The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  “What did they look like?”

  “Just the way those guys do. Well dressed, a bit overweight but in good trim. They looked around here as if the place already belonged to them.”

  “Did the smaller one have a solid-gold chain on his left wrist?”

  “There, you see,” Edi said, “I was sure you knew the pair of them.”

  In his apartment Hunkeler sat down at the kitchen table and thought things over. He knew that there were lots of problems awaiting him at 4 p.m. Most of all he’d have liked to make off, get on the train for Paris right now. Seurat and Sisley, he thought, the pure light.

  He went into the sitting room to fetch a book on modern painting. He opened it at the pointillistes and looked at a river by Seurat with a sailing ship and a rowing boat, and a landscape by Sisley consisting of single spots. He saw the landline phone on the table. There were two new messages. The first was from Hedwig: “Where have you got to, Peter? Is anything wrong?” The second was from the head of the Basel Rural District Police, Füglistaller.

  He called Hedwig. He got her answerphone. “No,” he said, “I’m fine. I’ve been over in Alsace and had a great sleep.” Then he called Füglistaller and arranged to meet over lunch in the Spitzwald restaurant.

  He went back down onto the street and drove to Allschwil Pond. He knew the place very well, he’d already been there several times. There were two benches from which you looked down onto the water. It was there that the angler had been standing on that 14 August, the one who had been after carp with a strong line. But he was presumably shocked when he started to pull in the line. What had taken the bait couldn’t be a carp, it was too heavy, too sluggish. A catfish perhaps, he thought, expecting long and vigorous resistance. But there was none. He slowly turned the reel, always prepared for some fierce thrashing of the tail. It was Barbara Amsler’s corpse he pulled out.

  She had appeared down there, her white body coming out of the darkness, her arms, her legs, her hair. The angler was so shocked that he didn’t pull her right out. But she couldn’t sink back down again, the hook had caught in her dress.

  Hunkeler couldn’t help himself, he stared into the water, as if another woman’s body would appear there. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, he felt the drops from his wet hair rolling down his cheeks. Then he tore himself away.

  He decided to take a walk along the stream, through the woods, and go up the back way to the Spitzwald restaurant. He fetched his raincoat and umbrella from the car and set off.

  He passed the parking area of the Basel Rifle Club, which had its shooting range where at weekends they aimed at targets three hundred yards away. Shooting, an old tradition, said some, an important part of Swiss culture. An unnecessary disturbance of the peace, thought the others, stupid men blasting away. Hunkeler, who had learned to use a carbine during basic training, couldn’t care less.

  Parked were around thirty cars with caravans. They’d been there for five weeks now. That too was a contentious issue, as the caravans belonged to a clan of Romanian Gypsies. Travellers, some thought, an ancient culture that had to be helped, given places to stay. Foreign riff-raff, others thought, ruffians and thieves.

  Hunkeler couldn’t care less about that either, especially as the place was in the Basel Rural District.

  There were lights on in two of the caravans. He saw a girl sitting on a step eating an apple. In front of her a dog was wagging its tail.

  Behind the trunk of an aspen tree further over by the river Sergeant Hasenböhler of the Basel Rural District CID could be seen. He had a pair of binoculars and was watching the girl. Hunkeler went up to him quietly and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You won’t see anything in this fog,” he said, “you’ll have to get closer.”

  “Oh God, Hunkeler,” Hasenböhler said, “you gave me a nasty shock there. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going for a walk, up to the nature reserve. Then I might have a run round the keep-fit trail. To keep fit. So that we can have a go at these damned Gypsies together, yes?”

  “You just go ahead and make your jokes. You’re well off, you are, you’re not responsible for keeping this place clean. They just throw everything away in the woods, shit behind every tree. And I bet that apple the girl’s eating was stolen, probably from the Migros supermarket at the crossroads over there. They pinch anything they can lay their hands on.”

  “It’s just petty larceny, and apples still grow on the trees.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?” Hasenböhler asked. “They don’t just make off with apples but with TV sets as well.”

  “Walking past the checkout with them hidden under their clothes, right?”

  “Oh, bawl me out if you have to,” Hasenböhler said. “Just go and have a walk, just go.”

  Hunkeler followed the stream through the foggy wood. He came to a horizontal bar on the fitness course. A man of around sixty was hanging from it, jerking himself up several times. At every pull-up he made a squeaky noise.

  A quarter of an hour later he reached the nature reserve, which consisted of a system of several ponds. The largest was down in the valley. Hunkeler went to the edge and tried to see something, a frog, a toad, a newt. But they were presumably already enjoying their winter sleep. A pair of tufted ducks swam past, the female in front, the male behind. He saw its crest.

  Füglistaller was already sitting at the table when he entered the Spitzwald Inn. They were the same age, and they liked each other very much. They ordered schnitzels with French fries and cucumber salad and half a bottle of Beaujolais.

  “That idiot Hasenböhler,” Hunkeler said, “is standing behind an aspen tree outside the Rifle Club, watching a girl eating an apple. What’s the point of that?”

  Füglistaller poured them some wine. “If we do nothing,” he said, “people go on about us not doing our duty. If we do do something, then there’s an outcry that we’re racists. Just let Hasenböhler get on with his observation. Then people will be happy.”

  “Actually, it would be an ideal place for them. They have to be somewhere or other.”

  “People are the way they are,” Füglistaller said. “Most of them don’t like Gypsies. At most in operettas.”

  “O play to me, Gypsy,” Hunkeler hummed, “the moon’s high above, play me your serenade, the song that I love.”

  He cut off a piece of his schnitzel, shook salt over his fries. They were just right, crisp on the outside, still soft inside. They ate slowly, deliberately, in silence, the way they always did when they were together. They needed time to get attuned to each other.

  Then Füglistaller started to talk.

  “What have we got on the Barbara Amsler case? We know about her childhood, her background. We know that she’d been living in Basel for eleven years. That she had an apartment on Schneidergasse. That she’d been working as a prostitute for six years. That she picked up clients in the Singerhaus and the Klingental. That Casali was her pimp, though he won’t admit it. That she was liked by her colleagues, which is rare among whores. That she paid her taxes punctually.

  “Moreover, we know that at eleven in the evening of that 11 August she was approached by an oldish man. That shortly after one in the morning of the twelfth, she left the Klingental with that man. That for the next day and the two following days she was unobtainable. And that late in the afternoon on 14 August she was pulled out of Allschwil Pond by an angler. That in all probability rape can be excluded, but not normal sexual intercourse. That she was strangled before she was thrown into the water, and it was done with a length of raw silk. That her left earlobe was cut open with scissors, that the pearl that was there has disappeared. That she left behind a letter in her apartment that indicated a great love.”

  He emptied his glass and ordered another bottle.

  “We’ve worked well together,” he said, “as so often before. We’ve established a description of the man who approached her. Around sixty, dressed in the usual jacket and tie, not tal
l, not small, not fat, not thin. Light eyes, thin lips, complexion on the dark side. No rings on his fingers. He spoke some Basel German, but not pure. The only striking thing about him was his mop of grey hair. Angel, who was also in the Klingental, thought it was a wig. He paid for champagne but only drank a little. According to Angel, he was certainly nervous but managed to conceal his nervousness. Have I left out anything important?”

  Hunkeler pushed his plate away. He wasn’t enjoying the food any more.

  “So you’re going to give up,” he said.

  “No,” Füglistaller said, pouring himself more wine, “I refuse to give up. But we had three men assigned to the case, and with you it’s four. And nothing’s come of it. We have no suspect. It could have been any sixty-year-old of average height I came across in the street. As you know, we have a new case now that some of the press is giving headline treatment. Bernhard Schirmer, the Albolives van that blew up on the Dreispitz estate. The Albanian, Gjorg Binaku, who’s disappeared. And Bernhard Schirmer drove trucks back from the Balkans for Albo. We’re not going to let that rest. Albo is registered in Binningen, that’s in our area.”

  “I assume,” Hunkeler said, “that Suter asked you for this.”

  “True. But I still make the decisions myself, and that seems to me to be right.”

  Hunkeler picked up his glass and slowly emptied it. It was a superior Beaujolais, but it still didn’t taste right.

  “Frau Amsler and Hardy both had their earlobes cut open,” he said. “Who would do that kind of thing? If it was the same man who did it twice, then he’ll do it a third time. If we want to stop that happening, then we have to find the man who murdered Barbara Amsler and Hardy Schirmer. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, that’s what we ought to do. But I’m short of men.”

  “I’ve been put on the sidelines,” Hunkeler said. “I assume you’ve been informed.”

  “Yes. And I’m not happy about that, I can tell you.”

  “Still,” Hunkeler said, “I can’t abandon the Amsler case. I refuse to. And I’m sure the Schirmer case is linked to it.”

  “Right,” said Füglistaller, “you’re keeping at it. And if you want to know anything about Albo or Gjorg Binaku, I’ll help you.”

  At three Hunkeler went into the Waaghof. He felt good, more relaxed than he had been for a long time. He’d found an ally in Füglistaller, who’d supply him with information. The old guard, he thought, the old soldiers, they stuck together through thick and thin.

  Then it occurred to him that he’d had quite a lot of wine. Three halves had been on the final bill. That was a litre and a half, a bottle for each of them. He never drank that much at lunchtime. In the evening certainly, in the evening yes, then off to bed for a good sleep. At lunchtime no, at lunchtime one glass and then back to work.

  He had a wry grin on his face as he walked along the corridor to the cells for people awaiting trial. He was definitely a bit tipsy.

  The guard, Alfred Kaelin, was sitting asleep at his little table. There was a crossword puzzle in front of him.

  “Alfred Kaelin,” Hunkeler said, “wake up.”

  The man, around fifty with a prominent beer belly, woke with a start, horrified. “Inspector,” he said. “Sorry. Surely I didn’t fall asleep?”

  He quickly picked up the crossword puzzle and put it in the drawer.

  “I would very much like to talk to Herr Binaku,” Hunkeler said. “What’s his first name?”

  “Ismail. Ismail Binaku. He speaks excellent German. But you’re not allowed to talk to him.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’ve been specifically excluded from this matter. I’m sorry, but those were Herr Madörin’s express instructions.”

  “I’ve been the inspector here for years,” Hunkeler said. “And I wish to talk to Ismail Binaku, who has been detained here. At once. And in private.”

  “Go on then, on your head be it.”

  Kaelin stood up and led the way back down the corridor, where he opened cell number nine.

  “The door is to stay open,” Hunkeler ordered. Kaelin nodded and withdrew.

  In the cell an old, well-groomed man with white curly hair was sitting at the table reading a book.

  Hunkeler introduced himself. “I would like to talk with you,” he said.

  “Go ahead.” The man pointed to the bed. Hunkeler sat down.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Broken April, a novel by Ismail Kadare. It’s about blood feuds in Albania.”

  “Why are you reading the book in a German translation when you’re Albanian yourself?”

  “Because I love the language of Goethe and Heine above all else. My father was Albanian, my mother came from Graz. We lived in Sarajevo. I went to the German school there. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  He really was a well-turned-out gentleman, a handsome old man.

  “I’m seventy-two now. I’ve been through quite a lot. I’ve lived in Cairo and Beirut. I set up an olive oil business here in Basel thirty years ago. But I’ve never been in prison before.”

  Hunkeler looked round. The bed, on which he was sitting, a table, a chair, the door to the lavatory and shower. The barred window.

  “I’m not involved in your case,” he said. “I’m here purely out of curiosity. I’m wondering who killed Bernhard Schirmer.”

  “I heard about that. But Albo has nothing to do with it. I swear to that,” he said, putting his hand over his heart.

  Hunkeler looked at his outstretched hand. Clean, manicured nails, a gold ring with a black stone in which a bird was engraved.

  “What kind of bird is that?”

  “That’s a falcon, our family coat of arms. The falcon sees everything. And it kills with one strike of its claws.”

  “Does your son Gjorg have a ring like that?”

  “Of course, we all wear one.”

  “You do know that they are looking for your son. He should come and give us information about the red Suzuki, about its load, for example.”

  Binaku gave an obliging smile.

  “You’re asking out of pure curiosity, are you, Inspector?”

  Hunkeler smiled back, sweet as honey.

  “The red Suzuki had a consignment of olive oil,” Binaku said. “Olive oil is the most valuable product of the Mediterranean. A people that possesses olive trees will never perish. My son and I deal in that product.”

  “Who, then, could have an interest in blowing up that product?”

  “In the Balkans,” the handsome man said, “one animal hunts another. The skies are swarming with birds of prey. The powerful eagle pursues the falcon with wings widespread. The Berisha family. The ground is teeming with poisonous snakes. The Prela family. The falcon grasps them and throws them in the air.”

  “Is that why you’re reading a book about blood feuds?”

  “I’m reading it because Ismail Kadare is a great novelist. You ought to read it too, Inspector. Then you would understand certain things better.”

  Hunkeler noticed how hot he was getting. The room was presumably overheated. Moreover, the man seemed to have a strange power over him that he could hardly resist. Was it his dark, calm voice, was it his assured, almost serene look? But what was the point of all this stuff about eagles and snakes and blood feuds?

  “May I smoke?” he asked.

  “Please don’t,” the old man said. “I can’t stand it.”

  “It’s too hot in here,” Hunkeler declared, standing up. “And I need a cigarette. Come with me.”

  Binaku remained sitting in his chair. He smiled politely.

  “Am I allowed to leave this cell?”

  “We’ll go to the cafeteria. I presume you won’t run off?”

  “What an idea, Inspector! A falcon doesn’t run away from a dog.”

  Now what does he mean by that, Hunkeler wondered, whom is he referring to as a dog? He was about to turn round and ask the handsome old man. He briefly saw him about t
o make a short, swift movement.

  When he came to again, he was lying curled up on something hard. He felt that immediately. He opened his eyes and saw a plank bed, a chair. And a cell door that was closed.

  Then he felt the pain. It was in the left side of his chin, it was everywhere in his skull. He cautiously moved his tongue. There was something that didn’t belong there. And at the bottom on the left there was something missing that really ought to have been there.

  He sat up and spat out two teeth. It had been a powerful blow, a clean right hook from the handsome old man, right on the chin. He started to grin, but then he felt the pain in his temples again.

  He lay down again and tried to breathe calmly, to concentrate on the situation he found himself in. It was bloody awful, he saw that at once. He held his breath so that he could hear better. He could hear nothing, not even from outside. He took his watch out of his trouser pocket: it was shortly before four. So the meeting would go ahead without him. Now he did grin; that was OK by him.

  Then he remembered his mobile phone and what was inevitable, inescapable. He rolled over on his belly, pulled himself up onto the bed with both hands and sat down. It was a painstaking business, but he managed it. He wondered whether to call the police emergency number. No, he didn’t want that, he didn’t want to see any laughing policemen just now. He punched in the number of Frau Held at the reception desk.

  “It’s me, Hunkeler. I’m sitting in number nine. The door’s locked. Come and get me out, please.”

  “My God,” she said, “why aren’t you at the meeting? But Herr Binaku’s in number nine.”

  “Not any longer, I’m stuck in here now. I suspect that Herr Binaku walked politely past you a quarter of an hour ago.”

  “Was it that handsome old man?”

  “What do you mean, handsome? He had a bloody hard right hook. And Herr Kaelin has presumably fallen asleep over his crossword puzzle again. Would you please be good enough to give him a kick up the backside so he’ll come and unlock the door.”