The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “That’s a tramp barrier.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Gypsies are tramps. And the point of the barrier’s to stop the tramps driving in here with their caravans. Otherwise they’ll stay here for months on end. Leaving us with the filth to clear up.”

  “But that would be a good place for Gypsies.”

  “No, nowhere’s a good place for Gypsies.”

  Hunkeler closed the window and drove slowly to the edge of the woods at the back. He turned left up to the water tower, rising up high above the beech trees. He parked and put his card on the dashboard.

  He took the footpath through the trees, very quickly, he needed to calm down, get some air. Merry are the woods so green, he thought, where the Gypsies are to be seen. The nursery rhyme came back to mind. He was panting, he’d smoked too much again the previous evening. What was supposed to be so merry about the woods, he thought, when behind every oak tree there was a gendarme lying in wait with a loaded shotgun?

  He came to the edge of the woods, where the border across into Alsace was. There was a notice there that said crossing the border was only permissible with a valid identity card and not carrying any goods. Hunkeler had a valid identity card on him, he was a worthy, respectable, sedentary Swiss citizen. Tramp barrier, he thought, why not tramp gallows?

  He passed an apple tree with mistletoe growing among its branches. The white berries were glistening, looking like something from a fairy tale. He decided to get a bunch down. Three times he tried to climb up, but slid back down with aching knees. So he couldn’t manage that any more.

  By the time he reached the first houses of Neuwiller he’d calmed down. There was a smell of chopped mangolds, of maize cut for silage, of smoke from the chimneys. Once a dog barked at him. It could go fuck itself, it was chained up.

  He went into Luc Borer’s inn and ordered half a Münster cheese with caraway seeds and white bread, and a bottle of water to go with it. He ate with pleasure, dabbing his bread in the seeds and washing what was left of the whiskey out of his limbs with the water.

  *

  At three in the afternoon he called Suter and asked for a meeting, it was urgent.

  At four they were sitting facing each other in Suter’s office. Hunkeler told him what he’d heard from Garzoni. He needed a search warrant, and immediately.

  “I do wonder how you manage to get close to these people,” Suter said. “As it happens, I’ve been wondering that for a long time. No one would ever tell me such intimate personal details.”

  “I’ve got eyes in my head, and I’ve got ears as well.”

  “And you love people.”

  “That may well be. Even if there are times when I find it very difficult.”

  “Is he the one?”

  “I think so.”

  “That is a dreadful suspicion, as you well know. How could someone kill his own people?”

  “Out of perversion. After the things he went through when he was young, we can’t exclude the possibility that his pride in his own origins has become perverted into hatred of his origins, hatred of himself.”

  Suter had put his hands together and was looking at his fingertips.

  “Why do people do all these things to themselves?” he asked. “Surely it could turn out differently. We’re living in a Christian culture, a culture of ‘love thy neighbour’. My God, what a difficult profession we have. We have to pay for the sins of our fathers, even though we weren’t responsible for them. What did those gentlemen think they were doing sixty years ago? Surely you can’t take a child away from its mother.”

  “I think it always gets dangerous when people try to impose their opinions on others, and do so with force.”

  “So it’s that straightforward, is it? Aren’t you making things a bit easy for yourself?”

  “It’s neither straightforward nor easy. It can even get extremely complicated. It can lead to extreme perversion when people are humiliated in such an inhuman way.”

  Suter thought for a long time.

  “Why don’t you just arrest the man?”

  “Right now? That’s not possible. On what grounds? First of all, I have to get into his apartment. I think there must be evidence lying around there.”

  “OK then, you can collect your search warrant tomorrow morning.”

  “Is today not possible?”

  “First of all I have to talk to the senior prosecutor. He’s not always that well disposed towards you. Anyway, you ought to take things easy for a bit. You look very tired. You ought to take some leave. Not immediately, of course, but once you’ve tied this case up.”

  “How about three months’ sabbatical?”

  Suter gave a hearty laugh.

  “Like your Hedwig, yes? It would certainly be possible. But first of all you must catch this madman. You will get any support you need from me.”

  Shortly before nine that same evening Hunkeler was sitting at the television in his apartment watching the match between FC Basel and a top English team. He saw at once that the English team, playing at home, were more confident, calmer in the build-up, giving themselves more time. Then a high cross from the right came over the Basel goalmouth, the keeper missed it, the ball hit the leg of a Basel defender and went into the goal. That was it, Hunkeler switched off.

  How should he spend the evening now? Go to bed, read a book?

  He called Hedwig and left a message on her answerphone. “Where are you again? Watching what film? In which merry bar? I tried to climb an apple tree today to get a bunch of mistletoe and I kept on slipping back down. That’s the way things are. Best wishes from your old Peter.”

  Then he went down and out into the street. The Sommereck was closed, the Oldsmobile too. There were old editions of the classics in the window of the second-hand bookstore. Everything must go, it said. Once-in-a-lifetime low prices. The light was still on in the Indian grocer’s opposite, they were still hoping for customers. There were several rubbish sacks on the pavement outside.

  He went round the corner and sat down on the bench. It was wet from the fog, but that didn’t bother him. He looked across at the pharmacy. Hermine’s apartment could just be made out, the changing light on the ceiling. Hermine was a rich woman now, he didn’t begrudge her that. What would she do with the money? Buy a country cottage, hook a mature man who would stay with her for good? Or take a cruise round the world?

  He wondered whether he should call Hedwig again. He took out his phone and switched it off. Then he went into the Billiards Centre.

  Shortly after midnight Dolly came in. She joined him and drank an espresso.

  “Come home with me,” she said, “and hold me tight. But it’ll just be kisses tonight.”

  They went out together, arms round each other. He could feel her hips swaying. They came to Kannenfeld Park, with its trees shimmering in the bright fog. They went up in the elevator.

  Shortly before six the next morning he was going back along Burgfelderstrasse. He felt comfortable, he felt warm. They’d kissed until they got tired. Then they’d slept for a few hours until he’d woken up. He’d slowly taken his arm away from under her and got dressed, closed the door quietly. He’d had an almost solemn feeling as he went down the stairs.

  He went across Burgfelderplatz and came to the door of the place where Garzoni lived. He saw the rubbish sacks by the grocer’s in front. Something was moving there. He stood, waiting. He could hear a scratching and tearing. When he went on he saw a marten running off. Some of the sacks had been torn open, there were chicken bones on the asphalt, beside them the tinfoil they’d been wrapped in. It was gleaming like silver in the light of the street lamp. Beside it was something with a yellow shimmer, like fine, artificial straw. He bent down to see what it was. It was a yellow wig, which had been in the rubbish sack. He picked it up and went back to the door of the house where Garzoni lived. He wondered what to do. He rang Heinz Marti’s bell and waited for the door to o
pen. Then he rushed up the stairs to the fourth floor. An old man in a red tracksuit was waiting there for him.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the rush?”

  Hunkeler showed him his ID and thumped on the door to Garzoni’s apartment until he realized there was no point. There seemed to be no one in at all.

  “Herr Garzoni went out at nine,” Herr Marti said. “I’m fairly sure he hasn’t come back. I don’t sleep very well, you know. I hear everything that’s going on in the building.”

  Hunkeler took two or three steps back and hit the door with his right shoulder. It hurt, he rubbed his sore side.

  “That’s no use,” Herr Marti said, “the door’s too solid. Anyway, weren’t you here yesterday evening?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point now. Please help me to break down the door.”

  “Have you got a search warrant?”

  “Tomorrow,” Hunkeler panted, “I’ll have one tomorrow. Today, that is, at midday.”

  Herr Marti slowly shook his head. “What a way of going about things. Though he’s an odd fellow, that Garzoni. What has he done?”

  “Oh come on, man,” Hunkeler said. “Stop yakking. Do you have anything we can use to break open the door?”

  “Well, if needs be, I’m happy to help. My hobby’s looking for rock crystals. I’ve got a whole display cabinet full of them.”

  He went into his apartment, he could be heard rummaging round. Then he appeared with a three-foot-long crowbar. “It’ll be child’s play with that, I’ve broken open whole walls of granite with it.”

  He rammed the bar between the door and its frame and pushed against it. The door sprang open. Hunkeler went in and switched on the light. He opened all the doors and looked round. Garzoni wasn’t there.

  Hunkeler went over to the coat stand by the light-coloured mat and took the belt. It was made of silk. He went over to the aquarium and searched through the glittering sand until he had what he was looking for. There was a pearl in his hand and a diamond. He put everything on the table: belt, pearl, diamond and yellow wig. Then he called for the nearest patrol car. “Come here at once,” he ordered. “And tell Madörin and Suter immediately.”

  “You, Herr Marti, will go and stand there by the door and make sure that no one comes into the apartment, apart from the police.”

  He went down the stairs, as quickly as he could, and over to his car.

  He parked by Allschwil Pond. It was pitch-dark all around, the fog swallowing up any light. He switched on his flashlight; it shone a few yards ahead. He took the things he needed – gun and handcuffs – with him.

  The hum of generators could be heard from behind. He went along the path and came to the stream. Across in one of the caravans he saw a light go on, presumably someone making coffee.

  He saw a man sitting on a tree trunk, heard him pour something out. It was Hasenböhler, drinking coffee from a Thermos flask.

  “My God, Hunkeler,” he said, “you did give me a fright. What are you doing wandering round in the dark here, why aren’t you in bed?”

  “It’s the morning, man. The sun’ll soon be up.”

  “Can you see any light round here? It’s like sitting inside a cow. How am I supposed to observe anything when it’s like this?”

  He emptied his cup.

  “Like some?”

  “Please. What’s the situation? Is it quiet?”

  “No, quiet it is not. Since about four there’s been something going on, but I’ve no idea what.”

  “Sorry? What have you heard?”

  “I’ve been hearing things, but I couldn’t say what. Footsteps, branches creaking. The fog seems to be alive. It’s pure horror.”

  “Let’s get this clear,” Hunkeler said. “Have you heard footsteps?”

  “Yes.”

  “From which direction?”

  “That’s very difficult to say. I think they’re from back over there.” He pointed back down into the valley.

  “Have you seen anyone leave the caravan?”

  “Yes, a dog. And perhaps a small female figure, but I’m not quite sure.”

  “My God, why didn’t you say so?”

  He took out his phone and called headquarters. “Please send all available forces to Allschwil Pond, to the nature reserve. The Rural District forces as well. Ambulances too.”

  Then he headed off to the back, as quietly and quickly as was possible in the darkness. He got to the end of the caravan park and went into the woods. He saw a gleam on the trunks of a few beeches. He heard a soft splashing sound. It was a girl, perhaps twelve years old. She was squatting there having a pee. Behind her a dog barked.

  “Hi,” he said, “please don’t be afraid. I’m just a policeman.”

  She looked at him, rigid with fear. She waited until she’d finished peeing.

  “Right, go home now,” he ordered. “At once, and straight home. Then go to bed and stay there until it gets light.”

  He couldn’t say whether she’d understood, but she nodded and headed off in the direction of the caravans.

  The dog beyond him barked, it was more of a panic-stricken howl. Then all was quiet.

  Hunkeler panted up the slope, his flashlight illuminating the way ahead. He heard something like footsteps. He drew his gun and waited. A dog appeared in the beam. It was Kaló. It gave a brief howl then trotted past Hunkeler, tail between its legs. The distant siren of an ambulance could be heard.

  Then there was a shot, short and sharp, as if from a pistol. Hunkeler flinched, as if the shot had been aimed at him.

  He continued up the slope, cautiously and quietly so as not to give himself away. He heard the siren of the ambulance coming closer.

  He reached a plateau surrounded by beech trees. There was a man standing there, motionless, as if he’d been waiting for someone. In the beam of the flashlight it could be seen that he had a gun in his right hand, its barrel pointing forwards at Hunkeler, who slowly crept closer. Then the man dropped the gun. It was Casali. Lying in front of him was a figure in a red wig.

  “Just come closer,” Casali said. “It’s all over.”

  Hunkeler put his gun back in its holster and went over. The man on the ground was Thomas Garzoni. He’d been hit in the middle of the forehead. His wig was shining like red straw.

  “You could have saved the ambulance,” Casali said. “He’s dead.”

  Hunkeler knelt down and closed the dead man’s eyelids. It was a rigid face, controlled even in death. The ambulance had switched off its siren. It was suddenly very quiet.

  “If you want you can handcuff me,” Casali said. “It’s not actually necessary. I want some peace at last.”

  “Be quiet now,” Hunkeler said. “You can talk later.”

  He turned the dead body over on its back and folded the soft fingers back together.

  “It’s all over, Thomas Gerzner,” he said, “the end of your sufferings. Death has taken you home.”

  He heard calls from below, they were approaching. Clearly the men had heard the gunshot.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know, Casali,” Hunkeler said. “How did you find out about the man?”

  “It was Maria la Guapa, she noticed it when he’d been with her. She found two red hairs on her pillow. We’ve kept a watch on him every night. This morning at four I got a call saying he was at Allschwil Pond. So I came. I wanted him to die by my hand. And that’s what I’ve achieved.”

  “You could still run off over the border,” Hunkeler said. “There’s still time.”

  “Would you let me escape?”

  “You’d just have to see, wouldn’t you?”

  Casali tried to smile. He did it quite well. “No,” he said, “I’m staying here.”

  Steps could be heard coming closer. The beam of a flashlight appeared out of the fog.

  “Over here,” Hunkeler said. “Arrest that man. And take the corpse down to the ambulance.”

  On Monday, 1 December, Hunkeler got on the direct train t
o Paris at the SNCF railway station. He sought out an empty compartment in the rear carriage, closed the curtains, lay down on one of the seats and pulled his cap down over his ears and eyes.

  When he woke there was a canal outside in the foggy landscape. A boat was floating on the water, a barge with a woman hanging up the laundry. She looked across at the train hurtling past, presumably about to wave, but she was already swallowed up in the darkness of a tunnel.

  Hunkeler went along through the empty corridors to the front of the train. Between each carriage he put his hands to the walls to keep his balance. He could feel the airstream from below and thought he could smell the brake pads rubbing against the wheels.

  He got a coffee and ordered a croque-monsieur in the Bar Coraille. He sat down at one of the little tables, watched the meadows slip past and sipped his coffee. When the woman at the counter waved to him he went over to fetch his toast. Thinly sliced ham with melted cheese on crispy grilled white bread. It was, he thought, superb.

  He stayed in the bar until Vesoul, where recruits came on board, tired, bleary-eyed lads. He went back along the corridor to his compartment. It was full. He stood in the corridor and looked out of the window. Woods with bare trees, flooded fields, now and then a couple of white cows. Then they were out of the fog. High up on the left he saw the white cathedral of Langres shining in the sunlight.

  He saw Hedwig from a long way off. She was standing at the end of the platform wearing a bright-yellow jacket. They embraced at once, he could smell her familiar perfume. They went down to take the Porte d’Orléans line on the Métro. They were lucky, they found two seats next to each other. He embraced her, kissed her lustfully. She pushed him away a bit in order to take a good look at him.

  “My God,” she said, “just look at you. You’ve gone really grey, even in your face.”

  “Oh come on,” he said, “it’s just two missing teeth. Everything else is in order.”

  “What? Haven’t you had them put in yet? How on earth are you going to eat?”

  “I’ll just have to bolt my food down if there’s no other way. And the oysters will simply slip down anyway.”