Zen and the Art of Murder Page 4

  “He won’t want that,” she said.

  Niksch glanced at her in the rearview mirror. He whistled a tuneless melody through his teeth and looked away again. “So what are we going to do with him?” Hollerer said to the windshield. Then he asked Louise to give a more detailed account of what had happened.

  As she talked, Niksch drove back along the snow-covered road, which ran close to the forest a couple of hundred yards farther on. Louise didn’t let the monk out of her sight. “Slowly, Niksch!” Hollerer roared.

  They waited where the road almost touched the forest. Turning to Louise, Niksch said, “If he continues at that pace he’ll be outside the Breisgau–High Black Forest district soon. Whose responsibility is he then?”

  “No idea.”

  “Depends where he’s going,” Hollerer said. “Is he heading toward Emmendingen or Black Forest–Baar?”

  “Black Forest–Baar, looks like.”

  “Then it’s the Villingen-Schwenningen team.”

  “Let’s guide him to Emmendingen, boss. Karlbert Maurer’s there. He’d love to grapple with our monk, don’t you think?”

  “Good God, Karlbert Maurer.” Hollerer laughed.

  Louise felt her anger returning. Anger at Hollerer and Niksch, who didn’t seem to understand how serious the situation was. Who didn’t understand how special the man in the dark robe was. Anger at Bermann and at herself. At the monk who just went on his way, refusing help. At Mick and René Calambert and Annette’s father.

  She got out.

  Hollerer wound down the window. Now serious, he asked, “Did you say three or four people? And you’re sure? I mean, that there was someone there?”

  Louise stared nervously at the white horizon. “What’s Bermann been saying about me?” She realized she had her hand around the empty bottle in her right-hand pocket. There was a tired, almost bashful clinking.

  “That you’re loopy.”

  She laughed. Niksch giggled inside the car, then sneezed. “Either believe me or don’t,” she said.

  “But I do,” Hollerer said, getting out too.

  Louise was still gazing at the horizon. Something looked odd, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. On the left was the forest they’d walked through. Adjoining that was a wide field blanketed in snow, and to the right stood a wooded hill. A typically bleak, frozen winter landscape.

  Behind her Niksch got out of the car and blew his nose loudly.

  Then she saw it. About fifty yards ahead a thin dark line cut diagonally through the snowy field. She tramped off toward it. The line became a busy crisscross. The crisscross became footprints.

  At least three people. The tracks went left to right from the forest to the hill. The snow at the edge of the prints was crumbly. “Hollerer!” she shouted. Louise stared at the hill, but couldn’t see anything.

  Hollerer spent several minutes examining the footprints. He leaned over them, frowning. There’s a difference between believing and knowing, Bonì thought as she looked him up and down. Suddenly she thought of Amelie. Amelie placing dishes of pasta parcels onto the table in a silent dining room, after the father had put down the knife and released his wife and daughter. Amelie didn’t stop talking; Hollerer didn’t say a word. When she went into the kitchen he looked down, exhausted, and smiled at his hands.

  “Could have been walkers or hunters,” Hollerer said. But there was doubt in his voice. He looked over at the hill. Today he was wearing a crumpled ski jacket over his police coat, with blue gloves and a bobble hat that was too small. He stood bent at the waist, as if unable to straighten up immediately. He didn’t seem to notice that twenty yards behind him the monk was walking past at the edge of the forest.

  The monk would spot the footprints too, but he didn’t react. She waited, but he didn’t look at her.

  “Someone’s coming,” Niksch called out behind them. Holding a tissue he pointed in the direction from which he and Hollerer had come. In the distance a dark dot was visible against the white, and it was slowly coming closer. Hollerer and Bonì hurried back to the patrol car. Mesmerized, they watched as another car approached. Hollerer felt for his Sig.

  “Dark-red Daimler, C-Class, T-Model,” Niksch said.

  “Lederle,” Bonì said, relieved.

  Reiner Lederle had been a happy man until eighteen months ago when the doctors diagnosed his wife with bowel cancer. Ever since that moment he’d changed along with her. He’d been getting ever grayer, thinner and slower. Sometimes he would disappear for a week. When he came back it looked as if he’d been through the chemotherapy himself rather than his wife. Louise could have sworn he’d even lost some hair. And she thought that he’d begun to smell ill too.

  Lederle was there two years ago in Munzingen. Like the others, he’d gone off in the right direction.

  “Don’t talk to him about illnesses, women or God,” she told Hollerer. “Talk about Freiburg football club, skittles and politics. He’s Green to his core and the best thing that ever happened to him was when Salomon was elected mayor.”

  “Christ,” Hollerer groaned.

  “And keep a close eye on the monk.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Niksch asked.

  “You’re going to get me back to town as quickly as possible.”

  Niksch laughed. “As quickly as possible, or as quickly as I can?”

  *

  Lederle shook their hands, including Bonì’s.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined your weekend.”

  He shrugged without letting go of her hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Lederle used to call her “Luis” too. But ever since he’d known his wife was ill he’d reverted to “Bonì.” She stared at her hand, confused, because he hadn’t let go. For an instant the world seemed to stand still. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Lederle gazed at her with dark eyes, as if about to leap into her arms. In two weeks he’d accompany his wife again to her chemotherapy.

  “OK, Bonì,” he said finally, releasing her hand. “What can I do for you?”

  Louise didn’t feel comfortable leaving Hollerer and Lederle alone together. An elderly, overweight village policeman and a depressed detective did not add up to a promising team.

  “Hurry,” she pleaded.

  Niksch grinned. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, as the back end of the car swerved and the road danced in front of them. Bonì closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Hollerer and Lederle were still watching them go. They stood seven feet apart and looked helpless, small. Lost in this bright whiteness that brought forth secrets and concealed answers. Now they moved over to Lederle’s Daimler and got inside. Two strays on a winter Sunday outing.

  She could only pray that the strangers from the forest wouldn’t return until more officers came to protect the monk, Hollerer and Lederle.

  She looked at Niksch. “What have you been thinking?”

  “Well, there are three possibilities. The monk’s going to be killed, kidnapped or beaten up. Two years ago in Baden-Württemberg we had a clearance rate for murder and manslaughter of 94 percent, for kidnapping and false imprisonment almost 92 percent and for grievous bodily harm it was . . . I think only 87 percent. That means . . .” Niksch broke off.

  “That means,” she said to complete his sentence, “it would be best if he were killed, because statistically we’d be more likely to find out who did it.” She forced a smile. “Niksch, is that an attempt to comfort me?”

  Niksch blushed. “Well, you did spend the whole night with him and . . .”

  She pulled up her leg and turned half toward him. “And?”

  “And . . . and you formed some social ties with him.”

  “Keep your fantasy in check, Niksch.”

  “OK, I’m sorry. I just wanted to say that you’re very brave. I mean, what you did was very . . . erm . . .”

  “. . . brave.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She clapped him on the shoulder.

  Niksch turned
on to a wider road. His cheeks were bright red.

  It looked as though the snow was starting to thaw. In some places on either side of the road patches of black were visible. But as the car raced past, they rose into the air and became crows. Yesterday things moved that shouldn’t have. Today things were changing identity. And she existed somewhere between these two poles, she thought with a touch of amusement.

  It had all begun with Calambert. Calambert, who kept rising from the depths of her memory in an icy sea of blood. Sometimes he settled on her retina and then she saw the world through a veil of Calambert.

  At the time Bermann hadn’t questioned her actions. He’d never asked whether she had operated in accordance with the regulations. He could have said, “Did you warn him you were going to shoot? What did you say, exactly? Did you order him to stand still? How many times did you shout out?” He had also made sure that nobody else asked her such questions. Strange, she thought, even when he was being nice she found Bermann unpleasant.

  Calambert and Bermann. Sometimes she visualized them in a twin pack.

  “Niksch, would you stop at the next gas station, please?”

  Louise spent the minutes that followed in a half sleep. Chaotic images and thoughts bustled through her head. Calambert and Bermann were gone, Hollerer and Lederle soon disappeared. Only the faces of Mick and the monk popped up, as well as Anatol, the taxi driver from yesterday, who was now wearing the rectangular sunglasses himself. Inside her head, nobody said anything; only she spoke. She was naked and said to them: Look at me.

  Although the traffic was beginning to get heavier, Niksch barely slowed down. He seemed to enjoy talking because every time she was jolted awake he was speaking. Once or twice she managed to listen for a few seconds. He was telling her about his fiancée, Theres, the daughter of the Liebau butcher.

  Theres went rally driving too.

  “Theres,” Bonì said in disbelief. “Theres and Niksch.”

  Niksch smiled and said, “Can you get a döner kebab in Freiburg?”

  When she woke later they had stopped at a gas station, but the engine was still running. The first thing she noticed was that Niksch was talking differently. He seemed gentle and relaxed. Looking at her with glowing cheeks, he raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if to say: Well, that’s how it is with the world in general, and with Theres and me in particular.

  The second thing she noticed was that she’d stopped at this same gas station a few weeks ago. At the counter behind the glass partition stood a chubby young man with cropped hair. She didn’t recognize him, but she knew this meant nothing.

  “Keep driving, Niksch,” she said. “And tell me more—it’s fascinating.”

  In Freiburg the snow was indeed thawing.

  They stopped at the first gas station that was open within the city limits. Bonì was almost certain she’d never been here before. On the counter she put three cartons of orange juice, three bottles of Coke and two each of vodka and bourbon. “A little Sunday evening party,” she said with a wolfish smile.

  The bearded Turkish shop assistant grunted without looking up. She paid in cash, asked for three bags and packed away the bottles with an exaggerated yawn.

  Then she asked where the bathroom was.

  During their drive through the city she learned that Niksch had become a policeman because it had been his mother’s dream. A policeman in the family brought security. Nobody would behave badly with a family who had a policeman for a son. Not even God or fate, his mother said. When Bonì asked if his mother lived in Beirut, Niksch chuckled. Then he said that last year in the Breisgau–High Black Forest district, 11,397 crimes had been recorded, a 9.8 percent rise on the previous year. Sexual offenses had seen an 18 percent increase. Niksch had three younger sisters, and a policeman in the family brought security.

  “Does your mother live in Beirut?” Louise said, realizing as she spoke that she’d already asked this question. Niksch frowned. “Left turn there,” she said briskly. “We’ll go to my place first.”

  Once inside her apartment she put the alcohol in the cupboard beneath the sink, and the Coke and orange juice beside the dustbin. Then she changed and strapped on the holster with the Walther.

  On the answering machine was a message from her father, demanding that she call back. “It’s Sunday morning, Louise,” he said with feigned levity, “where the hell are you?” After forty years of living in Germany his French accent had almost faded entirely. The hard “ch” sounds were no longer accompanied by an “s,” while the short “i” no longer sounded like an “ee.” His voice came across as simultaneously smug and obsequious. She hadn’t heard him speak French in years.

  “In the forest,” she said to the answering machine.

  “When are you going to come to Kehl?” her father said.

  She shrugged.

  On the way back down she bumped into Ronescu. Leaning on a snow shovel, he was standing in the middle of a group of tenants from the fourth floor. Today the bags under his eyes were drooping almost to the corners of his mouth.

  She jostled her way through the group and passed close by him. “Eight o’clock tomorrow evening?” she whispered into his ear.

  “Perfect, Frau Bonì,” he whispered back.

  When she was in the hallway the stairwell lights went out. The gray gloom reminded her of the dimness in the rocky cavity in the forest. She stopped. Where the hell are you? her father said in her head, and all of a sudden her eyes were flooded with tears. Louise let it gush out, a wave of mysterious grief that subsided as rapidly as it had risen. She blew her nose and left the building.

  When she got into the car, Niksch said, “I could murder a doner.”

  “OK.”

  “Or is it a döner?”

  “No idea.” She switched on her mobile. Bermann had left five messages since yesterday evening. She kept it on voicemail and put it in her anorak pocket.

  “Might be a bit of traffic around here,” Niksch said, concentrating hard.

  Louise looked out at the street. Sunday afternoon in the snow, only a few cars out. “I thought you were a rally driver.”

  “They all go in the same direction.”

  She laughed.

  On the way to police HQ she thought on more than one occasion that she could hear Bermann yelling in her anorak pocket, but perhaps she was only imagining it.

  As they were parking outside headquarters she called Bermann. It was a moment before he picked up. “I’m here, Rolf,” she said.

  “Good,” he said.

  When they entered the office she shared with Lederle, Bermann was already waiting in the middle of the room with his hands in his jeans pockets. He looked overtired and gave the peculiar impression of being lost. He didn’t appear cross. “Who’s he?” he asked, looking at Niksch.

  “A colleague from Liebau,” Bonì said.

  Bermann nodded in the direction of the door. There was no contempt in his gesture, just exhausted fatalism. Friendliness à la Bermann. Niksch opened his eyes wide. Stroking his arm, Bonì said, “Please wait outside.”

  Through the frosted glass she could see Niksch standing with his back to the door, as if trying to stop anyone from coming in or leaving. Maybe he just wanted to protect them.

  Bermann watched her switch on the coffee machine. Even now he didn’t turn into the fire-spitting demon she’d anticipated. In an almost soft voice he said, “A new phase has begun, Luis. From today everything is going down the official route . . .”

  She turned around. “You waited until today?”

  “I did.”

  She nodded. Bermann seemed unsure how to interpret her nod. He sat on the edge of the desk and adjusted his tight jeans. “There’ll be a few discussions,” he said. “You’ll be on sick leave for a while, go through some therapy, followed by desk work. And then in two or three years we’ll fetch you back.”

  “Therapy?” she said, surprised.

  “Rehab, Luis.”

  “Coffee, Rolf?”


  Bermann hesitated before shaking his head.

  She apologized and picked up the mobile from her desk. As Bermann didn’t know she’d asked Lederle for help, she called Hollerer. He answered on the second ring. She heard the whistling of the wind and Lederle coughing in the background. They seemed to be standing in the open. Louise pictured the two of them, then the monk and herself sitting on the strip of forest floor where there was no snow. They walked on and were sitting in the cavity in the intermediate realm. It took a while for her to realize that she and the monk were talking to each other.

  No change, Hollerer reported, the monk was traipsing through the snow and there was nobody else to be seen.

  “Get back into the car, for God’s sake,” she said.

  “We just wanted to stretch our legs. Is Niksch behaving himself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Niksch isn’t a city boy, he’s a country bumpkin,” Hollerer said. “In town he goes astray—make sure he doesn’t get lost.”

  They hung up.

  “Have you understood what this is about, Luis?” Bermann asked patiently. “Have you understood that it’s serious now?”

  “Later, Rolf, OK? We don’t have time.” She poured coffee into her mug while she explained to him what had and hadn’t happened. She was glad to see that her hand wasn’t trembling.

  The mug had been a present from Bermann. On it was written: EVEN THE BEST SECRETARY SOMETIMES NEEDS A BREAK. She turned it in her hands and stared at the inscription so as not to have to look at Bermann. Why had she kept the mug? Why did she use it almost every day? To avoid giving Bermann the satisfaction of having managed to goad her into his petty war? Nice yellow, she’d said as she weighed up whether to smash the mug against his or her skull. The yellow of dawn.

  Behind the door Niksch suppressed a sneeze.

  “We need between four and six patrol cars,” she said, “a Japanese interpreter, a helicopter.” She sounded frantic and Bermann appeared to notice this, for he lowered his eyes and frowned. She took a sip of coffee and waited.

  “Luis?” Bermann looked up. “Do you understand that it’s serious?”