by Graham Brack
‘What about news stories about him and his house?’ Slonský demanded.
Matěj typed a number of phrases into a search box and they waited impatiently as the computer totalled up the number of files it was scanning. Finally it declared itself finished and a list flashed up.
‘That one,’ said Slonský, pointing at one halfway down the page.
Matěj clicked on the heading and a poor quality clipping from a newspaper appeared. It showed a middle-aged man in waistcoat and shirt sleeves with a large chain across his midriff, a detachable collar on his shirt and a walrus moustache of gigantic proportions, holding his prize exhibit for the approbation of the reader.
‘Now, where at the Red House could you grow a pineapple?’ Slonský wondered aloud.
‘There must have been hothouses,’ Valentin answered.
‘And they would have been on the south side to get maximum sun,’ added Slonský.
Matěj tried a few more search terms, and was rewarded with exactly what Slonský had been looking for.
‘That’s why the path was moved nearer the building. They needed to accommodate that glasshouse. What is it — six metres north to south, and maybe half as long again east to west? Now, the next question is, when was it removed?’ Slonský asked.
‘I doubt that the computer will tell us that,’ Matěj declared, ‘but the answer may be elsewhere in the building.’ He picked up his telephone and rang a number on the internal system, inviting the recipient of his call to come up to his office. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and one of the security guards entered, swiftly removing his cap and tucking it under his arm.
‘Jaroslav, you’re a keen gardener, aren’t you?’ Matěj asked him.
‘Like my father before me.’
‘We’ve got a question and I’m hoping you may know where we can get the answer. We’ve got a cutting about a prize pineapple grown in a greenhouse in the garden of the house of Baron Pfarrenstein, the building that became known as the Red House. Any idea when the greenhouse was demolished?’
‘It was still there when I was a young man,’ said Jaroslav, stroking his cheek as if the action might coax some further memories to his brain.
‘Can you be more precise?’ Slonský asked him.
Jaroslav’s eyes lit up as if some recollection had just come to him. ‘It was there in 1968, because after the Russians invaded I can remember some students went to the Red House and lobbed stones over the walls to break the glass. It stayed like that for a while and then the authorities bulldozed it rather than go to the trouble of repairing it, because every time they replaced the glass someone would break it again.’
‘So it was there until, what, 1969, 1970, 1971?’
‘Something like that. Sooner rather than later. By the end of 1969 they’d got control back, and I don’t think anyone in their right mind would have tried to break the glass again. Of course they hadn’t grown anything there in years, what with what the Red House was used for. I suppose you know…’ he began, but then his voice tailed away as if he could not bear to describe its use.
Valentin was the first to speak. ‘So if you had a body to bury, a disused greenhouse might have been a really good place. You’d have the soil, and once the greenhouse was demolished the grass would have been allowed to cover it all.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Slonský, ‘and while it’s not conclusive on date, it gives us an idea about when it might have happened. It could have been before, and it could have been a little while after, before the lawn grew over the site, but it’s a possible answer for one of our questions. If the killer knew the first body was buried in the greenhouse he’d have a start, but it’s still a long site to excavate looking for it.’
‘It wouldn’t be that difficult,’ Jaroslav answered. ‘Most of the greenhouse was usually given over to pots and trestles with plants sitting on top. The only part where ground-level soil was used was right in the middle.’
‘And how would you fix the middle?’ Slonský demanded to know.
Jaroslav had a suggestion. ‘My father told me that back when he was a boy, an airship flew over Prague and took some photographs. The glasshouse was big enough to show up on those.’
Matěj hurriedly searched his database once more. ‘Bingo! Aerial views of Prague, 1930. And there’s the Pfarrenstein mansion.’
‘And the door of the greenhouse is opposite the third bay window. That’s how our man knew where the body would be. He must have heard all this somehow,’ Slonský said. ‘But how?’
Chapter 5
Jerneková had drawn a blank with the last pair of missing persons, neither of whom was the woman in the flower bed, as she was described in the evening paper. Slonský was annoyed that the story had leaked out. If there was any leaking to be done, he wanted to do it, and Valentin was his vessel of choice, but then he reflected that he had planned to put the photograph in the newspaper anyway, and it was only the fact of the death and the location of the body that he had intended to suppress for now. Unusually, the publication in the evening newspaper brought immediate results when a woman telephoned to say that she thought she might recognise the person in the picture.
Peiperová and Jerneková were dispatched to speak to her.
Eva Čechová was a woman in her late twenties who worked for the university in one of its administrative departments. She had telephoned from work and was waiting for the two police officers in the foyer of the grand building that housed her office when they arrived. They sat on one of the benches there.
‘You think you recognise the woman in the photograph?’ began Peiperová.
‘I think so,’ Eva replied. ‘It looks like Adalheid Rezeková who works in the student registry with me.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Peiperová continued.
‘About ten days ago. The registry staff are restricted on when we can take our holidays because our busy times are during the university vacations, so we take ours during the semesters. I wasn’t expecting to see Adalheid last week because she had booked a few days off, but when she didn’t return on Monday as expected I began to worry.’
‘Does she have family?’
‘Her parents are still alive, but I don’t know that she ever mentioned anyone else. She was a very private person.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘I’m afraid not. But our human resources department would. They have all our home addresses.’
‘I’ll ask them once we know that she is definitely missing,’ said Peiperová with an encouraging smile. ‘I have another photograph of her, but I have to warn you that it was taken after her death.’
‘That’s okay,’ Eva gulped.
Peiperová glanced around to ensure that nobody was looking over their shoulders, then opened her bag and produced the post-mortem image.
‘I think that’s her,’ Eva confirmed. ‘I never saw her with her hair down like that and she usually wore glasses, but the face shape is right. What happened to her?’
‘I’m afraid she was murdered.’
Eva gasped and held her hand over her mouth for a moment.
‘Did she have a partner or boyfriend?’ Peiperová enquired.
‘She was divorced,’ Eva replied. ‘It was a long time ago and it didn’t last long. I think it was straight after she left university. I don’t know that she had a regular long-term boyfriend. If we had any social events she usually came alone, if she bothered at all. But she had met someone lately. I’m not sure it was exactly romantic, but she remarked that she had been invited out to dinner by a man recently.’
‘How recently?’ Peiperová asked.
‘Just before the holiday. She was meeting him on the Wednesday or Thursday. But I’ve seen her since then.’
‘Did she say how it went?’ Jerneková wanted to know.
‘She said it was interesting. She wasn’t gushy about it, but then she never was. I think she was quite hurt by her marriage and she was fairly cynical about her chances of findin
g happiness. But I think she still hoped, deep down. Don’t we all?’
‘No,’ said Jerneková firmly.
Peiperová glowered at Jerneková, who remained blissfully unaware of her boss’s displeasure.
‘Perhaps we could all go to the human resources department. They may have a photograph on file and we can ask about her address too.’ Eva led the way and explained the request to the woman on the desk, who took no time at all to decide that this was something well beyond her pay grade, so she fetched one of the managers.
‘You’re asking for personal information about one of our staff?’ he said.
Peiperová produced her own identification. ‘First, we want to see if you have a photograph of a woman who worked here who may have been murdered. I assume there’s no objection to helping us to confirm the identity of a victim?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I’m sure if she was lying unconscious in hospital having been hit by a car you’d want to help,’ Jerneková added, with just a hint that this was precisely the kind of accident that might befall someone who decided not to co-operate with their enquiry.
‘Oh, quite,’ he agreed.
‘I think it’s Adalheid Rezeková,’ Eva explained.
‘Rezeková, Adalheid,’ the man said as he wrote it down before adding a completely unnecessary ‘wait here’ as he turned to walk away. After a few minutes he returned with a folder and an index card. ‘That’s Ms Rezeková,’ he said.
‘There’s certainly a strong likeness,’ agreed Peiperová, offering him the post-mortem photograph so he could see for himself.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Has she been strangled?’
‘Probably,’ Jerneková confirmed. ‘Perhaps garrotted. Either way, done to death nastily.’
‘Do you have her address?’ asked Peiperová.
The manager, now thoroughly flustered, searched ineffectively for it until Jerneková plonked her stubby finger on the top right hand corner of the folder itself.
‘That looks like an address.’
‘Yes, indeed, that’s where it would be,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not as used to violent death as you obviously are.’
‘I don’t suppose you would be,’ agreed Jerneková, glossing over the fact that this was the first murder case that she had been involved in and copying the address into her notebook.
‘What about a next of kin? Do you keep notes of that?’ Peiperová asked.
‘Oh, certainly, in case of sickness or accidents.’ The manager rustled through the pages, then thought to look on the front cover again. ‘Here we are.’
Peiperová read the entry and felt a little queasy. The man described as Rezeková’s father was General Klement Rezek (retired).
In the car on the way to the General’s house, Peiperová suggested to Jerneková that it would be good if she let Peiperová do most of the talking, given the delicate nature of their duty and the fact that the General and his wife were likely to be very elderly.
‘I’m not completely insensitive, you know,’ Jerneková protested, to which response Peiperová allowed herself to raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m not! And I’ve been trained to break bad news. But it won’t do me any harm to see how you do it,’ Jerneková conceded.
General Rezek and his wife lived in a large single-storey villa in the northern outskirts of Prague. There was a substantial garden, partly given over to growing vegetables, but there was also a post in the centre where an aggressive black dog was barking loudly and straining at a substantial chain attached to his collar.
‘I don’t think I’ll pet that one,’ Jerneková muttered.
‘I hope that’s not a portent of his owner,’ Peiperová replied.
They reached the door without mishap and rang the bell. It was opened by a stocky man with a stiff brush of steel-coloured hair. He was wearing a heavy workman’s shirt with the sleeves turned back to reveal a thickly-muscled pair of forearms.
The officers identified themselves and confirmed that they were speaking to General Rezek. It seemed unthinkable not to use his rank, although he had clearly been retired for twenty years or more.
Rezek stood in the doorway and showed no sign of inviting them in.
‘I wonder if we might step inside a moment,’ Peiperová asked. ‘Our duty is a delicate one.’
Without a word, he stepped back and they were able to enter the hallway.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you,’ Peiperová told him. ‘We have reason to believe that a woman who has been killed may be your daughter Adalheid.’
Rezek flinched momentarily, then recovered himself. ‘And how did you identify her?’
‘Colleagues of hers had reported her missing and have identified her from a photograph.’
Rezek held out his hand. ‘Let me see.’
‘I should warn you that it’s a post-mortem photograph.’
Rezek gestured impatiently for Peiperová to hand the photograph over, took it in his hand and glanced at it. Without a word, he handed it back.
‘Is that Adalheid?’ Peiperová asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We have to ask you to formally identify her body, I’m afraid.’
Rezek raised his chin defiantly. ‘Of course. But first I must tell my wife what has happened. Please sit in there while I do so.’
He held open a door and ushered the two officers through. The room into which they were shown was dominated by a large portrait of Rezek in his military uniform.
‘How did he manage to stay upright with all those medals hanging off his chest?’ Jerneková whispered.
‘I think they stiffened the uniform, otherwise the cloth would tear,’ Peiperová replied.
‘He looks fierce.’
‘That’s how he wanted us to see him. Now he’s just an old man who has lost his daughter.’
Through the other door to the room, Peiperová could see Rezek with an arm round his wife’s shoulders as she wiped her face on her apron. There was the sound of subdued sobbing but Mrs Rezeková remained in the kitchen, unable or unwilling to speak to the police officers.
Rezek collected his jacket and reappeared behind them. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, with the air of a man who expected his decisions to be final.
At the mortuary, Rezek said barely a word. He greeted Dr Novák formally, followed him to the room where Adalheid had been placed, and stood stiffly as the sheet was drawn back from the face.
‘That is my daughter Adalheid,’ he said without obvious emotion before stepping forward and kissing her on the forehead.
Novák and the officers offered their condolences, which Rezek acknowledged with a nod of his head before stepping back a pace or so to stand to attention. After a while, he dipped his head in salute and turned to leave the room.
‘Who is in charge of the investigation?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to speak to him.’
If Lieutenant Peiperová was at all disconcerted by Rezek’s assumption that a young woman could not possibly be leading a murder inquiry, she hid it well. Jerneková was finding it rather more difficult but kept silent until they had delivered Rezek to Slonský’s office.
Peiperová explained to Slonský that they had identified the dead woman as General Rezek’s daughter Adalheid. Slonský invited the General to sit and expressed his sympathy for his loss.
‘I assume you will be putting your best man on this case,’ Rezek said. There may not have been any emphasis on the word “man”, but it was fairly clear that in his mind the best “man” could not possibly be a woman, or, at least, not one as young as the two in front of him.
‘I superintend all the work we do,’ Slonský replied, ‘and my whole team will be involved. Lieutenant Peiperová and Officer Jerneková have my full confidence, and I’m sure that they will earn yours too.’
Rezek chose not to press the matter any further. ‘I assume you will have some questions for me,’ he commented, without any interrogative tone at all in the remark.
&nbs
p; ‘It would help if you could confirm her home address,’ Slonský began.
The General produced a small card from his wallet with Adalheid’s address and telephone number on it. They matched those given by the university.
‘Thank you,’ Slonský said, after copying the information onto his desk pad and circling it in red so he had a fair chance of finding it again later and remembering what it was. ‘Was she married?’
‘Divorced. She married young to an unsuitable man. It didn’t last long.’
‘Were they still in touch?’
‘I doubt it. He’s dead.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Car crash. Probably drunk — he usually was.’
‘When did that happen?’
Rezek counted on his fingers. ‘She was forty-eight years old, and she married at twenty-three. It lasted about two years, and he died soon after the divorce.’
‘So over twenty years ago?’
‘About that.’
In other words, thought Slonský, it was before the Wall came down. ‘Do you have other children?’
‘A son, Petr. But he was by my first wife.’
‘Whereas Adalheid was not?’
‘Her mother married me nearly fifty years ago. Petr must be fifty-seven by now.’
‘We should tell him what has happened to his sister. Do you have an address for him?’
‘No. We don’t talk. His choice.’
‘That must be difficult.’
‘Difficult or not, it’s how things are. He’s a journalist and ashamed of my service to my country, so he disowned me. He doesn’t use my name, preferring to use his mother’s. He works as Petr Vlk.’
The name rang a distant bell somewhere in Slonský’s head, but he chose not to pursue it. ‘Were you close to your daughter?’
‘She was dutiful. She visited us regularly. We rarely come into the city these days. It’s not congenial.’
By which you mean that you might meet someone who remembers you, Slonský decided. ‘And she worked at the University.’
‘Yes, for many years.’
‘Did she have outside interests?’
‘She read a lot, went to concerts. If you’re asking if she had a gentleman friend, then I have no idea. She would not have told me, and I don’t think she had that kind of relationship with her mother either.’
