Zen and the Art of Murder Read online

  Children’s footprints, tire marks. Unusable scribbles and a glove compartment with no gloves. Midnight trips to gas stations. Warm, underage hands.

  Now the abyss looked different. No matter where she found herself, she was in the middle of it.

  “Please go, OK?”

  Landen opened the car door. “Call me tomorrow.”

  She nodded.

  “Or I’ll call.” He got in.

  The headlights moved away and left her in the dark.

  As she watched the Volvo’s red taillights she slipped her hand into the pocket of her anorak. Then she sank backward.

  10

  At around half past seven she was in Freiburg. The snow had thawed. A digital display on the side of a building read forty-three degrees. With a touch of imagination you could summon the fragrance of spring flowers in the air.

  Roman, the community service assistant, was gangly, exhausted, and trying to combat the misery of the hospital with his indefatigable willingness to help. He knew about every patient in intensive care, and on the way from reception he gave her condensed biographies of four individuals including their full tales of woe.

  Hollerer was his favorite patient. Every day he read him two pages of The Outsider, whether Hollerer was asleep or not, and he knew his patient file by heart. “He’s over the worst,” he said, smoothing the stubble on his head with his palms.

  On a chair by the entrance to the ward sat a pale, thin man. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, a tie and a light-brown leather winter jacket. “Evening, Herr Ponzelt,” Roman said, and the man nodded.

  It took her a moment to place the name: Ponzelt, the mayor of Liebau and the man who’d wanted to lead a crusade. One of those people who sensed danger.

  Now he didn’t seem to be feeling anything. Without stopping she said, “So, how was the skiing?” Ponzelt stiffened.

  They walked into intensive care.

  Hollerer was asleep. He only remotely resembled the grim-faced, red-cheeked man she pictured when she thought back to their meetings.

  She stayed with him for half an hour, holding his horrifyingly feeble hand. When she imagined the moment that he regained consciousness she felt sick. The first thing he’d have to do was come to terms with the fact that Niksch was dead.

  Roman escorted her out. Ponzelt asked who she was, but she didn’t reply.

  Outside the main entrance Roman lit a cigarette. She stood close to him. “Do you know who Niksch is?”

  He exhaled smoke noisily and nodded.

  “Tell him when he wakes up. I think you’ll find the right words. Would you do that?”

  Roman nodded again.

  As she got into her car she watched him extinguish the cigarette, put the unsmoked half into his pocket and go back inside the hospital.

  The entire Liebau task force seemed to be out and about. Entire corridors of police HQ were dark and deserted. Were Bermann and the others following up on a new lead? Had Taro been found? In her office she rang Lederle from her mobile. It took him a while to answer. “I can’t speak right now,” he muttered. “I’ll call you back.”

  “Just tell me if . . .”

  But Lederle had already hung up.

  She sat down in his chair. On his desk were two piles of files relating to the Liebau case. With her free hand she stroked the perfectly aligned horizontal edges of one pile. With the other she pressed the last number redial button.

  This time Lederle’s mobile was switched off. She waited for the beep and said, “Reiner, if you’ve found Taro I want to know.”

  She jiggled her mobile in her hand for a moment. If he didn’t call back in the next half hour she’d ring Bermann.

  And then Landen.

  What did Landen mean by “tomorrow”? “Later”? Did he only say “tomorrow” because as a married man and father-to-be, he hadn’t dared say “later”? Would he prefer it if she rang “later” rather than “tomorrow”? Did he like women who were ten pounds off their normal weight? Was Tommo a sharpened pencil when she wasn’t pregnant?

  She smirked.

  In the past Lederle’s chaos had been legendary. But now, since his wife had been ill, he had been devising a number of increasingly perfect systems of organization. For the Liebau case, besides the evidence file, there was a main dossier and a copy, and subsidiary files marked “Hollerer, Johann Georg (Sergeant),” “Schmidt, Nikolai (Niksch, Senior Officer),” “Taro (Buddhist monk)” and “Index of names,” as well as the obligatory reference file.

  She held the main dossier for a moment in her hand before putting it aside and opening the evidence file. In addition to photographs of the tire marks there were transcripts of conversations with Ponzelt, other inhabitants of Liebau, the postman from Badenweiler as well as the farmer and Catholic priest of Unterbirken. The reports by the Freiburg police officers, which she’d already seen, and Wallmer’s summary of her visit to the Kanzan-an were also there. She browsed the brief transcripts and learned nothing new.

  The report of the monastery visit was more substantial.

  Justin Muller had spoken to the roshi—Schneider and Wallmer called him the “dean of the monastery”—but failed to glean any information. The names, ages and nationalities of all the monks and nuns had been meticulously listed—obviously a friendly favor by Muller. He hadn’t spoken to the “employees of Asile d’enfants” because the carers and children had spent the day at a nearby pony club. He would go back and do it later.

  She skimmed the report a second time. Muller had asked the roshi important questions that she’d forgotten to ask. Where might Taro have been going? The roshi didn’t know.

  Was there another Zen center in the direction Taro had been heading? No.

  Louise could picture vividly the expression of anger on the roshi’s face.

  The monastery had not yielded any concrete leads. All the same their French colleagues would undertake a more thorough examination of the Kanzan-an. Bermann and Almenbroich must have applied the pressure. Schneider and Wallmer wrote that they needed detailed information on the origins of the place and its owners, its financial situation, biographies of the current and former inhabitants, floorplans, as well as an inspection of sales contracts and visitor lists, and so on.

  They cited three reasons for their demands. First, Taro, “the only suspect so far,” lived at the monastery. Second, according to Muller three strangers—“probably of eastern European origin”—had enquired about the Kanzan-an over the past week in Zillisheim. Third, the Federal Criminal Police Office and the Federal Intelligence Service had issued repeated warnings of possible terror attacks by foreign groups.

  At the very bottom of the file were the photographs that Niksch had taken. Taro from behind, Taro from the side, Taro as a small dot in the barren expanse of white. Louise and Hollerer in the patrol car. Louise and Hollerer standing by the patrol car. No identifiable faces in any of them.

  Quickly she reached for the reference file.

  Bullet points by Lederle from the Liebau task force briefings showed that, for want of any alternatives, the investigation was focusing on the Kanzan-an. She wondered whether the monastery was under observation. If so, the French police would have seen her and Landen.

  She continued to go through the documents. A note from Bermann: date, time.

  Spoke to Asile d’enfants (Jean Berger) in Basel. Promised to get the children out of the monastery discreetly.

  Bermann, the child obsessive. Nobody at police HQ had ever seen his wife not pregnant. She was now carrying their fourth. Bermann had become something of an expert in the delivery room and was now permitted to help out with the births.

  As she closed the file her attention was drawn again to the main dossier. There wouldn’t be much more in there. The crime scene report. The forensics report.

  The photographs of Niksch’s dead body.

  She looked again at the evidence file. At the top were images of the footprints of Hollerer’s and Niksch’s pursuers. No remarkable c
haracteristics. The prints came from a narrow track nearby, where a car had been parked. She looked at the details of the tires; they didn’t match the impressions in the Kanzan-an parking lot.

  She then laid out the pictures of the tire tracks taken by the technicians beside the forest east of Liebau, in the order that Lederle had put them: first the reference photos and pictures of the tracks, then sections, followed by close-ups with accompanying scale.

  The tracks in the snow showed that the car had driven alongside the forest, then turned and driven back. She put her abortive sketches beside the images. The measurements were roughly the same. And if her memory served her well, the impressions had similarities.

  Then the first potential differences emerged, increasing in number with every passing minute.

  She took a gulp, then another, but the differences remained.

  After ten minutes she gave up. In exasperation she kept one of the detailed photographs and returned the rest to the plastic sleeve. She put the files on top of each other.

  Only Lederle would notice that two piles had become one.

  On her way home she stopped outside the sushi bar. Through the steamed-up window she could see it was very busy inside. Enni was at the counter, surrounded by customers on three sides. His yellow hair shone in the harsh light. He took orders with a stoical calmness. She saw him nod, speak, then nod again. In his right hand he held a pen. He stuck it behind his ear, reached for it again. Smiled, wrote something down.

  She got out of the car, and as she approached the entrance she thought of Schneider and Wallmer’s report, and was seized by a vague feeling of anxiety. What went on at the Kanzan-an? Were Annegret Schelling, Pham and the other children in danger?

  As she opened the door she was met by the aroma of fish. Although there must have been at least twenty diners in the tiny room there was no noise. Nobody was talking loudly and there wasn’t any music. A man gave a muffled laugh.

  Two young policemen in civvies were standing at one of the bar tables, leaning on their elbows. Still chewing, they stood up straight and gave her a nod. Louise returned their greeting. Only when she’d passed them did she realize that she hadn’t smiled.

  “Hey!” said the woman she pushed aside at the counter. Enni said, “Good evening, Inspector.”

  She gestured to him to give her his pen and pad and jotted down her landline and mobile numbers.

  Enni nodded. He seemed to have known she’d come back to him for the journey to the center of the universe. And unlike her, he seemed to know if this journey went inward or outward.

  She drove the Mégane into the underground garage. In the elevator she considered paying Ronescu a visit with the ţuică. To sedate the escalating cravings in her body. But she decided against.

  Her apartment was chilly. She turned the heating up to its highest setting and got undressed.

  Under the shower she thought of Richard Landen. In front of the mirror she thought of Landen’s wife.

  At around half past eight Lederle rang and said, “Well, well, it looks like we had a visitor.” He sounded tired and disappointed.

  She slumped on to the sofa. “As soon as we know who killed Niksch you’ll be rid of me, I promise.”

  Lederle said nothing.

  “I can’t stay out of it, Reiner.”

  “We don’t want to be ‘rid’ of you, Bonì. We want you to get better and come back to us soon.”

  “Is that what Rolf thinks too?”

  “Rolf is Rolf. It’s what I think, it’s what Almenbroich thinks and a couple of others as well. You’re not at your mother’s anymore, then?”

  “No, I’m back home.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To think. To support your lot.”

  “And to talk to the psychologist?”

  She grimaced. “Sure, that too. I mean, that’s the main reason.”

  Lederle sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you found Taro?”

  “No.”

  “Has Muller got the monastery under surveillance?”

  “Not yet. He’s having difficulty convincing the investigating judge. The judge says: Are we talking about north Africans or Arabs? No? Then we need more proof.” He laughed.

  A brief silence ensued. Lederle’s laughter still rang in her ears. Cynicism was a new thing for him. Even he seemed shocked.

  She went to her kitchenette and kneeled in front of the sink. Crawling halfway into the cupboard below it, she fished out a bottle of vodka from behind the fabric conditioner. When she stood up again she asked, “How’s Antonia, Reiner? I mean . . .”

  “Let’s stick to business,” Lederle said.

  He told her that over the course of the day the Liebau task force had conducted a second search of the section of forest where Niksch had been found, with the help of a hundred rapid reaction officers and a pack of dogs. Again they’d found nothing. “Nothing, Louise,” he said.

  She sat back down on the sofa. “What were you expecting?”

  “Taro was carrying a bowl and a staff. If there had been a struggle . . .” Lederle didn’t finish his sentence.

  She nodded but said nothing.

  Police officers were always dangerous when they didn’t find anything. They would cling to the little they had, twisting and turning it until it lost its innocence.

  And what did they have? A strange Japanese monk who had vanished without a trace and who was mixed up in the murder of a policeman. A remote Buddhist monastery where no one was especially willing to divulge information. People who walked in sandals through the snow and slept in caves, trying to emulate a monk who had lived fifteen hundred years ago.

  She grunted. Somehow she could almost understand Bermann. What about these eastern Europeans?

  A week earlier, three Romanians or Hungarians or Bulgarians had made enquiries in Zillisheim about the Kanzan-an. They had something to drink in a café and left after a few minutes. Half an hour later they returned and asked the barman in broken English where the Kanzan-an was.

  Three eastern Europeans, Bonì thought. Three men had been following Taro. “They didn’t find it straightaway,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Last week?”

  “Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Taro left the monastery on Thursday morning.”

  “Yes,” Lederle said.

  “Did the barman see their car?”

  “The second time, yes. A red Audi or a Passat.”

  “Not a 4×4?”

  “No. What makes you think that? Oh yes, I get it.” She heard him rustling papers. “I see you helped yourself to a photo. Got it in front of you?” She fetched the print. Lederle paused then said, “Asymmetrical profile with two circumferential grooves, eight and a half inches. Four-wheel drive. Winter tires. Hmm . . . ContiWinterContact T.S. 790. Or T.S. 790 V? Which of those has lateral grooves?”

  “Does Conti mean Continental?”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t look to me like a tire for an off-roader, more like an MPV. The tires would be wider otherwise, and anyway . . .” Lederle read out the measurements of the wheel base and axle track. They also tallied more with an MPV, he said. They hadn’t been able to get the measurements down to the smallest unit. “Otherwise you’d probably know by now what make of car it was.”

  “Any idea at all?”

  “The wheel base and axle track are consistent with a Ford Galaxy. The Seat Alhambra and the Sharan are possibilities too. Although I don’t know if they’re allowed to drive with the T.S. 790 215.” He continued leafing through his document and asked cautiously whether they might disregard the tire tracks. An MPV by the forest—a family outing, maybe?

  She took a swig. She didn’t want to disregard the tracks. “Yes,” she said, changing the subject. “Tell me, what do eastern Europeans look like anyway?”

  “No idea. Sort of poor, cheerless and violent?”

  They laughed.

  Louise asked about the results from balli
stics. “Two different automatic pistols,” Lederle said. “For Niksch a Walther P5 and Hollerer a Heckler & Koch P2000.” Nine-millimeter pistols. One old, one new. Twenty-five thousand police officers in Baden-Württemberg had just been issued with the P2000 V5.

  Silence again. For the first time Louise sensed that the task force was making progress. Three men had been seen as well as a red Audi or Passat. The Heckler in particular might bear fruit. The model was just a few years old and not yet in wide distribution.

  Not much to go on, but these were the first concrete leads.

  She asked what was planned for the next day.

  In the morning Bermann, Schneider and Lederle would drive with Justin Muller, Hugo Chervel and a Japanese translator—not Landen—to the Kanzan-an. Wallmer, who spoke fluent French, would work with French police in Mulhouse to dig up information about the monastery and its inhabitants.

  Lederle yawned. “Sorry.”

  He was about to leave HQ. Bermann had sent everybody home apart from a skeleton team of which he was part. He had put down a mattress in his study in case he got tired. His wife had brought him underwear, shirts and a pair of jeans. “The dead young lad isn’t allowing him any peace,” Lederle said.

  “The dead policeman.”

  “Whatever. Your father called again, by the way. He’s going to try again tomorrow.”

  “Tell him I’m on holiday. Tell him I’m at Robinson Club in the Domrep.”

  “Is that how I should say it? Domrep?”

  “Yes, just like that.”

  “Will he understand?”

  “He’ll think it’s a feminist commune where white women have sex with the natives. Why don’t you pop over?”

  “I can’t. Antonia’s got dinner ready.”

  At ten o’clock she noticed that she was hungry. The fridge was empty apart from butter and jam. She made do with orange juice.

  As she drank she thought of Ponzelt, the mayor. Was he spending the night on that chair outside intensive care? And if so, why?

  She knew there was something she ought to ask him, but she couldn’t think what.