by Graham Brack
Slonský sighed. He would never get the hang of this touchy-feely stuff.
Chapter 5
Lukas was slowly sinking into a pile of pillows. To Slonský’s unpractised eye, he looked no better than before the operation, but the doctors assured him that he was making good progress.
‘Just in the nick of time, then, sir,’ Slonský said cheerfully.
‘So I understand.’
‘Within an ace of rupture.’
‘Yes.’
‘Could have been really nasty.’
‘Yes. Could we change…’
‘Just as well Dr Novák was there. Though he didn’t actually do anything. But it must have been a comfort.’
‘Yes. At least he could tell the paramedics what was wrong.’
‘They were a bit flummoxed by the knight’s helmet, sir, but once I’d explained he was a pathologist they seemed to think it was par for the course.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Are you feeling like eating yet, sir?’
‘Er — no, Slonský. Not in the least.’
‘The Director was very good, sir. Sharp man. Always liked him.’
‘Yes, he is. He was good enough to ring this morning and leave a message for me.’
‘A personal message. Very thoughtful, sir.’
‘I’m going to be laid up for six weeks or more, so I need to make some arrangements to keep the department ticking over smoothly.’
In other circumstances Slonský might have disputed this use of the word “keep”; “start” seemed more appropriate, but this seemed to be neither the time nor the place.
‘You’re the ranking lieutenant, Slonský, so you’re going to be acting captain.’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘It’s not negotiable, Slonský. It was you, Doležal or Dvorník, and I refuse to leave my department in the hands of Dvorník.’
‘He’d be good on the firearms training, sir. We’d all get plenty of time on the range.’
‘Precisely why he isn’t ready … yet. And Doležal is not really a team player.’
You can say that again, thought Slonský. Doležal would have shut the office door and not come out for weeks on end.
‘That leaves you. And to tell you the truth, Josef, you’re ready for this. I worry that you’ll miss your chance. It’s high time you put in for a captain’s job. This will be good experience for you. Handy on your CV.’
Slonský did not want to aggravate a sick man by arguing. He just crossed his fingers out of sight to show that he did not agree.
‘Don’t worry, sir. Everything will be fine when you come back.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’ll feel much happier knowing you’re filling my shoes for now.’
‘You’re very kind, sir.’
‘Now, get your notebook ready. The expenses forms have to be signed off after you’ve checked all the receipts are attached, then they go up to the third floor…’
Slonský was sitting at his new desk. He would much rather have been at his old desk, but the telephone lines could not be moved for at least two weeks, and then only if the Director signed some form TP one hundred and something. The Director had issued a memorandum to everyone explaining the temporary arrangement and adding that since Acting Captain Slonský was still an active detective, he would not be wearing uniform. Everyone was asked to do all they could to make his posting successful.
Anna in the canteen had been surprised to see him and immediately curtseyed.
‘Cut it out,’ he barked. ‘Coffee and the stodgiest pastry you’ve got.’
Anna busied herself pouring his coffee. ‘You know you can ring down and we’ll bring this up to you,’ she said.
‘Yes. And I don’t want that. I’ll come down like I always have.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you send Navrátil. Or that pretty girl with the long blonde hair.’
‘And I still will. Sometimes. But I’m not going to let my promotion get in the way of coming down here to see you, Anna.’
Anna paused in mid-pour and wondered if she was blushing. ‘I’ll send someone up to get that cup you stole the other day,’ she said.
Navrátil had finally managed to find someone at police headquarters in Sarajevo who spoke English, which allowed them to communicate to some degree. It meant that the telephone call was quite long, but since he would now be explaining that to Acting Captain Slonský rather than Captain Lukas, he felt relatively comfortable. Whatever his faults, Slonský was not a penny-pincher.
Armed with his hard-won information, Navrátil knocked tentatively on the door to Lukas’ office and was rewarded with a simple instruction, forcefully expressed.
‘It’s me, sir — Navrátil,’ he replied.
‘Ah — come on in, lad. I hope you don’t want a day off, maternity leave, a pension booklet or anything like that.’
‘I’ve come to talk about crime, sir.’
‘That’s good. Crime is the very thing we’re meant to be doing something about. I like criminals. They don’t waste my time asking about bicycle parking chits. Well, take a seat and tell me all about it.’
‘Very good…’
‘But before you start, let’s get some coffee and a pastry. My blood sugar must be low. Is Peiperová around?’
Navrátil knew how Peiperová felt about being a coffee runner. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘No need, Navrátil. Let’s go down together, and you can tell me all about it on the way. I’ll just leave a note on the door in case anyone wants me.’
Slonský scrawled a few words on the back of a circular and taped it to the door glass. Navrátil could not help noticing that it claimed that Slonský had just gone to Peru and might be some time.
They marched down the stairs side by side.
‘Why Peru, sir?’
‘Why not? First thing that came into my head. Besides, anywhere in this country and the pests might chase after me. They can’t get to Peru unless I sign off their travel passes, which, of course, I wouldn’t, being in Peru.’
Navrátil considered, not for the first time, what the world inside Slonský’s head must be like, and decided again that he did not choose to live there any longer than was necessary.
‘I rang Sarajevo, sir, to talk about Savović.’
‘And what did the capital of Bosnia have to say for itself?’
‘I told them we knew where Savović was, but I wondered what the relationship was between him and the other four. Did they expect them to be together?’
‘Good question. Did they have a good answer?’
Navrátil produced the fax bearing the five photographs from his pocket. ‘It seems that Savović and this one, Brukić, are old associates. It wouldn’t surprise the Bosnians if Brukić had come here too. The other three belong to a completely different gang. The Bosnian police had heard rumours that the five of them were combining to make a play to take control of crime in Sarajevo. They anticipated a bloodbath, because the two sides have some heavy weaponry available to them.’
‘That’s what happens after a war. People never tidy up properly. There are always unwanted guns left lying around.’
‘In this case, some hundred and fifty millimetre mortars and a certain amount of motorised artillery were mentioned.’
Slonský gave a low whistle. ‘Thank goodness our local hoodlums aren’t as enterprising. I take it that Savović doesn’t have these in a shed somewhere?’
‘Not in the Czech Republic, so far as we know. Anyway, the Bosnians decided the best way to deal with this was to tell each group what was known about the other’s plan.’
‘A fine example of police transparency. And the upshot was?’
‘A nightclub owner found in a wheelie bin. At least, most of him was. They haven’t found one arm and a bit of a leg.’
‘He was dead, I assume?’
‘Stone dead, sir. And the five took off that same evening and haven’t been seen since. If they’re scattered, the
Bosnians are happy. Their concern is that they may be in one place plotting their return.’
‘Whereas our concern is that we have enough villains of our own without importing them from other countries. Our second concern is that I’ve left my money in my coat so you’ll have to get these, Navrátil.’
They collected their coffees and Slonský filled a plate with pastries before dumping it on a tray. Navrátil took out his wallet to pay at the till.
‘Aren’t you having anything to eat?’ asked Slonský.
Some enquiries need a woman’s touch, thought Peiperová. She was ostensibly looking in a shop window, though actually her attention was focused on the woman across the street whose reflection she could study.
Touring the streets by some dancing clubs, Peiperová’s attention had been drawn to this tall, brown-haired girl. There was something about her street clothes that told Peiperová that she was an immigrant. Her boots were sound, but constructed for warmth rather than style. Although the girl glanced in the windows of the more expensive shops, she did not go in. Instead, she checked out department stores and some of the chain retailers. She bought some cheap underwear and stockings. Looking over her shoulder as she paid for them, Peiperová could see that there was little in the woman’s purse. She permitted herself a wry smile as she reflected that not only would the men have failed to spot this woman’s origin, but they could hardly have followed her inconspicuously around lingerie departments.
Peiperová had herself been followed by an inquisitive store detective. She had opened her badge and, holding it up like she was checking her make-up in a pocket mirror, allowed the detective to see it. To her credit, the older woman simply melted away, leaving Peiperová to pursue her quarry unmolested.
The dark girl sat on a bench and bit her nails. Perhaps not conventionally pretty, though undoubtedly statuesque, she marred whatever good looks she possessed by frowning. Her young face was disfigured by worry, which had etched some lines on her brow, and her eyes were purple with lack of sleep. Peiperová dropped on the bench beside her. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked.
‘I’m not like that,’ the girl replied.
‘Like what?’
‘One of those. I’m not into girls.’
‘Neither am I. I’m a policewoman.’
The dark girl tried to walk away, but Peiperová’s arm linked through hers and bound them together. ‘I’m not with immigration,’ she explained. ‘So we’re just two girls out shopping together who decided to get a coffee. Okay?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You always have a choice. We can talk a bit over a coffee or I can get heavy and take you to a station. But I guess you wouldn’t feel comfortable in a police station.’ She caught the other woman’s inquisitive look and returned it with a smile. ‘Besides, you look as if you could really do with a coffee.’
The girl nodded, so they walked together towards a coffee shop.
‘Let’s go inside,’ suggested Peiperová. ‘The seats out here are a bit public. You won’t want to be seen talking to me.’
They ordered their coffees and sat in silence for a few moments. The girl played obsessively with a paper napkin, betraying her tension by worrying the folds with her fingernails.
‘Have you got any papers?’ Peiperová asked.
The girl shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the table top.
‘What about identification from your home?’
‘Identification?’
The girl had a strong accent and pronounced the word in divided syllables as if it might be easier to understand that way.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Suzana.’
‘Is it really Suzana?’
The girl looked confused as if the idea of using a false name had not occurred to her.
‘Yes. I’m really Suzana.’
‘Fine. I’m Kristýna.’
Peiperová offered her hand. Suzana shook it cautiously.
‘Where are you from, Suzana?’
‘I come from Bosnia-Herzegovina.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Fifteen weeks and two days.’
‘You don’t like it, do you? Are you homesick?’
‘Please, homesick?’
‘Do you wish you were in Bosnia instead of Prague?’
‘I miss my home. I miss my mother and father. I am ashamed for them.’
‘Ashamed? Why?’
‘They think I work in hotel. They don’t know I have to dance here in such places.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘There was no work for me in Bosnia. A man told me he had a little hotel here and he needs waitresses, girls for reception, cleaners. Together this makes ten girls. He sends a bus for us.’
‘A Czech man?’
Suzana frowned and shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Bosnian man. He says to our families that we will be trained here and not to worry but for some weeks we will be in hotel training so we cannot have telephones. This is normal, he says.’
Peiperová had heard this sort of thing before. The families would not try to contact their daughters for a while because the explanation seemed plausible.
‘So he brought you here by bus?’
‘Yes. But it is a long journey. First, we go to Serbia. Then we go to Hungary. We don’t stop nowhere. Then we eat in Slovakia and at last we come here. In Slovakia a Czech man comes on the bus and stays with us. He teaches us to talk a little bit Czech.’
Suzana sipped her coffee. She took it with plenty of hot milk and sugar.
‘Then when you arrived you found there was no hotel.’
‘Yes, no hotel. The Czech man says this is no problem because he has other work. We are young girls, so we can be dancers. One of the girls says she has been a ballet dancer but he laughs and says it is not ballet. He has a cruel laugh.’
She bit her nails again.
‘So they made you work in a club?’
Suzana’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘It is bad work. I don’t like to take my clothes off. But he says if I don’t dance, then there is only one way to earn my fare home, and I don’t like this more. There is a Bosnian girl who says she don’t dance, and they take her away. Next time I see her, she has bruises on face and she does big cry. She tell me men make her to go to bed. One holds her while the other does things then they change places. Then the cruel man tells her no-one will marry her now because she is spoilt. She can walk back to Bosnia but everyone will know she is bad girl who goes with men.’
‘Could you introduce me to her?’
Suzana shook her head.
‘I mean, could you take me to her?’
‘No, is not possible. This girl is so sad she take knife and cut wrists in bath. The Czech man and the Bosnian have big words about this. The Czech man says now is big trouble for him but the Bosnian tells him he knows people and they can take her body away and nobody ever find it. He says is no big deal anyway. It is not crime for a girl to kill herself.’
She crumpled the napkin into a ball and used it to stifle her tears.
Peiperová suddenly remembered the fax that she had in her pocket. ‘I’m going to show you some pictures,’ she explained. ‘I need you to look at them and tell me if you know any of the men you see.’ She unfolded it, and the gasp that Suzana gave as she brought her hand to her mouth betokened recognition. Her hand shook as she pointed at one of the men.
But it was not Savović.
The desk phone rang. It was Sergeant Mucha ringing from the front desk.
‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’
‘You speak in riddles. Why am I pretty?’ demanded Slonský.
‘Well, you’d better be because a lot of egg-yolk is on its way up.’
Slonský hurriedly straightened his tie and rubbed each shoe in turn on the back of his trouser leg. The door was opened and the Director walked in. A uniformed arm was visible beside his hip.
‘I can open doors for myself, thank you,’
he announced to the uniformed officer behind him.
Slonský began to salute, but the Director motioned him to stop. This was a good thing, because Slonský had never been a sharp saluter. What he lacked in grace was matched by a lack of vigour, so his salutes looked like a schoolboy asking tentatively if he might leave the room who decided to scratch an eyebrow instead.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, sir,’ he stammered.
‘I bet it isn’t,’ the Director replied. ‘Kuchař!’
‘Sir?’ the officer replied.
‘Make yourself scarce.’
‘Is there anything you want me to do, sir?’
‘No. Just do nothing as usual. Maybe you can find someone who needs a door opening for them. Whatever you do, do it somewhere else for a few minutes.’
Kuchař closed the door behind him.
‘Where do they find them?’ sighed the Director. ‘That, Slonský, was the gold medal cadet last year.’
Slonský was surprised and said so. ‘He came above Navrátil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good God, Navrátil must be thicker than I thought. He always seems so competent to me, but maybe it’s just a long run of beginner’s luck.’
‘Or maybe the academy has no idea what the police service really needs these days. Of course, Kuchař’s dad is a member of parliament.’
‘It’s just as well nepotism died out with the old regime, sir.’
‘It certainly is. Sometimes I think I ought to take a Captain’s job myself. You don’t have this sort of rubbish to deal with. Well, I dare say you’re wondering why I’m here.’
‘Boredom? You lost a bet?’
‘Close. I’ve been to see Lukas in hospital. The doctors tell me he’s putting on a brave face but this has knocked him sideways. He’s a good man but too conscientious for his own welfare. It seems that he has been ill for some time, but concealed it. The result is that he needed some fairly extensive surgery and he will be off for longer than we thought. In fact, he may not be back before he reaches retirement age.’
Slonský did not like the way this conversation was heading. ‘Still, it would be a shame to leave him feeling discarded now, sir, after so much devoted service.’
