Zen and the Art of Murder Page 16

  Landen gave a somewhat strained smile. “Because yesterday evening you . . .” Once more he lowered his eyes to the empty Tommo cushion. “You didn’t look as if you were in a very good way.”

  Anger stirred deep within her. Was this just pity? But she sensed that he had too much respect for her to feel only pity. “Let’s just say, not all my colleagues share my opinions as far as the Kanzan-an is concerned. Well, in fact, nobody does.” She waited for him to look at her again. He didn’t seem to notice her blushing. “Apart from you.”

  The eyebrows moved upward. “So you believe the roshi.”

  To hell with the roshi. She nodded.

  “And Taro.”

  To hell with Taro too. “Yes, if you ignore the fact that Taro didn’t say much that I could believe. I mean, apart from ‘No.’”

  Landen didn’t laugh. “I can’t stop thinking about him,” he said. “Taro. No matter what I’m doing, I see him in my mind and then I ask myself what was he afraid of, why didn’t he want to talk to me and how could I have helped him. I wonder where he is. To think that he . . .” He broke off. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

  Then Landen cleared his throat and asked why she’d measured the tire tracks. As she talked of the tire marks east of Liebau it struck her that she wasn’t being particularly professional. But Landen’s interest and attentiveness were far too beneficial to make her want to behave professionally.

  Only when he asked what she concluded from all of this was her answer evasive. Although she didn’t mention Asile d’enfants and Pham, he said he wondered how Pham would get on with his new family. Whether he’d be able to forget what he’d gone through. He gave a sad smile. “This morning I started learning Vietnamese.”

  At that moment Tommo entered the room to say that lunch was ready.

  “Come,” Landen said.

  They stood up. As they went out into the hallway Bonì realized they’d be eating in the kitchen. She placed a hand on Landen’s forearm. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t eat with you.” She put on her shoes, staring at friendship, happiness and death as she did so. Without looking back she left the house and closed the door.

  On the way to the garden gate it felt as if the willow were bending down and grabbing at her with its hard, twiggy boughs. She had to resist breaking into a run.

  She got to Mulhouse at 2:00 p.m. She parked and called Lederle. “Oh, Bonì . . .” He groaned.

  “Are you still at the monastery?”

  “We just left.” Lederle was distracted, he had to concentrate on the dirt track. Muller, he told her, had chatted briefly to Annegret Schelling. The other Asile people were looking for somewhere else for the children to stay. This evening Annegret would be leaving too. She’d given them the address of two nearby farms where the carers and children could spend the night.

  Louise asked what Lederle thought of her. “A good ’un,” he replied. She’d been cooperative and understanding. Concerned about the children. Shocked by what had happened. She knew Taro by sight. She couldn’t imagine the roshi having anything to do with it all.

  Louise felt uneasy. “What made her mention the roshi? Did she see anything?”

  Lederle cleared his throat. “The eastern Europeans.”

  “With the roshi?”

  Lederle was silent for a moment. Then he said, “She can’t swear by it, she said. It was rather dark. They were standing near the office on the ground floor.”

  “And what if she’s involved, Reiner, rather than the roshi?”

  “Annegret Schelling? Asile d’enfants?” Lederle sounded very patient. “Everything’s possible. But it’s hardly probable.”

  She bit her lip. Had she become further entangled in the web than she’d realized? Possible but not probable? Why was she the only one who thought it possible and probable?

  But did she think it probable?

  “What’s the next move?”

  “Tomorrow Chervel’s going to get a search warrant for the monastery. Rolf and I are allowed to be present.” Lederle paused. She could hear his short breaths. With sudden anger he said, “What about you, Bonì? What’s your next move? How much longer are you going to hide away? The psychologist came to see me today. Call her, make an appointment. Do you really think Almenbroich and Bermann are going to forget the whole thing just because you’re out of their sight for a few days?”

  “Yes,” she said, then hung up.

  She wondered if Lederle knew she’d been to the Kanzan-an with Landen. Had Georges talked? Annegret Schelling?

  Then she thought of Katrin Rein. The Bermann woman who was worried about her. Who’d stood in her stairwell, who’d now gone to see Lederle and was waiting for a call that might never come. It was a while before she could banish the thought of the psychologist.

  Had Annegret’s statement that she’d seen the roshi with the eastern Europeans changed her attitude toward him? The answer was clear: not at all.

  Or completely?

  Furious, she slapped both hands on the steering wheel.

  Another question was beginning to elicit new doubts in her too. Asile d’enfants placed children from Far-Eastern countries with European adoptive parents. Barbara Franke had said that there was money to be earned with children. But was the trade in adoption so lucrative that the proceeds justified kidnapping and the murder of a police officer? How much did you earn by selling Asian children to adoptive parents in Europe bypassing the recognized authorities?

  How much was a child worth? She shuddered.

  This was the worst thing about her profession. You were forced to adopt the same mind-set as those you were up against. However much you strove to set yourself apart from criminals, there was always an overlap, even if you approached it from a different angle. There were common paths, common categories and common thought processes. What would you say in your statement if you were the guilty party? How would you kill the rich wife or the rich husband without drawing suspicion to yourself? Where would you hide? How much money would you demand for a child?

  Where would you go if you were Calambert?

  The criminal and law enforcer both considered the same solutions to potential problems. Opting to go down the criminal route was weighed up twice: by both perpetrator and their pursuer.

  How much was a child worth? Was an infant worth more than a three-year-old? A boy more than a girl? A light-skinned child more than a dark one?

  She didn’t want to know.

  But the question remained: was the illegal placement of Asian orphans with European adoptive parents so lucrative that you would kill for it, or have someone killed?

  Or was there more behind it?

  III

  ASILE D’ENFANTS

  12

  Rather than take the road to Zillisheim, she drove south toward Steinbrunn-le-Bas to avoid the possibility of meeting anyone she knew. On the way she had lunch: a salami sandwich, pretzel sticks and a king-size Twix. She washed it all down with Evian, which was fresh and yet tasted mercilessly dreary.

  In Steinbrunn-le-Bas children were waving as they got off a bus. In Steinbrunn-le-Haut a tiny road branched off to the north toward Flaxlanden, a couple of miles from Mulhouse. She took it on the off chance, to see whether you could access the Kanzan-an from the east as well as from Illfurth in the west. After all, the road from which the track ran to the monastery must lead somewhere. But the few bumpy lanes heading to the west all ended in fields and quiet farmsteads.

  So she turned around, drove back through Steinbrunn-le-Haut and then further on to the south. Just before Obermorschwiller she took the exit for Illfurth. About halfway to the village of Suedwiller she came across an asphalt road leading north that vanished into the hilly landscape. She chanced it. A few minutes later the dirt track and wooden sign came into view.

  The bumpy ground felt familiar. The lot was empty. As she walked through the woods to the monastery she felt alone. It made her angry to realize that she was missing Landen.

  Ther
e was nobody to be seen in the clearing. Yesterday at around this time monks and nuns had been at meditation. She entered the silent building, knocked in turn on the doors to the visitors’ room, kitchen and office and peered into empty rooms. When she returned to the entrance the soft clangs of the gong sounded. She waited on the outside steps.

  First came the light-gray cat, which loped across the clearing and disappeared behind the house. Then the roshi and the rest of the monks and nuns appeared on one of the stepping-stone paths between the damp hillocks.

  Once again she expected the roshi to send her packing; once again he didn’t. As they shook hands his expression was unchanging. His wrinkles seemed more furrowed than the day before. He said, “You find Taro?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  The roshi nodded thoughtfully. They went inside.

  “You come alone.”

  She suspected he was referring to her colleagues rather than Landen. In the morning half a dozen French and German police officers, in the afternoon just her. A shiver ran down her spine. There’s a lot to do; let’s get cracking. For the first time she wondered how much longer she would be able to keep going. A few hours? A few days? “I need your help.”

  “We drink tea, we talk.”

  She had to smile. An enticing prospect despite the tea bowls, which weren’t made for her hands. To sit beside the roshi, feel his warmth and energy, talk to him. Maybe close her eyes again as with Enni, focus on her breathing, capture the feeling that inside her lurked not only a dark abyss of terror, but maybe a redemption from it too. Buddha-nature own-nature. Understand? Own-nature.

  But there was no time for that now. She thanked the roshi and told him what was on her mind. Who at the Kanzan-an had contact with the visitors at the monastery? Who could answer her questions about Asile d’enfants? He raised his eyebrows. She pointed toward the ceiling. “The children.”

  He nodded. “You talk Chiyono. Chiyono care guests.”

  Chiyono was German, around seventy, and a head shorter than Bonì. Her white hair was cut very short. She wore rimless spectacles, one arm of which was stuck with a Band-Aid. Her eyes radiated concentration and alertness.

  They sat in the small office, Louise on the visitor’s chair, Chiyono behind the desk. In front of her lay one of the white folders from the shelves. Louise’s eyes followed the slow, deliberate movements of the woman’s hands and arms as she opened it. You come alone. The roshi perceived more than she felt comfortable with.

  She cleared her throat. “Can I ask you something?”

  Chiyono looked up. “Of course.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Chiyono.”

  “I mean the name on your ID.”

  Chiyono smiled. “Oh, that. I don’t remember.” She bent forward slightly as if about to tell Bonì a secret. “It was associated with a person who had an ego. This person and this ego ceased to exist years ago.”

  “I see. So now Chiyono exists.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Chiyono a Zen nun?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for you her name is a sort of . . . manifesto? A mind-set?”

  Chiyono smiled again. “Yes, sort of.”

  “For what?”

  “For the moon and the water, for sitting, for breathing, for the Zen spirit. For a pail that breaks.”

  Bonì scowled.

  Chiyono laughed. “I’m sorry. I’d love to tell you more, but you’re in a hurry.”

  “What more would you tell me if I weren’t?”

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “How, for example, I could exchange my old ego for a new one.”

  “You don’t exchange it. You overcome it.”

  “Oh. But how?”

  “You leave the ego, the self, behind you.”

  “You mean you live without an ego?”

  “Yes. The ego is the spiritual enemy.”

  “But if you don’t have an ego, what’s sitting in front of me?”

  Chiyono laughed again. She seemed to like the way the conversation was going. “The Buddha said, ‘This six-foot-tall body, equipped with perception and consciousness, contains the world, the beginning of the world and the path leading to the world’s end.’ He never spoke of an ego. In my case it’s probably only five feet, but that changes nothing of the contents.”

  “So you don’t have an ego?”

  “No, I don’t. What you would describe as an ego we call the five skandhas. These are the parts of the body, emotions, perception, mental powers such as will, concentration, drive, et cetera, and consciousness. All this is continually changing. It’s not fixed or consistent. So how can you give it a concrete definition? How can you call it an ego?”

  “No ego?” Louise mumbled.

  “In the Buddhist sense, not the psychological one.”

  “Very reassuring. So, Chiyono-without-an-ego, what do you know about Asile d’enfants?”

  Asile d’enfants had been coming to the Kanzan-an since 1997, and twice a year since 1999—summer and winter. The size of the group varied, from two to four carers and three to eight children. The length of their stay always varied: at least one week, and two at the most. The organization was based in Basel and Chiyono’s contact was Annegret Schelling. She knew the other Asile carers only by sight, if at all.

  Chiyono put the lists of names of carers and children on an ancient mini photocopier, which spluttered out poor facsimiles. Louise skimmed them. The names of two carers appeared on every list: Annegret Schelling and Harald Mahler. Other names were Klaus Fröbick, Paul Lebonne and Natchaya Mahler. Jean Berger didn’t crop up once.

  The children’s first names were listed along with their age and country of origin. Most were between one and three, or six and nine. Many came from Cambodia, Thailand and South Korea, a few from Vietnam and Laos. On the final list Louise found Pham: Pham 3½, Vietnam.

  Chiyono had never seen the eastern Europeans. Neither with the Asile people nor with the roshi.

  As far as she knew there had never been any problems with Asile. The group paid generously and in advance, provided their own food and ate in a common room on the second floor. During the day they visited farms, lakes and animal parks. At night the thick walls swallowed up any sounds.

  Bonì could not help shuddering. Chiyono, who was about to explain what she meant by that comment, paused. Only now did she seem to realize why Louise was interested in Asile. The two of them gazed at each other in silence.

  “It’s just a possibility,” Bonì said. “No more, no less.”

  “A possibility?” Chiyono said.

  “A horrendous possibility.”

  Chiyono accompanied her back to the car. In the clearing she stopped and turned. Her eyes were on the building. “I hope you’re wrong,” she said.

  They didn’t speak as they walked through the woods. When they reached the Mégane, Louise said, “Some time you’ll have to tell me why you live here. I mean, why you live in this way.”

  “Yes. When you have the time,” Chiyono said. She put her hands together and bowed.

  Louise raised the hand that was holding her bunch of keys. They jangled hectically. She smiled and got in.

  In her side mirror she could see that Chiyono was watching her leave. It was as if she were trying to put off Louise’s return visit for as long as possible.

  Lederle was sitting in Justin Muller’s office, drinking café au lait and waiting for Anne Wallmer. Bermann had gone back to Freiburg. “We’re having a chat, Justin and me,” Lederle said with a weary satisfaction in his voice. His anger at Bonì seemed to have dissipated. Or perhaps he’d simply given up on her. “Two elderly gentlemen,” he said, “who’ve seen too much and are allowing themselves a little break to talk about pleasant things.”

  Louise avoided a pothole. Stones knocked against the bottom of the Mégane. “Let’s get back to the unpleasant ones then. Could you check a few names for me?”

  “Later, love, or my coffee�
�s going to get cold.”

  “Get a pen, would you, love?”

  Sighing, Lederle said, “Go on.”

  “Annegret Schelling, Klaus Fröbick—that’s ‘c-k’ at the end—Paul Lebonne—‘-bonne’ rather than ‘-bon’—Harald and Natchaya Mahler—N-a-t-c-h-a-y-a and Mahler with an ‘h.’”

  “Hmm,” Lederle said. She sensed that he’d stopped writing. All the same she said. “I need everything you can find, including addresses.”

  Lederle cleared his throat.

  Perhaps, she thought, it would have been better to call someone at the station and ask them to run the check. A young detective sergeant, a secretary, a colleague from a different section. But nobody stuck with Bonì like Lederle did. Nobody except him would have been prepared to stay in contact with her, disobeying both Bermann and Almenbroich.

  You come alone.

  Louise took her foot off the accelerator and let the car coast. The Mégane came to a stop twenty yards from the road. Her eyes were on the weather-beaten wooden sign. Two years ago, on the day she’d shot Calambert, she had been on her own at the end too. But at least then she’d set off with Bermann, Lederle and the others. She had been part of a team. Now she was no longer part of the team.

  A movement made her glance to the right. The light-gray cat loped slowly down the hill and sat by the edge of the track.

  “Reiner.”

  “It can’t go on like this.”

  “I need your help.”

  “You need a different sort of help. Please understand that.”

  “One last time, OK? Do I really have to beg you for this one last favor?”

  Lederle did not respond. The longer the pause lasted, the more pathetic these words sounded in her head. She grinned in spite of herself.

  Now the cat turned and looked at her. She preferred its expression to that of Landen’s china cat—not stubborn, but interested. Friendly.

  She wondered what was going through Lederle’s head. Did he feel sympathy for her? Probably. Did he have a bad conscience? Even though they’d been working together for years, he hadn’t identified the reason behind her mood swings, tiredness and moments of madness. He hadn’t realized what the Calambert case had meant to her. He partly blamed himself for her problems. Of course he had a bad conscience.