Death On Duty

by Graham Brack

  ‘Sir, wasn’t there a lot of guesswork in the story you put to Brown? What hard evidence have we got?’ Navrátil enquired.

  ‘We’ve got the wedding certificate and we’ve got Brown’s service record, which gives the details of his parents, by the way. The coincidence of his mother’s maiden name being von Troppau-Freudenthal was interesting enough, but the Americans helpfully noted that his father was himself an army veteran, so I asked for his record too, from which I pieced together their movements in 1945-6.’

  ‘So how long have you known this, sir?’

  ‘Not that long. Don’t worry, I wasn’t keeping it all from you. Mucha only retrieved the marriage certificate in the last couple of days. It was you who put me onto it all.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘You plural, not you singular. It was that kind and thoughtful gift of yours.’

  ‘The sausage championship?’

  ‘Yes. Remember that the criminals distracted our attention from one crime by staging a second one. I didn’t think that was the motive in Brown’s case, but I got to thinking that maybe we were seeing a connection that wasn’t quite as we imagined it. And since the only reason I could think of for Hrdlička to do what he did was that he’d jumped to the conclusion that the Opava incidents and the trafficking of girls were connected. So they were, but only in the sense that the same people were hired. Nejedlý had met up with Savović and Brukić on one of his plum-buying missions and was working with them. When Brown needed some heavies Nejedlý told him where he could find them. And when Savović and Brukić needed a bolthole when they were kicked out of Bosnia, Nejedlý found them a place in the same office building. Nejedlý sat in the middle. It’s hard to imagine a less competent criminal than Nejedlý, but he made it all possible.’

  ‘What about Milena and Daniela, sir?’ asked Peiperová.

  ‘I think Milena really did kill herself. We might have a try at getting a murder conviction, but it won’t be easy. There’s no real evidence that the Bosnians were involved in anything more than disposing of her body. The wounding of Daniela is a different thing. Once she has recovered I expect she’ll be able to give us a good identification of the people involved. She has already fingered Brukić as one of those who took part in it. The only concern is that she wants to go back to Bosnia and we need to be sure she’ll return to Prague to give evidence. She’ll get protection in Sarajevo but it’s not impossible that Savović’s friends will threaten her.’

  ‘Sir, it’s a bit underhand, but if we were to guarantee the cost of her operations she’d have a reason for coming back here,’ Peiperová remarked.

  ‘It’s a good thought. And having been wounded on Czech soil she’s entitled to compensation here. We’ll pick up a tidy sum when we get Savović’s business assets seized, which would more than cover the healthcare. Make her the offer, lass, and I’ll get it organised with the Director. In any event, I want you to keep in touch with her.’

  ‘She has nothing to keep her here,’ Navrátil chipped in. ‘She certainly wouldn’t want to go back to dancing in clubs.’

  ‘Ah, I’m glad you mentioned that,’ Slonský beamed. ‘Our respected leader had an answer to that.’

  ‘The Director, sir?’

  ‘No, Navrátil; Captain Lukas. Remember that Daniela plays the flute and piccolo. One of Lukas’ daughters is studying music at the Conservatoire. I can never remember which one.’

  ‘Eliška, sir,’ Peiperová inserted, causing Slonský to marvel once more at how people can ever remember all these trivia like names and places.

  ‘Yes, that one. She’s managed to get the loan of some instruments and Daniela can practise there for a while. Eliška reckons there’s probably some work going for a good flute player.’

  ‘Ah, the wanderer returns,’ said Mucha. He picked up a small folded note and held it out on his open hands like an altar boy holding a copy of the Gospels.

  ‘For me? How kind,’ said Slonský. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says that the Director of Criminal Police presents his compliments and wishes you to get your backside over to see him immediately. He wants to see you.’

  ‘That’s good, because I want to see him.’ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Can you babysit this pair? It’s a shame we don’t have a crèche.’

  ‘A small ball pool in the foyer would be an option. But I’ll see they get a hot drink and a biscuit.’

  ‘Very good. Don’t let Navrátil have anything with bright food colouring in it or he won’t sleep after lunch.’

  Slonský ascended the stairs and straightened the nondescript piece of maroon cloth that passed for his tie before pushing the swing doors open and approaching the Director’s office. Kuchař was sitting outside and jumped to his feet when Slonský approached.

  ‘Good morning, Acting Captain Slonský.’

  ‘Good morning, Kuchař. I have been summoned.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll just let the Director know you’re here.’

  ‘If I just walk in, he’ll know that for himself.’

  Kuchař considered this briefly, but the confusion on his face demonstrated that he thought it inadvisable.

  ‘He may be with someone, sir.’

  ‘If he were, you would know about it, wouldn’t you? Or do people drop down from the roof in the window-cleaners’ cradle and enter via the window?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it, sir.’

  ‘Never mind, Kuchař. Just poke your head in and let the Director know I have obeyed his command.’

  The Director offered his hand, invited Slonský to sit, and listened to a summary of the cases.

  ‘The confiscated money doesn’t come to us, but I’ll make some calls. I don’t doubt that we’ll find a way of doing it for the young woman. Now, Slonský, the reason I wanted to speak to you has nothing to do with this case, welcome though your report is.’

  ‘I feared as much, sir.’

  ‘Captain Lukas is returning part-time next week, and will — if all goes well — return to us full-time in the New Year. However, it is still his intention to retire next year. That may change, because he need not make a final decision until three months before he leaves. Either way, it’s time you put in for your permanent captaincy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes? You mean yes without an argument?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If I’ve learned anything in the last few weeks it’s that I don’t want to have to answer to Dvorník or Doležal.’

  ‘Who would? Doležal is an excellent officer but it’s probably time that he went off and excelled somewhere else.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly, sir.’

  ‘Good. So all I need from you is the completed form, which by a happy coincidence I happen to have here.’

  He passed it to Slonský, who was struck by an unusual feature of the form.

  ‘This form I have to complete is completed, sir.’

  ‘Yes. I thought it would save you time. More importantly, if it never leaves this office it won’t get mislaid, will it? Just be a good chap and sign your name at the bottom.’

  Grigar was tense. Even a poor student of body language could see that he was deeply uneasy, but Slonský had asked for the meeting and Grigar could hardly refuse given that he had asked to be kept informed of progress.

  ‘You know Officers Navrátil and Peiperová, I think?’ said Slonský.

  Grigar nodded a curt greeting to each.

  ‘Do you think we could ask Lieutenant Erben to take some notes for us?’ Slonský asked.

  ‘Is that necessary? If notes are needed, let your people take them.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it, all well and good. The first thing to tell you is that we have Mr Brown in custody for the murder of Officer Hrdlička.’

  ‘That’s good. Has he confessed?’

  ‘No, but I’m working on it. He’s been trained to withstand interrogation but I enjoy a challenge. In any event, we’ve got his boots.’

  ‘His boots?’r />
  ‘Novák identified some features of his boots that left distinctive footmarks in the snow. Something to do with American toes being bigger than ours, and a split in the sole tread that he can match, I think. Anyway, he was fairly convinced that it was an American make of boot, size 43, which didn’t necessarily mean an American suspect, of course, but now that we have retrieved the boots, we can probably get a conviction based on the forensic evidence. We’ve got a knife that matches the murder weapon too.’

  ‘You’re the murder expert. If you think it would stick, I’m happy with that.’

  ‘Whereas you’re the expert on organised crime. When you get my report, you’ll see there’s a couple of interesting points on the running of this department. Hrdlička plainly didn’t trust someone here.’

  ‘That’s obvious. He stopped sending in full reports and wouldn’t tell me why.’

  ‘No, because he didn’t know who was leaking information to the very people you were trying to catch. And, so far as we know, he died without ever finding out. I, on the other hand, know who the naughty policeman is.’

  Grigar’s uneasiness level rose to critical. He leaned forward and looked Slonský directly in the eye. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘All in good time. Somebody intercepted the messages from Opava and saw that no action was taken, while also ensuring that Opava didn’t take any because it was all in hand here. There are a limited number of people who could achieve that. And then there’s the intercepted radio message telling one of your men to follow Navrátil.’

  ‘When was that?’ stammered Grigar.

  ‘On the day that the holdall was lobbed on an unmarked police car and Navrátil was unjustly arrested as a peeping tom; which we don’t talk about, by the way, because it was a completely unfounded but highly convenient allegation.’

  ‘Why would anyone follow Navrátil?’

  ‘To find out what he knows, I suppose, although he’s such a helpful and transparent soul that he’d probably tell you if you just asked. But the other reason is that the officer was told you wanted him to do it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, and I know you didn’t. But only one person could give the impression that you did.’

  ‘Lieutenant Erben.’

  ‘Got it in one. He panicked that Navrátil would discover his involvement somehow, so he had him followed and told the officer in question that you had ordered it. And Erben intercepted the faxes about the vandalism at Opava. Shall we invite him to come in?’

  Grigar strode to the door and flung it open, but Erben was not to be found.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘I thought he might. After all, he has ears, and we didn’t keep our voices down. But then you don’t need to speak very loud when someone has their ear pressed against the door. I could see his feet blocking the light from the corridor under your door.’

  Grigar grabbed his coat. ‘He can’t have got far. Come on!’

  They all followed him down the stairs and towards the front door.

  ‘If you’re looking for Lieutenant Erben,’ said Mucha, ‘he’s sitting in cell six. He unaccountably fell as he crossed the foyer. About five times, I think. Sergeant Salzer attempted to pick him up but he fell out of Salzer’s hands a couple of times. That accounts for the shiner and the bruise on his cheek.’

  ‘You knew?’ said Grigar.

  ‘I didn’t have perfect proof,’ said Slonský, ‘but giving him a chance to run seemed to me to be one way of sealing the deal. I couldn’t immediately see why they’d decided to bribe Erben, so I sent for his service record. His mother’s maiden name was Nejedlá. Nejedlý is his uncle. That’s why the Bosnians kept on an incompetent like Nejedlý as the middle man. He had the link to the police, and if they had upset him, he could have shopped them all. He’d have ended up nailed to a wall, of course, but he could have done it. And the prospect of retribution means that if he had any sense he’d shop them without giving them any warning that he was going to do it. It was interesting that when he was arrested Nejedlý said nothing about any family connection with the police, but Erben turned up at the desk wanting to see him. Fortunately the duty officers refused, because Sergeant Mucha had made it very clear that Nejedlý was not at home to visitors.’

  Grigar removed his hat and rapped his knuckles on the counter top as he collected himself.

  ‘I think we’d better go and speak to soon-to-be ex-lieutenant Erben. You might want to come too, Slonský, in case he slips out of my grasp and repeatedly bangs his face on the floor.’

  ‘You think that’s likely?’

  ‘I think it’s a racing certainty.’

  Erben did not enjoy the next half-hour. If there is one thing an honest policeman truly detests it is a dishonest one, especially one who provides information that gets a colleague killed. Slonský formally charged him with being an accessory to murder and he did indeed fall over several times while being questioned by Grigar. Anyone wishing to increase their vocabulary of colloquial Czech could have learned quite a bit by listening to the interview.

  Peiperová buttoned her coat and sat on the corner of Slonský’s desk. ‘Ready to go home?’

  ‘Should we wait for Lieutenant Slonský to tell us to go, do you think?’

  ‘He may be a while. I was going to suggest a hot wine somewhere but this office is more private.’

  ‘Not here, Kristýna. He may walk in at any moment.’

  ‘I meant for a chat. We need to talk.’

  Navrátil hated that expression. It usually meant that trouble was on its way, especially when women used it. Was she about to break off their relationship?

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been offered a job.’

  ‘A job? Don’t you like the police?’

  ‘It’s with the police, Jan. The Director of Criminal Police wants a personal assistant and he’s asked for me. We need to talk about whether I take it. I like working here, but it would look really good on my CV and it’s only for a year.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Navrátil. ‘Have you made your mind up?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you what you think.’

  ‘I don’t know what I think. At least it’s still in the same building.’

  ‘And it’s regular hours. Mum and Dad would be pleased to know I’m not going to get killed or kidnapped again.’

  ‘So would I,’ Navrátil agreed, ‘but on the other hand we’re a good team. And if Lukas doesn’t come back Slonský might get promoted and then we’ll get assigned to someone else, which probably means we’d be separated anyway.’

  ‘Is that an argument for or against?’

  ‘It’s not one or the other, just a statement of fact. I don’t know what I think, but based on Lieutenant Slonský’s theory that beer helps the brain, let’s go to the bar down the road and talk about it there.’

  Slonský sat at his desk with the lights off and watched the snow gently falling. It had been an eventful year, with a new assistant, a second new assistant and an acting captaincy. And if Lukas was retiring then 2007 was set fair to be eventful too. It crossed Slonský’s mind that he had not dealt terribly well with the Věra issue, because she was still coming round to feed him, do some sewing for him and generally ignoring the fact that they had been separated for nearly forty years. He was determined to avoid complications, but somehow his resolution was lacking when it came to ending the whole sorry mess. Besides which, she still had some of his curtains.

  He collected his hat and scarf and wearily trudged downstairs. Discovering a corrupt policeman always depressed him like this, but never to the point of considering retirement. It was hard to think of any circumstances that would promote so drastic a move.

  He nudged the door open and found himself in the foyer. Sergeant Mucha glanced up and nodded cheerily. Good old Mucha! Slonský had an unaccountable feeling that all was well with the world so long as Mucha was at the front desk.

  ‘You’re not thinking of retiring, are you?’ he aske
d.

  ‘All the time,’ said Mucha. ‘Then I remember that my wife’s sister is staying with us and somehow the feeling wears off.’

  ‘The world is changing, old friend. It’s the end of an era.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Lukas is retiring in the summer, but it’s highly confidential so keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Confidential like don’t tell me about it, or just ordinary confidential?’

  ‘Confidential like you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Are you going for his job?’

  Slonský looked miserable.

  ‘It’s me, Dvorník or Doležal.’

  ‘The answer is yes, then. You’d be a fool not to. We don’t want a department run by a homicidal gun fiend or a teetotal stamp collector.’

  ‘You’ve heard that rumour too?’

  ‘Heard it? I started it.’

  Slonský managed a smile. ‘Beer when you finish?’

  ‘Why not? Just the one though, because I’ll get into trouble if I’m late home to eat.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ said Slonský. ‘I may just be able to force down a sausage.’

  ‘It’s what you live for,’ said Mucha. ‘Solving crime and the odd sausage.’

  ‘Is there anything else in life?’ asked Slonský, and walked out into the snow.

  *****

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  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Dear Reader,

  I wanted to thank you for spending your time reading about Josef Slonský and his colleagues. If this is your introduction to them, you may want to read Lying and Dying in which they first appeared, and then Slaughter and Forgetting. If you’ve already read those, thank you for your loyalty and perseverance, and I’ll look forward to welcoming you to book 4.

  You may have spotted that there is an arc spanning the books, so to avoid complicated mental arithmetic, let me explain that Lying and Dying is set in February 2006, Slaughter and Forgetting takes place three months later, and this book has a setting in November of the same year.