Hunkeler thought. He almost broke off the connection. But then something else occurred to him.
“I’d like to know the same about Thomas Garzoni.”
“Why Garzoni?”
“I don’t know. I’ll be able to tell you when you’ve had a look.”
“I’ll try. Don’t call me until the day after tomorrow. I’ve got a visitor tomorrow.”
“Thank you, my angel.”
“I’m not an angel. I have a yen for an angel.”
After this conversation Hunkeler popped over to the Billiards Centre for a quick beer. Hauser was at the bar.
“These women,” Hunkeler said, “what man can understand them? They tell you something, clear tears in their pure eyes. You try to comfort them and already you’re being hoodwinked.”
“Sounds bitter,” said Hauser, “very bitter, but sounds about right.”
“Grappa or beer?”
“Grappa, if I may.”
As always, men were playing on the billiards tables. In the corner at the back a few Albanian couples were holding hands. Laufenburger, little Cowboy and Nana were sitting at the regulars’ table. Senn, the second-hand bookseller, was there too.
“What’s he doing here?” Hunkeler asked.
“He wants to get drunk. He’s sold his store.”
“Why?”
“He simply had to. A second-hand bookstore in a district like this’ll never work. It’s a crackpot idea.”
He drained his glass and ordered a grappa, on Hunkeler’s tab.
“If a pharmacy can pay its way,” Hunkeler said, “a secondhand bookstore ought to as well. Pills and romantic novels keep people in a good mood.”
“Wrong. People have to pay for their romantic novels themselves, the insurance pays for the pills.”
Hunkeler slowly drank his beer, one sip after another. It tasted good, calming and bitter.
“Where did Garzoni actually get the money,” he asked, “to buy the pharmacy?”
“I’d like to know that too. It was several years ago, for 1.4 million, the pharmacy plus two apartments.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Hunkeler said. “Sometimes I have the feeling I’m doing something wrong.”
He went to the bathroom at the back. The place had previously been a grocer’s and this had been the storeroom. There were two toilets, one for women, one for men. A young man came out of the ladies’ room, clearly an Albanian. He seemed to be startled. But then he gave a friendly smile. He went across to the mirror over the basin, took out a comb and carefully combed his hair. Hunkeler would have liked to tell him that it was the wrong bathroom but he had no time, he was too desperate for a pee.
When he came out again, someone had sprayed a picture on the mirror. It must have been done very quickly but it was clearly a bird. An eagle with wings outspread.
He went back into the barroom and looked round. There was a sports bag beside the little potted tree. The zip was half open. He was about to go over and take a look at the bag when there was a hissing noise, a dull bang, not loud but clear. A murky cloud came out of the bag, clearly tear gas. The men playing billiards looked over to see what was going on. They started to cough and choke and ran out. In a few seconds the place was empty, they were all standing in the street outside, only the Albanians had run off. Nana was holding her Siamese cat tight under her jacket. Skender was crying – it wasn’t clear whether because of the gas or with rage – but he definitely didn’t want the police to be called. Laufenburger was sick in the gutter. The bookseller was cursing the Balkan riff-raff in a hoarse voice.
Richard came over from the entrance to the sex cinema across the road. Little Niggi was there as well.
“I saw him come out,” Richard said, “I was standing at the entrance over there. I’d recognize him again at once if he came here again.”
“I saw him too,” said Niggi. “He ran off in the direction of the border.”
They decided to go across to the Milchhüsli for one last glass. Hunkeler didn’t go with them, he was too tired.
Over the next few days he was driven by increasing restlessness. He didn’t like this sudden nervousness. He tried to keep it under control by going for walks in the Allschwil woods followed by a visit to Harry’s sauna. He wanted to clear his head and think of nothing. He couldn’t manage that. He felt as if he was close to a breakthrough that would light up the darkness all around at one blow, and that it would come from a completely unexpected direction. He suspected he ought to take precautions but had no idea against what.
At lunchtime he joined the two advertising men, who were close friends, in the Art Gallery cafe and had the set meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes and carrots. He listened to the two of them discussing the coming return leg of FC Basel’s match against a top English club. They thought it possible that Basel would be successful and go on to the next round. A difficult task, but achievable. The previous season the team had at least achieved the almost impossible and qualified for the intermediate stage of the Champions League. They talked themselves into such a state of enthusiasm about soccer, as if they were going to turn out on the pitch themselves shortly. Like little boys, Hunkeler thought.
He too liked watching soccer. He used to play himself, every evening after dinner on an old disused tennis court until it was so dark they couldn’t see the ball. Now he didn’t take part in the conversation, it seemed so trivial.
He walked back to his apartment, across Barfüsserplatz and Marktplatz, then up Spalenberg to Petersplatz. The first Christmas decorations were shining in the store windows, with Father Christmases and fir trees covered in glittering snow. There were a surprising number of people out, grumpy-faced as always in November. People kept to themselves, avoiding each other as best they could. It was always like that in Basel, Hunkeler had got used to it.
On Petersplatz council workers were taking down the stands of the autumn fair. They were loading light-coloured boards into a ten-foot stack on a trailer. Hunkeler stopped and watched them. That was honest, clean work: first set up the market stalls, shelter them from the rain with waterproof sheets. Then offer all kinds of goods for sale, books and gloves, leather belts and raclette. Then take the stalls down again and store them away until the next autumn.
He looked up into the leafless elm trees to see if the crows were already there, having flown into town for the winter. They were there, dark and motionless in the trees, as if they were sleeping in the fog.
He spent Wednesday night in Alsace. He went to bed early and fell asleep straight away. He woke up once, it must have been close to morning. He thought he’d heard a cock crow. But it stayed quiet and calm outside. There was a bright light coming in through the window, as with a full moon, but it was diffuse, with no shadows. He got up and went outside. He stepped into new snow as deep as a man’s hand; it was what had made the night white. Grey flakes were falling from the sky, wet and cold and silent, as if it had to be that way and no other.
At ten on Thursday evening he was sitting outside the Cantonal Bank again. It had been snowing there as well, but it had melted, apart from a few patches on the pavement. The air was clear, the fog had risen, well above the town.
There were only a few cars driving past, most heading for the border. The number 3 that went past was almost empty.
He was thinking about the next day, about his visit to Dr Naef. What would he do if he got bad news? Danger of a heart attack, constriction of the blood vessels, for example, because of all the smoking, cardiac arrhythmia? Would he agree to open-heart surgery, the insertion of bypasses or a new heart valve? There presumably wouldn’t be anything else for it.
He called Hedwig and heard her voice on the answerphone. He’d been fortunate with that love, a rare piece of good fortune. Mostly, it seemed to him, he’d had bad luck. He’d attracted bad luck, like a magnet attracting iron, through his intransigence, his pig-headedness, as some people called it. He thought he wasn’t pig-headed. He thought he was precise. That precis
ion was presumably the reason why Hedwig loved him. He had no other explanation for her love. But perhaps that wasn’t right either. Could you love someone for their precision? He’d no idea.
“It’s me,” he said on the answerphone, “your Peter. It’s snowing and I’m feeling melancholy. I’m wondering how anyone can love a man such as I am.”
He looked across to Hermine’s apartment, where the light from the TV was moving. He saw that it was starting to snow again, big damp flakes. They melted immediately on the asphalt.
Shortly before twelve little Niggi came round the corner and joined him on the bench. He was wearing a winter coat and a woolly hat.
“Go to bed,” he said. “I’ll take over the watch.”
“How will you do that? Who do you want to catch?”
“I’ll lie down, as if I was asleep. Richard’s over there. And when the guy comes, we’ll grab him.”
“That’s not allowed. Anyway, he won’t come again, he’ll try it somewhere else.”
“Go home now. You’re old and tired.”
It was true, Hunkeler did feel old and tired. He went down St Johann’s-Ring, home to his apartment. Past the grocer’s, where an Indian family had recently decided to try their luck. Past the second-hand bookstore, which would soon be cleared out. Past the Café Oldsmobile, which was dark and deserted. The Sommereck was closed as well, Edi was probably sitting in his apartment upstairs watching TV.
At the junction with Mittlere Strasse Hunkeler went over to the twelve-sided fountain there. He listened to the water trickling out of the three pipes into the trough. He didn’t want to go home yet. He would have much rather driven out to Alsace. He wiped the snow off the wooden bench under the plane tree and sat down. Then he took out his phone and tapped in Lüdi’s number. He replied immediately, he could well have been expecting the call.
“Listen,” said Lüdi, “you seem to have hit the bullseye again.”
“How come?”
“This morning I tried to get at Garzoni’s particulars. And do you know what?”
No, Hunkeler had no idea. Perhaps he suspected something, but he didn’t know precisely what.
Lüdi giggled, almost inaudibly. “Where are you, actually? I can hear water splashing.”
“At the fountain on Mittlere Strasse. Get on with it.”
“For Garzoni it’s also restricted access. And I can’t crack that one either. And he also has the initials FA.”
“What does it mean, FA?”
“That’s what I don’t know. But what’s striking is that both are restricted access and both have an FA. What made you think of Garzoni?”
“He was Hermine’s lover before Hardy came along. He bought the pharmacy where Hermine works. He lives on the third floor of the Cantonal Bank building. And he goes to the Milchhüsli now and then.”
“Interesting,” said Lüdi. “So it could be a crime of passion?”
“What could that FA mean?” Hunkeler asked. “Have you any idea?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Can’t you find out, for God’s sake?”
“FA must mean Federal something. But that’s all a little police corporal like me gets: sweet FA.”
On the morning of Friday, 21 November, at ten on the dot, Hunkeler went into the joint practice of Dr Naef and Dr Gelpcke. He’d had a bad night, had stayed awake until three and then taken a sedative. He felt tired and listless. He had to start by sitting in the waiting room for half an hour with four other men, who looked pale and wan. Then he had to strip to the waist and sit on a kind of exercise bike. A young lady who, judging by her accent, came from Markgräflerland just north of the Rhine, stuck a couple of probes on his chest and belly. They felt strangely intimate, which he found slightly disturbing.
“How often a day do you do that?” he asked.
“What?”
“What you’re doing here.”
“I don’t know. I’m just doing my job.”
She’s in a bad mood, he thought, perhaps her lover’s run off. He could have understood that, she seemed to be angry.
He pedalled away, cheerful and happy at first, then panting and sweating as the resistance of the machine increased. As the first drops of sweat started to drip off his forehead, Dr Naef came in, a slim young man with the professional expression of an undertaker. He looked at a screen and waited until Hunkeler’s legs tired.
“Not bad,” he said. “Ten per cent over the average for people your age. Stand over here now, please.”
Hunkeler let the angry lady show him where he was to stand. He did it like a good boy and waited to see what would happen. He heard the phone in his pocket ringing. He didn’t dare respond.
Dr Naef sat down at another machine and seemed to be observing something. That lasted a few minutes, then he stood up again.
“What’s actually going on in our city?” he asked. “You work for the police, don’t you? Why aren’t these murderers being found?”
“What murderers?”
“Don’t you read newspapers? That Zurich rag has a long article about the St Johann district. It seems to be the law of the jungle that operates there. A shoot-out practically every day, people from black Africa selling drugs with impunity. Why aren’t the police doing anything about it?”
“Where do you live?” Hunkeler asked.
“Bruderholz. Why?”
“Very nice too. Why are you interested in St Johann then?”
Two furrows appeared on the doctor’s brow, he shook his head indignantly. He was probably not accustomed to people asking questions of him.
“You can get dressed again,” he said. Then he sat at a little table and wrote something down.
“When will I get the report?” Hunkeler asked.
“You can have it right now. You’re basically healthy, that is, healthy for your age. I’ve noticed that you smoke. You shouldn’t.”
“Yes, Doctor. Anything else?”
“What else?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me inside?”
“I haven’t seen anything wrong. Apart from the aorta, which is a bit dilated. The best thing would be for you to come back in a couple of years’ time, then we’ll have another look at it.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
In the corridor outside he remembered that he’d left his raincoat hanging up in the waiting room. He went to get it, relieved and happy. He surveyed the men sitting there. None of them looked up. He felt like giving a whoop of joy, but he didn’t bother because he thought it wouldn’t be appropriate there.
He went into the nearest cafe and ordered a special sausage salad with a beer. He lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke greedily. It was marvellous, he wasn’t condemned to death, he had a life ahead of him. He took the tabloid out of the newspaper rack and read Hauser’s article. So the St Johann district was a hotbed of criminality. It was dangerous to go out alone at night there. It was seething with sly Negroes, and if you didn’t take care you could end up with a knife in your back before you knew what was happening.
That stuff was just too stupid, he felt. He took a sip of beer, fresh from the keg. Then he took out his phone to give Hedwig a call. There was a message and he listened to it. It was Füglistaller, telling him to come to Allschwil Pond at once. A woman had been pulled out of the water there; she’d been almost strangled.
Hunkeler parked at Allschwil Pond. He would have liked to drive up to the nature reserve to get there more quickly. He was prevented by a barrier guarded by two colleagues from Allschwil.
He went up along the stream. He could still feel all the pedalling for Dr Naef in his legs. There was a group of Gypsies by the caravans outside the Rifle Club. They shouted something to him he couldn’t understand, presumably insults. They shook their fists at him.
Parts of the path were covered in slush, the rest was clear. He could see his breath in the cold air. He glanced up at the sky. The clouds were low up there.
A dozen cars were parked by the nature r
eserve. Hunkeler saw at once that there was no ambulance there. They’d presumably already got the woman to the hospital. Which almost certainly meant she was still alive.
The cars of the two forensic squads were there, three of the crime-scene detachment, some other cars and a fire engine. There were a few men standing on the edge of the pond, watching two divers looking for something. By the little bench at the back specialists were scouring the ground. They were being very careful; they probably didn’t want to tread on any possible evidence.
Sergeant Hasenböhler was leaning against the trunk of a beech tree, being sick.
“It’s not my fault,” he spluttered. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Is she still alive?” Hunkeler asked.
Hasenböhler nodded and had to spew up again.
“Is she a Gypsy?”
“Yes. You know her. We both watched her sitting on the caravan steps eating an apple.”
“Who found her?”
“That jogger over there.”
Hasenböhler pointed to a man in the yellow outfit of a cross-country skier. “He was training for the winter season, he said, he wants to do the Engadin Skimarathon. He was running along by the pond and saw her floating in it. He pulled her out, put her across his knee to get the water to run out of her lungs. He shouted out loud and I came running. I called immediately. What else could I have done?”
“What about her ear?”
“That’s it, that was the horrible bit. Someone had torn open her earlobe.”
“Did she have anything in it?” Hunkeler asked. “A ring, that kind of thing?”
Hasenböhler wiped his mouth and chin with his handkerchief. “I don’t think so. Or did you see a ring in her ear before?”
Hunkeler went over to the men by the side of the pond. Füglistaller was there with his team, plus Suter, Ryhiner, Haller and Lüdi. They gave each other a quick nod. There was also a woman of around fifty there, clearly a Gypsy. They were all watching the two divers floating in the shallow water.
The Basel Killings Page 14