A Second Death

by Graham Brack

  It was a good thing that he had made a reservation, because the restaurant was packed when they arrived. The waiter had no difficulty in indicating their table, it being the sole unoccupied one in the centre of the floor. Having seated Věra Slonský took his own place and perused the menu.

  Ordering was the easy bit. It was conversation that he had always found difficult. It would have been so much easier if Peiperová and Navrátil had been there. Peiperová was never stuck for small talk, and Navrátil was a really good listener, though how much of that was due to all the practice he got these days was hard to tell.

  The problem was that there was so much he could not share about his work, and if he did not talk about work, what could he talk about? There was so little other than work in his life.

  Slonský looked around the room in the hope that he would find something worth saying something about. There was a group of men in the corner who looked as if they were planning on a heavy night. To his right were four women who were soaking up wine as if they were made of blotting paper. Slonský was unsurprised to discover that they were British, and he assumed that the pink sash one was wearing proclaimed her to be a forthcoming bride. Czech women were less inclined to get drunk in public. At least the respectable ones were, but he acknowledged that times were changing. In his days on the beat he had never arrested a woman for being drunk. Nowadays it was a rare night out that didn’t involve either stepping over a woman or trying to prop one up.

  Věra was busily reminiscing about their courting days, but for all Slonský remembered of them she might have been making it all up. It wasn’t that he was unromantic, but when she walked out he lost the best part of two years in an alcohol-derived oblivion and his memories of the time before that was now sketchy to say the least. He could remember, if pressed, the first time he saw her. They were young adults at a Communist party get-together during which he noticed a tall, blonde girl with a nice figure who was similarly attracted to the young man who couldn’t be bothered to clown around with the other boys.

  They met up at a few more such events which was always convenient because you allegedly needed no chaperone at a party function, though if Slonský recalled what went on behind the building correctly it seemed to him that if all the babies conceived there had been called Lenin even the dimmest party official might have suspected that they had failed in their duty of care.

  The waiter removed the plates after their starter. As a concession to the refined nature of their meal Slonský was drinking beer in 300ml glasses rather than the usual half litre, which meant he had to go slower than usual if he was not intending to set up an assembly line of waiters delivering drinks like firefighters drawing water from a well.

  Those idiots in the corner were looking his way again, or at least one of them was. It was a hazard of nights out in the city that there was always a chance that he would come up against someone he had once put away, so his antennae were constantly searching for potential trouble, and he was looking at it right now. However, he could not place the man, which was unusual for him. Normally he could recall everyone he had ever arrested, but he put the temporary failing down to having to concentrate at least partly on what Věra was saying.

  Slonský had ordered a steak, which demanded his complete attention, and since Věra was trying to eat pasta in a ladylike fashion without splattering their neighbours with arrabbiata sauce the next course was consumed amid only desultory conversation. As the waiter swept the table with a small brush cunningly disguised, for no good reason that Slonský could imagine, as an elephant, the detective became aware of a shadow across the tablecloth. Looking up he could see the man from the table at the back but it was not Slonský he was interested in, but his wife.

  ‘Věra? I thought it was you,’ he said.

  Věra glanced up and her smile froze.

  ‘Cat got your tongue? Not pleased to see me?’

  Slonský had no idea what this was about, but he knew he did not like it.

  ‘I don’t think my wife wants to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Wife? She’s got her claws into you now, has she? When did that happen?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ said Slonský, rising to his feet and scouting out the most convenient stretch of floor in case the visitor wanted to take an impromptu nap at the end of his fist.

  The waiters seemed to have grasped what was happening and two were threading their way through the tables to intervene.

  ‘Word to the wise,’ said the man. ‘Three years of my life she had, then she just slipped out and never came back. She’ll do the same to you one day, mark my words.’

  The waiters had each grabbed an arm.

  ‘Let’s get some fresh air, sir,’ said one. ‘My colleague will get your coat for you.’

  Slonský watched as the man was steered out into the street and the door was closed behind him. Looking down he could see Věra dabbing her cheeks with a tissue. She did not look at him.

  ‘I think I’d like to go home now,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yes, that’s probably best,’ Slonský agreed.

  On Sunday morning Slonský went into the office to borrow a car. He wanted to tell Mr Dlask and Mrs Dlasková the result of the enquiry face to face. They deserved that, rather than a phone call, he thought. He was not one to brood on disappointments so if he regretted how the previous evening had gone there was no sign in his demeanour. Stuff happens, and that was all there was to it. Compared with what the Dlasks had experienced last night’s little upset was nothing.

  He was pleased to find that Viktorie’s parents appeared to be attempting a reconciliation, because both were in the house when he knocked.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know what we’ve discovered,’ he said simply, and was invited in.

  ‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ Mrs Dlasková asked.

  ‘No, thanks. I just wanted to keep you informed.’

  ‘We appreciate that you’ve driven all the way from Prague just to talk to us,’ said Mr Dlask.

  Dear God, that’s not much to ask, thought Slonský, in the circumstances.

  ‘The man who killed Viktorie was himself killed by his partner. She was the woman who abducted Viktorie from the kindergarten. She used to work there.’

  ‘What was her name?’ asked Mrs Dlasková.

  ‘Magdalena Novotná. She used to be Broukalová.’

  ‘I remember her,’ Mrs Dlasková said. ‘She left to have a baby.’

  ‘She miscarried. But that doesn’t justify her in stealing yours.’

  ‘No, nothing does. At least she looked after Viktorie. Was it her husband who abused her?’

  ‘She separated from her husband and took Viktorie to Prague where she met another man, Daniel Nágl. Nágl was the one who maltreated your daughter. According to Broukalová she couldn’t tell the police because he’d discovered her secret and threatened to expose her as a child abductor. She says she came home and found Viktorie dead, and her partner demanded that she help him dispose of her body. When they went down to the riverbank she hit him over the head with a wheelbrace and killed him.’

  They sat on the sofa and tried to absorb what they had just been told.

  ‘Is she admitting it?’ Mr Dlask asked.

  ‘You can never be sure till you get to court but I think she will.’

  ‘How long will she get?’

  ‘Killing her husband carries a life sentence. Abducting your daughter could be anything from twelve to twenty years. The prosecutor is talking about life with a minimum of sixteen years before amnesty or parole.’

  Dlask was crying. ‘It’s not enough,’ he said. ‘Not nearly enough.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Slonský, ‘but it’s the law.’

  As he drove home Dr Novák rang to pass on the results of the diving party.

  ‘They found him,’ the pathologist said, ‘though he was about fifty metres upstream from where you told us.’

  ‘She lied about where it was,
then.’

  ‘She probably guessed there might be blood splashes, but didn’t think you’d be looking for them when she told her story.’

  ‘And were there?’

  ‘There’s not much on the greenery but there’s blood in the earth. It won’t be difficult to prove someone was killed there. Nágl’s not in bad condition considering his skull’s been cracked open and he’s spent a fortnight or so underwater. Definitely recognisable, I’m pleased to say.’

  Back in his office Slonský wrote up his report and printed it out. Rather than wait for Peiperová to show him how to correct it as usual, he wrote in the changes in ballpoint pen, initialling each meticulously, before walking along the corridor to leave it on Colonel Urban’s secretary’s desk. He wondered who would read it now that Peiperová was no longer there, or indeed whether Urban was still doing his old job now that he was getting a new one, but decided it need not concern him. His job was to report, and reporting was what he was about to do.

  To his surprise the inner office was open, suggesting Colonel Urban was at his desk, so Slonský knocked on the door and walked in. Rajka looked up from the chair.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ they both said.

  ‘I’m delivering my report on the abduction and murder,’ Slonský explained.

  ‘I heard you’d sorted it out,’ said Rajka. ‘I sent one of my captains up there to look into the original investigation. He’s a good man. The department was a shambles eight years ago, and he doesn’t think it’s much better now. I’ll have to deal with it.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I’m surprised the grapevine hasn’t kept you informed. With Colonel Urban moving up he’s offered me his old job as Director of the Criminal Police.’

  Slonský could not have been more delighted. He respected Rajka and this would mean that he was in favour with the Director of Police and the Director of Criminal Police. Life was sweet again.

  ‘And you’re accepting it?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t said yes yet.’

  ‘But you will,’ urged Slonský.

  ‘I think so. I enjoy what I do and it’s important work, rooting out corruption and improving police standards, but the Director of Police doesn’t come from that line of work. You have to be in the mainstream to have a chance of that.’

  ‘And they’ll make you a colonel too.’

  ‘Already promised, whichever way I jump. Dr Pilik was pleased that we saved him from a lot of potential embarrassment over Dostál, so I know if I say yes I’ll be appointed. And a colonel’s wage would be welcome. I’ll be back in uniform every day but I can put up with that.’

  Slonský was smiling like a cat left alone with a bucket of cream. ‘You’ll be my boss,’ he beamed.

  Rajka stood up and walked around the desk to place a hand on Slonský’s shoulder.

  ‘You can escape that if you want,’ he said.

  ‘Why should I want?’ asked Slonský.

  Rajka perched on the corner of the desk. ‘Someone has to replace me as head of OII. You’re good at dealing with corruption. You’ve got a good track record of sniffing out dodgy cops. Captain Bendík is good but he’s too young. He needs an experienced officer over him. And you’d get made up to major.’

  ‘I’ve only been a captain four months,’ Slonský observed.

  ‘See, that’s just the kind of old-fashioned thinking we need to chuck out,’ Rajka answered. ‘If you’re the right man, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been a captain.’

  Slonský was stunned. He had spent the best part of those four months plotting to reshape the team he worked in, he had manoeuvred his boss into the top job, and now it was all about to be taken away from him. He couldn’t deny that the idea of banging up naughty policemen appealed to him, but he would miss Navrátil and Peiperová. Damn it, he’d been a loner for so long, then twenty months earlier they had forced him to take Navrátil and his life hadn’t been the same since. If they’d asked him then he’d have jumped at the job, but now…?

  ‘Can I think about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Please do,’ said Rajka. ‘If I can help you make your mind up, let me know.’

  There’s only one thing that can help me make my mind up, thought Slonský, and it comes in a tall glass.

  *****

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  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for investing your money and time in my book.

  Sometimes people ask where the ideas for stories come from, to which the honest answer is “Who knows?”. However, I can identify a couple of distinct groups.

  Occasionally the spur is a real life crime. Plainly the facts cannot be shamelessly lifted and used; that would be more like reportage than fiction, and unkind to the victims of the crime. There are occasions, though, when an author can look at the basic facts and ask “What if?”, changing something to take the story down a different path. There is a long history of this back at least as far as Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Mystery of Marie Roget”; for a particularly brilliant example, see John Hutton’s “29 Herriott Street”.

  I often begin with a question I want to answer. Lying and Dying, for example, asked what happens when law and justice do not lead to the same outcome; Slaughter and Forgetting was concerned with how far we can trust distant memories; Field of Death came about when I heard the story of the ghost battery and asked myself how it could possibly be true.

  A Second Death came to mind when I was reading an article about why crime goes unreported. The archetypal crime for which this is true is domestic violence; people (mainly, but not exclusively, women) may suffer many instances of abuse before it comes to notice, and this is reflected in my story, but there are other crimes for which it is true — and I started to ponder what would happen if someone could not report a crime because to do so would uncover a crime of their own.

  I thought long and hard before introducing child abuse into a story. It is not a comfortable subject, but unfortunately it is something that police have to deal with. They find it just as unpleasant and upsetting as the rest of us, and I hope that I have captured this here.

  If you have enjoyed this novel I’d be really grateful if you would leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. The best salesmen for my books are readers, so please tell your friends too! I love to hear from readers, so please keep in touch through Facebook or Twitter, or leave a message on my website.

  Všechno nejlepší!

  Graham Brack

  ALSO BY GRAHAM BRACK

  Josef Slonský Investigations

  LYING & DYING

  SLAUGHTER AND FORGETTING

  DEATH ON DUTY

  FIELD OF DEATH

  Published by Sapere Books.

  11 Bank Chambers, Hornsey, London, N8 7NN,

  United Kingdom

  saperebooks.com

  Copyright © Graham Brack, 2019

  Graham Brack has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 9781913028824

 

 

 
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