About the author

Gerald is a freelance journalist who now lives in the

Cotswolds after a number of years living and working
abroad.

Gerald Heys

MISSY CHIN BUSTIN CHOPS

Copyright Gerald Heys (2015)

The right of Gerald Heys to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 305 0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 307 4 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Now it isnt that I dont like you, Susan, because, after all,
in moments of quiet, Im strangely drawn toward you, but -well, there havent been any quiet moments.
Dr David Huxley (Cary Grant) to Susan Vance
(Katharine Hepburn) in Howard Hawks
Bringing up Baby (1938)

1.

Her hair reminded Harry of Mia Farrows in a movie he

couldn't recall the name of: the one where she was a blind
girl, all alone and feeling her way through that big old
country house. Alone, that was, except for the disgruntled
guy in the conservatory whod just sliced up her sister.
Eight a.m. Monday and Harry was in Dukovs office
telling her for maybe the third time that he didnt do missing
persons, when she took a file from her desk.
All the information you need, Mr Novk, she said,
holding it out. And how do we make this worth your while?
The manila folder waited, unwavering, and Dukovs
hard stare fixed him over the walnut desk.
Maybe just a glance.
He leaned forward, the deep leather armchair creaking
and sighing, and took the file from her long fingers. A quick
skim through this, followed by a polite no, a debonair smile.
Easy. And he could get a coffee someplace, breakfast, maybe
pick up those shirts at the dry cleaner.
Opening the folder, he looked down at the photograph
paper-clipped to a centimetre-thick pile of documents.
Then looked some more.
Perfect skin, sharp-looking cheekbones. The dark hair
piled up on the girls head made the most of the slender neck

while the huge black eyes, staring up like she could do no

wrong, slanted down just a shade to a nose that was better than
cute. Way better.
Dukov said, We havent seen Ekaterina for two days,
in her flawless Czech. An accent there somewhere, though, he
reckoned. But not Russian. Slovak? The name was maybe
Slovak. Dukov. Miss Soul.
Lifting his gaze, he saw she was now leaning back,
elbows resting on the arms of her swivel chair: cool, in
control, the window behind her looking over Paris Street,
where Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Prada and the rest of the gang
paid rent higher than the mountains of the moon. On the
oak-panelled wall to her right, a single, framed photograph: a
stocky guy in a tight suit kissing Vladimir Putin on the mouth.
We?
Mr Lermontov, she said, has invested a considerable
amount in Ekaterina and her career, her movies.
Im afraid Im not familiar with her.
Her eyebrows rose, surprised, but she said, Shes not
really a name in the West.
The West. When was the last time hed heard anyone say
Prague was west of anywhere?
She said, My employer is very distressed at the
moment and would be most grateful if you might help us out.
Grateful?
What do you charge, Mr Novk? So much a day plus
expenses?
Negotiable.
A smile. Perfect white teeth. Your references are
exceptional. Mr Lermontov wanted the very best, insisted. It
might be very easy for you, a cinch. Could be she just
wandered off somewhere. A little impetuous at times, Katya,
unworldly, too. And -- a frown -- Id like you to be as
careful as you can with this, Mr Novk: its not yet been made

10

public, but Mr Lermontov and Miss Orlova are engaged to be

married.
He glanced again at the little guy pressing his face
against Putins, at the bald-patch, the jowls, the wrestlers
neck. And back to Dukov: Miss Soul, her lips parted,
waiting for a reply.
Am I allowed breakfast first?
He sipped his espresso and winced: the consistency of
farmyard slurry and about as much flavour as a wet towel.
Hank Novak, a cousin from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, had
visited Prague one time and asked where he could get a good
cup of coffee around here. Harry said, Milan.
He looked through the coffee shop window now, past the
reversed letters on the glass, along the shopping arcade
where Ekaterina Orlova had disappeared, gazing at the
black and white ceramic tiles, the brass lamps, telling
himself this was maybe a crime scene ... Was that where he
was going with this, that shed been abducted?
Dukovs file, open alongside the coffee cup, said
Orlovas bodyguards had let her out of their car, a black
Hummer H2, and shed walked on her own through to the
Russian bookstore at the far end there. One bodyguard,
Boris, had stayed in the Hummer by the entrance on National
Street, while the other, Ivan, had walked around via the
sidewalk to the other end of the passage to meet up with her.
The story was, hed gotten around, saw she was nowhere
in sight and went through all the stores, searching. But found
nothing.
Two Russian heavies called Ivan and Boris. Sounded like
someone was making it up, having some fun here. And Miss
Soul must have worked her neat little tail off to get this
information together in, what, barely half a day. Then again,
if you were PA to a guy who owned half the gas of Siberia,
or whatever, you probably worked like a bee on crank. The
big man himself was in St Petersburg doing business, but
flying back early tomorrow morning. Did he live in Prague?
11

Karlovy Vary seemed much more likely: full of Russians

enough to stop a tank.
Even one of their own.
He took his iPhone from his inside jacket pocket,
checked his texts and emails. A message from Miss Soul
thanking him for taking the case, helping them out. Attached
were all the documents hed already gotten from her in hard
copy. More to follow, she wrote. Jesus, he couldnt wait. Next
time he got a seven a.m. call whimpering for help, hed
say Mr Novk shared their pain but, goddammit, those
cows didnt milk themselves.
He put in his earphones and let his vision float up to
the art deco ceiling, as Hildegard von Bingens A Feather on
the Breath of God insinuated itself with its fragile poise.
Just like it said on the can.
If he got the topography straight, he might be halfway
there. A person could enter the Orange Blossom Arcade
from either opposite Cafe Louvre on National Street -- the
main drag, where the trams went down to the river -- or along
the passage at the side of the Three Bears, a bar on Persia
Way. The arcade was configured in a double dogleg. On his
street plan it looked like the mark of Zorro made by a drunk.
As he paid for the coffee, Harry showed Ekaterinas
picture to the blonde waitress. A tiny intake of breath, a shake
of the peroxided head, a remark that the girl almost didnt
look real. Was she real?
He said hed let her know when he found out for sure.
Making his way along the row of stores, he showed
the photograph to sales clerks, managers, giving them all
time to think, but getting only nos, shrugs, blank faces. One
guy asked if this girl was for sale, how much did he want? The
woman at the haberdashery loved the hairdo.
The tobacco shop by the passage to the Three Bears had
a sign on the door: Gone for a smoke, back by Christmas.

12

But opposite, at The Samovar (Book and Gifts -- Surprise

Yourself!), things began to look up.
***
The place was well-stocked: unbroken lines of books in
heavy oak cases high as the ceiling. Plenty of the classics on
show, H a rr y noticed, but not much contemporary Russian
fiction, mostly translations, Paulo Coelho still in serious sync
with the Russian soul.
A poster for a new edition of The Bronze Horseman
was on the wall over the poetry section. Harry reminded
himself there had been a time when Russians would form a
line around the block for a new Pushkin or Lermontov. Did
they still? Jesus, Lermontov. Could Katya Orlovas paramour
be a descendant of the poet? Was that the attraction? Or was
it the dough? Romance, or natural gas. Decisions, decisions.
His eye was caught now by a DVD, the picture on
the cover: Ekaterina dressed as a peasant, looking about
thirteen. He went to pick it up. Maybe she had been a
child starlet, the Russian Liz Taylor. A designer smock,
modest headscarf keeping that thick black hair in check, and
the eyes turned up to ethereal light like the Maid of
Orleans. The Forest Can Hear Us. Looked like a pile of
hooey: The village besieged by bandits, but brave little Nadja
(Ekaterina Orlova), the woodcutters daughter, was leading
the villagers in the fight of their lives. Like the Brothers
Grimm met the Seven Samurai. Only a hundred and fifty
crowns, though. Why not?
He took the DVD to the counter, pulled out his licence as
he got there and showed it to the pale young clerk, the kid
sporting a goatee and an artsy beret. Do you mind if I ask a
couple of questions?
No, the clerk said. Whats up?
This is, Harry said, showing him the girls photograph
from Dukovs file. Did Miss Orlova come to the store the
day before yesterday?

13

The kids gaze lingered on the picture. She comes in

quite a lot, but yeah, sure. She came in Saturday morning.
Bought a pile of stuff.
A pile?
Eight or n i n e books, pre-ordered. She emailed us to
say when shed pick them up.
Was that usual?
Well, usually she browses, takes her time, gets two,
three a week. Sometimes she brings them back, uses us like a
library. But hey, thats cool. I mean, Katya can do what she
likes. A worried little smile. Ill tell you what, mister, she
looks better in real life.
Which way did she go when she left?
The clerk half-turned his head to the plate-glass
window behind him. Well, I was on the counter and ... -he turned back -- whats all this about?
Shes gone missing.
A look like the family collie just got hit by a truck. No
shit?
Yes shit, Harry said. Did you see where she went
when she left the store? Did she turn left, leave the arcade, or
walk back, back towards the other stores?
I dont know. I dont face the window.
You didnt turn around, watch her? You must do that at
least some of the time.
Yeah, but not then ... I know -- there was another
customer, a tourist. A lady. We had some chitchat about stuff
-- where she could get a cup of Russian tea, I think.
Kievs good, H a r r y said. So, you didnt see
which way she went after she bought her books?
No. His eyes screwing up. Has she been taken,
kidnapped or something?
I dont know.

14

Id steal her, the clerk said. But I wouldnt give her

back.
You want to go on the suspects list?
The guy shook his head as a movement from the tobacco
shop opposite caught Harrys eye. The man was back in there:
around seventy years old, a longish white beard, and wearing a
vest, tie, brown corduroy pants, and turning around the sign
on the door, looking straight across, clearly intrigued. But not
that instinctive Prague nosiness where you spied on your
neighbours for cash when times were tough, genuine
curiosity. And pretty sure now he knew the old guy from
somewhere, Harry took out a business card for the clerk,
saying, If you remember anything else at all, could you call
or email?
Sure.
Almost at the door, Harry stopped as he heard: Hey, wait
a second. Hang on.
Yeah?
The clerk nodded at the DVD, still under Harrys arm.
You gonna pay for that?
The tobacco seller was on a high wooden stool behind the
counter, arranging snuff in the hollow of his thumb. He
nodded over, took the snuff in two sharp snorts, then
wiped his thumb on a handkerchief he took from a vest
pocket. I cant remember your name, he said, tucking
the handkerchief away, but you investigated the Stranice
murders, the strangler, bout twelve years back. You still a
cop?
Freelance now. And its Novk.
Everybodys freelance these days. Or think they are.
Truth is, were all franchises, in hock to some bastard or other.
Tom Hrabal, he said, bobbing his head. Snuff? Producing
a silver box from the other vest pocket.
Ill take a couple of packs of Gauloises.

15