A Second Death

by Graham Brack

‘That’s why he’s roaming the corridors like a bear with piles. We all thought it was done and dusted, then suddenly the old one says he’s staying on for another three months.’

  ‘Really? Any idea why?’

  ‘The rumour is that someone in high places wants the job to go to Colonel Dostál, whose secondment finishes then.’

  ‘Dostál? My word! That would ruffle a few feathers.’

  ‘That’s an understatement. It’s a bit like electing Lucifer as Pope.’

  ‘And that’s a bit of an overstatement. Dostál is a competent officer. He’s just not very much of a team player.’

  ‘You mean it’s all about the greater glory of Dostál?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, perhaps, go quite that far myself. But others would.’

  ‘More to the point, he’s younger than Urban, so if he gets the job Urban never will. And you can imagine what that would do for his demeanour. And, in turn, what that means for Peiperová, who is counting the days until her year ends.’

  Lukas took a sudden and keen interest in the stitching of his gloves. ‘One hesitates to relate unsubstantiated gossip…’ he began.

  Slonský immediately pricked his ears up. He had never known Lukas to do this before.

  ‘…but you might want to look at the details of the bank siege that brought Dostál to prominence.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘I don’t remember exactly. But I know that there were questions about the conduct of the operation. The Office of Internal Inspection looked into it, but Dostál was cleared. There were people who felt that the investigation had, perhaps, not been as vigorous as might have been warranted.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to comment, of course, but I can’t help wondering whether the fact that Dostál subsequently married the daughter of the then head of OII might have raised eyebrows.’

  For someone who has no interest in gossip you certainly seem to know plenty, thought Slonský, at the same time wondering why Mucha had not told him this. He had long believed that nothing happened that Mucha did not know about, but his reputation as the all-seeing oracle was now on the line.

  ‘I’ll do that, sir. Thank you,’ said Slonský.

  Lukas left through the main door with a cheery wave to Slonský and Sergeant Mucha. As soon as he had gone Slonský moved in to the attack.

  ‘You never told me Dostál married the daughter of Whatsisname.’

  ‘If I knew who Whatsisname was meant to be I could answer that, but I don’t recall that you asked me who Mrs Dostál was.’

  ‘The daughter of the old head of OII.’

  ‘Zedniček? He wouldn’t have children, he’d have spawn.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but Dostál married one.’

  ‘Actually, he married the only one. The apple of the old man’s eye. Still, look on the bright side. They haven’t had any children yet so with luck Zedniček’s genes will die out.’

  ‘Is she over there with Dostál?’

  Mucha leant forward and lowered his voice. ‘Rumour has it that Dostál was furthering international relations until she moved to be with him.’

  ‘Was he indeed?’

  ‘In a stationery storeroom with a Spanish woman.’

  ‘Yes, but I doubt we’ll get him sacked for that. If senior officers who shagged women on the premises were turfed out that posh corridor behind me would be looking pretty empty.’

  ‘It would open up opportunities for the likes of you and me. I’ve never had a woman at work.’

  ‘Me neither. But we’d both be displaced by Navrátil, who hasn’t had a woman anywhere.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Anyway, Captain Lukas has opened up a possible line of enquiry by telling me that Dostál was the subject of an OII investigation that was regarded by some as a cover-up.’

  ‘Presumably because said Dostál was going out with the daughter of the head of OII.’

  ‘Or he married her in gratitude for being exonerated. What’s she like?’

  Mucha thought for a moment. ‘The phrase “traditionally built” comes to mind.’

  ‘Well, if there was such an investigation Major Rajka may be able to tell us more, though he didn’t volunteer it when we first talked about Dostál.’

  ‘It’ll be that need to know thing. You didn’t need to know.’

  ‘I always need to know, old pal. Always.’

  ‘Ask him again, then.’

  ‘I shall. But I need to check my facts first.’

  Mucha emitted a whistle of surprise. ‘That’s a bit of a departure from normal practice for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Desperate times need desperate measures, mate.’

  The office at which Nágl worked, according to the tax authorities, turned out to be a curious unit on the upper floor of a block on a small industrial estate, accessible by one of two flights of steel stairs at the ends of the block. Navrátil climbed the nearer stairs and pulled open the door to find that there was no reception area, the stairs opening directly on to an open plan office in which there were six desks, four of which were being used at that moment.

  Navrátil displayed his badge and addressed the room in general.

  ‘I’m looking for a Daniel Nágl.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said the oldest man present.

  ‘He works here then?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘He does. But if he hasn’t got a good explanation when he shows up it’ll be “he did”.’

  ‘You are…?’

  ‘Peterka, Bohumil.’

  The man made to reach into his jacket for his identity card but Navrátil gestured not to bother.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Peterka looked round the room for inspiration. Eventually a man in the far left corner replied, ‘He went missing in the middle of the month, didn’t he? Didn’t come to Václav’s birthday do, and that was on the eighteenth.’

  ‘Of September?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you have a phone number for him?’

  Peterka checked a list on the wall and wrote it on a piece of paper.

  ‘I’ve tried ringing it. He just lets it ring and doesn’t answer.’

  ‘Battery will be dead by now, I shouldn’t wonder,’ argued one of the others.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Navrátil. ‘We’ll get our technical people onto it. What is he like?’

  ‘Physically? Average height, very proper, always wears a tie to work. Meticulous in what he does. You can’t fault his work,’ Peterka admitted.

  ‘What is his work?’

  ‘We design electronic switches and control panels. Nágl is particularly good on designing control centres for office lighting. You know, the kind of thing where lights go off by themselves if there is nobody in the room.’

  ‘Forgive my ignorance. Is it well paid work?’

  ‘Not particularly. They bill our time at a high price but we don’t get it. But it’s better than working in a supermarket.’

  ‘He runs a car, I understand. It isn’t parked here, I suppose?’

  ‘If it was it would be gone by now,’ Peterka laughed. ‘I wouldn’t leave my car overnight in this district. But I don’t remember him regularly coming by car. Usually he caught a bus into work. What’s all this about?’

  Navrátil pondered how much he could say and decided to stick to what was already public knowledge. ‘I’m afraid his partner’s daughter was found dead the other day. We’re trying to trace him to ensure that he knows.’

  ‘Is that the girl in the river?’ asked the man at the back. ‘Is he a suspect?’

  ‘We don’t yet have any evidence tying him to the crime,’ said Navrátil.

  ‘Yet,’ emphasised Peterka.

  ‘We don’t have any evidence tying him to the crime at all,’ Navrátil tried. ‘Unless any of you have any?’

  No evidence was put forward, though Peterka felt free to offer a comment.

  ‘Strange how you can s
pend ten hours a day with someone and never really know them, eh?’

  Slonský was puzzled. He was so deep in thought that he took a bite out of a vegetarian roll before he realised that there was no meat in it.

  ‘You could have poisoned me!’ he complained to Dumpy Anna.

  ‘You picked it,’ she pointed out.

  ‘How was I to know?’

  ‘The label “Salad Roll” might have been a clue to some people.’

  ‘What else have you got?’

  Anna smiled. ‘How about I slip out the back and slide a slice of ham in this one? No charge.’

  ‘You are a princess amongst women,’ replied Slonský. ‘Those two husbands of yours don’t know what they’ve given up.’

  ‘I don’t think they chose to die,’ she replied, quite reasonably. ‘When your time comes the Grim Reaper isn’t going to hold off just because you fancy a sandwich.’

  Slonský preferred not to ruminate on his own mortality. He fully intended to live for ever, if only to annoy the police pensions department.

  Resuming his seat, ham salad roll in hand, coffee before him, he took out his pen and made a list of the questions that he was struggling to answer.

  1. He had been sure that one of the off duty workers had been responsible for the abduction, but they all had alibis or were vouched for in some other way.

  2. In any event, none of them was called Broukalová, which was obviously an assumed name. But how had the woman managed to persuade a civil servant to issue an identity card to her in that name, given that they were notorious sceptics at the best of times?

  3. And whoever she was, where was she?

  4. Assuming that her partner had killed Viktorie (which was not proven but seemed the most likely explanation), had Broukalová fled with him, or from him?

  5. And where was Daniel Nágl, not to mention his car and mobile phone?

  6. On the other matter, what had Lukas been hinting at (given that he couldn’t remember the exact details even if he’d tried)?

  7. Why hadn’t Rajka shared this with him? There was that tiresome need to know stuff, but they were mates. A mate shares stuff with his mates. Except Klinger from the Fraud Squad, but then he had no mates.

  8. Where was he going to find another officer to fill the remaining approved vacancy? They could advertise, of course, but then he might get someone completely unsuitable. Slonský firmly believed that choosing a work partner was as important — and as difficult — as choosing a life partner, Mind you, he had screwed that up royally. Which reminded him…

  9. What was he going to do for Věra’s birthday? She was bound to remember his in November. He recalled that Věra’s birthday was the first of October; or perhaps it was the fifth? Anyway, if he took her out for dinner when he was free, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t get the date exactly right, so long as he told her it was for her birthday.

  10. What bizarre impulse drove people of sound mind to eat salad?

  Valentin was inclined to be cooperative, especially after Slonský bought him a beer and a schnapps without entering even the mildest protest.

  ‘I remember that siege,’ he said. ‘A few years ago now, though.’

  ‘I don’t know, but it must be at least five because he’s been a colonel that long, and you wouldn’t get a colonel putting themselves in harm’s way at an armed bank robbery. They’d be sat in the car outside feeding useless suggestions through one of those funny earpieces the special teams wear along with their body armour.’

  ‘Why do they always wear short sleeved shirts?’ asked Valentin.

  ‘It’s to make them look tough,’ Slonský decided. ‘They’re willing to risk both being shot and getting cold elbows. It shows how hard they are. It’s like the Russian soldiers wearing those weird foot nappies instead of socks.’

  ‘Poor so-and-so’s. Imagine doing sentry duty in St Petersburg in those things. A couple of hours of standing still and you’d be leaving your toes behind.’

  ‘You were a non-combatant, weren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t have the feet for it. But I did my national service in the army. Just not in boots, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes,’ mused Slonský, ‘I never saw the sense in that. Surely a flat-footed soldier is just as able to get himself shot as any other man, and that’s what the army private is for, after all. You could even say that it’s interference with nature.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Suppose the Cold War had ended badly and the Socialist bloc and the evil Westerners had finished up slogging it out on the plains of Hungary? And we’d done as we said we would, and fought until the last soldier was dead.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Valentin, unsure where this was leading.

  ‘Well, the only people left to keep the human race going would be a bunch of flat-foots excused frontline service. In no time all the little babies born here would have flat feet now that the curvy-foot gene had been extinguished.’

  ‘I see where you’re coming from,’ Valentin agreed, ‘but I’m pretty sure if things had been going that badly those of us who were medically less than A1 would have been sent up the front to make the supreme sacrifice.’

  Slonský took a long pull of his beer. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, I was rather hoping you would hunt through your newspaper’s files to give me a bit of background on the events so that I don’t look a complete know-nothing when I go to see Major Rajka.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Of course not. I can’t drag a reporter in to an off the record discussion about how two senior policemen can stitch up a top colleague. It wouldn’t be professional.’

  Valentin fumbled for his handkerchief so he could deal with the beer which seemed to have made its way down his nose when he laughed. ‘I had something more cunning in mind.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Well, suppose my paper were to feature an article on what a fine character Colonel Urban was and how he would make an excellent Chief of Police one day? Can’t do any harm, can it?’

  ‘It’s a bit transparent, isn’t it? All of a sudden one of our newspapers starts a campaign to get Urban the top job. If I read it I’d immediately assume you were up to something and you’d bought him off.’

  ‘Ah, a very likely conclusion if it was all on its own. But suppose it was part of a series of profiles designed to give the great Czech public confidence in the rising stars of the police service? We could start with Major Rajka.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we put out highly slanted stories about senior officers that show them in a good light?’

  ‘Basically, that’s about it.’

  ‘I can’t see the police public relations team going along with it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we pay them a lot to write lies for us and here you are offering to do it for nothing. They’ll feel they’ve been undercut.’

  ‘They’ll still get paid. They just won’t have to do any work.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll go for that! Once it’s expressed in that light I can see they’ll fall over themselves for it.’

  ‘I’ll pitch it to my editor tomorrow. You know the sort of thing — show the human face of law enforcement. Give me three or four other names so Urban is nicely hidden in the mix, then if he approves the plan I’ll approach the police PR mob.’

  ‘Right, well — there’s Rajka, Urban…’ A long pause followed.

  ‘There must be others,’ Valentin prompted.

  ‘You said they had to be human,’ said Slonský. ‘Narrows the field a bit.’

  Navrátil had done it.

  He had never thought he would be able to, when it came to it. It was such a big step, a real rite of passage in his life. It was an irreversible step, made possible only by his deep passion for Kristýna Peiperová.

  He had told his mother he was engaged.

  To his surprise, there were no temper tantrums, sobs or histrionics. No pottery was thrown.

  ‘All the more important that
I should spend some time with my future daughter-in-law, don’t you think?’ said his mother.

  ‘You’re not going to put her through the mill to check she’s suitable, I hope,’ he replied.

  ‘Certainly not, my dear boy. If you’ve chosen her she’s bound to be a good choice. You’ve always been such a serious young man. You don’t do things frivolously or on a whim.’

  Navrátil was now lying on his old bed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had a little flat in town, but there was something comforting about returning to the room in which he had grown up. He might have lived there still, were it not for the difficulties of getting to work by seven in the morning on public transport. It could be done — just — but if they worked late he could not guarantee a bus home, and it was a long way to walk.

  Anyway, life was good, he decided, feeling rather like St George must have felt when he slew the dragon and sauntered into town with its head. He felt good about himself, and when he rang Kristýna and told her she had been delighted and had promised him a reward. He had no idea what the reward was and just hoped it wasn’t going to be the sort that he would have to mention at Confession next week.

  Chapter 10

  The morning brought further good news. Nágl’s car had been found in a car park near the main railway station in Prague.

  ‘Why abandon his car if he wanted to get away?’ asked Navrátil.

  ‘A number of possibilities, lad,’ Slonský replied. ‘He thought we’d be looking for it. He could make a more efficient getaway by train. He and his wife could flee by train. Or his wife was scarpering by train and it was easier to follow her by jumping on the train than trying to drive, especially if he didn’t know where she was going to get off.’

  ‘If he was chasing his wife and they were on the same train it’s hard to imagine he didn’t find her,’ Navrátil suggested, ‘but we haven’t heard of a body by the tracks.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to kill her. He just catches up and tells her if she wants to stay alive she goes with him and keeps her mouth shut.’

  ‘I suppose. She’d have to tag along and just hope an opportunity to escape presented itself later.’