The Appraisal

by Anna Porter

  Attila thought she didn’t look like a woman with a fresh hairdo. The ex used to have hers done every week, and he knew she had something going when she started to experiment with different styles and colours.

  “Was he expecting anyone?” Tóth asked.

  “If he was he didn’t tell me.”

  “Did he usually tell you if he was expecting visitors?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Krestin, did your husband have any enemies?” Tóth ventured.

  She raised her head and looked directly at him. “Enemies? Why would he have enemies?”

  “Everybody has enemies,” Attila said. And he could not resist adding, “Even Captain Tóth has enemies.”

  Tóth frowned. “In his work,” he resumed, “there may have been someone he had angered. Perhaps an associate or a former business partner?”

  Vera Krestin didn’t reply.

  “He used to have a partner in the movie business,” Attila said. “A man called Tihanyi. He was American? Or Italian? And their partnership didn’t work out.”

  “Italian, I think,” Vera Krestin said. “A ’56-er. He was not very friendly.”

  “How wasn’t he friendly?”

  “He didn’t speak to me. He was only interested in the business and he stopped coming when the money ran out.”

  “And the partnership ended when?” Tóth regained his command of the situation.

  She shrugged. “As I said, János didn’t discuss business with me, but that man stopped coming to the house.”

  “When?”

  “Not sure. About a year ago.”

  “Your husband had some dealings with Gazprom when he negotiated our price for gas. He told the newspapers that they were not happy with the deal he made. Have they called him recently?”

  “Not as far as I know. He had his own phone.”

  “Mrs. Krestin, did he perhaps discuss the sale of the large painting in your home? The painting of Jesus on a donkey?”

  “He didn’t sell it,” she said matter-of-factly. “He had planned to sell it, but he didn’t. Your people saw it is still there.”

  “Are you going to sell it?” Attila asked.

  Tóth stared at Attila in disbelief. How could he be so crude?

  “Yes, of course,” Vera Krestin said.

  Tóth thanked her for her co-operation and asked whether there was someone, a relative perhaps, they could arrange to be with her during this difficult time.

  “I would rather be alone,” she said. So Greta Garbo, Attila thought. Perhaps, she, too, was a fan of late-night Hollywood fare.

  Tóth stood, helped her up from her chair, and escorted her to the door.

  “Mrs. Krestin,” Attila called after her as she walked down the corridor, “do you know why your husband wanted to sell that painting?”

  “He was eighty-seven years old. It was time to think about getting rid of things,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Was he short of money, perhaps?”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s not difficult to check, Mrs. Krestin. There is no shame in being short of funds, you know.”

  “I will be settling all his accounts,” she said in a clear voice.

  “Are you the sole beneficiary of his will?”

  She didn’t stop to reply.

  Attila followed her along the aisle between vacant chairs usually filled by police bodies. “When you phoned the emergency line, you said there had been an accident, yet you had seen your husband’s body with a wire around his neck, a lot of blood running down the front of his shirt, a pool of blood under his head, and you told the operator he was not breathing. He was obviously dead. Why did you say it was an accident?”

  She stopped and turned around.

  “You used to be a nurse,” Attila said.

  “I am out of practice. And since you asked, no, I am not the sole beneficiary,” she said, and she left.

  Attila waited. He had seen enough liars during his long career in the force to know that Vera Krestin was not telling the truth. The question was why. And perhaps when. She did not seem stupid. She would certainly have known of Krestin’s dealing with the filmmaker and something about his dealings with Russians. But had she lied when she said she did not know of anyone visiting him yesterday?

  When Attila returned, Tóth was gazing at the spot where his wife’s picture used to be and picking his teeth with the nail on his little finger.

  After a while, Tóth noticed him. “I don’t know what to make of that woman,” he said. “And talking about women, where was your Ms. Marsh yesterday afternoon?”

  “She says she was out of town for the day. She checked into the Gresham here last night. It’s easy to check.”

  “Then do it,” Tóth said. “Make sure she is still in the Gresham. And while you are checking stuff, make sure Vera Krestin doesn’t leave home again today. I have a couple of young cops there, but they are too green to deal with Mrs. Krestin.”

  “I suppose it would be too optimistic to assume that one of the many video cameras was actually on yesterday?” Attila asked.

  “Dr. Krestin didn’t like to have his house under observation.”

  “Of course, not,” Attila said. “And Tihanyi, the ex-movie mogul, do you know what kind of stuff he was working on with Krestin?”

  “Tihanyi? He used to produce made-for-TV true crime while he was in Hollywood. He did the same stuff here with East European settings. Then he started a vampire series. She is right, he is a ’56-er. I haven’t seen anything of his for a while. Do you think he may be involved?”

  “Not really,” Attila said, “but I could find out about him, if you like. He was Krestin’s business associate, and she doesn’t like him.”

  “How do you know she doesn’t like him?”

  “Body language,” Attila said. “I watched her face when you asked about him. But why did she say he was Italian?”

  “Maybe there is another film guy he dealt with. Another investor. Isn’t our current film czar an American?”

  “You mean Szilvas? He did live in the US for a while, but I would hardly call him American.”

  “You’ve got Krestin’s phone records?” Attila asked.

  Tóth cleared his throat and spat into his wastebasket. “You think I am an idiot?”

  Attila was spared from responding by a young uniform who came in and handed Tóth a MacBook.

  “Krestin’s?” Attila asked.

  “Good,” Tóth said and waved Attila out of the office. All along the corridor, Attila could hear him yelling into his phone about Krestin’s diary.

  He drove to the Office of the Medical Examiner, parked in his old spot, the one reserved for the police, and asked at the front desk to see Dr. Bayer. He was instantly recognized, fitted into a white coat and mask, and left to shuffle along to the autopsy room. Bayer was working on a man’s chest with a saw. He looked up, but his goggles and mask hid his welcoming smile.

  “Plus ça change,” he said, “plus ç’est la même chose, only the methods differ. I am almost done with your friend here. He was in fairly good shape for a man of his age. Close to ninety, I’d say. Look at the brachioradialis and his flexors carpi, even his pectoralis look better than mine will when the time comes. Possibly better than mine do now. Not so sure about his abdominals, but they’re not bad. How have you been, Attila?”

  “Better than the guy on your table,” Attila said. “I’m still not sure I like being a private dick, but the hours are better.”

  “The kids?”

  “Good, I think. I am taking them for the weekend. I was going to drive to Leányfalu, but the weather has not been great.”

  Bayer showed Attila Krestin’s palms. “Defensive cuts. He was trying to stop his assailant. He must have got both of his hands under the wire. His index finger and
middle finger are almost cut through, as is his throat. Under normal circumstances — if garroting someone is ever normal — it takes a lot of strength to sever a neck all the way to the spine, and this man fought. But not so much strength was needed in this case because the killer used a short stick, or a pen, something to help wind the wire tighter. Here,” he lifted the dead man’s head and pointed to the back of his neck, “you can see the pressure marks all the way up into his hair. It would still have taken some effort, but the guy didn’t have to be that much stronger than the victim. I’m old-fashioned, that’s why I said guy. It could easily have been a woman, but she’d be a strong one. And she’d be standing over the victim. You can see the wire ran up behind his ears. To force him down in the chair as he struggled, she’d have to have some serious muscle. Does the room show signs of a struggle?”

  Attila said he didn’t think so. Tóth had told him very little about the investigation, but he would certainly have mentioned if the place was a mess.

  “If there are not a lot of broken things around, he must have known his killer well enough to let him get behind him and stay still while the killer readied himself. The killer can’t have been walking around with the wire in his hands. He must have pulled it out when the victim’s back was turned. That’s an odd one, too, the use of a wire. We don’t see much of that here. It’s more of an Italian thing. I was at a forensics conference in Naples last year, and they were talking a lot about people being damned near decapitated with wire and the kinds of wire they use. In Sicily, they use very fine double-knit steel. Here, in Hungary, if you’re going to asphyxiate somebody, you use old-fashioned rope. Not even our high-end criminals go in for wire.”

  Italians, again, Attila thought. Maybe Alexander wasn’t kidding.

  “What time do you think he died?”

  “Between noon and three in the afternoon is still as exact as I can be. Closer to two, maybe. He was still digesting his lunch: omelet, tomato, bread. A bit of wine. Not a bad way to go, don’t you agree? Pleasant food, fast exit, not much pain. I’ll think about that for my own exit.”

  Attila thanked him and suggested that Bayer could, maybe, not mention their talk to Tóth. The captain was protective of his forensics turf and wouldn’t like to see Attila tread on it.

  He stopped for a beer at a bistro on Vas Street and googled László Tihanyi, film producer. The man was born in 1938 in Budakeszi, just west of Budapest, and immigrated to Italy in 1956. He worked in Hollywood in the 1970s and was now living in Rome. He had made most of his movies for television — a mystery series set in different cities, a series of risqué love stories with graphic sex — but also a couple of big-screen, science-fiction movies with characters living on Pluto. In 2001, Tihanyi was appointed executive director of the Hungarian Film and Television Fund, but the job lasted only as long as the government of the day. The company he had formed with Krestin got a five-line mention. Their joint venture had produced romantic comedies for export, all supported by the fund. In early 2011, they were in production on a new vampire series for TV. No titles were mentioned, and Attila couldn’t find any further mention of the series. They had stopped making movies in Hungary at the end of 2011, when Szilvási was appointed to head up the fund.

  Although Wikipedia was too polite to say so, Attila assumed Szilvási didn’t like either man. He may have thought a former Commie like Krestin was not trustworthy. More likely, he disliked Tihanyi, or he believed, as the press had pointed out, that it was a conflict of interest to award government money to a company you half owned. Without a tap into government funds, the partnership would not have been lucrative.

  Besides, few movies were made here now. There were a lot of out-of-work actors in Budapest, just like in every other big city, waiting tables and driving cabs.

  Attila called Tibor, the man most likely to know more about Tihanyi and Krestin. But he didn’t have much more to offer. He remembered that Szilvási had had a ton of nasty things to say about both Tihanyi and Krestin, but none as bad as comments made by the members of the Lipótváros football team and its trainer. Several of them had been quoted in the press suggesting that Krestin had siphoned money that should have been invested in renewing the team.

  “A while back,” Tibor said, “Krestin asked whether I would like to invest in a new venture he had launched with Tihanyi. Very hush-hush, but easy, secure, low risk, and big returns, or so he said. He showed me some numbers and a kind of prospectus. There were a few outside investors.”

  “Do you remember who they were?”

  “There was a numbered company registered in Canada, but I wasn’t interested.”

  “Any idea what business it was?”

  “Only an idea. Selling Romanian guns and ammo to the Ukrainians.”

  “Seriously? What made him think the Ukrainian government would buy Romanian arms from a Hungarian in the movie business?”

  “I didn’t listen long enough to find out.”

  “You know Krestin has been killed?” Attila asked.

  “Hardly surprising,” Tibor said. “He was one of the least likeable citizens I have ever met.”

  “You knew him well, personally?”

  “Socially. But not well,” Tibor said. “And I have not seen him recently. There have been some rumours about his money running out.”

  “Do you think he had made enemies in the security service?”

  “Krestin? Perhaps. He was a real-life Commie of the old school. He never missed an opportunity to rat out a friend. What am I saying? Krestin had no friends. He had fellow travellers in state security, but it was not an outfit where anyone made friends. He was one of their senior guys, but not so senior he didn’t enjoy breaking legs. Friends? No.”

  “Someone had ordered a surveillance of him. Was he suspected of something?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Would you have heard about it?”

  “I may have. A lot of the ÁVO guys had served in the Arrow Cross in the forties. But why would anyone care now? Are you still on for chess and J&B next Friday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He had a regular date with Tibor in the Király Bath. Chess, Scotch, and long soaks with stories.

  No sooner had he hung up than Tóth called to tell him to pay a visit to the first Mrs. Krestin in Slovakia. There had been four calls from her the morning Krestin was killed and seven calls during the days before. Krestin had called the number himself twice, once the morning of his murder, but no one answered. One of Tóth’s best was going to keep an eye on the second Mrs. Krestin, and he could check on Ms. Marsh when he returned.

  Attila walked Gustav around the block, fed him some salami and cheese leftovers, and asked his neighbour to let him into the courtyard if Attila wasn’t back by 10 p.m. The neighbour was a cheerful middle-aged woman with a passion for dachshunds and a fondness for Attila that he had tried but failed to reciprocate. Gustav, on the other hand, was besotted with her and didn’t mind showing it.

  He picked up the girls at three. He had hoped to pick them up earlier, but they were not ready, or ready but the ex wasn’t ready for them to leave. She probably enjoyed the sight of him sitting in his car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It would have reminded her of the years she had spent waiting for him for supper, hanging around with the kids outside the Margit Island Baths, or the cinema, or wherever he had told her he would join her, for sure, at a certain time. It was the job, he had said, by way of excuse, but Bea soon stopped accepting that.

  They came with their small suitcases, towels, and multicoloured purses. “Mommy has given us a bit of spending money, in case you have none,” Sofi said. “And towels,” Anna added. “She is sure all your towels are very dirty.”

  “Lucky, then, that we are not going swimming today,” he said, pretending to be petulant. “Instead, we are going on an adventure.”

  They brightened immediately.
They loved his little adventures, and swimming was no longer fun. They had gone to the baths too often and were tired of Attila’s history lessons while contending with old people in loose bathing suits at the Király (imagine: built in the mid sixteenth century, during the Turkish occupation), more old people playing chess while soaking in the Lukács (monastic period, built in the twelfth century for monks), and the old people at the Széchenyi in City Park who kept insisting that they had to be quiet. Only the Gellért encouraged kids to behave like kids. As for the Leányfalu, the girls were worried about driftwood and frogs.

  “We are going to Dunaszerdahely,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Slovakia.”

  After reassuring them that Slovakia was not the name for yet another historic spa, he took off for the M1 at top speed, knowing that his driving exhausted the girls’ patience after a half hour or so. They played spotting Hungarian flags, then spotting Slovak flags once they were past Komárom, then Slovak names that could easily be translated into their original Hungarian, such as Dunajská Streda (Dunaszerdahely), and others that couldn’t. He had planned to play spotting stray dogs, but the Slovaks must have cleared them out, or else dogs didn’t like this part of the country. The journey took less than an hour.

  The problem of what to do with the girls was solved by the sign for Cirkus Humberto near the city hall. He drove to the big red-and-white tent outside the town, just a five-minute drive away. The sign had mentioned horses, goats, a rotating moon-rider, three lions, and an elephant. Bea would undoubtedly protest that they were too young to be left alone, but Attila had great faith in the natural wariness of his daughters. The ticket seller, a clown, said that the show had already started, but there was still an hour to go. Attila bought two tickets for seats in the “galerie,” ushered them into the tent, and arranged to meet them outside in an hour.