by Graham Brack
Bitt drained his glass and caught the eye of a waiter. ‘Another of those, please, and a refill for these two gentlemen.’
The waiter gingerly picked up Valentin’s glass and inspected it.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Tomato juice with a dash of tabasco.’
‘He’s proving he’s not a wimp,’ Slonský added helpfully.
‘Do you have any information you can share with me?’ Bitt asked when the waiter had left.
Slonský drew out his notebook and flipped it to the correct page. ‘The first man was late twenties or early thirties, and around 178 centimetres tall. He was missing two teeth in his upper right jaw. The second one was much taller, around 193 centimetres with black hair. He was probably in his early thirties.’
‘193 centimetres. Great — he’s the one they’ll remember, then.’ Bitt checked his watch. ‘It’s not too late. There’s no time like the present, if you’re prepared to sacrifice your bacchanalian pleasures.’
Valentin folded his arms pointedly. ‘I don’t like the way you looked at me when you said that,’ he groused.
Bitt turned to Slonský and grinned. ‘It would be a friendly gesture if we took a bottle of something to keep the cold out,’ he suggested.
‘It’s quite warm for the time of year,’ Slonský argued.
‘Yes, but if you’re an old man in an old flat and you can’t afford heating, a bottle is a great comfort.’
‘Caught your drift,’ said Slonský, and bought a bottle of schnapps at a store as they went past. He wiggled the bag so Valentin could hear clinking. ‘Don’t worry, I got you a bottle of tomato juice so you won’t feel left out. And that tabasco stuff.’
On the way Bitt explained some of the history of their host.
‘Karel Matoušek was never in the first rank of the dissidents, not one of those the foreign press lauded, but he should have been. He didn’t speak any foreign languages and he wasn’t one for public speaking. But he did some great work in the factories around Prague explaining to the workers that the dissidents were not American stooges, and he could say that because he knew them all. When the regime was trying to pass the dissidents off as a bunch of unworldly intellectuals, Matoušek was a one-man demonstration that it wasn’t so. After the Velvet Revolution, he just walked away and got on with his life. He had no wish to be part of the power elite, so he put his overalls back on and went back to his old job fixing elevators and hoists. If he takes to you, he’s a mine of information. He’s helped me a lot over the years.’
They rounded the corner and Bitt stopped walking while he looked up at the windows. ‘The light is still on. One tip, if I may. Matoušek takes his time answering. Don’t rush him — he’ll get there in the end. If anyone knows who your men are, I’d be pretty sure it’s Matoušek.’
They climbed a couple of flights of stairs and Bitt rapped on the door. They could hear shuffling, and finally the door was opened to reveal a small, sturdy man in his eighties. He wore stained brown trousers and at least two sweaters, the collars of which were contending for the front position, and thick woollen socks.
‘Dr Bitt!’ he croaked. ‘Good to see you.’ He pumped the academic’s hand furiously then looked up at Slonský.
‘Slonský, Josef,’ the detective announced, ‘and this is my friend Mr Valentin.’
‘I’m helping them with some research,’ Bitt explained, ‘and I think we need your invaluable memory again.’
‘You’d better come in,’ said the old man. ‘Sorry about the voice — I go days without speaking to a living soul, then when I need to talk it won’t work.’
Bitt clapped him on the shoulder and assured him that they could understand him perfectly.
Once in the front room, Slonský produced his bottles and Bitt collected together some tumblers so Slonský could pour. They toasted Matoušek’s continued good health and each took a slug, which resulted in Valentin coughing furiously until he finally regained the power of speech.
‘What in hell’s name is that?’ he gasped.
‘Tomato juice,’ said Slonský.
‘What else?’
‘Tabasco,’ claimed Slonský. ‘That’s what it says, anyway.’
‘Give it here!’ Valentin demanded. Rotating the bottle so that he could inspect the label closely he held it under the dim central light bulb. ‘Nowhere on there do I see the word tabasco,’ he snarled.
‘Of course not,’ Slonský replied. ‘It’s in Vietnamese.’
‘Aren’t those chilli seeds floating in it?’
‘Possibly,’ conceded Slonský.
‘I’m no linguist, Slonský, but I reckon it’s a fair bet that the Vietnamese word “Jalapeño” that appears on the label translates into Czech as “Jalapeño”, don’t you think?’
‘I guess you’re on sound ground there,’ Slonský admitted.
Their attention was drawn to Matoušek, who was rolling around his chair in laughter.
‘This pair are like Laurel and Hardy,’ he said to Bitt. ‘Did you bring them to cheer me up? What else do they do?’
‘The big one is a police officer,’ explained Bitt, ‘while the little one is a top investigative journalist.’
Matoušek’s eyebrows arched. ‘You don’t say? Well, he investigated the contents of that bottle pretty quickly.’ He broke into a renewed fit of giggles.
Bitt gestured to the others to resume their seats. ‘Well, now that we’ve broken the ice, so to speak, let me explain what they want to know. Two bodies have been found in the grounds of the Red House.’
Matoušek instantly stopped laughing. ‘The Red House?’ he murmured. ‘Is that still running?’
‘It’s a teacher training college now,’ Slonský explained, ‘but we think these bodies probably date from 1970 or thereabouts. Each had been shot. Obviously we want to put a name to them, but we don’t know where to start.’
Bitt picked up the story. ‘There isn’t a lot to go on, but the pathologists have come up with some basic details.’ He nodded to Slonský to take over.
‘One was in his late twenties or early thirties, and around 178 centimetres tall. The best identifying feature is that he was missing two adjacent teeth in his upper right jaw. The other one was taller, around 193 centimetres. He was probably in his early thirties and had black hair.’
Matoušek chewed his thumb. ‘Around 1970, you say?’
‘So it seems,’ Slonský replied.
‘One metre ninety-three,’ Matoušek mumbled. ‘He ought to be easy to remember.’
As instructed by Bitt, they sat patiently while Matoušek mulled over his memories. Finally they could see him knotting his brow and he rapped three or four times on his forehead with his knuckle as if trying to make his brain change gear.
‘Bartek!’ he announced. ‘Michal Bartek. He was a half decent basketball player but his left hand wasn’t much good.’
‘You mean it was malformed?’ asked Slonský.
‘Not that I know of. He just couldn’t shoot with it. He’d never have made it at the top level because defenders knew if they forced him to go to the left he probably wouldn’t score.’
‘And nobody noticed he was missing?’
‘If I remember correctly, he’d spoken about trying to get to the West to see if he could get a professional contract. I don’t think he was star-struck — he was too old for that — but it might have kept the wolf from the door while he sorted out something else to live on.’
‘So if the taller one was Bartek, who might the shorter one be?’
Matoušek shook his head. ‘Almost anyone. He didn’t have a best mate he always hung around with.’
‘According to our information,’ Slonský persisted, ‘they were picked up by the StB because they were planning to go to West Germany to try to persuade the government to stop being friendly to the East Germans. Who would have asked them to do that?’
Matoušek looked doubtful. ‘I don’t recall that ever being a plan that we had as a movemen
t,’ he said. ‘More likely a scheme they cooked up themselves.’ He tapped Bitt on the forearm. ‘Do you know Martin Fischer?’ he asked.
‘Slightly.’
‘If anyone would know, he would. Fischer was brought up German-speaking and had contacts there. I’d lay you a crown to a haléř that if there was such a notion around, Fischer would have been in on it.’
‘Do you know his address?’ Bitt asked.
‘No,’ said Matoušek, ‘but he used to drink at the Silver Lion. Do you know it?’
‘Yes!’ Slonský and Valentin barked together.
They left the remainder of the schnapps — not to mention the Vietnamese hot sauce — at Matoušek’s flat, and strode out towards the Silver Lion, which was an old spit and sawdust bar in a side street with a very localised customer base. Tourists rarely went there, and if they did they didn’t return, because any kind of novelty — such as an unfamiliar face — was likely to attract attention there. Fortunately Slonský had dropped in often enough over the years not to be completely unknown, so when he asked the barman if Mr Fischer was in the place the man stopped polishing a glass for long enough to point to a heavy-set man who was playing chess near the stove.
Slonský, Bitt and Valentin sat themselves down as close as they could get, which was at the table by the window. All that could be seen through the glass was the bar’s backyard, which was covered in litter, but the effect was attenuated by the thoughtfulness of the staff who had ensured that you could barely see through the disgusting windows.
Valentin weakened and ordered a beer.
‘Do you want tabasco in it?’ Slonský asked him.
‘Why the hell would I want tabasco in it?’ Valentin demanded, while the barman simply added the idea to his list of fancy city centre perversions that wouldn’t be introduced into his bar.
Slonský had not played chess for a long time, but even he could see that Fischer had the upper hand in the battle before them. He knew enough to know that two of those castle things were worth more than a castle and a horse, especially when they were side by side and causing mayhem right down the middle of the board. It wasn’t long before Fischer’s opponent extended his hand and acknowledged his defeat.
Fischer dabbed his ample brow with an improbably large handkerchief and glanced at the clock. He looked as if he was thinking of leaving, so Slonský quickly introduced himself and asked if he could have a word. Fischer agreed and waddled over to join them. By good fortune there was just enough space for his ample frame if he squashed Valentin against the wall, so that was what he did.
Bitt explained that they had just been to see Matoušek who had, in turn, directed them to Fischer. Slonský described the discovery of the bodies and gave the limited description that he had.
‘The story that has been suggested to us,’ he said, ‘is that Bartek and two others were arrested by the StB in 1970 because they had been attempting to persuade West Germany to reverse its new policy of aiding the Eastern bloc, but we don’t know that such an attempt was ever made. Mr Matoušek thought that if anyone would know of such a plot, you would.’
Fischer sipped at a glass of something expensive and herbal. Slonský had never taken to these mysterious concoctions of herbs and could not understand the popularity of drinks which, in his eyes, consisted of a compost heap in a glass.
‘Mr Matoušek is overstating my prominence,’ Fischer declared, his voice slurred by age, a few drinks and a lot of surplus skin around his neck and jaw. ‘But I did know Bartek. He was not a stupid man. He reasoned that Brandt’s policy might work in the long run, especially if we behind the Wall became dependent on the handouts and could not cope if they were suddenly withdrawn, but it would take a decade or more and ruin the lives of a generation of Czechs. Bartek’s idea was rather different. Do you know the story of Trakia Plovdiv’s football match in the English city of Coventry?’
His question drew blank looks all around, so Fischer continued.
‘I think it was a little after the events you describe, but it illustrates Bartek’s point well. The Bulgarian players travelled to Coventry and were given some time to shop and buy souvenirs. And that is what they did, but the souvenir they wanted was English wallpaper. You couldn’t get it in Plovdiv, apparently, and what they did not use themselves they were able to sell at a handsome profit. This was just another in a long line of Eastern bloc sports teams going to the West and bringing back consumer goods that were unobtainable at home. Bartek had himself travelled with a basketball team to Munich and he firmly believed that if Czechs saw for themselves the standard of living that ordinary people in the West had it would spur public unrest and ultimately regime change.
‘Bartek knew that the Eastern bloc would not simply allow its citizens to travel freely abroad, but he thought if the West fostered educational, sporting and cultural exchanges it would chip away at this lack of freedom. An orchestra travelling to France, for example, would mean a hundred people exposed to Western values. Of course, just as he was sceptical about Brandt’s Ostpolitik so others were doubtful about his plan. Until, that is, he had the chance to put it into effect.’
Fischer took another sip.
‘One of our top basketball clubs was very successful in a European tournament and Bartek was part of the backroom staff. He certainly wasn’t a player for them; I suspect he looked after their kit or some such duty. At any event, he travelled with them on their away trips to the West and saw for himself how affected the players were by what they thought was rampant luxury. I think the other man whose body you have may have been called Toms — Vlastimil Toms, I think — who was another of the coaching staff at the club. Toms had an injury caused by an elbow in the mouth during a particularly fraternal match in Moscow, if my memory suffices. Those encounters were always rough affairs. I thank God I haven’t a sporting bone in my body. Nobody ever lost two teeth playing chess.’
Slonský was making notes as quickly as he could. ‘Thank you, Mr Fischer,’ he responded. ‘We’ll certainly follow this up. The problem is really with the third man, but of course we don’t have a body for that one. Do you have any idea who that might be?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Fischer answered. ‘But all is not lost. To the best of my knowledge, Bartek’s wife is still alive. I’ve no idea where she lives, I’m afraid, but I’m sure the police have ways of finding that out for themselves.’ Slonský closed his book and was about to thank Fischer when the latter continued.
‘At least, they always had in my day, and I suppose things to be no different now, more’s the pity.’
Chapter 11
The following morning found Slonský in his office, which is to say the office that had previously been Captain Lukas’s, because Slonský also maintained a desk in his old office (now the domain of Navrátil and Krob) and, in order to appear even-handed, in the office that was now primarily used by Peiperová and Jerneková. Slonský was busy adjusting the position of his chair until it was in just the right place to allow him to put his feet on his desk without difficulty.
‘You look very comfortable here,’ said a voice.
Glancing up, Slonský realised that the speaker was Lukas himself, and attempted to lurch to his feet respectfully.
‘Don’t get up, please!’ Lukas insisted. ‘And I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.’ He peeked into the corridor and shut the door to the office. ‘I am here on a mission for my wife.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘She has been looking for a wedding present for the two young officers and has settled on a set of bed linen, but she just wanted me to check that nobody else had the same idea.’
Slonský was not quite sure what “bed linen” was, but felt that the answer was obvious. ‘I think Mrs Lukasová need have no concerns, sir. I don’t know anyone else planning such a thoughtful gift.’
‘That’s a relief, I don’t mind telling you. The hours we’ve spent discussing this… Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘It’s your office
, sir.’
‘No, it’s your office now.’
‘It’ll always be your office in my eyes, sir.’
‘I can’t have two, Slonský, and I have one in the other wing now.’
Slonský could see no good reason why an officer couldn’t have as many offices as he could lay his hands on, but he decided to let the matter drop.
‘How are things coming along?’ Lukas asked.
‘We’ve got a particularly troubling murder on our hands. A woman who worked at the university who was killed and buried in the grounds of the Red House.’
‘What an extraordinary place to bury her! Do you think that’s significant?’
‘At last — someone else thinks the same way as I do. Yes, it seems to me highly significant. And what’s more, she was buried in a grave in which there had previously been another body. When our murderer deposited Adalheid Rezeková he collected whoever was there before.’
Lukas had always been good at displaying his amazement, and he did so now, by letting his jaw drop and pumping it ineffectually a couple of times without issuing any noise. ‘That must have been a considerable undertaking,’ he finally managed to say. ‘He took a great risk in staying there long enough to do that. How can he have known that he wouldn’t be disturbed?’
‘Maybe he just took his chance, but it’s a good question. It’s a teacher training college now, so if they have security at all it’s probably just an old man sitting in the foyer.’
‘So I suppose your assumption is that there was a link between the murderer and the first body?’
‘It seems logical. In which event the motive is simple revenge, because the second victim was the daughter of a high-ranking StB officer.’
‘Rezek, Rezek,’ Lukas repeated to himself. ‘Klement Rezek?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is he still alive? I guess he must be, or the revenge would be pointless.’
‘Very much so. Alive and kicking.’
‘If he’s kicking, he hasn’t changed,’ Lukas replied. ‘He was one of the nastiest people I’ve ever encountered.’