But after she’d resigned, Walther hadn’t made the slightest effort to persuade her to stay on, hadn’t offered her a higher salary, and hadn’t made any concessions in her job description. She’d become expendable overnight. How was that possible? Josefa knew she was good, very good even, and they’d simply let her go her merry way. So easy to replace.
Failure was just not in her plans, but this time she had failed. She felt anger rising inside her. Why did she let them do this to her? How could things have gone this far? Why had Bourdin brought Schulmann of all people into Loyn? So that Schulmann could toss her overboard? No, it couldn’t have been revenge. Not for Bourdin and not for Walther. Her instinct told her that. What are they keeping from me?
Josefa closed the magazine. She’d been the victim of a dirty game—she was convinced of that. But the players were not going to get off so easily. She would not leave Loyn empty-handed. She wouldn’t let herself be dumped after five years. She was after something else: an answer she could live with.
She heard applause through the closed door of the “prison hall,” chairs being shoved around, and loud voices. Somebody came into the restaurant; Josefa recognized him at once: Karl Westek. What was the former CFO of Swixan doing at some obscure company’s holiday party? Westek scanned the room, his body bouncing stiffly like a firm spring. Their eyes met. Josefa gave him a friendly nod, but before she could open her mouth he turned away and hurried over to the bored young woman at the bar. Westek said something to the blonde, and then he took her arm and left the bar, without deigning to acknowledge Josefa again.
So now I am persona non grata, even for a fallen angel like Westek, she thought derisively. Did he not recognize her or not want to recognize her? Maybe he was a bit paranoid since two of his old cronies no longer dwelt in the land of the living and a third had gone missing. And who might that attractively dressed woman be?
The door opened again. It was the band, who had a half hour before they went on. Josefa busied herself arranging the final details with the leader of the combo while the other members lugged their instrument cases inside. Koffertraeger—porter. The old man with the tomcat from Irchel Park popped into her head. Porter. She was still proud she hit upon that word. Porter! Why didn’t she think of it earlier? She gave the musicians a little nod and retreated to a quiet corner to dial a number on her cell phone.
When the reception desk at the hotel near the Lake Geneva golf course picked up, she asked for the concierge. She was glad the man recognized her name right away; it spared her a long explanation. He assumed she was still working for Loyn. Josefa asked her question.
The concierge replied that it was Herr Schulmann who had cleared out Herr Bourdin’s things from his hotel room. He corrected himself: No, Herr Schulmann packed Bourdin’s clothes and other appliances himself and then had the suitcase taken downstairs. Herr Schulmann had also taken on the responsibility, he said, of informing Bourdin’s wife that everything would be sent to her. But Herr Schulmann probably forgot to call, he added, because shortly afterward—Herr Schulmann had already left—Frau Bourdin called and didn’t have any knowledge of it.
That was all Josefa wanted to know.
She sipped on her orange juice as she tried to bring it all into focus. Did Bourdin plant the bugs and not Schulmann? But why? What would ever drive him to eavesdrop on people like Westek and Van Duisen? Maybe guests had been bugged at St. Moritz as well. It seemed clear to her that Schulmann knew about the bugs, but she couldn’t figure out exactly when he knew. Maybe he was in cahoots with Bourdin. Maybe he didn’t find out about it until he discovered the tapes and recording equipment in Bourdin’s room.
So had Schulmann removed the bugs in time, before the men came for the furniture? Maybe he’d been blackmailing Bourdin with them? And then Bourdin killed him? Josefa held her breath. Things were more and more baffling.
One last question flashed through her mind: Is Schulmann’s murder in any way connected with Thüring, Salzinger, and Feller-Stähli’s extraordinary accidents?
“I don’t know why I’m doing this—I really can’t stand the sight of blood,” Josefa said to the Red Cross nurse as she was taking off her bracelet. She was lying in one of the trailers parked for a few days on the Sechseläuten Wiese. The Red Cross had started a major blood-donation campaign, and Josefa thought it was high time for her to do a good deed, maybe her only one in the year that was nearing its end.
“Your blood pressure’s very low,” the nurse said, looking worried. “I don’t know if it’s advisable to draw blood.”
“I’ve always had low blood pressure,” Josefa assured her, fearing that she’d come for naught. “Donating blood has never hurt me.”
The nurse looked at her with raised eyebrows. “But promise me that you’ll go to the breakfast area and have a really strong coffee and something to eat afterward.” Her face was stern. “And if you feel the least bit unwell come back immediately.”
Josefa promised and walked out a little unsteadily ten minutes later. It was early on a Saturday morning in December and bitterly cold on the street. A cluster of men in dark coats was standing outside the trailer. Police! What are they doing here? It was a regular deployment, about eight men. She disappeared quickly into the breakfast trailer—only to find herself face-to-face with yet another police officer.
“You here?” Sebastian Sauter exclaimed. He was holding a coffee cup in his hand.
Josefa tried not to appear as surprised as she was. “I smelled blood and thought it might be worth dropping in and having a look,” she responded, more flippantly than she had intended.
“You see, it’s worth it,” Sauter riposted. “So let’s go talk for a few minutes.” He radiated a certain authority in his sharp uniform. His hair appeared freshly washed and his face had a healthy glow. Everything about him seems fresh, Josefa thought to herself. She, on the other hand, was pale as death.
A woman in a white nurse’s uniform brought her a steaming coffee and a roll with butter and marmalade. Sauter sat down beside her at a little bistro table. He smelled of herbal shampoo. A dozen blood donors were sitting around, chatting and noshing, half of them cops, she guessed.
“Were all the detectives in Zurich detailed to give blood?”
“Yes, it’s one of our noble duties,” Sauter said with a wink. “We’re role models for the rest of the population so you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
What did he mean by that? Was she supposed to be afraid of anybody? He surely knew about Schulmann’s sudden death, maybe about her interrogation at the police station as well. Isn’t he in charge of murder cases? At least that’s what Esther said. Then why did he show up at a routine burglary? But she was careful not to broach the subject, and Sauter seemed in silent agreement.
“I admit I’m hopelessly spoiled,” he said.
“Spoiled?”
He pointed to his cup. “You’ve spoiled me. Ever since I had your espresso, no other coffee makes me happy.”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Herr Polizist, you cannot expect the Red Cross to grant itself the luxury of serving Italian espresso. That would be wasting cash donations.”
“But I pay for it with my blood, isn’t that a fair exchange?”
“Even Swiss blood isn’t compensation enough for Italian espresso, Herr Sauter.” Her eyes were flashing.
“What’s Swiss blood got to do with it—my great-grandfather came from the Black Forest. We Swiss have all been ennobled by foreign genes anyway.”
She laughed. “Yes, thanks for ‘ennobled.’ My mother came from Piedmont.”
“Aha. Just as I thought.” He looked at her profile, which triggered a shudder in her. “Your eyes and complexion—there’s something Mediterranean about you. And where does the name Josefa come from?”
The man was asking so many questions she couldn’t eat her breakfast! Once a cop, always a cop, she thought, though she admitted to enjoying his company. She told him how her mother had really wanted t
o have a son so she could name him after Josefa’s grandfather, Giuseppe. But a girl turned up and she amended the name to Josefa.
Sauter smiled, and then his face suddenly showed concern.
“You look a little pale, Frau Rehmer. Are you all right?” How the guy can change the subject so fast! Josefa felt taken by surprise one more time.
“Yes…I’m…It’s better. I…”
A man in uniform opened the door and beckoned to Sauter; he hesitated, searching for words, his gray eyes scrutinizing her face. “Look out for yourself, very carefully,” he said gravely. “You’ve got my phone number.” And he was gone in an instant.
Josefa watched him leave, dumbfounded. Dumbfounded and somehow frustrated. She couldn’t even say why.
The Red Cross coffee was so potent that by afternoon she felt strong enough to take Sali sledding at the Üetliberg. Two hours before leaving she sat cross-legged on her living room carpet checking her camera battery. She intended to document Sali’s adventure in the snow. When the phone rang, she hesitated. Maybe it was another reporter. She let the answering machine pick up.
“Josefa? Are you there?” It was Helene. Josefa dove for the phone; she had to talk to her friend in peace and quiet.
“I’ll be right at your door with a bottle of champagne. There’s something to celebrate.”
That’s just like Helene, Josefa thought as she ran to the kitchen to take some smoked salmon out of the fridge and start heating up some rolls in the oven.
“Yummy, yummy,” Helene exclaimed, entering the kitchen. She probably got the expression from her Canadian boyfriend. “It smells like fresh bread!” Josefa kissed Helene’s ice-cold cheeks in greeting, noticing her friend was sporting a new hairdo, more feminine than usual.
Helene put the champagne down on the table. “I’ve got a lectureship in California, for one year,” she announced, beaming. “And guess what the best thing about it is? Greg’s coming to California too!”
Josefa’s jaw dropped. California. She tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed. “And when does it start?”
“In the summer.” Helene unwrapped the cork. “Don’t look at me like that, Josefa! Be happy for me.”
Josefa rubbed her chin. Well, she couldn’t possibly feel Helene out now on the thorny subjects she’d planned to. “I’m a little surprised,” she confessed, and it was the truth. “Just give me a minute to digest the news.”
Her last words were drowned out by the sound of the cork exploding from the bottle and rocketing to the ceiling. Champagne spilled onto the table, but Helene rescued the rest of it, finally raising her glass in a toast.
“Prost, to our future!”
Josefa clinked her friend’s glass without much enthusiasm. “Whatever it may bring,” she muttered.
“You’ve got a new camera?” Helene had discovered the camera lying on the rug. “Show me…It looks terrific.”
Josefa waved her off.
“You’ve probably got much better equipment, Helene. But I’m pleased with it. Pictures come out well. Have a look.”
Josefa fumbled around in a drawer for a thick envelope with photos of Tenerife. Helene leafed through them, commenting now and then about the colors and composition. Then she suddenly fell silent. In her hand was the picture of Ingrid on the hotel patio. Something in Helene’s expression made Josefa perk up.
“That’s a German lady I met a few times. Do you know her?”
Helene just mumbled something unintelligible, then continued thumbing through the stack. The next picture she stopped on was a close-up of Ingrid.
“That’s Freya,” she said clearly this time.
“Freya?” Josefa was puzzled. “No, her name’s Ingrid, and she comes from Germany.”
Helene put the picture back into the pile. “Ingrid’s her second name. She’s really Freya Hallmark, but she hates the name, so she calls herself Ingrid.”
Josefa gave her a blank stare. “You know her?”
“Yes, she’s my cousin. Second cousin or something like that. In any case the daughter of my mother’s cousin.”
“I thought your mother’s name was de Rechenstein?”
“My grandmother was German. Her husband was from a patrician family in Berne. When he died she took the children and moved in with her parents. That’s why my mother grew up in Germany.”
“And…Why was Ingrid—I mean Freya—on Tenerife at the exact same time I was, and in the same hotel, of all things?”
Helene had a swig of champagne. “That’s the way life is. I believe my mother told me that Freya was going there; that’s how I got the idea to recommend it to you. The rest is pure coincidence.” Helene could surely see the doubt on Josefa’s face so she added in feigned indignation, “Hey, I feel like I’m being grilled…Why are you looking at me so funny—something up?”
Josefa took a sip of champagne before answering. “I saw a picture of Freya in the paper. She was with Beat Thüring in a bar. On Tenerife.”
Helene had just started buttering one of her still-warm rolls but put it aside. She didn’t ask who Beat Thüring was. “Freya’s a lawyer, Josefa,” she explained, with forbearance, as if being quizzed by a curious child. “She advises Germans living abroad, and sometimes she goes out with them. And maybe meets a few Swiss too. It’s a global village, Josefa; haven’t you had the same experience at some time or other?”
Everything always sounded so simple when it came out of Helene’s mouth, so normal. And yet this time Josefa wasn’t finding it so easy to trust her.
“So Freya goes to Tenerife often?”
“Depends on the job situation, I suppose. Why do you want to know?”
But Josefa was already on to her next question. “Why did she not reveal her identity? Why did she not tell me who she was?”
Helene licked some creamed cheese and herbs off her finger. “I suspect she was on a delicate mission and didn’t want you trumpeting it about. You’d have certainly asked her a lot of questions, even out of curiosity, and she wouldn’t have been able to answer many of them because of the type of activities she’s involved in. She very often has to be discreet. But you know that from your own job, don’t you?” Helene looked at her encouragingly. “And what else would you like to know?”
Josefa felt she was playing the judge to her own friend. Nonetheless she couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you never tell me about you and Richard Auer?”
There was a long pause as Helene cut her salmon in pieces and scattered onion rings artfully around it. “I was so ashamed. I can’t explain it to you any other way. I thought that if you knew nothing about it, then this painful episode would never have existed.” She leaned back. “In those days I wanted to do what my parents expected of me. Richard’s father was one of my father’s business acquaintances. We both went to business school in St. Gall; I did it for Dad’s sake. But at some point nothing was working out quite right for me anymore. I had a job over the summer holidays at the ornithological station in Zurich—you know the one, don’t you? And all at once I knew what I wanted. What I wanted. That was that. All over with Richard, all over with Dad’s firm…That’s the way it was.” Her eyes were glued to the table as if she were reliving her decision.
They ate in silence. Josefa felt that the time for questions had passed. She didn’t want to bring up her father’s suicide now. There would surely be a better opportunity later.
When Sali rang the doorbell, Helene said goodbye as heartily as ever, and Josefa felt a little guilty for having pumped her friend so hard. But sledding with Sali took her mind off things for a while, including her difficult conversation with Helene—everything except a growing suspicion that she was being tailed.
Two men, who had been sitting behind her and Sali on the streetcar, got into the red railway car on the Üetliberg just when they did. Josefa then saw them at some distance on the sledding path, then at the mountain restaurant, and afterward the same two rode back to the city with her and the boy as far as their apartment buil
ding.
She absolutely had to relax and not panic. She decided to run a hot bath for herself when she got home. Maybe she was imagining everything, maybe her senses were overstimulated and her mind had gone haywire. And Helene—what was she supposed to think of her? She’d showed up at Josefa’s full of joy, bearing a bottle of champagne, and instead of celebrating her good news with her Josefa riddled her with questions that smacked of distrust!
Maybe she was jealous. Something was in play in Helene’s life; for Josefa everything was on ice. She had no plans for the future; she didn’t even know what she’d do for Christmas. She’d always either worked or flown off to sunnier climes. Her strongest desire was to travel far away, preferably right now. Far away from murders and extraordinary accidents, away from dark suspicions and unpleasant questions.
She climbed out of the tub, dried off, and slipped into her comfy housecoat.
Every time she checked her e-mail, as she did now, she was afraid of finding one of those threatening messages, but there hadn’t been any for weeks. Instead she found a message from Claire.
Dear Josefa,
Sorry you haven’t heard from me. But you can imagine how fast things are moving here. With Schulmann out and Bourdin close to a nervous breakdown, I’ve had to fill in everywhere. I’m helping Bourdin with marketing and Walther with communications. Maybe it’s a good thing that Schulmann never filled your position. He always wanted to control everything himself anyway. Luckily he’s now in control of absolutely nothing. Walther is very pleased with me, and I get a kick out of that. I’ve always wanted to be really challenged. I’m doing all I can to keep our stars from flying the coop.
The Zurich Conspiracy Page 16