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CHAPTER 1
Louise Bonì hated snow. Her brother had died in the snow, her husband had left her in the snow and she had killed a man in the snow. It was the memory of this man that particularly discomforted her. Last summer she'd managed to suppress it at times, but during winter it haunted her mercilessly. At home, down at the station, out and about. A bloodhound that refused to be shaken off. Even now, as from her bed she pushed the curtain aside and stared into the snow flurry for minutes on end, this man dominated her thoughts. She pictured him lying on a snow-covered road in the middle of an expanding pool of beautiful, bright-red crystals. René Calambert, a teacher from Paris, handsome, married, one daughter, one bullet in his leg, one bullet in his stomach, both from her service pistol.
She let go of the curtain and sank back into her pillow. It had been snowing nonstop since yesterday lunchtime and there was no prospect of an improvement in the weather today or on Sunday. Freiburg was suffocating in the snow. Her colleagues were looking forward to skiing, her colleagues' wives to a winter break with the family, and her colleagues' children to snowball fights. Bonì was looking forward to a moment without René Calambert bleeding to death.
She glanced at the digital clock. 11:30. She closed her eyes.
An hour later the telephone rang. Louise went into the sitting room and saw Bermann's number on the display.
"Yes?"
"Luis?" Some of her colleagues called her "Luis," effacing both her French background and her gender. Bermann channeled all of his bodybuilder's strength into the "u," perhaps because he was head of Section 11, the Serious Crime Squad. "Luis, you've got to go to Liebau."
"But it's Saturday." "Still."
"I won't," she said, hanging up. Louise was surprised by her own nerve. For a few weeks now she'd been resisting Bermann's habit of exploiting her, ordering her around. Something seemed to be coming to an end, but she had no idea what. She didn't get the impression that her courage would lead her into a new life. More likely into the abyss.
She looked out at the snowstorm. Three faces flashed through her mind. Two belonged to dead people, one to a painful memory.
My three men, she thought. My snowmen.
As she stood under the shower with her eyes closed she found it difficult to keep her balance. Louise opened her eyes slightly but it didn't get any better. Through the gushing water and the closed door she heard the telephone ring again.
A few minutes later she was sitting with wet hair on the sofa in her dressing gown. Bermann had left two messages on her answering machine. The first consisted of a single command: "Call me back, Luis, immediately. I need you."
The second message was a threat: "Luis, if you don't call back in five minutes I'll start disciplinary proceedings and strike you off the task force list." Bermann's voice sounded icy with rage.
She suppressed the urge to reach for her mobile and instead returned to the bathroom, trying not to think about the task force list. For a detective it was painful enough to be absent from it for special investigations. But to be struck off the list entirely was the worst punishment imaginable. You would remember the two or three task forces per year for the rest of your life; everything else was just routine.
By the time she rang Bermann the clock read 13:00. He answered at once. "That's twenty minutes, Luis," he said. "I've started disciplinary proceedings." She could hear chatter in the background, an announcement over the PA system highlighting special offers. Bermann was in the supermarket.
She closed her eyes. "Rolf, I have a day off."
"And I've had it with you," Bermann said.
Bonì was beginning to understand his irritation. For a moment she wondered why that didn't surprise her, or even depress her. "What are Ops saying?"
"Nothing. They haven't been there."
"Operations haven't been?"
"Nothing has actually happened," Bermann panted angrily. "And because nothing has actually happened, and because the operations department is undermanned, it hasn't paid a visit. And because we're undermanned, you're going to take a look."
"Can't Anne do that?"
"No." While Bermann gave a lecture on the staff situation in the operations department as well as in Section 11, detailing illness, parental leave and regular holiday, she wondered how he could have started disciplinary proceedings in a supermarket. Was there a special counter beside the meat one? Forms in metal containers behind a rounded glass screen? Bargains to be had on disciplinary proceedings today, said a woman wearing blood-stained disposable gloves.
She grinned.
"So?" Bermann said gruffly.
"All right," she said. At least she'd have some company. Better than spending all weekend alone at home. It might stop her thinking about René Calambert.
Then she concentrated on Bermann, who was talking about Liebau and the extraordinary things going on there.
* * *
She was still feeling dizzy fifteen minutes later in her red Mégane, squinting into the dim light of the underground parking garage. The ramp was wobbling, the concrete pillars were moving. She shut her eyes, opened them and waited for a moment. She had heartburn and a headache.
In a wall to her right the elevator doors opened, flooding the garage with a harsh neon light. Ronescu the caretaker stepped out of the glare and his blurry figure shuffled past her. She screwed up her eyes but he was still fuzzy. The contours of his substantial body were duplicated, as if he possessed a spiritual aura. She gazed at him in fascination. The mysterious Ronescu was revealing his secret: he was a medium.
She giggled and got out. She'd take a taxi.
To avoid startling him she closed the door softly. "Herr Ronescu," she said.
Ronescu turned. "Ah, Frau Bonì." He nodded, and his long, gray, canine face came alive. His fleshy jowls quivered, the deep furrows on his brow smoothed out momentarily. The aura remained.
"I've got a bottle of tuica."
Ronescu raised his gray-brown eyebrows. "Let's sink it together, then." His eyes remained watery and lifeless. He rolled his "r"s, while in his small mouth vowels became broad, dark and wistful. To Louise it seemed as if they were trying to slip out of German and back into his native Romanian.
Nobody knew for sure where exactly Ronescu came from, or what he had done there. A few vague rumors were doing the rounds of the neighborhood, suggesting that he was a former secret agent who had once spied for Israel in Romania.
Now he was old, widowed and poor.
Ronescu raised a hand to say goodbye and turned away. For a moment the contours of his body merged into each other, then became body and aura again.
She walked up the ramp. Wet tire marks looked black on the concrete floor. She went through the narrow opening set into the garage door. Outside everything was white and snow still fell thickly. She cursed and tramped off to the taxi stand.
As the taxi slid through the city, she tried to make sense of what Bermann had told her. A Japanese man walking through the Black Forest in his sandals. A "Jap," he'd said. Bermann wasn't racist, just lazy. He said whatever came into his head. He had neither the time nor the inclination to think before he spoke. And he'd been furious with her.
"A bald Jap in a black robe," he'd said, before whispering, "Do you take credit cards?"
Hollerer, the officer from Liebau, had called police headquarters. He was at a total loss. The monk hadn't actually done anything wrong, but if he kept wandering through the snow with "barely anything on" it was almost certain he would freeze to death.
Besides, Hollerer had said, the village was in a lather. They were worried that a sect might be about to settle in nearby. Something had to be done — and quickly, Liebau demanded. The mayor was putting pressure on him. He'd assembled the local dignitaries, telephoned around and refused to leave Hollerer in peace. He wanted the case that didn't exist to be investigated.
"Look serious, jot down as much as you can and bugger off again," Bermann had said, his words accompanied by the beeping of the checkout scanner.
Bonì realized that she'd been staring at the headrest in front of her ever since getting into the taxi. Cautiously she looked up. The giddiness seemed to have subsided. She noticed with regret that things seemed to have lost their aura.
She wondered whether she knew Hollerer. The name sounded familiar. Had she met him before? She couldn't remember.
The journey dragged on. Because of the heavy snow, the Saturday traffic had slowed to a snail's pace. With bowed heads and white umbrellas, pedestrians struggled across the bridges spanning the Dreisam. Aristotle and Homer had disappeared beneath a shapeless covering of snow. They passed the scene of an accident and got caught up in chaotic jams. Salt trucks were out in force, yellow breakdown vehicles helping people to start their cars. The young taxi driver was unperturbed, casually whistling monotonous tunes through his teeth.
When there were no longer houses on either side of the road, the whiteness became almost unbearably dazzling. The taxi driver put on a pair of sunglasses, while Bonì screwed up her eyes. They were driving into the void.
René Calambert had died in the void, on a narrow road outside Munzingen. Bermann and the others had run in the wrong direction. Only she had run the right way.
No. She had run in the wrong direction.
"What?" the taxi driver asked.
"I didn't say anything."
"You said: wrong direction."
"Didn't mean to."
"OK." The driver nodded. She sensed that from beneath his dark glasses he was eyeing her in the rearview mirror. He was young — he looked like a student — with wild curly hair. She noticed that his earlobes were unbelievably large, about the same size as the cap on a vodka bottle. They'd turned faintly red in the car's warmth. All of a sudden she felt an urge to touch his right lobe, take it between her thumb and forefinger and play with it for a while.
She'd already raised her hand when the earlobe moved. The driver bent forward and took another pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. "Here," he said.
"Thanks."
The glasses were freezing, the lenses two dark, narrow rectangles. For some reason they reminded her of Bob Marley, Rastafarians and vast quantities of hash. Fifteen years ago she would have worn a pair like these to go clubbing.
"You can give them back to me when we next see each other," the driver said.
She put the disco glasses on. "What's your name?"
"Anatol Ebing."
"We won't be seeing each other again, Anatol."
"Seeing as this must be the fourth or fifth time you've been in my taxi this year, I'd say it's a fairly safe bet that we will." Anatol gave her a brief smile.
She stared at him in horror. He didn't look even vaguely familiar.
In her mind a different man's face began to materialize: round, friendly and tolerant. The face was joined by a body which was equally round, friendly and tolerant. Fat white fingers, which every couple of minutes hiked up trousers that were slipping down. In her memory the face suddenly lost its friendliness and turned a dark red. The man it belonged to was standing in a small kitchen-diner, panting, next to a father who had taken his ex-wife and daughter hostage. Could you really kill someone you love? the man with the red face said angrily to the father. The father looked at him, confused, then quickly lowered the hand that gripped the kitchen knife. I'm glad you couldn't, the man growled.
Hollerer.
* * *
Hollerer wasn't in Liebau. In his patrol car he was following the monk who had by now moved on. He'd been relaying his positions via radio to the small police station in the village.
A keen young officer with the unusual name of Niksch took Bonì deeper into the void along invisible roads. It seemed as if she were gliding across an endless field of snow. Here there were no houses, no trees or fences. Just pylons and crows.
Not even René Calambert would stray here.
Niksch had dandruff and delicate hands and drove too fast. At virtually every bend the rear of the police car swung off the edge of the road. Beaming, he brought the vehicle back under control.
"Great reflexes," she said, wondering whether he was trying to impress her because she was a woman, or because she was almost old enough to be his mother.
"I go rally driving," Niksch said.
"Not now, please," Louise said.
Ten minutes later a police car appeared to their left in the white wasteland, parked at the foot of a bare hill. Halfway up, directly above the car, Bonì could make out a black dot. It took her a moment to realize that the dot was slowly moving upward.
Niksch pressed a button on the radio and said, "Boss? We can see him — he's right above you!"
"You don't say." Hollerer's voice sounded muffled, as if he was talking with his mouth full. "Have you got the camera there, Niksch?"
"Of course," Niksch said, beaming, and wrenched the steering wheel to the left.
Hollerer was standing by his car. As she walked up to him he nodded as if he recognized her straightaway. They shook hands. "Let's sit in the warmth for a bit," he said a little dourly, holding the door open for her. When they were inside he said, "I see you came on your own."
Through the windshield they watched the monk in silence. It had stopped snowing, the sky had brightened. Thank goodness for the sunglasses; Hollerer was having difficulty even when squinting through his eyelids. The monk was now about three-fifths up the hill and no longer climbing vertically but diagonally. He was several hundred yards away.
"Where on earth is he going?" Hollerer said, sounding as if he'd been pondering this question for hours.
"What's beyond the hill?"
"Nothing," Hollerer said. He switched off the engine, but the fan kept whirring.
Niksch had climbed about thirty feet in pursuit of the monk. He put the camera to his eye, then turned and raised his shoulders. Hollerer gestured to him to continue. He pointed left, right and shrugged. Niksch shrugged too.
"Niksch has many talents," Hollerer said. "He's a good driver for one. Unfortunately he's a crap policeman. He works like he drives a car: with concentration but far too fast. And he's addicted to twists and turns, with no desire to proceed in a straight line. He prefers to work cross-country, if you see what I mean."
"Not entirely."
"Well, let's just say his results are creative, but ineffectual."
Bonì smiled.
They'd met in the summer before René Calambert. Hollerer was already pretty portly back then, but if her mind wasn't playing tricks he'd put on even more weight since. And he looked disheveled, almost as if he'd gone to seed. He'd shaved badly and the jacket of his uniform was stained. Breadcrumbs stuck to his belly.
"Why am I here?" she asked.
"There are some people who have a sixth sense for danger," Hollerer said. "They see something or someone and the alarm bells start ringing: 'Danger Ahead.' They see someone like that guy over there," he said, nodding toward the monk, "and sense that something's not quite right."
"And you're one of those?"
"No, but Ponzelt is. Our mayor."
Louise laughed and Hollerer joined in grimly. But he soon turned serious again.
In Ponzelt's head, he explained, the monk had become the Antichrist smoothing the path to Liebau for a pack of devils. "That's why you're here," he said. "To reassure Ponzelt and frighten the Antichrist. Mind you, Ponzelt isn't entirely wrong ... something funny is going on up here." Again he nodded in the direction of the monk. "He's frightened. And injured."
Hollerer described the injuries. He admitted that they could have resulted from an accident. Who knew how long the monk had been wandering around in the open? He might have run into a tree in frenzied enlightenment. Perhaps some youths had beaten him up. "And yet," Hollerer said.
"You are one of them," Louise protested. Hollerer laughed. "And what about you?"
She shrugged. I used to be, Bonì thought. But ever since René Calambert she didn't trust her inner voice so much.
Hollerer looked down at the crumbs on his belly, but didn't brush them off. "Right, then," he said, opening the door.
She had no desire to follow the monk through the cold. What she most wanted was to drive back to Liebau with Hollerer, find a bar and have a nice chat. Louise felt she had a right to defy obstinate buggers like Ponzelt and Bermann, at least on the weekend. With a sigh, she got out.
At the bottom of the hill they trudged side by side, sinking to their ankles in the snow. After twenty yards Hollerer was panting loudly. Niksch had moved on and was now photographing the monk from a different angle. Hollerer waved to him. "That's fine," he shouted. "You can come back down now."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Zen and the Art of Murder"
by .
Copyright © 2015 DuMont Buchverlag, Köln.
Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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