“Is there anything that’s struck you during the last few days? Some figure? Some man?”
“Yes, the policeman who’s sitting outside Eva’s room. He’s been watching us all the time.”
“Anyone else? It could, for example, have been a man of my age. Perhaps one with striking hair.”
“The same people appeared every day. Lots with dogs. I notice that every time when our Kaló gives a warning bark. The keep-fit trail starts a bit further back. Several older men run past every day. Oh yes, one did strike me because he had such strange light-blonde hair. I’ve seen him two or three times. He’s roughly your age. But his hair’s almost yellow.”
“Is there anything else that struck you about that man?”
“No, nothing else. Apart from his hair there was nothing particularly striking about him – not tall, not short, not fat, not thin either. But he took a good look at us every time.”
“When did he come every day?”
“Usually on the dot of nine. You could have set the clock by him. I always noticed when he ran past. Kaló doesn’t like him. He started growling every time.”
“Would you recognize that man, in a photo for example?”
She thought. “No, I don’t think so. There was nothing special about him, I can’t even remember what he used to wear. Just his light-blonde hair, that stood out.”
That Sunday evening he went down to Burgfelderplatz to sit outside the Cantonal Bank. It was raining too hard, the föhn wind was making the drops splatter almost horizontally against the walls. He stood in the entrance of the sex cinema, waiting for the wind to die down. A young couple walked past. They were arm in arm, the man carrying a red umbrella that was suddenly swept up and flew away through the air. They both whooped, laughed and ran after the umbrella until they caught it. Then they linked arms again and went on in the direction of the border.
Hunkeler tapped in Hedwig’s number. She answered.
“Good that you’ve called,” she said. “I’ve made a wonderful discovery. Do you know Marie Laurencin?”
He remembered vaguely having heard the name once. Hadn’t it been in Paris when he was reading Apollinaire, Ombre de mon amour?
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Who’s that now?”
“Just like a man. You only know the big boys, Picasso and Apollinaire.”
“What do you mean ‘just like a man’?” he shouted. “I have to go and see the urologist tomorrow. He might cut out my prostate because I’ve got cancer.”
“Oh dear. I didn’t mean to upset you. Is it really that bad?”
“That I don’t know yet. I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow evening.”
She waited, she was thinking.
“I don’t think you’ve got prostate cancer. You’re not the type for that. And anyway, it would be a great pity.”
Yes, that was his opinion too: that it would be a great pity.
“Nothing doing there,” she said, “you haven’t got cancer. If I were to drink as much beer as you, I’d be dashing off to pee all the time.”
“Only you haven’t got a prostate. A prostate’s ‘just like a man’.”
She decided to laugh, she was simply enchanting.
“This is what we’ll do. Tomorrow you’ll go to the urologist and get examined. He’ll confirm that you have a somewhat enlarged prostate. Perhaps he’ll prescribe some medicine. You’ll swallow it like a good boy. Then you’ll come to Paris and go and see the Laurencin exhibition with me. She spent all her life painting the same picture. A young, beautiful, bewitched and unreal young woman. Actually, it’s a picture of a woman who doesn’t exist at all.”
“Agreed,” he said, “I’ll come if I’ve found this guy. He almost killed a girl a couple of days ago.”
She was horrified, he could tell from the way she gasped.
“I thought you were suspended?”
“Not any more. I’m back at work.”
“My God,” she said,” what a terrible profession you have. Listen – the Laurencin exhibition goes on until 9 December. If you can’t find time for me by then, we go our separate ways.”
He stood in the cinema entrance for a while longer thinking about what Hedwig had said. She was right, his profession was terrible, just now at least. And what would he do if he was diagnosed with cancer in the morning? He’d no idea what he’d do in that case. All he knew was that he had to find the guy who’d slit Eva Căldăraru.
Which direction had the unknown man come from, on that night of 26 to 27 October, to go up to Hardy while he was asleep? From St Johann’s-Ring? From the border? Down from Colmarerstrasse? From the town centre? Had he walked past the Billiards Centre? Had he seen the glitter of the diamond by the light of the street lamp? Had he known Hardy?
He heard footsteps. They were coming from the right, from the town centre. They were so soft he could hardly hear them. He withdrew into the darkness of the cinema entrance. The footsteps stopped, there was nothing to be heard for a while. Then they started up again, coming closer.
It was Richard who came round the corner. Going very slowly, as if he was stalking something. He looked ahead, to the square, as if something was moving there. Then he turned round and stopped in surprise.
“My God, Hunkeler, what are you doing here? You gave me a fright.”
“You gave me one too,” Hunkeler said. “Why are you creeping around?”
“I come here every night. I’ll keep coming here until I catch the guy.”
“You shouldn’t be doing that, as you very well know. Please leave it to the police.”
“No, I’m not going to do that. Because the police can’t find him.”
“If you use violence,” Hunkeler said, “there be one hell of a row.”
“So what? What kind of place do you think we live in? We’re not going to let someone get away with strangling a young girl and throwing her in the water.”
“I’ll have you locked up,” Hunkeler said, “if you lay just one finger on anyone.”
He went across the road to the Billiards Centre.
He sat down with Laufenburger, Nana and little Cowboy. Also at the table were Senn, the second-hand bookseller, the pensioner Rentschler, and Joseph the Bavarian with his wife. Unusually, she didn’t seem to be cheerful. She was sitting there motionless, very upright, stony-faced. No one at the table was saying anything.
Across the room at the bar were two well-dressed men of around forty. They seemed to be very fit. They had cups of coffee before them and at regular intervals kept breaking out into loud laughter, a little too loud, it seemed. Presumably two Albanians who were telling each other jokes.
Hunkeler looked at Joseph the Bavarian and then his wife. There was something wrong there. He leaned forward and quickly grasped Joseph’s collar, picking off something he’d seen shining there.
“That’s a lovely blonde hair,” he said. “Perhaps a touch too blonde, too yellow. I assume it’s a woman’s hair. Or is it from a wig?”
Joseph went pale. He grasped Hunkeler’s hand, he was very strong. He took the hair and got a lighter out of his pocket. In a second the hair was gone.
His wife stood up and left without a word.
“Did you have to?” Joseph asked. “She’d already noticed it anyway. You didn’t have to point it out to her specifically.”
“What had she noticed? That you’ve been going round in a blonde wig so no one will recognize you?”
Joseph looked at him dumbfounded. “Tell me, have you gone crazy?”
“He’s got a girlfriend who’s a blonde,” Senn said. “His old woman’s noticed and now she’s mad.”
Hunkeler got up. He really should have gone home to get some sleep, so that he’d be ready for work in the morning. But he didn’t feel like it.
He went down the long corridor at the back to the men’s room. He supported himself with one hand on the wall and rested his head on it. Clearly he was close to cracking up. Why? Was it seeing Eva Căldăraru in the hospital bed th
at had hit him hard? Or was it because he was afraid of the diagnosis he’d get in the morning? He put the lid of the lavatory bowl down and sat on it. He tried to breathe calmly – first breathe in, then breathe out, fill your lungs then empty them, all in one flowing movement.
After a few minutes he went back into the barroom and sat down at a little table by the aquarium. He ordered a second beer and watched the fish swimming round lethargically, opening and closing their mouths as if they were breathing. They must have been some kind of carp, grey goldfish, always swimming up and down the same stretch, pointlessly and stupidly.
Then Skender came over and joined him. “I heard,” he said, “that a girl was strangled over by Allschwil Pond. Who would do a thing like that?”
“She wasn’t strangled, she’ll survive. As to who would do that kind of thing, I’ve no idea.”
“And Hardy? Who strangled him?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Skender got up, went over to the bar and came back with two espressos. “There, you drink that. It’ll do you good.”
Hunkeler emptied his cup.
“Who are those two guys over there at the bar?” he asked. “Have you taken them on?”
“They’re friends. If the police can’t protect me, then I have to do it myself.”
Hunkeler thumped the table with his first, making his beer glass topple over. “Have you all gone mad?” he shouted. “Are we living in Chicago?”
Skender took the empty glass, went over to the tap and refilled it.
“Your good health. Perhaps you should have another two or three beers so you can get to sleep.”
“Thanks. How are your children?”
“The older one’s doing very well at school. He wants to be a doctor.”
“And your younger son?”
“He’s still at kindergarten, he doesn’t know yet. They’re both talking Basel German, just like real Baselers.”
“Well obviously. After all, your wife’s from Basel.”
“Actually, we did intend to go back to Albania and buy a hotel there. But that will probably not be possible.”
“Really. Why ever not?”
Skender lowered his voice, as if he’d revealed a secret. “We thought things would be better after the collapse of the old government. But things have all just got worse. The health service, the legal system, the schools and the economy.”
“The economy was already kaput under the old government, otherwise the regime wouldn’t have collapsed.”
“Perhaps. But back then at least the police functioned. Today there’s no security in the country. There are the old blood feuds again. That’s too dangerous for me.”
“Really? So that’s why you’re employing those two thugs over there to protect your family and business.”
“No, of course not, they’re two of my cousins.”
“Really? And what’s the name of the young guy who set off a tear-gas grenade a few days ago? Isn’t he called Prenga Berisha?”
Skender remained quite calm. “That I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t even know whether it was a man or a woman.”
He leaned forward, concern written all over his face. “You should go home and lie down. You’re talking gibberish.”
The next morning at nine Hunkeler went into the joint practice of Dr Sommer and Dr von Dach. The receptionist directed him into the waiting room. He went in and sat down without looking up. There were more men there, all of around his age, or so it seemed. He kept his head down and tried to curl up in his chair.
“Well, it’s Hunkeler,” the man beside him said. “Welcome to the dripper club.”
It was Thomas Garzoni. He seemed to be pleased to meet someone he knew there.
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Hunkeler, “I don’t feel like talking at all.”
Garzoni nodded and remained silent, but not for long. “Your first time here?”
Hunkeler nodded.
“The first time is always the most difficult,” Garzoni said. “You think you’re going to die right away. But it doesn’t go that fast. And we’re not going to live for more than twenty years anyway.”
“Do stop going on like that.”
Garzoni gave a friendly smile. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and took something out. “There, take these. They’re the best medicine against the drips. Everything else you can buy in the pharmacy is rubbish.”
He gave Hunkeler a handful of pumpkin seeds.
“Thank you very much,” Hunkeler said, immediately wide awake. “The active agent of the pumpkin seed that doesn’t cure the ailment but alleviates it.”
“I know. The lady told me. I had a good laugh.”
Hunkeler put three seeds in his mouth, the rest in his jacket pocket.
“Now I know why you only drink whiskey. So that you don’t have to keep going to the loo all the time, as you do with beer.”
“Precisely. I’ve already had two operations. A third wouldn’t be possible without the removal of the prostate gland. Then goodbye Angel, goodbye Maria la Guapa. Sad, isn’t it? Will we see each other sometime soon?”
“I hope so. Perhaps tomorrow evening.”
When Hunkeler came out from the examination Garzoni was no longer there. He would have liked to tell him that he’d had good news. His prostate was indeed considerably enlarged, Dr von Dach had told him, but there was no carcinoma. For the moment an operation was not necessary. Furthermore, Dr von Dach had given him some good advice: drink a lot of water, he’d said. If you drink alcohol, then just the best Bordeaux.
Once out in the street he called Hedwig. He got her answerphone.
“It’s all gone well,” he said, “you can keep me for a bit.”
He drove back to his apartment and went upstairs. He put two of the pumpkin seeds he’d bought in the pharmacy on the kitchen table, placing two of Garzoni’s beside them. They looked the same.
He went back downstairs and bought a packet of pumpkin seeds in the department store on Burgfelderstrasse and did the same in the pharmacy next door. He took them down St Johann’s-Ring and went into the Sommereck. Edi, a grumpy look on his face, was sitting with a glass of water containing a white powder. “Bring me a glass of Bordeaux,” Hunkeler said, “and don’t look over at me.”
He tore open the two packets, took the other seeds out of his jacket pocket and made four little piles nicely laid out in front of him.
“Cheers,” he said, as Edi put his wine glass down. He took a sip. “Now have a good look,” he said. “There are four little piles here. Can you see any differences?”
“Pumpkin seeds,” Edi said. “They all look the same. They all come from the same producer in Styria. How can there be differences?”
“It was just a question.”
“If they’re fresh,” Edi said, “they taste really good.” He pushed the four little piles together and started to eat them. “They’re still fresh. Have you got any more of them?”
“Yes, here.” He emptied the two packets out on the table.
He went back to his apartment and looked at the chairs round the kitchen table. He’d bought them years ago in the Brockenstube, five of them. Why had he done that, he wondered, there were never five people sitting round the table. He selected one, dark-stained oak with a pine seat. He fetched the plastic bag with his notes that had been on his office desk. He took both down to the car and drove to the Waaghof.
Frau Held’s smile lit up her face when she handed him his key. “It’s nice to see you back,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“What are you going to do with that chair?”
“Sit on it. I like sitting on wood.”
He went up the stairs to his office. It was just the way he’d left it two weeks ago. The swivel chair was in the corner, the box files on the shelves, the computer on the desk. He emptied out the plastic bag and arranged the slips of paper. He put the photo of Crete in the drawer, set the chair by the de
sk and sat down on it.
He recalled that in the last four weeks some things had happened that he didn’t like at all. On 27 October he’d found Hardy dead. On 29 October he’d let old Binaku knock him out. On 30 October Hedwig had come to see him in the cantonal hospital. She’d stayed for three days, then she’d gone back to Paris. He hadn’t seen her since then, far too long a time, it seemed to him.
Following that, he’d gone to Alsace to recover from the concussion. He’d been informed of his immediate suspension from duty. On 7 November he’d found the burnt-out Punto near Heiligbronn. On 10 November he’d cleared out his office. And on 21 November Eva Căldăraru had been found in the pond.
So one catastrophe after the other.
Today was Monday, 24 November. And at last the series of catastrophes seemed to be coming to an end. In the first place he was still reasonably healthy. In the second an image of a possible suspect was slowly forming. In the third place he was back sitting in his office – and in the fourth he enjoyed sitting in his office.
He pushed the chair back and rested his feet on the edge of his desk, first the left one, then the right. He tipped the chair back, very slowly, unsure whether that still worked. It worked well, and he clasped his arms round his knees and laid his head on them. He stayed sitting like that for a while, concentrating entirely on his breathing.
There was a knock on the door. He started, he’d almost fallen asleep. It was Lüdi.
“Are you doing yoga?”
“No. I’m putting myself in a state of suspense. So that I can think better.”
“And what have you found out?”
“Nothing much so far.”
“There’s a meeting this evening at five. We have to be prepared for that. Just read this.”
He put the tabloid down on the desk. The front page had a photo of the pond where Eva Căldăraru had been found. The place was marked with a black cross. Above it in large letters was the question: “Who knows the Basel strangler?” Subtitle: “Has the Basel CID run out of ideas?”
The Basel Killings Page 17
