. Anyway, she asked me what I thought, and I said that it was hard to see why somebody should come forward after all this time. I gather she was a very young woman when he died. And — this is going to sound awful — I said that if someone wanted money from her for that information, I thought she should be very careful because I should doubt that it was genuine. But she said her informant didn’t want money. He only wanted the truth to come out.’ Barbora paused and sat back in her chair, having noticed that she had been creeping forward as she gave her account. ‘Having said that, I don’t know what Adalheid actually did about it, because she didn’t confide in me any further on the matter.’
Slonský was beginning to doubt the value of keeping Krob hanging around in the rain near Rezek’s house, because the old general had not set foot outside the door for a couple of days. This irritated the detective because, as his old mother had repeatedly said, if he was hanged for patience he’d die innocent.
Plainly Rezek had something in mind because he had asked to see the site. Then he had checked the register of births; or, more accurately, he had checked the index to the register. It all fitted. He was trying to work out who could have taken revenge on him by killing his daughter. The killer, whoever he or she was, had thrown down a challenge. Leaving Adalheid’s body where he did was taunting Rezek, telling him “I can hurt you and you know why.”
Slonský sipped his coffee as he dredged his memory for any similar cases during his career, but he could think of none quite like this. Revenge killings, yes, he’d had a few. There was the fellow in Karlín who had killed his wife’s lover, severed the victim’s penis and given it to her as a keepsake. And there was the man who had been defrauded of an inheritance by a lawyer and had waited in his office before stabbing him with his own paper knife. He could also bring to mind the occasional case of a murderer leaving the body in some sort of display. Discounting the black magic ritual type of killing, where display could hardly be avoided, he thought of the odd case of the poisoned woman left in her bed surrounded by rose petals, where the killer had taken the time to plait her hair. But revenge and display in the same killing was unusual.
Feeling sure that his brain was sluggish because his blood sugar level was low, Slonský returned to the counter for a refill and the stickiest pastry he could find. His hypothesis was supported by the sudden feeling he experienced as he stood in the queue to pay, the sense that things were becoming clearer and dropping into place. By the time Dumpy Anna took his money, he was feeling quite enlightened.
‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ she told Slonský.
‘A smile is the natural result of seeing you,’ he replied.
‘Get away with you. You see me almost every day but you don’t always smile.’
‘I do, but inwardly. However, today I’m also smiling because an idea has come to me about a case I’m working on.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Anna, if you were out for revenge on someone, how would you do it?’
‘Is this a catch question? Are you going to pin something on me?’
‘Not at all. I have a theory about the murderer’s behaviour. Humour me.’
Anna rolled her sleeves up and straightened her white cap. ‘I’d do what I do best. I’d cook them something special and put a suitable poison in it.’
‘And then go home and wait?’
‘Hell, no! Where’s the fun in that? I’d want to watch them eat it. This is all make-believe, of course,’ she added hurriedly.
Slonský smiled, collected his change, and playfully pushed her cap askew as he carried his tray away.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Navrátil asked as Slonský explained his idea an hour later.
‘No, but I think it’s a good bet. The killer’s motive has nothing to do with Adalheid herself. He wants his revenge on Rezek, and I don’t think it would satisfy him unless he knew that Rezek had spotted the lesson he was trying to teach.’
‘So you think he’s watching?’
‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. He wants to see Rezek squirm. The chances are that Krob hasn’t been the only one watching Rezek’s house.’
‘Should I ask Krob to keep his eyes open for another watcher?’
‘He’s a bright lad. If he’d seen anyone hanging around, he’d have reported it off his own bat. And I guess the killer has seen what he wants to see by now. His job was done once the women turned up to give Rezek the news. He’s got what he wanted. It’s all square now.’
Navrátil was less certain. ‘What makes you think being all square is good enough for our man?’
Slonský was taken aback. He had not considered this possibility. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Here you’ve got a man who has waited a long time — over thirty years — to take revenge. This is on the assumption that you’
re right about the murder of Adalheid Rezeková being all about revenge, which I’m not sure I completely buy just yet. Anyway, if someone has harboured that grudge for thirty years or more, why would he stop there? I wouldn’t. If all he wanted was simple revenge, he’d kill Rezek. Why doesn’t he do that? Because he wants Rezek to live on in misery. If you’re right that the killer is a child of whoever was buried there first, then he wants Rezek to feel the pain of losing a close family member just like he experienced it. Plainly he can’t kill Rezek’s father, so he kills Rezek’s child.’
‘Why Adalheid? Why not Petr?’
‘Because she was the favourite? Perhaps he didn’t make the link between Petr and Rezek because Petr doesn’t use the Rezek surname. Who knows? Whatever the reason, the one thing we can say is that it made perfect sense to him. This is not a random or spontaneous killer. He’s planned this very carefully. And that brings me to two questions. One — having waited all this time, what spurred him into action now? And two, what’s his next move?’
Slonský was in the grip of an unusual sensation, that of discovering that another policeman occasionally had a good idea. It had not taken him long after Navrátil’s arrival to decide that this was a young man who could go right to the very top of the Czech police service, always provided that Slonský gave him suitable guidance and training, but he was taken aback that his fatherly counsel had produced results this quickly. Navrátil would not have spoken like this even six months earlier. Their relationship was changing and Slonský would need to keep on top of his game if he wanted to retain the upper hand in it.
‘You think that something has triggered this?’ he asked.
‘I can’t see why he would wait,’ Navrátil replied. ‘After all, Rezek is not a young man. He could have keeled over at any moment and deprived our killer of his victory. Something had to happen before our man could put his plot into effect, and the obvious thing is that he somehow discovered where his father was buried. Tricking Adalheid into meeting him, strangling her and dumping her body, he could have done any time. The one part of his plan he couldn’t have done is leave the body somewhere that meant something to Rezek. It can only be recently that he has found out where those bodies were, and we can be pretty sure that Rezek didn’t tell him. So who did?’
‘Jelínek didn’t know.’
‘No, Jelínek told you he didn’t know. Why would he admit anything?
‘You’re developing a very suspicious mind, young Navrátil.’
‘If Jelínek said nothing, you’d keep badgering him. Better to let you have just enough that you’ll go away. Maybe we need to ask him if anyone else has been asking any questions about the Red House.’
‘Would he tell us?’
‘He might if he thought he was in the frame as an accessory to the original killings. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.’
‘Not only are you becoming cynical, you’re also developing a nice line in cunning. Well done, lad. Are you going to ask him, or am I?’
‘You’re the one who has met him before, sir. If he realises you weren’t shaken off the scent he may let something else slip.’
‘Good thought. Have you got any others?’
Navrátil walked over to the wall where the large map of Prague was hanging. ‘Just one. I think our killer may live not far from Rezek.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Navrátil took a couple of pins out of the box on the top of the filing cabinet. ‘Here,’ he began, inserting a yellow-headed pin, ‘is Rezek’s house. And here,’ he continued while placing a red pin, ‘is the depot where the electric cart was stolen.’
Slonský scratched his head. How had he missed that? ‘How far apart are they?’
‘Eight hundred metres? Say, a ten minute walk.’
‘Maybe that’s why Krob hasn’t spotted anyone hanging around. He can watch from his own window.’
‘It’s possible. It may even be that he moved there so that he would be near to Rezek when the time came. But I can’t imagine how anyone would know those carts were sitting there unless he’d walked or driven past, and I can’t imagine why anyone would follow that road unless they were living locally. It’s not on the way to anywhere.’
‘Navrátil, you may be on to something. I insist that you let me buy you a celebration coffee and pastry.’
‘You’ve just had one, sir.’
‘Am I rationed? Come along.’
Slonský led the way from the room as Navrátil grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and Slonský’s wallet from his coat pocket. That was one of the first things he had learned. Just because Slonský invited you for a coffee, beer, sausage or anything else did not mean that he would have any way of paying when the bill came.
Dumpy Anna raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘You again?’
‘We’re celebrating a moment of vital importance for the successful future of the Czech police service,’ Slonský told her.
‘You’re retiring?’ Anna asked.
‘Have you been nobbled by Lieutenant Dvorník?’
‘No, it was only my guess.’
‘Well, it was wide of the mark. No, the cause for celebration is that the boy here has just come up with an idea all by himself.’
‘I’m impressed. How long has he been with you?’
‘Barely two years and already he’s taking his first tentative steps towards being a top detective, under my tutelage, of course.’
‘I’m glad he’s not letting your help hold him back. I assume Lieutenant Navrátil is paying as usual?’
‘No, I’ve got my wallet … ah.’
‘Don’t worry, sir. I liberated it from your pocket,’ said Navrátil, offering the elderly leather object.
Slonský and Navrátil were having a relaxing time in the canteen when they spotted Sergeant Mucha on his way towards them with a concerned look on his face.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just drag your desk down here and cut down on your walking,’ Mucha grumbled.
Slonský looked around for other desks. ‘Do you think they would let me?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Dr Novák is looking for you. He doesn’t look too happy.’
‘Novák never looks happy. It comes of spending all his time with stiffs. He must want for sparkling conversation — which, I suppose, is why he comes here.’
‘Get off your backside and go and sparkle upstairs,’ Mucha growled.
‘You mean “Get off your backside and go and sparkle upstairs, sir,”’ Slonský corrected him.
‘If you insist. Just go.’
Slonský and Navrátil bounded upstairs and found their office empty, which puzzled Slonský until it dawned on him that Novák had probably made the mistake of going to Slonský’s office on the assumption that he would be using it instead of slumming it with his juniors. Nudging the door open, he spotted the back of a familiar head.
‘Dr Novák! I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.’
‘Around eleven minutes, but I wouldn’t want to rush your coffee break.’
‘Never mind, we’re here now. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve brought my report on the triple burial.’
‘So there were others?’
Novák polished his glasses before replying. He knew it irritated Slonský when he did that but he did not care. ‘Two more, as described by your informant. They weren’t evenly distributed. These two were separated by about a metre, the feet of A being above the head of B. I use the word “above” to mean further along the trench, not vertically over. The impression we saw the other day was about three metres from the middle one. It was also the other way round, lying feet to feet with its neighbour.’
‘Any identifying features on these two?’
‘No. Each was presumably naked when buried, and I’ve taken dental records though with so many fillings I’m not sure it will be conclusive for either.’
‘I don’t suppose you can suggest a cause of death either,’ remarked Slonsk
ý glumly.
‘Oddly enough, I can,’ replied Novák. ‘Each had a hole in the back of the head where a bullet went in and a bigger hole in the front where it came out.’
Slonský was rarely lost for words, but his jaw moved without any coherent sound being emitted.
‘Am I to take it that this surprises you?’ asked Novák.
‘We were told that the only deaths at the Red House were people who died during questioning.’
‘Perhaps they did, but they were assisted by a large lump of lead. Since they were probably shot indoors and the bullets passed right through, I don’t have them, but these were not small wounds. I’d guess that they were nine millimetre bullets, standard issue in the Czech army and police thirty years ago.’
‘I had a 7.62,’ Slonský remarked.
‘Yes, well, they’d hardly have given the likes of you one of the new ones, would they?’
‘I counted myself lucky I had an actual gun instead of a piece of wood painted black,’ Slonský admitted.
‘Didn’t you all have real guns?’ Navrátil interrupted.
‘Of course we did. What a scurrilous suggestion you make! As if the glorious Warsaw Pact would leave a fellow Pact member short of weapons, especially one that they had just invaded.’
Novák had opened the folder on his lap and was reading from his report. ‘Body A was a man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, but these things are very hard to judge precisely when you only have a skeleton to work with. He was around 178 centimetres tall. The best hope of identification may be that he was missing an adjoining pair of his upper right teeth, the canine and the first premolar. I don’t think that happened post mortem because the sockets seem to have had time to repair. In a younger man the likeliest reason for someone to be missing those two teeth and only those two is an accident.’