The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  After his third time in the steam room he climbed the stairs up to the roof terrace. He went over to the balustrade and looked down on the Heuwaage and the City Ring. He could hear the rumble of traffic. There was nothing to be seen, just the flash of brake lights now and then. He wrapped himself in his towel and lay down on one of the damp loungers. He tried to think of nothing other than the fog, to feel nothing but the damp coolness, to remember nothing but the present moment.

  When he woke, he felt good. He’d had a dreamless sleep, he could tell that from his deep breaths. He felt pretty chilly, but that was the way it should be after all the sweating. Remarkable, he thought, how quickly a human body can recover, if you give it time.

  At four on the dot he was in the conference room with the whole team, awaiting the meeting. They’d just briefly nodded to him when he came in. That was always the way in a new murder case, no one felt like talking.

  At quarter past, Suter, the state prosecutor, strode in, in a pale-blue suit and a pink tie. A man in the prime of life, decisive and in every respect a decent fellow. Without hesitation he went over to the desk, placed his right hand on it and made sure he had the attention of all those present.

  It was outrageous, he said, that nowadays even older people from the lower orders cannot be safe from being attacked and killed while sitting on a bench. As far as he knew – without wanting to anticipate the investigation, of course – the victim was a harmless man with a disability pension, an alcoholic who frequented the bars in the surrounding area. It was a human right, he insisted, to sit down in a bar and have one too many. It was above all a privilege for old, lonely people. And it was important that the police should use all means to preserve that privilege. He would say nothing more on this particular case at the moment; he would leave that for one-to-one discussion.

  That meant with Hunkeler, everyone was clear about that.

  Then Dr Ryhiner, the forensic physician, spoke. As always, he was in a hurry and spoke quickly in a monotone. Of course, the autopsy had not yet been completed, so it was unclear for example whether there were any toxic substances in the dead body. On the other hand, it was clear that the victim had been strangled, and so violently that one of the cervical vertebrae had been broken. Death had been instantaneous, presumably half an hour before midnight. All the indications were that the victim had not put up any resistance. The man must have fallen asleep on the bench and been taken by surprise while sleeping. It had not yet been established what kind of cord had been used. It was possible that fibres from the murder weapon would be found in the wound, but that was still undecided. What was clear was that there had been something like a ring in the left earlobe. Apparently a diamond, as he had heard. The earlobe had been cut open and the diamond removed, which could have been the motive for the crime. It had in all probability been cut open after the death of the victim, and with a pair of sharp scissors.

  It reminded him, Lüdi said, of the murder of Barbara Amsler. Her left earlobe had been cut open, because, as was well known, there had been a pearl in it.

  That was a parallel, said Dr Ryhiner, indeed.

  Then the head of the forensic section, Dr de Ville, spoke. He had not discovered very much yet, he said, there had been too little time. What struck him was that the victim’s wallet was still in his jacket pocket, what’s more with six hundred francs in it. If someone stole diamonds, they would also steal money.

  “So not murder in the course of robbery?” Suter asked.

  That he couldn’t say, de Ville went on. The forecourt of the Cantonal Bank was a busy spot. It was more or less impossible to see precise traces such as the imprints of shoes. There was, however, something they had been able to establish clearly. In the first place, someone had peed on the trunk of the little tree. And secondly, someone who had been drinking beer had vomited in that same place.

  They all fell silent and stared at the table. Suter put his finger down between his collar and his neck, as if he needed air.

  “That was me,” Hunkeler said. “As I’ve already explained, I’d come from the Milchhüsli. I couldn’t hold my water, however much I tried, so I went over to the little tree, the way one does. That’s how I came to see the dead man sitting there. When I took hold of him and his head fell back, I felt sick and spewed up.”

  “Mais mon Dieu, Hünkelé, why didn’t you go to the toilet in the bar?”

  “Because the urge to pee came on so suddenly,” Hunkeler said, “perhaps because of the cold. What’s more, I’ve got problems with my prostate. What’s so bad about that?”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Suter said. “Please continue.”

  De Ville hesitated. Clearly he had something more to say about that business, but he let it go.

  Furthermore, he said, the usual stuff had been found on the ground – cigarette butts, crumpled store receipts, chewing gum and even eight pumpkin seeds. They’d been still quite fresh, not at all crushed by shoes or softened by the wet.

  There was a pause; now it was the turn of the officer in charge of the investigation. And that was Hunkeler. No one in the room seemed to feel at ease.

  He’d known Bernhard Schirmer for years, he said for a start, trying to speak in a calm, objective way. He’d met him every so often in the bars on Burgfelderplatz. He was well aware that these were not appropriate establishments for a detective inspector. As they would recall, some time ago the Turkish pizzeria had been blown up by a bomb. Despite that, he was fond of those bars, and he would take the liberty of patronizing them now and again.

  Moreover, Hardy Schirmer had been a pleasant individual. A truck driver who’d taken early retirement, a friend of the pharmacist Hermine Mauch but with an apartment of his own. After an argument with Hermine two months ago he’d given up beer and spent the nights wandering round the district. It could well be that he’d fallen asleep on the bench. It could also be that it was murder in the course of robbery, as the diamond had been worth around 20,000 francs. However, he warned them not to tie the investigation down at this early stage. He knew from experience that figures such as Hardy often had a colourful life behind them. Hardy hadn’t been some miserable idiot. A plain murder in the course of robbery seemed too simple to him.

  It wasn’t a good speech; he had something in his throat, his neck, his brain, that stopped him from thinking and speaking precisely.

  Suter called on Madörin. He had been waiting quite a while and was visibly nervous. There was something that seemed quite probable to him, he said. The perpetrator wasn’t to be found in that shabby band of local dives but more likely in the Billiards Centre, in the Balkans. He hadn’t got very far in his investigation, but some of those there yesterday evening were clearly without regular jobs. Despite that, they all had enough money to spend half the night playing billiards.

  The perpetrator had probably made off after the deed over the nearby border to France. And naturally no one in the Centre knew anything. They were all thick as thieves. It was of course well known that the drug-trafficking business was controlled above all by Albanians and Turks. But when you asked those guys a question, they suddenly couldn’t understand German.

  Moreover, yesterday evening there’d been two Turks around in the area, they’d been collecting protection money in the Turkish pizzeria. He couldn’t prove that, but he was sure it was the case. They were called Turkoğlu and Sermeter, but those were very likely to be assumed names. Guys like that would change their names and passports every six months. The two of them had been well dressed, and one weighed more than two hundred pounds and the other had a solid-gold bracelet round his wrist. They would also have to be questioned about the crime.

  It was unbearable that such criminal riff-raff, who often enjoyed refugee status, should go round free in the city of Basel. He knew, basically, that that was a political question and therefore shouldn’t play any part in police work. But it was a truth that had to be told again, which he had duly done.

  Again there was a pause. Madör
in’s speech had been a little too sharp for most of them. That was the way he was, doggedly determined and pig-headed. And that was precisely why he was sometimes successful.

  Everyone knew it was going to be a difficult case to solve. They probably wouldn’t succeed without some lucky chance. A corpse on a bench on a foggy night, that was what a policeman wanted least. It could have been any passer-by who had happened along and seen the glitter of the diamond.

  To finish, Suter spoke again and said what everyone had been expecting.

  He’d thought this over carefully, he said, and had come to the conclusion that in this particular case it would be best if Inspector Hunkeler handed over to someone else, namely Sergeant Madörin. In this case the possibility of bias could not be excluded, since Hunkeler had, of course, been friendly with the victim. In addition, he had enough on his plate with the Barbara Amsler case, which was unfortunately still not solved. He wanted the Inspector to devote all his strength, energy and intelligence to solving that murder. Moreover he would ask Herr Hunkeler to come and see him in his office after the meeting.

  It was a similar room to Hunkeler’s, just somewhat bigger. The same desk, the same adjustable chair, the same shelves. In one corner two leather armchairs with little tables, on the wall a coloured Jean Tinguely print.

  Suter invited him to sit in one of the armchairs.

  “Would you like a coffee? I can have it sent up from the cafeteria. You may also smoke.” He pointed affably at the ashtray.

  “No thanks,” said Hunkeler.

  “Right then, now we’re going to talk to each other for once. Man to man, I mean. We’ve known each other for twenty years now.”

  Hunkeler remained silent. He did think of crossing his legs, but that would have meant he’d slip back even further into a supine position.

  “I know what you think of me,” Suter said. “You consider me a careerist. Someone who subordinates everything to his personal advancement. Basically, you’re right. From the very beginning I wanted to get on. Not simply for the power that would give me, though, but for a purpose. I want to help see to it that this town has a sensible administration of justice.”

  “We all want that,” Hunkeler said. “And I’m not in the habit of moaning about my superiors in public. If I do, then I do it in private.”

  There was a knock on the door. It was the Italian bringing the coffee from the cafeteria. Suter leaned forward, and it cost him a great effort: he couldn’t really sit up in the armchair either. He carefully dropped the sugar cubes into his cup. He tore open the milk carton, splashing part of the contents over the table. But he didn’t let that bother him either. He took a sip and put his cup back down. Then he raised his head and gave Hunkeler a very straight look out of his grey eyes.

  “I like you. I hope you know that. Even though we are very different kinds of people. Permit me to tell you briefly my opinion of you. You are a rural kind of person, a peasant almost, a man from the country who has ended up in the city. You are a hedonist who appreciates the pleasant sides of life. You are very intelligent. You have a good nose for things. And you like mingling with simple folk.”

  “I’d agree with that. But that’s not forbidden.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’ve told you often enough already that I value your work very much. The very characteristics I’ve briefly sketched enable you to solve serious cases that we, with our upper-middle-class, urban cast of mind, if I may say so, can’t get into.”

  God almighty, Hunkeler thought, the complicated sentences this guy can make!

  “If you want me to take early retirement, then please say so. Don’t waste your valuable time on me.”

  Suter raised his hands in a dismissive gesture. A brief, subtle smile appeared on his face.

  “I like a glass of beer now and then myself,” he said. “And sometimes I have one too many, during carnival or after a successful first night at the theatre. But there are limits. If, in the village you come from…”

  “It isn’t a village. It’s a small town.”

  “If you’re going home in your small town after a bar crawl and pee on a tree or a dung heap, presumably no one will have anything against that. But here in Basel, in a public square, one that’s also the scene of a crime, it’s simply unacceptable…”

  “I know it was wrong. I’ve arranged a consultation with a urologist. I hope I’ll be able to overcome my weak bladder.”

  “Why do you insist on going round drinking in low dives?” Suter asked with amazing openness. “Isn’t it possible to go somewhere more respectable, the bar in the Art Gallery for example?”

  “If I feel like it, I go to the Art Gallery as well.”

  “I know. I’ve been told.”

  “What have you been told?”

  Suter shook his head indignantly. He leaned forward again and picked up his cup.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Hunkeler said, “what the point of my being here in Basel is. I’ve been living here almost forty years but I’ve never felt I really belong. Why, for example, shouldn’t I frequent a bar? Here in Basel everyone lives nicely separated from each other. I don’t understand these invisible boundaries. Nor do I understand the reserve, the almost timorous distance people stick to. If someone shows an emotion here, then they’ve had it.”

  “There is something to that,” Suter said, putting his cup back down. Then he sank back in his chair again. “How is your enchanting partner, by the way?”

  “She’s in Paris for three months.”

  “Oh really? How would we manage without our women, eh? Go and see her for a few days.”

  “I think I’m needed here. There are two murder cases.”

  “True, you’re working on the Amsler case. Although it does look as if it’s going to remain unsolved. The head of the Basel Rural District Police, Füglistaller, is of that opinion too. Please keep your hands off the Schirmer case. And I have to make a formal request for you to observe the rules of respectable behaviour appropriate for an inspector. With no exceptions.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good,” Suter said with an extremely friendly smile. “I for my part will always stick by you loyally. I wish you every success in your work.”

  He stood up from his chair. Hunkeler also pushed himself up. He took Suter’s hand but avoided shaking it.

  That evening Peter Hunkeler sat for a long time in his kitchen on Mittlere Strasse. He’d made some tea, a whole pot full. He drank it slowly and thoughtfully, each time with a shot of cold milk. He could have read a weekly newspaper or sat down and watched TV, but he didn’t want to. Now and then he looked down into the rear courtyard, into the fog enveloping the houses opposite.

  Once he called Hedwig. He heard her voice on the answerphone. He waited for the tone, then he said, “I love you. Please don’t forget that.”

  He wondered whether he should heat up a frozen pizza. He didn’t bother and went out. He walked down the Ring and past St Johann’s-Tor to the Rhine. He opened the door of the St Johann’s bathing house by the Rhine and stood by the balustrade, where he always had a coffee in the summer. Down below a wild duck quacked; he’d obviously woken it up. He saw it float past, hardly visible on the water. His body was still warm from the sauna, and he wondered briefly whether to go and have a quick swim. He decided not to and went out again, closing the door behind him. Slowly he walked upriver along Treidelweg, passing the moored ferry, the river police ship, the firefighting boat. He crossed Mittlere Brücke and went back down to the river on the other side. The path was covered in leaves but they didn’t rustle, they were too damp. Nothing could be seen of the cathedral across the river. He didn’t encounter anyone, he was alone. He liked that, this walking through the dark.

  He returned to Greater Basel over the Wettsteinbrücke and went into the Art Gallery bar. He was amazed how many people were there, at their loud voices, their cheerful faces, the scent of the huge bouquet of flowers coming from the table with its white cloth.
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  He sat down at the regulars’ table, joining the landlord, two women, a doctor, a pastor who, as usual, was sad because he’d come from a funeral. He ordered some cold Vaud sausage with spring onions and a glass of Rioja. He ate, drank and listened to the conversations. When they laughed he tried to laugh along with them.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the landlord asked. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  “The weather’s like November,” Hunkeler said, “and I don’t talk much in November.”

  “Is Hedwig still in Paris?”

  “Yes, until the end of the year.”

  “Go and see her. You’ll be there in five hours, she’ll cheer you up.”

  “Perhaps I will pop over,” he said.

  He suddenly felt a wild longing for Hedwig welling up inside him. He came close to crying. He finished his glass, paid and went out.

  *

  Around eleven he went into the Singerhaus on Marktplatz. He went up to the first floor, where there was striptease. Sitting by the dance floor, where a naked woman was doing things with a rope, were businessmen, Americans apparently. Some were watching the woman, bored, others talking quietly among themselves. An oldish man beside them was reading a newspaper. Sitting by the bar at the back were two whores, whom Hunkeler knew: Angel, who came from Seville, or so she claimed, and Maria la Guapa from Colombia. Enrico Casali was also sitting there and, at the end of the bar, were two powerfully built, well-dressed men. One certainly weighed over two hundred pounds, the other had a solid-gold chain round his wrist. They had cups of coffee on the bar.

  “Hola, hombre,” said Angel when he sat down beside her, “qué pasa, por qué vienes aquí? Quieres hacer el amor?”

  “No,” Hunkeler said, “I’m here on business as usual.”