The Zurich Conspiracy

by Calonego, Bernadette

  Josefa wrinkled her brow. “I somehow can’t conceive of Schulmann knowing about the bugs before he discovered the tapes in Bourdin’s room. Our cunning little Francis wouldn’t take that risk.”

  “I have to agree with you there; after all, Schulmann hadn’t been with the company for long. Why would Bourdin make himself vulnerable by having an accomplice? But the way I see it, Bourdin and Schulmann both wanted the same thing: control of Loyn. Schulmann as manager, Bourdin as creative genius. But Bourdin was wrong about Schulmann; the guy was only after power and didn’t give two hoots about the company or its products.”

  Josefa shoved her hands into her coat pockets and pressed her arms to her body. It was cold in the church. “Nevertheless, it still doesn’t make any sense,” she said pensively.

  “What?”

  “That Bourdin would kill Schulmann. Schulmann left a note saying that if he were found dead his cause of death was to be investigated. Not a word about Bourdin. If Schulmann had even the merest suspicion about him, he’d have acted accordingly.” She was shivering. “No, Schulmann must have felt very secure, very superior as far as Bourdin was concerned.”

  Paul wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck. “The fact he didn’t name names is a method psychopaths use to victimize someone by casting suspicion on innocent people and—”

  Josefa interrupted him. “So let’s say Bourdin and Schulmann wanted to take over Loyn. Thüring, Westek, and Salzinger wanted to as well. But the company was not to be had!”

  There was a sudden silence in the church; the tourists had disappeared. The two of them were lost in thought, until Paul said, “That brings us to the mole. What information did Thüring and Westek get that led them to believe they could force Walther to sell?”

  “That’s what Westek said, not Thüring. But…who gave him that information?”

  “Nobody in top management, certainly, nobody who had access to top-secret data, Walther’s CFO, for example. People like that could only lose, I mean, lose a lot of money. Besides…you can hide a lot of things in a family business; they don’t have to release the numbers the way a public company does,” Paul stated.

  Josefa nodded. “Maybe Schulmann found a way to access important data; he was a good hacker. He certainly tried to steal computer data. There’s still a question as to how far he got with it?”

  “But Schulmann definitely did not give any data to Westek,” Paul objected, almost whispering; the church had grown so quiet.

  Josefa had to smile. “We’re acting as if we know something. But we’re just playing cops.”

  Then a thought crossed her mind. “Maybe the gang of four was blackmailing Walther.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at it this way.” Josefa hesitated, uncertain how far to get into it. “A friend of a friend said he saw a certain prominent Zurich businessman in a gay bar in London.”

  “Wow! That puts a whole new light on things. But who’d give up his life’s work because of a blackmailer? That doesn’t save him from being blackmailed later. But still…that sure is an interesting angle.” He moved his legs around again. “But of course…if it had been blackmail, why would Thüring and company need a mole?”

  “We’re none the wiser.” She heaved a sigh.

  Paul clicked his tongue. “Six crooks are dead, but the world isn’t one iota safer.” He laughed hoarsely. “Only a few bears in Canada and a few deer in Vals can breathe easier.”

  “Why in Vals?”

  “Because Salzinger can’t go hunting there anymore.”

  Josefa looked at him in surprise. “You told me he was in the Canton of Wallis. Vals is in Graubünden.”

  Paul shook his head. “You see how good my geography is. But it was in Vals; I’m dead sure. He was seen at a thermal spa in Vals shortly before his death.”

  “How do you know that?” Josefa felt as if the pew were catching on fire beneath her. Vals. Where Helene always used to go hunting with her father.

  “I read the papers, my dear.”

  How did I miss it? She just couldn’t sit still any longer. She tugged at Paul’s sleeve in irritation. “Come on, they’re about to lock up. We’ll have to admire the Chagall windows another time.” She took the opportunity to deliver a short prayer up to heaven. A prayer for Helene.

  “Dreaming up murder scenarios in a church, that’s not exactly pious,” she whispered to Paul on the way out.

  He waved his hand. “We went in fighting and came out in peace. If that doesn’t please him up there!”

  Sometimes it was maddeningly difficult to prove Paul wrong.

  “I cannot give you any personal information about Sali Emini,” Dr. Derungs said, resolutely. “You are not a relative, so therefore you have no right to any data on him.”

  Josefa leaned back in her chair, annoyed. Duri Derungs, acting director of Zurich’s Medical and Psychological Services for Schools, was a strikingly handsome man with a mellifluous voice. But what he was spouting at the moment did not soothe her in any way. It only took a few minutes for her to label him arrogant, but Josefa suppressed her annoyance because he had made the time to talk to her.

  “Perhaps you misunderstand. I only want to be able to help Sali more,” she began.

  Derungs cut her off at once. “I don’t know what kind of help you mean, Frau Rehmer, but Sali receives psychological, therapeutic help from our trained experts.”

  It cost Josefa some effort to remain patient. “Sali is obviously a traumatized child. What I don’t understand—and you can generalize about war-damaged children if you like—what I don’t understand is why Sali presents no aggressiveness or other striking behavioral patterns. What’s going on inside? How can I help him overcome his war trauma?”

  The psychologist frowned. His answer came very slowly, as if he were addressing a schoolgirl. “These children react in quite different ways. Some become depressed, others conform too readily, many display destructive behavior or constantly rebel. But many withdraw completely, emotionally.”

  Josefa did not relent. “That’s precisely what worries me, that Sali is outwardly so completely normal. But he’s experienced war, and his parents were killed. He never talks about them. I don’t know if I should even mention his parents.”

  Dr. Derungs leaned forward and folded his slender hands. “May I ask you something, Frau Rehmer? Why are you interested in the lad?”

  Josefa blinked in annoyance. What sort of a question was that? “We live in the same building, and his uncle has asked me several times for help filling out forms for the school or with Sali’s new glasses. I often take him on outings—with his family’s permission of course.”

  “Do you have any children? Are you married?”

  “No to both. Why do you ask?” Her voice became a touch sharper.

  “You like the boy, do you not?”

  “Of course. But…What are you trying to say, Herr Derungs?”

  “Simply give the child some attention, let him feel that you like to be with him. But do not attempt any therapy with him. We’ll take care of that.”

  Josefa, now incensed, shook her head, “No, you’ve got the totally wrong idea, that’s not my point at all—”

  “Sali has been fortunate in the midst of misfortune,” Dr. Derungs continued. “He has an uncle and aunt who lost two sons in the war and are giving him loving care. And he has a large clan that still exists to some extent. Your assistance, Frau Rehmer, is certainly valuable and welcome to his family. But you should prepare for the time”—now the psychologist was looking her straight in the eye—“when Sali will vanish from your sight, sooner or later.”

  “Whatever is that supposed to mean?” Josefa no longer made any effort to be polite.

  “His family could be sent back to Kosovo after the war, for example, or return of their own free will.”

  Now Josefa leaned forward as well. “Herr Derungs, I must tell you frankly that I do not see where you’re going with this. Do you have to deal all the time with
people who question your work with these children?” She could smell his aftershave: Givenchy pour Homme. Bourdin had used it too.

  “No, it’s not that. I would just like to point out that one day you will have to leave Sali, and that the separation is not always easy—for either party.”

  Josefa stared at the man before her. She’d come to find out something about Sali, and now suddenly it was all about her. This paper-pusher has a screw loose, she thought.

  “Sali is not filling some vacuum for me,” she managed to get out. “He came into my life, I was asked for help, and I like the kid; I help him with his homework. I don’t want to put him in therapy or adopt him or alienate him from his family.”

  She had risen from her chair in her anger. “You probably think I’m some kind of rich bitch who’s suddenly discovered her heart over an orphan from the Balkans and is going to use this poor kid to solve her own problems!” She shoved the chair away quickly and put both her arms on his desk, making the psychologist pull back reflexively. “But you know what: He does help me in fact—this little boy helps me see the world differently. No, he helps me see a different world—a more diverse, brightly colored world than you can probably ever conceive of,” she snarled. “Thank you for this helpful conversation, Herr Derungs.” She turned around, opened the door, and stormed out.

  It was dark. The air seemed colder and damper than in the morning. But Josefa could still feel how hot her face was. Her skin was taut; she didn’t make any effort to put on her gloves but ran down Seestrasse as if she were being followed. A streetcar stopped a few steps in front of her, but Josefa ran blindly on. She turned near the Stadelhofen Station and went in the direction of Lake Zurich.

  She came to a stop in front of the opera house. She had a stitch in her side and had trouble catching her breath. Groups of chattering people were streaming into the high, brightly lit doorways. There was a roaring in Josefa’s ears, blood was pounding in her temples, and a milky wave was swimming before her eyes. She felt the metal chain in her hands and started spinning the steel ball, haltingly at first, then faster and faster and more and more powerfully and menacingly. Now the ball hit, blow after blow, crushing walls and pillars, cutting through buildings, mercilessly mowing down everything within its radius. People fled screaming out of its murderous path. But something was still standing, a pitiful little figure, a boy with big ears and eyes wide open. Sali, Josefa screamed, go away! Run. Fast! She couldn’t stop the ball; it was flying at breakneck speed, higher and higher. The little boy ducked, the ball just missed him by a few inches, took off, and shot up into the sky.

  Josefa looked at the child on the ground. It lifted its head—but it wasn’t Sali, it was a girl! Her black hair was in ringlets, and dark lashes framed her terrified eyes. She said something that Josefa didn’t understand.

  A cold shudder ran through her body. She shut her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again, the girl was still standing there. She looked at her, bug-eyed, and said something again. The brightly lit opera house was in the background; a few people were running for the door. Josefa noticed a young woman in a yellow anorak, looking at her expectantly. Then she heard the girl’s voice, “You lost your gloves.” The little one held out something dark blue to her. She must in fact have dropped her gloves.

  Josefa regained her composure enough to be able to stammer in her friendliest voice, “But that’s very kind of you.” She said to the girl’s mother, “Such a bright, considerate little girl.”

  “Yes, she was always like that. She’s always helping somebody or other. I don’t know who she gets it from.” The woman laughed and Josefa smiled. She waved to the girl, who was now walking away holding her mother’s hand and repeatedly turning around to look at her. Josefa didn’t notice until now that the girl’s hair was hidden beneath a furry cap. Maybe she didn’t have dark hair. Or long, black eyelashes.

  Josefa took deep breaths, the cold evening air filling her lungs; her head suddenly felt light as a feather. The glow on her face was gone, her mouth and her temples were no longer tense. She pulled on her blue gloves and hiked home with a firm step under the glow of the street lights.

  The morning meeting in Zurich’s Criminal Investigation headquarters was drawing to a close. The mood was both subdued and slightly edgy. Two murders and still no suspects. Or too many suspects. Franz Kündig had one of the Zurich newspapers before him. “Murders In Zurich Finance World Still Unsolved,” a headline read. “Westek Accident Was Murder. Porsche Sabotaged. Police Investigating Persons Unknown.”

  Kündig had already read the newspaper article in his office at seven that morning. He wanted to go to the conference prepared; it was always good to know what the media were speculating. And they weren’t shy about it. “Was Thüring’s Tenerife Drowning Really Accidental?” “Did Feller-Stähli Get Lost All By Himself?” “Did Henry Salzinger Actually Fire Shot From His Rifle?”

  Kündig also wanted to check that the few facts he could give to the press had not been misquoted. “We have no evidence that Beat Thüring, Henry Salzinger, and Urs Feller-Stähli were murdered”; “Based on our investigations until now, Van Duisen is not a suspect”; “We know where Van Duisen is. He is cooperating with investigators but does not want to comment publicly on the events.”

  Kündig drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. Too many suspects and still no concrete evidence, no really hot clue. The tapes from Schulmann’s place hadn’t turned up anything useful. The media were applying pressure. The police chief in the canton administration was turning up the heat too. And Kündig’s own ambition was starting to get the best of him.

  “Anything else?” Kündig asked, looking at his watch and then around the table. Heinz Zwicker said, “We’ve got transcripts of the phone calls.”

  Ah, yes, the transcripts, Kündig sighed to himself. The judge had given them permission to tap Loyn’s phones. It was an act of desperation. All other leads had gone nowhere. Schulmann certainly had enemies, but what careerist clawing his way up today does not? Jealousy and egomania are two of the most common emotions in a world where feelings officially have no place.

  “Anything special?” he asked. He was under stress because he was heading the Schulmann case and two others. And now the Westek case was his as well. He had two little kids at home and a newborn that wasn’t sleeping through the night. His wife complained he was working too hard; she wanted him to cut back, but that was impossible now. It would have cost him his career, and this was the chance of a lifetime.

  Kündig realized he hadn’t heard a word his colleague was saying. “Sorry, Heinz, I didn’t catch that.” Zwicker looked at him in surprise but patiently repeated himself.

  “Josefa Rehmer phoned Marlene Dombrinski about an earring that was found in the party tent. At Loyn’s golf tournament.”

  “So?” Kündig asked impatiently. The meeting had run ten minutes over already.

  “She told Frau Dombrinski that the earring belonged to the wife of the famous golfer, Colin Hartwell. Frau Rehmer had put the earring aside at the time, in the office, because nobody knew whose it was. Frau Dombrinski said she could hardly imagine that was the case because she had just met Pamela Hartwell recently at some event. Frau Hartwell would certainly have inquired about the earring.”

  Kündig looked at his watch again. “Heinz, I should have left long ago. Please get to the point.”

  Heinz Zwicker was as ponderous as he was insistent. “Frau Rehmer said to Frau Dombrinski that she’d seen photos of Pamela Hartwell crawling under the table in the tent—during the ominous photo shoots with the golfer.” Zwicker paused for effect to see if everybody had grasped the import of his words. “Frau Rehmer said Pamela Hartwell was definitely looking for her earring because in pictures taken earlier she was still wearing both earrings.”

  “And so?” Kündig stared at his colleague. Who stared right back.

  “Have you ever seen photos of Pamela Hartwell crawling under a table?”

  Kündi
g pushed his chair back. “Can’t remember. There are photos by the ton. Follow it up.”

  Zwicker remained seated, unfazed. “But I’m off for three days to Germany because of Westek’s Porsche.”

  Kündig closed his briefcase. “OK, then do it when you’re back. Meeting adjourned.”

  After an atypical end-of-January thaw, the beginning of February witnessed freezing temperatures. A thick layer of ice lay on the pond in Irchel Park, where ducks waddled clumsily around, sometimes skidding over the ice to pick up the dry bread crusts that children and old women tossed to them. Josefa watched them for a while before walking over to the low university buildings. She didn’t have a clue which entrance was the right one, so she asked and asked until she wound up at Ethology. Yes, a friendly woman in a green apron said, you’ve come to the right place for behavioral research, but we don’t know a Helene Meyer. She directed her to the administration building. A young secretary there entered Helene’s name in her computer and did in fact find her. “Here, that must be her. She’s on a research project for alpine swifts, right?” She picked up the phone.

  “I’m sorry. Helene Meyer is out on her forestry program for school kids,” she said, hanging the receiver up. Josefa looked so crestfallen that the secretary added that Frau Meyer would surely end her open-air lesson at the Kohlerwald Woodland School Center where the school kids usually left their bags. She described the location of the school lodge, which was fortunately within the city limits, and Josefa thanked the young woman for her trouble. She returned to her car as quickly as the icy ground permitted and turned the heater on high because her hands felt ice cold in spite of her wool gloves.

  Luckily she located the forest road more easily than she’d expected. A large sign clearly identified the wooden school building in the clearing. A small pickup truck with the tailgate down was parked in front of the rustic building. The lodge door was unlocked, and Josefa went into a room that looked like the kitchen. A pot of steaming water was on a stove, but there was nobody to be seen.