“Yes, they are,” she said, walking away.
From the distance between his left and right footprints it was clear that Niksch hadn’t been running. He’d walked. Which meant that at this point Hollerer must have been in the car still, he hadn’t yet been shot. Maybe he’d been able to get himself to safety.
For a while the footprints of the two pursuers ran directly alongside Niksch’s. Then one set moved to the other side. They’d trapped him in a vise.
And a few feet beside these, apparently unaffected by it all, the small, ephemeral sandal prints of the monk, at times so soft that she could barely make them out.
She continued uphill for a few minutes, then down toward some woodland. Here there was more snow, the ground beneath it was uneven and Bonì kept sinking into ploughed furrows. She made no effort to hide her presence. Occasionally she stopped to listen, but there was nothing to be heard.
Just before she got to the woods the moon rose.
The footprints came to a halt at a stream, and she dropped to her knees to recover her breath. The cold air rasped at her lungs; her head and ears were hurting. The rippling of the water sounded cheerful and heartening. Gasping, she tried to penetrate the pallid darkness with her gaze.
Nothing.
Just the faces of the girls and the mother. Nikki’s alive, they said as Bonì struggled to her feet. Yes, she said, he’s alive and I’m going to bring him back to you.
She leaped through the stream with huge strides, horrified to realize that she didn’t feel the cold of the water.
Now the footprints merged, becoming a single track on the narrow path. There was a steep bank of about ten or thirteen feet. On the slope and at the bottom there was no snow. But she could clearly see the path they had taken. She ran on.
Next to a tree a little way off the path she saw a dark body on the ground. She froze when she recognized the green and beige of a police uniform. But it couldn’t be Niksch, Niksch was slimmer and taller, and when she kneeled beside the dead body lying on its stomach, it struck her that Niksch’s hands were more delicate and his hair lighter. Carefully, she lifted the corpse by the shoulder. For a moment she thought it really was Niksch, but the dead officer only looked like him: young too, and with a very narrow face. She brushed earth from his cheek, then gently let him back down.
The police jacket was saturated with blood. They had shot him from behind in the head and midriff, then dragged the body away from the path.
One man seriously injured, one dead . . . She knew what had been going through Bermann’s mind: if you were a man, you’d have been more assertive. You’d have dispatched an armada. You’d have managed to convince me. You could have prevented all this.
Bonì stood up. Where now? Follow the path? She came back on to it and stood there. She sensed she had barely any energy left. Then her legs gave way. The forest floor was soft. Rolling on to her back she stared up at the half moon above her.
A short while later she labored to her feet and ran on.
But there were no more footprints. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, maybe a few hours, Louise had lost all sense of time. She followed the path, went off to the left, rejoined the path, turned right. No more snow, no more tracks. She had to sit down more and more often. She could no longer feel her legs below the knee, a ball of ice bounced around in her lungs. She was shivering uncontrollably. She found herself standing on the edge of the forest, looking at a silent field with a thin mantle of snow, shimmering like wax in the moonlight. Tire marks cut through the slush at the edge of the forest, from broad tires, perhaps a 4x4. But she wouldn’t have been able to say when they’d been made. On another day she might have had a guess, but not now.
The tracks vanished into the dark.
She headed back into the forest and went in the opposite direction. In the damp mud she noticed some tracks she had not seen before: children’s footprints.
The child had been running. After a few feet the ground became firmer and these prints ended too. A child playing in the woods? So where were the footprints of other children, the parents, a dog?
In the distance she heard the deep, solitary humming of a helicopter. The noise remained constant and low. She sank to her knees, wrapped her arms around her torso and tucked her chin into her chest. They were taking Hollerer away.
Louise returned to the young policeman. For the first time she wondered who he might be and how he’d got there. Even though the policeman wasn’t Niksch, she found herself feeling that it might be, and she was confused.
Carefully she turned him over. She sat against a tree trunk and pulled him toward her. He was so slim that she could put her arms around his stomach. The half moon hovered above. It looked wan and feeble, as if struggling to keep itself in the sky.
Bonì began talking to the body. She asked his name, what he’d been doing here and if he’d come across Niksch or the monk. She told him about Niksch and his rally driving, and about Theres who went too.
Some time later she heard people calling and dogs barking in the distance. Circles of light danced between the trees. Another helicopter hovered above her, its powerful searchlight slicing through the darkness.
Now, she told the corpse, we’ll find them.
At that moment she realized that the faces of the mother and sisters hadn’t come back. And it took another couple of seconds for her to understand what that meant.
6
Her period of sick leave began at six o’clock that morning. Almenbroich pulled her hand to his chest and wished her all the best. His words were stern, but heartfelt. She nodded and left HQ. On the pavement frozen snow crackled beneath her shoes. She stopped and asked herself where she should go, what she was going to do. It seemed impossible to make decisions in a world without Niksch.
Bermann had waited a long time. She’d watched him in conversation with Almenbroich, who’d been hauled out of bed, in the middle of the silent Liebau task force—now ten strong—which had gathered around them and three pots of coffee. He was exhausted and tense but seemed more thoughtful than usual. He wasn’t making the decision easy for himself. There seemed to be a weighty argument against it.
But finally he did it, he took Almenbroich aside for a serious talk. Almenbroich unconsciously stroked his high forehead as his gaze wandered through the room and rested on her. No surprise in his eyes, just resolve.
Carrying a sweater, Anne Wallmer stepped between her and Almenbroich’s line of vision. It was a black V-neck. Bonì had difficulty removing her own, the front of which was heavy and wet with Niksch’s blood. Wallmer gave her a sympathetic smile and took it away.
Later they called for her. She’d been expecting to see Prader, the addiction counselor, but he wasn’t there. In Almenbroich’s office Bermann delicately finished what he’d begun the previous afternoon. Sick leave, rehab, a desk job. For a split second the abyss became her lifeline.
Almenbroich had needed no convincing. He too had long since noticed the “signs”: bottles around the place, the smell, inexplicable mood swings and dips in energy, mind blanks, “certain, er, complexion issues.” His elbows leaned on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting in a fidgety triangle. He didn’t take his eyes off Bonì for an instant, his gaze paternal and uncompromising. The triangle became an angular circle, then a triangle again. His disappointment was not visible, but she felt it through her entire being. Cold crept into every fiber of her body.
As the echo of his words resonated in her head, it dawned on her that he’d been describing an alcoholic. For a moment a weary anger flared inside her, but she refrained from explaining to him the difference. Almenbroich had long harbored a suspicion that had been easy to ignore. Now this had been joined by a witness and a terse admission, leaving no further room for subtle distinctions. There were definitions, codes of practice, there was healthy and sick, and they’d already decided that she was sick.
She wasn’t even surprised that Bermann and Almenbroich had leapfrogged all the interm
ediate stages. No confidential conversations, no offers of help, no appointments with Prader, no period of grace, no written warnings. She was being discharged with immediate effect.
But that was no longer important. The only thing of any significance was that Niksch was no longer alive. And that Hollerer might be dead soon too.
She gave Bermann a little more time to shoulder her with the blame for what had happened. When he said nothing, she stood up.
“One other thing,” Bermann said.
She turned to face him and felt a tingling behind her ears. The dark hole inside her opened and molten fury poured out, burying Almenbroich’s disappointment that had settled inside her. “What’s that?” She swallowed and waited for Bermann finally to give her a reason for thumping him.
He hesitated. “None of this should have happened . . . We lost a man and that should never have happened . . . whatever. What I wanted to say was: You’ve got balls, Luis, bloody great balls.”
The hole closed, the fury retreated. Shattered, she turned away.
Almenbroich had got to his feet too. “‘Whatever’ isn’t a good word just now,” he said calmly.
“No, maybe not,” Bermann conceded.
Almenbroich came to her. “I’m not going to blame you, Luis. Rolf has a different view, which of course he’s entitled to, but as far as I’m concerned you acted correctly today. Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise. All right?”
She nodded.
Almenbroich took her hand. “Try to forget it.”
“Has anybody informed the family?”
“Not yet. Would you like to do it?”
She thought of the faces of the mother and girls in the forest. “No.”
She was back home at half past six. Ronescu was already awake, the lights on in his kitchen. But he didn’t respond when she rang the bell.
She got herself something to drink and sat on the bed in her jeans and anorak. The sensation of Niksch in her arms, her holding him to her body, would not fade. She felt his hard head against her chin, his back against her belly and chest.
She wondered why she couldn’t cry.
Crying didn’t seem to be the appropriate reaction to Niksch’s death. Killing Bermann and then crying—now that would have been more apt, she thought.
At seven she rang the hospital, then again at half past and at eight o’clock. Hollerer was unconscious but stable.
Then she called Bermann’s number and asked, “Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Call me back when you are.”
Bermann telephoned half an hour later. She was still sitting on her bed staring at her filthy, damp jeans and wondering whether it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a shower. “You want to hear me say it, don’t you?” he said.
As earlier in Almenbroich’s office he hesitated. Then he said, “You fucked up, Luis, and that’s not a matter of perspective.” He was slow in getting going, perhaps because he was tired or perhaps out of consideration for the sick. But maybe just because, in his eyes, she was already history.
The alcohol, her defiance, her inability to work in a team, her irritating lack of self-control, her mixing up of action and feeling, her dilettante-like behavior at the crime scene in the forest—and the fact she was a woman; her thinking wasn’t logical or structured, her analysis not rational and neutral. He, Schneider and Lederle—all male members of the department—and “even Wallmer” would have acted differently, with more commitment, more conviction, and most of all, with credibility.
She heard a toilet flushing in the background. For a moment Bermann’s voice faded in the roar of the water. Then it was clear again. “The fact that you spent the night with the Jap in the forest . . . I just can’t believe it. How neurotic do you have to be to . . .” He broke off.
They were silent for a few seconds. Then Louise launched into a volley of insults.
*
When Katrin Rein, one of the two psychologists at the Baden-Württemberg Police Academy, called shortly afterward, she was still sitting on the bed staring at her jeans, feeling the weight of Niksch’s body on her arms, chest and belly. Although Rein sounded friendly she widened the abyss by another few grim feet. She wanted to see Bonì, straightaway if possible, and if that didn’t work then she wanted at least to arrange some appointments for the coming weeks. “There’s a lot to do, Louise, let’s get cracking,” she said softly.
“OK.”
“Shall we schedule a few appointments?”
“OK,” Louise said, and hung up.
At around noon she forced herself into the shower. As she dried herself, Niksch’s body seemed to have disappeared from her arms and body. But when she got dressed he returned, momentarily invading her space.
There was another message on the answering machine. Not Katrin Rein or Prader this time, but Lederle. “If you need me, for whatever reason, just give me a call,” he said. He spoke clearly and slowly, and she realized that uttering these words had done him a world of good.
Hollerer’s condition hadn’t changed. They wouldn’t be able to question him for two or three days at least. The nurse tried her best to remain patient, begging Bonì not to call every half hour. Louise gave her word and left her mobile number. “I’ll be away for the next few days,” she said.
When she hung up she stayed on the sofa and tried to remember when she’d decided to go away. And most of all, why she’d chosen to go there, of all places. Drawing the curtains, she swore she wouldn’t open them again until the snow had completely melted.
In the stairwell she met a young woman. She was slim and blonde with a distinctly pretty, doll-like face. A Bermann woman. “I was worried,” the Bermann woman said sheepishly. Bonì recognized the voice of Katrin Rein.
“Unnecessarily.”
Katrin Rein tentatively blocked her way, but kept a respectable distance. She noticed the travel bag. “Louise, we . . .”
Bonì raised a hand in warning. They looked at each other for a moment, then Katrin nodded. “I’m sorry. Will you call me?”
“In a few days’ time.”
Katrin stepped aside. Her bashful smile appeared genuine.
When Louise was sitting in her Mégane in the underground garage, the events of Saturday seemed to repeat themselves, as if everything was starting again from the beginning. The ramp up ahead wobbled, the concrete pillars moved, a blurry Ronescu stepped out of the elevator. Stooped, he shuffled past her in his skewed aura. The gray, fleshy canine face looked stony and melancholy. Silently she promised she’d make up for the ţuică evening.
II
THE KANZAN-AN
7
The village was smaller than she remembered. All of a sudden the houses on either side of the little street receded and complete darkness enveloped the car. She turned around and drove at a walking pace back the way she’d come. Only a few houses still had lights on. She almost missed her mother’s house for a second time; she could have sworn that last year it had been painted dark brown. Now it was yellow.
When she got out she shuddered. It may not have snowed in northern Provence, but the cold night wind smelled of snow.
It took a while for her mother to open the door. She was wearing pajamas, her gray hair was down, her face tanned. She raised her eyebrows. “Well I never,” she said. “The only people who turn up unannounced at night around here are cutthroats and the dead.”
They embraced briefly.
“Did you repaint the house?”
“Only the front—then I lost interest.”
Louise stepped into the little sitting room and put down her bag. Glowing embers crackled in the fireplace. There was a new period armchair and the sofa had been moved around, but otherwise nothing had changed since the previous January. Her gaze drifted across the few photographs on the small bureau in front of the window. As ever these were of unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar landscapes. None of the family, not in this room nor in any of the others.
She turned around. “You ca
n shut the door. Mick’s not with me.”
They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. On a plate in front of Louise were bread, cheese and ham, half a bottle of red wine and a glass within her reach. She tried to ignore the bottle.
Her mother had sat down with a brown woollen blanket around her shoulders and was now watching Louise eat. With the blanket, her loose hair and her dark skin, Louise thought she looked like an American Indian. And in some respects that’s what she was: a warrior. Throughout her life she’d been waging war. Against society, against the patriarchy, against politics, against her husband.
“I was in Günterstal yesterday.”
“And?”
“Filbinger lives there. I thought you knew that.”
Her mother shook her head. “I stopped thinking about that man years ago. Him and all the others. Here,” she said, raising her arms, “they’re not so important.”
“Then we ought to have moved here in the seventies, Papa, Germain, you and me.”
“Yes, maybe,” her mother said. She stood up. “You can tell me why you’re here tomorrow. Tonight I’m too tired.”
Her mother’s day began during the night. At around five o’clock Louise heard her in the bathroom upstairs, then she came downstairs humming. In the kitchen, perhaps because of the empty wine bottle, she remembered that her daughter was sleeping on the sofa. She stopped humming and moved more circumspectly. The aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen. A quarter of an hour later the front door closed.
Louise waited for a few minutes, but her mother didn’t come back. She got up. A profound darkness lurked behind the small, square windows. Frozen, she put some wood in the fireplace and lit it. In the kitchen she drank lukewarm coffee, ate some dry bread and took two aspirin. The family had fallen apart because of Hans Filbinger, but he was no longer of any significance. Perhaps Calambert would stop being of any significance too one day.
She took her mobile from her anorak and sank on to the sofa.
A foreign nurse was on duty in Hollerer’s ward. He said Hollerer had briefly regained consciousness during the night, but hadn’t yet spoken. He was going to pull through, but they wouldn’t be able to say for some weeks whether he’d ever be able to work again.
Zen and the Art of Murder Page 8