Zen and the Art of Murder Read online

  So she wasn’t a Mick type. But the ideal wife for Landen.

  They greeted each other. “Interesting perfume,” Barbara said.

  It took a few seconds for Louise to understand. She felt herself blushing. She snuck a chewing gum from the pocket of her anorak. Then another.

  Barbara touched her arm.

  “Are you on duty?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good,” Barbara said smiling. “Ditch the car, will you? You’ve got nine minutes.” She set off toward Fischerau, Bonì walking beside her in silence. Barbara apologized for the hurry; this was the most important court hearing she’d had for ages. She was prosecuting a business for grossly negligent environmental pollution. “I’m going to make mincemeat of them today.”

  “Eight minutes,” Louise said.

  “I’d have more time at the weekend.”

  They crossed the Gewerbekanal. Bonì said the court was in the other direction. Barbara said she had to pick someone up. She stopped by a café in Gerberau and looked at her watch. “Shit.”

  Questions about Asile d’enfants floated through Louise’s mind and remained unasked. Her gaze fell on the green canal railings. Metal triangles, squares, a circle—Mick shapes. Briefly she thought of the puzzling lines of the calligraphy in Landen’s hallway. But thinking of Landen now was not helpful.

  “Sorry about earlier. It just slipped out.”

  She looked up. Barbara was leaning against the railings, her hands clasped. She wore three gold rings on the ring finger of her left hand. What did that mean? Three husbands? I have sufficient love for three lives? The black laptop was wedged between her tummy and her arms. Louise nodded. She didn’t know whether to hate Barbara Franke or admire her. She had two contradictory urges: to give the woman a shove and watch her flap about in the canal in her beautiful light-brown suit, or get down on her knees and beg for help.

  Resisting both, she said, “Asile d’enfants.”

  Barbara twitched her nose and said, “I’ve heard of them.”

  “What impression do you have of them?”

  “Hmm. Secretive.”

  “Do they work with Terre des hommes?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Not at all, or just not in Germany?”

  “Not in Germany.”

  “In the Far East?”

  “It’s possible. I don’t know.” Barbara’s mobile rang. She turned her back and muttered a few words. Then she put the mobile away and said, “To the court, we’re meeting there.”

  They hurried over the bridge again, back in the direction they had come.

  “What do you know about them?” Louise said.

  “Not a lot.” Founded and run by Jean Berger, HQ in Basel, clandestine operation. What Asile did was to place orphans from the Far East with adoptive parents in Europe, i.e., overseas adoption. “Just for your information, Terre des hommes no longer arranges overseas adoptions. We’re not against it in principle, but we think it makes more sense to find adoptive or foster parents in the country concerned, or to reintegrate the child into its original family if that’s possible.” Now Barbara was speaking as fast as she was walking.

  “But they’re not prohibited.”

  “Not if the parties involved stick to the prescribed channels.”

  “Which are?”

  “Placement via youth welfare offices and other recognized authorities, rather than private individuals or semipublic agencies.”

  “Why is it administered so strictly?”

  “Because that’s the only way of guaranteeing that the child’s welfare is given the highest priority. Ensuring that children aren’t sold, reduced to commodities. You can earn good money with children, you see? Are you free at all on Saturday morning?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  “Does Asile stick to the prescribed channels?”

  “I don’t know. What about later this evening?”

  “Possibly, but unlikely.”

  “Can I call you?” Bonì handed her a business card. Barbara glanced at it without stopping. “Section 11, yes?” She knew Bermann. A colleague from her law firm was representing one of the suspects in a serious arson case. Bermann had arrested him and Louise remembered the case. Barbara laughed jovially and said she couldn’t understand how a man like Bermann could stick it out in Freiburg. Somewhere there must be a secret hideout for displaced machos, where he could spend the odd hour or two with kindred spirits. A chauvinist hole in a damp cellar where five bodybuilders with handlebar moustaches sat around a camp fire, exchanging jokes about blondes.

  “Police HQ?”

  Barbara gave a crooked grin.

  They stopped outside the courthouse. Only now did Lousie realize that she was sweating profusely and out of breath. Panting, she asked, “Do you know Annegret Schelling? She works for Asile.”

  Barbara shook her head and made a note of the name. She promised to find out more and ring Bonì that evening. “Once again, sorry about earlier.” They shook hands. “Wish me luck for my battle.” With an excited smile she vanished into the courthouse.

  Louise watched her go. She briefly considered taking Barbara’s advice and leaving the car where it was, but then dismissed the idea.

  On the way back to the Adelhauser Neukloster she imagined Barbara in the cold little house in Provence. She saw her sitting at the kitchen table with her mother. The two of them fired up, delivering impassioned speeches, warriors together.

  She parked outside the sushi bar. Enni was standing in the open doorway holding a newspaper. When she got out he looked up. He folded the paper and said, “Sorry, Inspector, I forgot.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve got a quarter of an hour. Will that do?”

  “For what?”

  “To explain to me why the center of the universe is in my tummy.”

  Enni laughed. “That depends, Inspector.”

  “Has it got anything to do with Buddhism, with Zen?”

  He nodded.

  “And? So?”

  “Zen is doing, Inspector, not talking or knowing, not explaining or thinking. Doing.” With a smile he opened out his arms.

  “Smart-ass. So what do I have to do?”

  “Start by breathing.”

  “Breathing?”

  A broad grin. Enni looked over his shoulder and called out something in Japanese. A man’s voice replied from the kitchen. He took a turquoise autumn coat from one of the hooks. “Let’s go to the Seepark. Have you ever been to the Japanese Garden, Inspector?”

  “No.” She didn’t move.

  “Did you know that Freiburg is twinned with a city in Japan?”

  “No. Look, Enni, we’re staying here. I don’t have time for the Seepark.”

  “Matsuyama. It’s on Shikoku Island, forty-three miles south of Hiroshima.”

  They sat at the tram stop. The sun was shining and it was milder than the day before. She was still freezing though. Her sweat had dried and turned cold, and it stank. “What’s that got to do with my belly?”

  “I was born there,” Enni said. “In Matsuyama. How about that? I live in cities that are twinned.” Born in one, grown up in the other. One his mother, the other his father. Matsuyama and Freiburg. Enni nodded with satisfaction. Two cities that were more than two cities; they were one city. One organism. One was the other and vice versa. Through him Matsuyama was Freiburg and Freiburg Matsuyama. “So to speak.”

  Louise nodded automatically. She needed to change her clothes. There was a fresh T-shirt in her rucksack in the car. There was no way she was going to Landen’s house reeking of sweat. “Enni, I’ve got to go now.”

  “OK, Inspector.” Enni told her that in Japanese the center of the body was called hara and it was the seat of energy. Given proper training you could “push” energy—ki—from there to other areas.

  She yawned. “What’s the point of doing that?”

  “It keeps you healthy. Physically and mentally.”

>   “Now it’s getting interesting. How do you learn it?”

  “Through meditation.”

  “I might have guessed. That’s all you Asians ever think of.”

  Enni laughed. All of a sudden his head was very close to hers. He had snow-white, strikingly straight teeth. His breath smelled of fish and cigarette smoke. Putting his left hand on her shoulder he said, “Focus on the breathing, Inspector. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. But first you have to sit properly or you’ll slide off the bench. Straight back, the spine mustn’t be curved.”

  She did as she was told. His hand was on her back. She thought of Anatol and his hands, and how they’d fought heroic battles the night before.

  “Keep the spine straight, Inspector. Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Do you know how to breathe correctly?”

  She nodded.

  “Then do it.”

  She shook her head. Ten pounds heavier than her normal weight, she was not going to breathe into her stomach in public. Japanese tourists would stop and gape, cyclists would come racing toward the balloon of feathers and fat.

  Enni giggled. “Follow the path of your breathing through your body, Inspector. Think of nothing apart from your breathing.”

  She nodded and concentrated. She fleetingly felt that one day she might attain some sort of peace if she sat here for many years and kept going like this. That she was beginning to sink into a dark, whooshing, redemptive abyss.

  Then she thought of vegetable sushi, Bermann, her mother and Niksch. She heard Landen’s voice and felt the tingling of happy expectation in the back of her neck.

  She fell asleep.

  When she awoke her head was on Enni’s shoulder. The world was turquoise. She sat up. Enni looked at her.

  She had dreamed of Pham, the boy from Vietnam. Calambert had tied him up and stuffed him into the trunk of his car. Then he’d turned around and told her that he was Pham’s new father. She’d been standing in the snow but it was very warm. Calambert had put his hands up and she’d shot him.

  She’d woken up because it was getting warmer and warmer. Now she realized that the warmth was coming from Enni. She glanced at her watch. 11:50. “I’ve got to go. Can I use your bathroom?”

  Enni nodded. She stroked his short, firm hair and got up.

  Much sooner than Louise felt comfortable with, she found herself standing back in front of the little house with the wooden fence. Nothing had changed. The willow’s fingers above the roof, the stepping stones, the shed that might be a teahouse. Only the snow was gone.

  And Niksch.

  She looked at the letterbox. TOMMO/LANDEN. Funny names, Niksch said in her head. He’d been nervous and suspicious, as if already sensing that his life was in danger.

  But not here, at this place, not from these people.

  She didn’t know how long she stood motionless at the garden gate before ringing the bell.

  Tommo opened the door.

  No sign yet of Landen’s child: a firm tummy, narrow hips, a small white face. Tommo gave her an enchantingly weary smile. “I’m Shizu Tommo. How nice that you’ve come to visit us.” She spoke slowly and with a strong accent.

  Us.

  For a second or two Bonì wondered whether she ought to drive off again. Then she pushed open the garden gate.

  Tommo’s handshake was soft and timid. She was finally meeting “the inspector,” she said. She wore her neat black hair short. Dark rings around her eyes shimmered beneath a layer of powder. Her fluffy yellow jumper smelled of spring-fresh fabric conditioner. She was a head shorter than Louise and half as large, a gorgeous splash of color in the winter gray.

  Then Louise was standing by the calligraphy again. Happiness and friendship—Niksch had thought of death. She stared at Tommo, who returned her gaze and was perhaps able to guess what was going through her head, or perhaps not.

  “Should I take off my shoes?”

  Tommo nodded gratefully.

  Bonì breathed a sigh of relief when Tommo took her into the living room rather than the kitchen. The kitchen was where the china cat and Niksch sat.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  She said no, and shuddered.

  The living room was decked out in German–Japanese style. A dining table in light wood and soft beige cushions rather than chairs or a sofa in the sitting area. Where was Landen? On the floor of a windowless alcove stood a vase with three flower stems; above it hung a calligraphy. Tommo noticed her gazing at it. “It’s just for decoration. I’m not a . . .” She thought about it. “Prac-ti-cing Buddhist.”

  “Already on to religion?” Landen said as he entered the room. “Hello.”

  “Hello.” They shook hands. His eyebrows were slightly raised and he was smiling. He looked a picture of innocence, apparently unaware of the effect of his telephone call. Landen was wearing jeans and a dark-blue corduroy shirt that came down to his thighs. Not for the first time she thought he could pass as a model for clothes for men in their forties.

  And yet he remained inscrutable. Why had he invited her if his wife was at home?

  “Tokonoma, the picture recess,” he said, gesturing to the alcove with his chin. “Like some tea?”

  Tommo and she shook their heads in unison.

  They sat on the cushions. Louise could detect a faint and pleasant smell of sandalwood. She was glad she’d changed her T-shirt. When Landen asked about Taro she told him there was no news. He sat opposite Tommo, and closer to her. Both of them looked at Bonì rather than each other.

  They spoke about Taro, the monastery, the roshi. Tommo knew all the names, knew about everything. She nodded a lot, said little and didn’t move. She looked elegant, educated and compassionate. Louise thought that she would have gone well in the picture recess, in place of the vase with the flowers, just for decoration. She wondered what might stir her passion. What did Tommo laugh about? What did she cry about? What was it like sleeping with her? Where did those rings around her eyes come from?

  In the presence of his wife Landen was even more reserved than normal. He seemed to be gauging his words before opening his mouth, moderating the intensity with which he spoke. Everything about him spelled caution and aloofness. Sieved through a fine-mesh net of deliberation.

  Now she knew three Richard Landens. The didactic one, the engaged one and the secretive one. The first was boring, the second erotic and the third depressing. After twenty minutes she said she had to go.

  “Stay a while longer,” Landen said.

  “Yes, please do,” Tommo said. “Stay for lunch. I’ve made pasta parcels.”

  So she stayed. And had her time alone with Landen, as Tommo got up shortly afterward to prepare lunch. Some traditions had their good sides. Tommo vanished without a sound. Rings around the eyes, Louise thought, were either down to a lack of sleep or tears. Although she couldn’t imagine Tommo crying, she began to relax.

  Landen said nothing. The precious seconds were passing idly and in silence.

  “What does your wife do for a living?” she said eventually.

  “She’s a software expert for a Japanese firm.”

  “In Freiburg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you meet in Japan?”

  He nodded. During his time “over there.” Three years ago, when he returned to Germany, Tommo came with him.

  Little by little Landen became animated. He talked of Japan, of researching for a book about the Japanese forms of Buddhism, of a six-month stay at the Zen monastery Nanzen-ji in Kyoto. About Tommo and her family, who for a long time were skeptical and cool toward him. But then they relented and began to treat him like a son.

  “But you did come back to Germany. Why?”

  “I . . . you know, I was homesick.” He smiled. “The longer I spent in Japan, the more foreign I felt there. By the end I was so well integrated—as well integrated as you can be as a westerner—and yet I felt like the loneliest person in the world.”
/>   “In spite of Shizu?”

  “Yes, in spite of Shizu. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “No.”

  They laughed. Landen said, “It’s only when you know something well that you realize just how little you know it. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a country or a person. That’s my experience at least.”

  “Do you find that’s the case with everyone, or just with . . . er, other nationalities?”

  “With everyone, ultimately. The longer you know a person, the more of a riddle they become, irrespective of where they’re from. You accept that you’ll never be able to really know or understand them, because they’re not you.”

  “Aha.”

  “Don’t you find that too?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She sighed. “Depends.”

  “Do you always work alone?”

  “No.”

  “So why now?”

  “Because I’m on holiday.”

  “You could terminate your holiday.”

  “I like being on holiday.” Landen laughed. Louise said, “When’s the baby due?”

  “The . . . oh, end of July, beginning of August.”

  She nodded. Tommo was in her third month. But something wasn’t right. She felt that Landen didn’t like talking about the baby. Didn’t he want children? Was it just with Tommo that he didn’t want children? Was Tommo, as a software expert, unsuited to marriage and having a family?

  “What did you and the roshi talk about in the monastery?”

  Landen raised his two-tone eyebrow and smiled. His gaze wandered to where Tommo had been sitting. The three Landens seemed to be wrestling with each other. The second Landen—the dangerous one—was the victor. “I told him you have a special gift—an emotional sincerity. Anyway, um, this sincerity sometimes sprays out of you like . . . like . . . like water from a burst hose.”

  She pursed her lips. A special gift. Bermann had called this special gift “an irritating lack of self-control.” On the other hand, Bermann would never invite a woman over if he were not alone. She felt herself starting to sweat again. “Why did you call me today?”