Field of Death

by Graham Brack

  ‘Which way does the camera point?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘Both ways. You decide which one is switched on by squeezing the handle at the corresponding end. That’s the beauty of this model. You don’t have to carry it in any particular way just so long as you squeeze the handle when you want to record. There’s also a microphone. You switch that on by pressing the lock in while the briefcase flap is open. But if the camera is on the microphone automatically comes on as well. Really clever piece of work.’

  ‘Battery life?’ asked Slonský, testing the weight of it in expectation that it would be absurdly heavy.

  ‘All day. Say, sixteen hours.’

  Spehar reached inside the case and produced a flat black slab about thirty centimetres by ten. ‘This is the battery.’

  ‘It’s disconnected,’ Slonský pointed out.

  ‘This is the spare. It has two. The other is under the floor of the case secured by press studs which double as the terminals. You leave one on charge while the other is in use.’

  ‘It looks battered enough to belong to a graduate student, I’ll give you that,’ Slonský conceded. ‘What do you think, Navrátil?’

  ‘Anything that doesn’t involve batteries in my underwear sounds a better bet to me, sir.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll have it, Spehar. Don’t bother to wrap it, we’ll take it as it is.’

  Navrátil loaded his new briefcase with his thesis, some pads, pens and pencils and his personal pencil sharpener. Peiperová looked on anxiously as he checked the contents of his suitcase one last time, a redundant act given that he had made a checklist and checked it twice more since it was packed, but one that helped him to control his emotions by giving him something to do.

  ‘I’ve got to go and see Mucha about something,’ said Slonský. ‘I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’

  ‘Anything I can help with, sir?’ Peiperová enquired.

  Slonský stopped in his tracks. ‘No, because there isn’t actually anything I want to see Mucha about. It was just a tactful way of allowing you to say your goodbyes with a modicum of privacy.’

  Peiperová blushed. She could hardly be blamed for failing to suspect that Slonský was being tactful, since the last known comparable instance had occurred before she reached high school.

  ‘We appreciate the thought, sir,’ Navrátil answered, and Slonský nodded curtly and shut the door behind himself.

  ‘Well, I suppose this is it,’ said Navrátil.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Peiperová. She had some difficulty in making the remark, because her bottom lip seemed to have a mind of its own. Despite her fierce efforts, tears erupted from her eyes and ran down her finely sculpted cheekbones. Navrátil wrapped her in his arms and held her very tightly so that she would not see his own eyes glistening. She stroked the back of his head and kissed the side of his neck, after which his lips found hers and no further conversation ensued for the remainder of the ten minutes.

  When Navrátil got to Holice, the woman at the reception desk gave him a photocopied plan of the town centre and marked his temporary home on it, cleverly placing the cross in the middle of the road and thus giving no indication whether to look to the left or the right. Navrátil found it and discovered that his room was unexpectedly airy, the result of an extension having been built at the back. He had windows on each side and the kitchen was directly beneath him, ensuring that he was never deprived of the smell of cabbage. Since the window to the left was only a few metres from the house next door, that one had frosted glass, but otherwise he had pleasant views to enjoy so long as he kept his eyes on the horizon and ignored the intervening streets.

  One of Navrátil’s best qualities was his willingness to do the job whatever his personal feelings about the task he had been given. Never mind that he was miserable about the separation from Peiperová and the surroundings in which he was placed; disregarding his misgivings about the possible, if unquantifiable, risk of the task in hand, Navrátil gave a deep sigh, took his briefcase in hand and set out into town to see what he could see.

  Slonský sucked in his stomach to the greatest degree possible.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said the tailor, ‘but sometime during the next three years you’re going to need to breathe out.’

  ‘Sorry. Just allowing for the weight I’m going to lose.’

  ‘Yes, they all say that,’ murmured the tailor.

  Slonský glanced in the mirror and was not enamoured of the spectacle that faced him. He had spent much of his career trying to get into a job where he no longer needed to wear uniform, and now, after so many years in which his uniform only came out of the closet for state occasions and disciplinary hearings he was about to go back into it. Part of his negotiation with the Director of Criminal Police was that he could wear his own clothes when investigating crime, because he had been able to retain some casework. Unlike Lukas, who had found himself behind a desk all the time, Slonský had planned to farm out some of the administrative work to people who did it better than he would to leave himself time to continue detecting. During Lukas’ sick leave this had meant Peiperová taking on most of the administration in her newly invented position of Acting Acting Captain, and by common consent the department had never run so efficiently. However, the Director of Criminal Police giveth and the Director of Criminal Police taketh away, and having agreed to Slonský’s cunning wheeze he had then removed Peiperová for a year, thus ensuring that Slonský would spend far more time behind a desk than he was expecting. Since he was also expected to wear uniform for some inter-departmental meetings, he had dug it out of the dark recesses of his wardrobe to discover that it had apparently belonged to a much smaller man and had changed colour due to a fine layer of dust that stubbornly refused to move. He had invested a small fortune in having it professionally cleaned only to find that it seemed not to match anyone else’s when it came back.

  Mucha had hung it on one of the hooks next to his own. ‘Have you tried ringing the police museum to see if they’d like it?’ he had asked.

  Since a change of rank was involved Slonský had been entitled to the services of the ladies who did the sewing for the police. He was unsure exactly where they were these days; when he had been promoted to lieutenant it had been two grandmas in the basement who had sewn on his insignia for him, encouraged by a small bottle of plum brandy in the pocket which had done wonders in elevating him up the queue of work but did nothing for the accuracy of the alignment of the stars on his epaulettes. Lukas had come to his rescue by authorising a completely new uniform for him, and the tailor was now checking whether any of the stock uniforms would fit well enough. It soon became clear that the peculiarities of Slonský’s physique would require some alterations.

  ‘It’ll be a week,’ said the tailor. ‘Promise me you won’t lose significant amounts of weight in the meantime.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Slonský replied, hoping that his tone conveyed his disappointment at having to make that commitment.

  Navrátil had wandered around the centre of town for a while and selected a café that looked promising. There was a mixed clientele and it was busy much of the time, or at least busier than most other places he had seen, and it seemed to be run by the owner as opposed to a manager.

  She listened attentively to his proposal and agreed enthusiastically. Navrátil could set up at a table and invite people to complete his questionnaire there, in exchange for which he would pay for a coffee for them. The number of completed questionnaires should tally with the number of till slips, and they would settle up at the end of each day.

  He had explained that he had to collect a stratified sample, which was a phrase that he had picked up somewhere, and which he interpreted to mean he needed equal numbers of men and women, a set number in each age group and an indication of how they had voted in the EU membership referendum, though they could decline to answer that. As he had suspected, the owner hinted to her regulars that if they went over to speak to the nice young man in
the corner for a few minutes he would pay for their coffee, and during what was left of the afternoon he collected a dozen questionnaires.

  The next step was to have something to eat in a bar and make a similar arrangement, but he could not possibly pay for a beer for everyone given the deep affection that Czechs have for the golden liquid. However, he cut a deal under which a platter of bread, salami and cheese was prepared and he could hand that out until it ran out. He swiftly decided that assembling an open sandwich or two himself was preferable to letting the ravening hordes make their own.

  He was surprised at how many people were prepared to answer his questionnaire. He had expected a cold shoulder but folks were very happy to tell him what they thought. Not only that, but several then fetched their friends to enjoy a free sandwich in exchange for telling a complete stranger what they thought, always a popular pastime in the Czech Republic even without the added incentive of a bite to eat.

  By the end of the first evening Navrátil had twenty-one questionnaires. The following day he started earlier and as a result collected a further thirty, including one from Doležal who dropped into the café at lunchtime and betrayed no sign that he had ever seen Navrátil before. At the counter Doležal insisted on paying for his own coffee and showed his badge by way of explanation.

  ‘We’re not allowed to accept gifts,’ he said. ‘It might look bad later.’ He gave a slim and insincere smile, pulled the door open and walked back to his car.

  The owner came across to Navrátil’s table and took out her cloth to polish the top. ‘That man,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s a cop. Be careful.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ Navrátil answered.

  ‘I haven’t seen him before. I wonder why he’s come to Holice?’

  ‘Plain clothes,’ Navrátil commented. ‘Must be a detective.’

  ‘I suppose. But what is he detecting?’

  ‘Search me,’ answered Navrátil, hoping that he wasn’t going as red as he usually did when he was trying to tell a lie.

  ‘I wonder if it’s something to do with that explosion the other day?’

  Navrátil decided to play dumb. ‘Explosion? What explosion?’

  ‘Some people with metal detectors got blown up by an old bomb in a field on the edge of town.’

  ‘Really? You’d have thought that would have been on the news?’

  ‘It was. Don’t you watch television?’

  ‘I don’t have one. It would only distract me from my work. I’ve got to get my thesis finished by September and my professor wasn’t happy with my first draft.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Yes. A lot of work had gone into it, but I’m afraid he’s a rabid European. He’s quite happy to be European rather than Czech.’

  ‘Can’t you be both?’

  ‘Yes. I think I am, for example. But he can’t see anything wrong with the EU and nothing to be especially proud of in being Czech.’

  ‘Well, if he comes in you point him out to me, dear, and I’ll have some words with him. And they’ll all be in good old-fashioned Czech.’

  She returned to her counter leaving Navrátil to ponder why she thought he needed to be careful when the police were around.

  Peiperová was unhappy. She would have been unhappy at being separated from Navrátil anyway, but her misery was enhanced by her doubts about whether she was doing the right thing by going to work for the Director of Criminal Police.

  ‘You can’t back out now, lass,’ Slonský told her. ‘Black mark on your record. Not that it matters a lot, because I’ve got several, but more to the point you’d get a seriously annoyed boss who’ll always be above you. Unless you shoot him, I suppose, but that’s not a great career move if you get caught.’

  ‘No, I’ll have to go through with it. But I wanted to check you’re not mad at me, sir. I’d like to think that I’ll be welcomed back after my year.’

  ‘Indeed you will. Don’t worry about that. I have big plans for this department, and you’re definitely part of them.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Only Rada has been hinting that he expects to get my job…’

  ‘Has he now? Well, you and I discussed that, didn’t we? I’ll have to have a little chat with Rada.’ Slonský had just been about to add “Don’t you worry your pretty little head” when he remembered that it was one of the things the Equality and Diversity training had told him was a no-no these days. ‘In the meantime, young lady, concentrate on impressing your new — and extremely temporary — boss as much as you’ve impressed me.’

  Peiperová smiled. It was a weak smile, but a genuine one. ‘Thank you, sir. I feel happier now, sir.’ She put a hand on the door handle but was checked by Slonský’s barking of her name.

  ‘One other thing. It would be good if you dropped by once in a while for a chat when you’re off duty. I’ll probably still be here because we work longer hours than the folks in the deep pile carpet corridor.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Good. That way you may recognise me in a year’s time when I’m reduced to a sack of bones.’

  Slonský considered his next course of action for a full twenty seconds. His initial plan was to stomp along the corridor and give Rada a piece of his mind, but a little voice at the back of his brain told him that Rada was acting like this out of insecurity and that the young Slonský would probably have done the same thing. The insecurity was probably also behind the cheating, though the young Slonský would not have done that, not because he was outstandingly moral but because the young Slonský was not inclined to give a toss about most things.

  Instead he picked up the phone and dialled the Pardubice station, where they told him Lieutenant Doležal was at Holice, so he dialled Holice, where they thought he might be at Pardubice. He called Doležal’s mobile phone, only to find that it went unanswered. He left a message and within a minute he received a text message in reply.

  Will come out and call you in ten minutes. D.

  Curious, thought Slonský, but he took advantage of the intermission to fetch himself a coffee and look longingly at the pastries.

  ‘You told me to refuse to sell you any of those,’ Dumpy Anna said.

  ‘I can look, can’t I? Anyway, when did you last do what a man told you?’

  ‘Good point. Do you want one?’

  Slonský sighed in resignation. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan. Just the coffee, love.’

  ‘Are you sickening for something?’

  ‘Just trying to lose some weight.’

  ‘You said. I can see a difference in you already.’

  ‘You can?’ said Slonský brightly.

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re much more miserable now.’

  Slonský’s phone was ringing as he reached the top of the stairs, so he ran the last few metres, ensuring that he slopped hot coffee down his shirt. He still missed the call, but Peiperová had recently shown him how to return the last call so he put his new skill to work and was rewarded with Doležal’s voice.

  ‘Where were you when I called?’ asked Slonský.

  ‘At the station.’

  ‘They said you weren’t.’

  ‘I spend a lot of time hiding in the toilet.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’

  ‘You can’t imagine. The captain is an ogre.’

  ‘Worse than me?’

  ‘Ten times.’

  ‘Quite a compliment for me there.’

  ‘There’s no organisation, no initiative. More to the point, something stinks.’

  ‘In the toilet?’

  ‘No, in the department.’

  ‘Really? Tell me more.’

  ‘That deputy mayor, Veselý, is part of a consortium building a huge shopping mall. They’ve been given land by the municipality in exchange for a stake. But so far as I can discover he’s nowhere near being able to fund it himself, so I suspect he’s a front man for someone else. I’ve briefed Klinger who is trying to find out who is bankrolling it.’

  There were officers who wou
ld have bawled Doležal out for going to a senior officer behind their backs. Slonský was not one of them. To his way of thinking, this saved him some work and he could toddle upstairs whenever he wanted for a progress report straight from the horse’s mouth, which was distinct from that part of a horse that he usually invoked to describe senior officers.

  ‘Good. But they’ve got fraud people in Pardubice, haven’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know who can be trusted yet. Veselý is buddies with Captain Forman at Holice and nobody seems at all interested about the plain fact that it will never make money. If you were going to build it why not do it in Pardubice, where you’ve got more people and it’s nearer to Prague?’

  ‘Lots of free land?’

  ‘That’s another thing. There are no eviction or rehousing orders relating to the people who live on the site. They know nothing. Veselý tried to pretend to me that nobody lived there but I’ve been to visit them.’

  ‘If it’s council land the council would have to rehouse them.’

  ‘Yes, but Veselý says they’re already clearing the site. These old folks are going to be given just a day or two to pack up.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of it. Everyone deserves better treatment than that. Except people I arrest, of course.’

  ‘Then there’s the explosion. I’d have expected a lot of effort being that one of our own was killed. I know you’re in charge but usually you’d see local officers sending in anything that might be useful. Instead they don’t even seem to talk about it.’

  ‘Maybe they think that’s why you’re there.’

  ‘If so, you’d expect they’d talk to me, but they’re not welcoming.’

  ‘You think it’s suspicious?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Doležal conceded. ‘I think it may just be that there’s a complete lack of effective leadership.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll change things.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. I came here thinking I’d get some good experience for when I return. If it went really well, I might even want to stay here, I thought. But I hope we get this sorted soon or I’ll go mad.’