Lying and Dying

by Graham Brack

  Slonský was promenading around the office, or as much of it as was accessible to him given his physique and the small gaps between desks.

  ‘Now, the first question is when this picture was taken. I have an idea about that and with a bit of luck we’ll have that confirmed fairly soon. I’m assuming that the Minister didn’t send me the photograph himself. I like to think that if our public figures are knocking off women other than their wives they’ll be decent enough to exercise a bit of discretion.’

  ‘But he’s having dinner with her in a public place.’

  ‘Indeed he is, but men can have dinner with women for innocent reasons.’

  ‘He’s holding her hand across the table.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the way it looks. I’ll grant that there’s a degree of intimacy here.’

  ‘There’s also a near-empty bottle of white wine. But he’s drinking mineral water. She must have drunk that bottle by herself.’

  ‘And Novák found evidence of wine in the victim’s stomach.’

  Navrátil’s mouth unaccountably ran dry.

  ‘You think this was taken on the night she died?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps our informant just wanted us to know how we’d identify her. But then he could have put the name on a bit of paper himself, so I jump to the conclusion that it’s the link with our much beloved boss, the Minister of the Interior, that our informant wanted to emphasise. If, of course, this proves to have been taken on that evening then we can ask the Minister some pointed questions.’

  ‘The clock in the corner of the picture shows twenty to nine.’

  ‘And the clock in the corridor outside shows ten to six, but that doesn’t mean everything in this station happens then. You see, Navrátil, your generation labours under the disadvantage of not having grown up under Communism. For people of my age, rampant cynicism comes naturally. We always disregard the obvious and assume that things are not what they seem.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ conceded Navrátil, ‘but I can’t interpret that picture any other way than that the Minister was having dinner with our murder victim in compromising circumstances.’

  ‘It certainly looks that way,’ agreed Slonský. ‘I suppose she could be his sister or niece.’

  ‘Well, there are nieces and “nieces”, but I wouldn’t hold my sister’s hand like that.’

  ‘No, neither would I. You’ve got younger eyes than me, lad. Can you see what’s on her plate?’

  Slonský handed Navrátil a large, brass-handled magnifying glass.

  ‘I didn’t think detectives really used these!’

  ‘Essential piece of equipment, Navrátil. Though I use it mainly for getting splinters out of my thumb. Still, it’s not only Novák who relies on technology.’

  ‘I can’t see much — the angle across the plate isn’t right.’

  ‘Neither could I.’

  ‘We might be able to recognise the restaurant, though.’

  ‘Don’t spend too long on it. Right, that’s long enough. If you haven’t got it by now, we’ll fall back on the old-timer’s technique of asking the suspect.’

  ‘You think the Minister is a suspect?’

  ‘No, Navrátil, not a suspect. The suspect. We haven’t got another one.’

  ‘But he’s a Minister.’

  ‘If you’d known some of the Ministers we’ve had in the past, strangling a woman and ramming a bag of money up her doodah would seem small beer, believe me. Status and position are no guide to honesty. You’d think a priest would be as law-abiding as they come, but we had one in Žižkov who was one of the great cat-murderers of our time. Used to take them out with a handgun from his back door. Good shot, too — there aren’t many people who could get a running tabby right up the fundament from thirty metres.’

  ‘There’s a world of difference between killing a woman and shooting a cat.’

  ‘Of course there is, but you might think differently if you were a cat. And who do cats have to protect them against lawlessness if not the Prague police department? Granted, cats aren’t voters, or we might have a better government than we’ve got, but they’re still entitled to our protection. And who’s to say that the man shooting a cat today isn’t practising to wipe out his wife tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, the priest wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t have a wife.’

  ‘And a good thing too, if he’s going to go round shooting them up the backside. I rest my case. Hand me the internal phone directory, would you?’

  Slonský thumbed through it and dialled a number.

  ‘Technician First Class Spehar.’

  ‘Lieutenant Underclass Slonský. I’ve got a photo sent in anonymously that needs your expert attention.’

  ‘In an envelope?’

  ‘Of course. My assistant and I have pawed it mercilessly but you may still get something off it.’

  ‘Are your fingerprints on file?’

  ‘Mine are. Don’t know about Navrátil’s.’

  Navrátil shook his head vigorously.

  ‘He tells me he hasn’t given his dabs in. If I send him across with the evidence you can do the necessary at the same time.’

  ‘How long have I got?’ asked Spehar, suspecting that he knew the answer.

  ‘Don’t ask me, I’m not your doctor. But if you don’t drink industrial spirits, it’ll be longer.’

  Slonský replaced the handset and thrust the photograph and envelope into Navrátil’s hand.

  ‘Copy the photo first, then run this over to the lab. Spehar will be waiting for it. Tell him that you have to swear him to secrecy about the contents and that he is the only person other than us to have seen it. That way he’ll get the thing off his desk and back to us as fast as his little legs will carry him. In the meantime, I will go to the café and invest in some coffee and breakfast for us both.’

  ‘Coffee sounds good,’ Navrátil allowed, ‘but you can hold the breakfast for me.’

  ‘I’ll get you one anyway,’ beamed Slonský. ‘If you don’t want it I’m sure I’ll find room for it.’

  Technician First Class Spehar proved to be a slightly built man with a balding head, half-moon glasses and a neat grey beard. His name badge described him as “Technician First Class Spehar”, leading Navrátil to wonder if that was what his parents had named him. It was quite possible that nobody knew his first name. I wonder what his wife calls him, pondered Navrátil, as he waited patiently for Spehar to complete the evidence receipt and attach a docket to the plastic sleeve.

  Deftly, the technician flipped the envelope open and extracted the photograph with his gloved hand.

  ‘Now, what have we … My God! Isn’t that …?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why we’d like it back quickly, please.’

  ‘And is that the girl in the newspaper?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that. Operational reasons.’

  ‘No, of course. Silly of me. Right, I’ll get straight onto it. We’ll give it the works.’

  Navrátil had no idea what ‘the works’ might be, but it sounded like a superior quality of forensic service so he thanked Spehar and left him to get on with ‘the works’ with all speed.

  When he returned to the office Slonský was sitting with his feet on the desk and a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Your coffee is on the radiator. I hope you haven’t changed your mind about breakfast, because it’s a bit late. I’ve almost finished yours.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ asked Navrátil, pointing at a cardboard parcel.

  ‘That’s mine. I thought I’d better eat yours first, while it was hot. Now, exciting things have been happening while you’ve been swanning around the forensics lab. The boys in the press office have come up trumps.’

  ‘Why do these things always happen when I’m out?’

  Slonský shrugged. ‘Why do footballers always score when I’m in the toilet? One of the great mysteries of life, lad, and one that has taxed greater minds than ours. Now, where did you put that copy?’

 
; Navrátil produced the copy of the photograph. Slonský placed it on the left side of his desk before opening a second envelope and spreading its contents across the right side.

  ‘Photographs of the Minister provided by the government press office, showing him going about his various duties on the day before the body was found. Fortunately he likes having photographers around, so we’ve got a pretty good record of his day. Notice anything, Navrátil?’

  ‘Same shirt, same tie.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, we can assume, I think, that a ministerial salary will run to more than one shirt and tie. That being so, we have to compute the odds that these photographs were all taken on the same day.’

  ‘Maybe he always wears that tie with that shirt.’

  ‘A plausible assumption, but the suit is the same too. And notice that the gap from the underside of the tie knot to the top of the first stripe looks very similar, so his habits extend to always tying his tie in the same way. Possible, but surely the likeliest conclusion is that these were all taken on one day. And since we know when the press photos were taken, that enables us to date the dinner date.’

  ‘The cautious side of me still thinks we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘And you should certainly listen to it, Navrátil. But as a working hypothesis we’re entitled to think the two go together, and no doubt if we’re wrong about that the Minister will tell us so when we go to see him.’

  ‘We’re going to see the Minister?’

  ‘We can’t ignore the evidence, Navrátil. Someone is dead, and the Minister was with her shortly before she died. We have to ask him about it. At the very least he can explain why he hasn’t contacted us to identify her. After all, you would expect the man in charge of policing in this country to help the police do their job, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘He may be too busy to see us.’

  ‘Standard rules apply, Navrátil. He can co-operate at his office, or we can bring him down here for questioning if he prefers.’

  ‘Sir, aren’t you a bit … wary of accusing a minister?’

  ‘No, and if you think that way you’d better pack your things now. A criminal is a criminal, whatever else he may be, and he gets nailed whoever he is. And while there may be some question about what constitutes a crime as regimes change, strangling a woman is on everyone’s list of bad things you shouldn’t do. But we’ll do things by the book. Let’s go and see Lukas.’

  Slonský may not have been wary of accusing a minister, but Lukas certainly was. Several careful examinations of the photographs persuaded him at last that there was a need to ask some questions of the Minister, but he insisted that he should make the appointment and accompany Slonský to the Minister’s office.

  ‘I want to hear what goes on for myself,’ he said, omitting to add ‘and intervene if necessary’, though they both knew that was what he meant.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ replied Slonský. ‘I shall be the epitome of respect and discretion.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ answered Lukas. ‘You don’t know how. You’ll be a bull in a china shop as usual. But I can’t deny that the Minister has some explaining to do.’

  The Minister’s secretary had booked them an appointment shortly before noon, so Slonský and Lukas were conducted into the Minister’s presence precisely on time, while Navrátil waited in the anteroom.

  The Minister was a small man, but he had a huge desk. Slonský computed its dimensions and concluded that if the Minister laid his head on the desk he would not be able to reach to the two ends. He also thought that the Minister might be sitting on a cushion to raise him up a little.

  The desk’s surface was highly polished and free from clutter. A blotter occupied the centre, with a telephone and a computer monitor to the Minister’s left. He was wiggling a mouse around as they entered, and completed whatever he was doing on his computer before inviting them to sit in a pair of chairs a couple of metres from the far side of his desk.

  ‘I understand you need my help with a delicate matter,’ the Minister oozed. He stopped short of making a steeple with his hands but the motion was clearly in his mind before being dismissed as a cliché.

  ‘Just so, Minister,’ Lukas began. ‘We are investigating the murder of a young woman and we have come across some material that requires some … interpretation.’

  He rose and slid the dinner photograph across the desk. The Minister picked it up and examined it closely without any comment or change in his facial expression.

  ‘I see. Is this the murder victim?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  ‘Then of course you must ask for an explanation. But I’m afraid my help will be limited. I barely know the woman.’

  ‘You seem to be on quite close terms in the photo,’ Slonský interjected before Lukas could frame a response.

  ‘A dinner companion,’ announced the Minister. ‘Not someone I knew well.’

  ‘But you didn’t respond to our public appeals to identify the victim,’ Slonský continued. ‘Why was that?’

  The Minister threw his head back to unleash a rolling chuckle.

  ‘I don’t read the news, Lieutenant. I make it. I don’t need to look at newspapers because I already know the interesting stuff.’

  ‘I’d have thought the murder of someone you had dinner with was of passing interest, sir. But no matter. We still need her identified.’

  ‘Irina. One moment.’ He reached into an inside pocket and extracted a slim pocket diary. ‘Gruberová. Irina Gruberová.’

  ‘And can you date this dinner, Minister?’

  The Minister picked up the photograph again and frowned.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘There were a number of such dinners, then?’

  ‘A small number.’

  ‘A small number like three, or a slightly larger number — ten, say?’

  ‘Three or four.’

  ‘Does the restaurant give it away?’

  ‘Not really. It’s a favourite place of mine.’

  ‘If you’d give us the address the reservations book might help us.’

  The Minister scribbled an address on a leaf from his jotter pad and passed it to Lukas.

  ‘I don’t usually make a reservation. I find I don’t need to.’

  ‘We understand,’ Lukas assured him.

  ‘Does your appointment diary give us a date, Minister?’ asked Slonský, a little more deliberately than was strictly necessary.

  ‘It’s not the kind of appointment I would put in my diary, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I understand. Perhaps I could help with a suggestion. It seems to us that it may have been taken on Tuesday evening, because the government press office has supplied us with these pictures taken on Tuesday afternoon. You’ll see you appear to be wearing the same clothes.’

  ‘It could have been Tuesday,’ the Minister admitted. ‘Irina and I had a working dinner then.’

  Slonský opened his mouth to speak but Lukas had anticipated the next question.

  ‘May we ask why you use the word “working”, Minister?’

  ‘Miss Gruberová was helping me to organise my wife’s birthday party.’

  ‘And her particular expertise was in …?’ asked Slonský with the air of a man who did not believe there could be a satisfactory answer to his question.

  ‘She wasn’t formally trained,’ explained the Minister cautiously. ‘It was more in the nature of a natural gift.’

  ‘And I suppose that, since this would be a surprise party, your wife would not be in a position to support your alibi because you wouldn’t have told her about the meeting.’

  ‘Why should I need an alibi?’ asked the Minister.

  ‘Because you seem to have been the last person to see Miss Gruberová alive, Minister. And it’s normal practice to begin with the assumption that the last known contact is the likeliest murderer.’

  If this perturbed the Minister, he hid it well.

  ‘Of course. That is how things are done. I understa
nd that. But I need hardly explain that I did not, in fact, kill her.’

  ‘And I need hardly explain that almost every murderer I have ever known has said the same thing.’

  The Minister frowned and ostentatiously pulled back his sleeve to check his watch.

  ‘Do you remember what you both ate, Minister?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘On Tuesday, at your working dinner. Did you keep the receipt for your expenses claim?’

  ‘I don’t think the powers that be would let me claim for a dinner on a family matter, Lieutenant,’ the Minister chortled. Lukas joined in the laughter, as if to emphasise that he would not allow Slonský to put such a dinner on his expenses either.

  ‘I don’t have a family to discuss at dinner,’ replied Slonský. ‘The menu?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I usually have soup and then something traditional. I think I had a pork steak.’

  ‘And your companion?’

  ‘She had melon, I think, and a schnitzel.’

  ‘With asparagus?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it was. We just ordered some assorted vegetables and shared them. I don’t particularly like asparagus, so I didn’t bother with it.’

  An attendant entered with a tray of coffee, poured for the Minister, and then for Lukas and Slonský, in that order, despite having to walk past Slonský to serve Lukas.

  ‘And after dinner, Minister?’

  ‘I drove Miss Gruberová to her flat and then went home.’

  ‘Perhaps you had some outstanding business to complete in Miss Gruberová’s flat.’

  ‘No, I walked her upstairs to her door and left her there.’

  ‘I see. What time was this?’

  ‘About ten, I think.’

  ‘And was there anyone in Miss Gruberová’s flat when you got there?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The lights weren’t on inside, and so far as I know she lived alone.’

  ‘Could you let us have her address?’

  ‘I don’t think I know it precisely. She gave me directions.’

  ‘Her phone number then.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have it.’

  ‘You must have had it at some time, Minister, in order to arrange the dinner.’