The Murder of Anton Livius E-Book

Hansjörg Schneider

• Herausgeber: Bitter Lemon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 293

Beschreibung

For Inspector Peter Hunkeler, New Year brings a gruesome case. A badly ravaged male corpse is found in a garden allotment on the edge of Basel. During his search for the killer, the wayward inspector has to deal with quarrelsome allotment holders and the trials and tribulations of cross-border police work. The case becomes increasingly mystifying when Hunkeler stumbles upon a sinister Second World War connection. What exactly happened in the Alsatian village of Ballersdorf in February 1943? And how are those events connected to the case?

Leseprobe

Hansjörg Schneider, born in Aarau, Switzerland, in 1938, has worked as a teacher and journalist, and is one of the most performed playwrights in the German language. He is best known for his Inspector Hunkeler crime novels. The Murder of Anton Livius, following on from the success of Silver Pebbles and The Basel Killings, is the third in the series to appear in English. Schneider has received numerous awards, among them the prestigious Friedrich Glauser Prize for The Basel Killings. He lives and writes in Basel.

THE MURDER OF ANTON LIVIUS

Hansjörg Schneider

Translated by Astrid Freuler

The people and plot of this novel are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons and events is purely coincidental.

The author would like to thank Kriminalkommissär Markus Melzl for reviewing the manuscript, and contemporary witness Oskar Runser from Knoeringue, Alsace, for information on historic events.

Peter Hunkeler, inspector with the Basel City criminal investigation department, formerly married with a daughter, now divorced, was asleep in his house in Alsace. He became aware that he was lying comfortably and that he was cosy and warm. He heard a faint purring. That was the black cat, he could feel it resting against the backs of his knees. He heard crowing. That was Fritz the cockerel in the henhouse. He heard a gentle snore. That was his girlfriend Hedwig, who was lying nestled against his belly. He opened his eyes and saw the cherry tree outside the window, its gnarled branches barely visible in the fog.

He remembered now: yesterday was New Year’s Eve. They had danced at the restaurant in Zaessingue until three in the morning. Then they had meandered home along the side roads. They’d both had liberal amounts of red wine with their roast pork, and at midnight they’d popped the cork on a Crémant d’Alsace. The gendarmerie wasn’t to be toyed with, even in the early hours of New Year’s Day.

It had been a great night. The room was packed to the rafters, young and old all jumbled together. The band was from across the Rhine, from the Markgräflerland, with a young woman on accordion and a bald old fellow on drums, perhaps her father or her lover. They had all sung Schützenliesl, bang bang bang, Happy New Year! Even now, the music was still in his ears, the dance moves in his hips. He felt tired, light and happy. He shifted closer to Hedwig to drift back off to sleep.

But something cut through the quiet. A ringing. He counted along: four, five, six. He gave up, he knew it wouldn’t stop. The cat leapt off the bed, arched its back and yawned.

He went to the phone that hung on the wall in the hallway, a black landline phone. He’d forgotten to pull out the plug. He answered. “Happy New Year,” he said. “What time is it?”

He heard a faint chuckle. It was Corporal Lüdi. “Sorry to wake you. It’s a quarter to nine.”

“Well?” asked Hunkeler. He could hear loud bangs going off outside. It was the boys from the village, lighting firecrackers on the street.

“What’s all that racket in your peaceful Alsace?” asked Lüdi.

“A local New Year tradition. Come on, spill the beans. I want to get back to bed.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re on call. And we need you.”

“No,” said Hunkeler. “Nobody needs me any more, apart from the cats and Hedwig. She needs me as a hot-water bottle. There’s been a cold draught blowing in all night.”

He could hear the chuckling again, miles away, as if from another continent. Hunkeler knew it didn’t bode well. He felt the cold of the tiled floor against the soles of his feet, crawling up his legs and into his belly.

“Some get to lie in their warm beds and sleep off their hangover, while others have to get on with the donkey work,” said Lüdi.

“I’m exempt from work, special tasks only. Apparently my working methods are no longer tolerable. The chief public prosecutor personally said as much. You heard him yourself.”

“True, you’re probably no longer tolerable. But like I said, we need you.”

There was another bang outside, right in front of his door. “Hang on,” said Hunkeler. He tore open the front door and saw a group of boys run off.

“Salauds,” he shouted, “bastards, little shits.” Then he grinned. Job done, he knew what was good and proper. He, Inspector Hunkeler, in his nightshirt out in front of his house, scolding the cheeky brats. The snow-covered forecourt stretched out before him, with the boys’ footprints all over it. In the cowshed across the road the lights were on, and he could hear the milking machine. The farmer was late up too this morning. He and his wife had probably been at Scholler’s in Knoeringue until the early hours.

Hunkeler walked across to the walnut tree to relieve himself, then went back inside. He fetched a cigarette from the living room and lit it. He hadn’t done this in years, first thing in the morning, on an empty stomach. Something was up, some kind of trouble, otherwise Lüdi wouldn’t have woken him so early on New Year’s Day.

”So, what’s going on?” he asked when he had the receiver back in his hand.

“You know the allotments on Hegenheimerstrasse, right on the border. You pass them when you drive into Alsace.”

“For God’s sake, just get to the point.”

“Each of those allotments has a small wooden cabin on it. You could sleep in those cabins, and at a pinch you could even live in them, but that’s not allowed. In any case, they’re all lovingly fitted out with little flags and all sorts of memorabilia. Luxury villas for the poor.”

“What on earth are you waffling on about?” Hunkeler shouted. “If you’re trying to build suspense, then say so. I’ll go and have some breakfast first.”

But Lüdi was undeterred. “Plot B35 has a particularly beautiful cabin. It looks like a pocket-sized Bernese chalet, really cosy. It’s called Enzian. There’s a flagpole out the front. It has a Bernese flag flying from it, the one with the bear. That’s not permitted, as the allotments are on French territory.”

Hunkeler waited. He knew he had no choice. Lüdi had to work himself up to things. It could be quite a protracted process at times.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” said Hunkeler. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“So, this cabin on plot B35 belongs to a man by the name of Anton Flückiger. He was formerly known as Anton Livius and was born in the former East Prussia, in Tilsit to be precise. We got that from the citizens’ register. He came to Switzerland after the Second World War and was granted citizenship in Rüegsbach in the Emmental. He’s over eighty, born in 1922. He lives at Dammerkirchstrasse in Basel, used to be a warehouse worker for a food retail chain, single, no descendants. He speaks in Bernese dialect. That’s as much as we know for now.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Paul Wirz is here, from the gendarmerie in Saint-Louis. He says he knows you.”

“Of course we know each other, but what has Monsieur Wirz got to do with Anton Flückiger?”

He could hear Lüdi chuckling again, almost gloatingly. “A Monsieur François Bardet is on his way over. From Mulhouse. He asked for you straight away when he phoned.”

The cold had now reached Hunkeler’s innards. He was suddenly shivering. He desperately needed to get something warm, something hot, into his stomach. “Bardet,” he said slowly. “He deals with murders.”

“That’s exactly what I’m driving at. This Anton Flückiger, alias Livius from Tilsit, was strung up last night.”

“How do you mean, strung up?”

“He was shot first, in the forehead, at close range. Well, we’re assuming this happened first. Then he was hung up with a meathook that someone had rammed under his chin and then attached to the beam above the door of Chalet Enzian. He was hanging there like a lump of meat.”

Half an hour later, Hunkeler was sitting at the kitchen table. He was gazing out at the fog. At the snow-covered garden and the brown hens which he had let out. At the cherry tree and the willow. At the pear tree and the poplar, which were barely visible now. A female chaffinch fluttered onto the windowsill, pecked at a few grains that Hedwig had scattered there, briefly looked at the old man sitting at the table and flew off again.

He had made tea, and coffee for Hedwig. He’d lit a fire in the stove and listened to the crackling of the pine wood. Solemnly, he had eaten a yoghurt, and cheese and bread. He’d done all this as slowly as possible, so that nothing would disturb the peaceful snowy morning. No fast movement, no clinking of cups.

First shot in the forehead, he thought, then hung up with a meathook. Or the other way around? First hung up, while alive? How could anyone do that? No, that was impossible. He would have fought back.

So, first the gunshot, which probably hadn’t attracted any attention amid all the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Then the hanging up. But how do you hang up a dead man with a meathook? How many people would it take? Two or three?

Hunkeler topped up the food bowl for the cats. All they did was eat and sleep during these winter months. That was exactly what he’d been planning to do. And now it was probably off the table.

He lit a cigarette, took three drags then stubbed it out. He didn’t want to start with that all over again, the damned smoking early in the morning. Darting around in a frenzy, puffing and panting in pursuit of unreliable leads. He wasn’t going to let himself be drawn in again. No, not this time.

The door opened and Hedwig came in wearing her blue dressing gown. She padded to the table, sat down, poured herself some coffee, added a dash of milk and drank. She eyed him briefly, seemingly still half asleep. Then she refilled her mug. “What’s up?” she asked.

“I have to go back into town. To the allotments at the border crossing to Hegenheim. An old man has been found hanging there.”

She looked at him, mutely.

“Someone shot him and hung him up,” he continued. “They found him this morning.”

She cut herself a slice of bread, spread butter and honey on it, then chewed it very slowly. “We agreed that we wouldn’t budge from the spot for the whole of the Christmas holidays. Just walks in the snowy forest, nothing else.”

“Monsieur Bardet is coming over from Mulhouse,” he said. “He wants to see me. I’m still in the service, I still draw a wage.”

She dipped the knife into the jar, then carefully severed the thread of honey with a twist. He realized how much he liked her movements.

“In the past, when we’d arranged something, I used to be as excited as a child at Christmas,” she told him. “For example ten days of hibernating in Hunkeler’s house in Alsace. Cosy fires. Frost on the windows. Owls calling in the night. These days, I’m incapable of looking forward to anything. Because I know it won’t come off.”

“Stop it, will you?” he said with a harshness that surprised him.

“See?” she replied.

As he drove up the hill to the ridge road connecting Hésingue and Altkirch, he could feel the wheels spinning. There was ice under the snow. He grinned with satisfaction. A proper winter, this was.

At the top, by the St Imbert cross, he saw a body lying by the side of the road. He slammed on the brakes, he’d almost missed it. Carefully, he got out and approached it. It was a large, male badger that had been run over by someone. It was lying there as if asleep, the body perhaps still warm. Where its snout touched the snow, a patch of blood glowed red.

He left the animal where it was, got back in and drove on. A hunter would come by soon, they would know what to do with the carcass.

The visibility up on the ridge was so poor that he drove at walking pace. Nobody overtook him, nobody passed him, he seemed to be the only one out on the road. At Trois Maisons he looked across to the large, half-timbered house, wondering if the lights would be on. It was all dark.

He slowly rolled down the hill to Ranspach, in no hurry. He liked being enveloped in fog like this, it was like hiding out somewhere. He thought of the dead animal, Master Brock, whose luck had run out. The grey fur, the two stripes down the snout, the blood in the snow. Why had he left his sett? What was he looking for out in the cold? He’d lain on the embankment like an animal from a fairy tale.

Down on the plain the fog lifted. The snow on the fields was just inches deep here. There were no guards at the border crossing as he passed it. On the left was the gravel pit, now filled back in again, a white surface dotted with crows. To the right stood the storehouses of the building firms, dismantled cranes, trucks, yellow bulldozers. In front of him, the pale concrete gravel silo appeared, its conveyor belt cutting a diagonal line. It was a no man’s land along the border, a historic absurdity in the twenty-first century. The gravel sat in French soil on the left, but was mined from Switzerland on the right. Also on his left were the allotments, cultivated by Swiss gardeners. A little further ahead, towards the city, was the Jewish cemetery.

He could see the cars from a distance. Several gendarmerie vehicles, a French ambulance, three Basel police cars, including one from the forensic department. There was also a French command vehicle, parked in a recess in the fence. Presumably that was still French soil.

Two gendarmes were guarding the allotment entrance. Probably local men. They were talking in Alsatian dialect to a group of angry allotment holders.

Hunkeler approached Haller, who was chewing on his pipe, looking uneasy. “Is Bardet here yet?”

“Yes,” said Haller. “And Madame la Juge d’Instruction, Madeleine Godet. She arrived in the command vehicle. The contact man, Pierre Morath, and Paul Wirz from the Saint-Louis gendarmerie are also here. A whole lot of technicians too. And a journalist from L’Alsace. We’re the only ones not allowed in. Happy New Year.” He smiled bitterly, struck a match and lit his pipe. “Madörin is across the road in the Blume. He’s livid, and also drunk. Lüdi is back at the station, searching through the various databases to see who this Anton Flückiger was. I reckon he’s wasting his time. Every normal human being is still in bed on a morning like this.”

“Where’s Prosecutor Suter?”

“In Davos, at the Spengler Cup. He’s an ice hockey fan. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yes I did, but I’d forgotten,” Hunkeler replied. “I’ve even forgotten that I’m a police officer.”

Haller took the pipe out of his mouth and spat on the floor. “Listen, Hunki,” he said. But Hunkeler had already turned away to cross the road.

On the right stood the Garten-Walther store, now closed. Planting anything was impossible, the ground was frozen solid. On the left stood a small brick building with a sign that read Stadtgärten-West. Perched between them was the Blume inn. It was a shack with an oil heater in the middle, a table reserved for the regulars on the left and a bar on the right. Card mats hung on the wall, and a large glass of Merlot cost 3.80. Evidently some sort of deal for the regulars, thought Hunkeler, judging by the cheapness of the wine.

The regulars’ table was full. All older men, with a beer or coffee with schnapps in front of them. Another man, dressed in a purple jacket, was perched at the side table. He was wearing a Borsalino hat and talking on his phone in Italian.

Detective Sergeant Madörin was sitting in the corner at the back, a beer in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Hunkeler asked.

“You can see what I’m doing. Getting drunk.”

Hunkeler ordered coffee. “I’ve never seen you drink beer in the morning.”

“What am I? The scum of the earth? Twenty-six years of service, and never missed a single day. Who do they think they are, those Alsatian halfwits? Is that Flückiger a Swiss man or not? Are these our people or not?” He looked up, a sad-eyed poodle that had been kicked in the behind. “I went to bed at four, with a fair amount of alcohol on board. At eight, Lüdi called and said someone was hanging from a rafter in the Stadtgärten-West allotments. I drove straight over, no breakfast. I was the first on the scene.”

“Have you gone mad?” Hunkeler barked, causing everyone to turn and look. “Have you gone completely insane?”

“Why? He might have still been alive. The French ambulance didn’t arrive until half eight. I heard it from miles away and disappeared.”

“If that gets out, we’ll be in all sorts of trouble,” said Hunkeler. “They don’t like people poking their noses into their business. The allotments are French territory. The gendarmerie or the Police Nationale are responsible. But certainly not you.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m getting drunk. What do I care who strung the guy up? I’m going to drive over to Kleinbasel now and join the winos in the Schwarzer Bären.” He ordered another beer.

“You’d better be careful,” said Hunkeler. “You’re on duty.”

“Is that so?”

Hunkeler indicated a bald-headed man at the regulars’ table. “Who’s that over there? Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“The fat one with the bald head. He nodded at me.”

“What’s it to me?”

Hunkeler stirred two sugars into his coffee. He did it nice and slowly, he needed time to think.

“I spent Christmas in the Emmental,” Madörin told him. “Together with my wife. We stayed with our daughter. She rents a house there all year round. She wants her kids to experience rural life so they don’t become completely urbanized. And now this.”

“And now what?”

“Somebody rammed a meathook into his chin. They nearly tore his head off doing it. And there’s not much left of the forehead. The shot must have been fired at close range.” He lifted his gaze, he looked harrowed, full of despair. “What kind of job is this? Can you tell me? There I am, spending peaceful days in the Emmental. Just snow and wind and pine forests. And then this.”

Hunkeler had gathered his thoughts. “Look, my friend,” he said. “We’re both members of the Basel police department. We stick together, even if we shout at each other sometimes. Desertion is not an option. Understood?”

Madörin nodded. “Thanks.”

“And now one step at a time. Was the man still hanging there when you arrived?”

“First I need another beer.”

“No. Coffee.” Hunkeler waved at the waitress and ordered coffee.

Madörin shook his head a couple of times, then he was ready. “There were two pensioners at the scene. Martin Füglistaller and Jürg Stebler. They had spent the night in the neighbouring cabin. They took him down. Then they phoned, Lüdi answered. He called me and the French ambulance and then looked in the citizens’ directory. It seems the man was originally from East Prussia.”

“Slow down, one thing at a time. I didn’t get to bed until three myself.”

Madörin lifted the coffee cup with shaking hands and drank. “OK. I parked the car and went in. The gate had been left open. I didn’t see anyone. There were only a few tracks in the snow. Two looked to be from a man and a woman or child. They’d walked beside each other to the exit. Apart from that, the snow was untouched.”

“Did you see where those two tracks came from?”

“Yes. They came from plot B26. Plot B26 is to the left, plot B35 to the right and further back. There were lots of tracks round there, across to plots B37 and B39. There were also tracks that led towards Alsace. I didn’t pay much attention to them. Füglistaller and Stebler were about to take down the Bernese flag on B35 when I turned up. The deceased was lying crosswise on the stone slabs in front of the door. He was on his back, dressed in a blue tracksuit. The blood was no longer flowing, but the stone slabs were covered in it. There was no snow there – the patio has a roof over it. The hook was lying next to his head. The door was open. Those two idiots had been stomping around in the cabin and all over the patio. The only thing I was able to determine was that someone had pissed into the snow next to the wrapped-up rose bush. And that this someone was a barefooted man.”

“And inside the cabin?”

“That’s where there was the most blood. I saw the bullet hole, in the wall facing north. It’s a thin wooden wall, the shot had penetrated it cleanly.”

“Had anybody spent the night in the cabin?”

“Yes, definitely. On a fold-up bed. It was toppled over. The quilt was lying on the floor. It was odd that the quilt had a red and white chequered cover. My grandmother used to have those covers.”

“Strange,” said Hunkeler. “An old man with a colourful past, who has built himself a cosy little slice of Emmental, is slaughtered like a rabbit.”

“That’s not all,” Madörin continued, and it was clear he’d talked himself back into his job, like a fierce, tough little terrier. “Everything there indicated that it had been a long night. The folding bed was tipped on its side, one of the chairs was lying on the floor. There were two empty beer bottles and three glasses on the table, beside them a bottle of Chianti, nearly empty. There was also a box of painkillers and a water glass with remnants of a white powder in it. I didn’t have much time, of course, but I definitely saw that.”

“That’s good.” Hunkeler nodded approvingly.

“Stop it, will you. Don’t take the piss.”

“What do you mean?”

But Madörin pushed it aside. He was on a roll now. “There were some postcards stuck to the wall on the right, all of them from Thailand. And several photos of Thai beauties, all naked.”

“Well, well,” commented Hunkeler. “Bit of a playboy then.”

“Next to them was a medicine cabinet, white with a red cross on it. The floor below was scattered with medicines, the cabinet was empty. I had a quick look at what was lying there. Blood pressure tablets, vitamin tablets, magnesium. Two packets of condoms.”

“He kept himself in shape, successfully it seems,” said Hunkeler.

“Yes, but something was missing.”

“What?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Oh, the Viagra.”

“There you go.” Madörin now had the upper hand and he was enjoying it. “I searched through his trouser pockets. Nothing. Eventually I found them in his left jacket pocket. Here they are.” He placed the box on the table.

“Are you crazy?” shouted Hunkeler. “That’s misappropriation of evidence.”

“I don’t care. I wore gloves.”

“That could cost you your job.”

“Nonsense. It’s their own fault for arriving late.”

Hunkeler slammed his coffee cup on the table so hard it nearly shattered. “What the hell were you thinking?” he roared. “How can we explain this?” He lit a cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. Then, very quietly: “A Basel detective trampling around on a French crime scene. It’s the perfect scandal.”

“Not true. I didn’t trample, I crept.”

“Is that so? And the two old guys, Füglistaller and Stebler? They probably saw you.”

“That’s possible. But they’ll keep quiet. They had guilty consciences.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But they were hiding something from me, that much was clear.”

“What? What were they hiding?”

Madörin shrugged. “No idea. They were up to something, I’m sure of that. Füglistaller still had the flag in his hand when I got out of there.”

“Didn’t they run off with you?”

“No. Stebler said they wanted to hold vigil for a while longer. Will you pay for my coffee?”

Hunkeler thought of the badger lying in the snow. Of the blood that had caused the snow to melt around the snout. Had the animal crawled onto the embankment by itself, using its last bit of strength to save itself? Or had the driver dragged it off the road? Had he been able to drive away, just like that, after the heavy impact?

And what time had it stopped snowing this morning? When he was chugging home with Hedwig, after three, the air had still been full of snowflakes.

Madörin, who had arrived at the crime scene shortly after eight, had seen two tracks, from a woman and a man. They’d led from plot B26 to the exit. So those two people had probably left the allotments after three. Or perhaps it had stopped snowing earlier down here than it had up on the Hohe Strasse.

He stood up, went over to the regulars’ table and sat down on a free chair. “May I?”

“But of course, Herr Hunkeler,” replied the bald-headed man. “We know each other already.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, I’m a neighbour. I live on Mittlere Strasse too. I often see you when you go jogging in Kannenfeld Park. My name is Cattaneo, Ettore Cattaneo.”

“Oh yes, I remember now. You have a wife, don’t you? A petite, jolly woman.”

“No, she died.” A haze passed across the man’s eyes, like a veil of mist, a watery film. He was in his late seventies, stocky, with a red, swollen face. Three-day beard, white stubble. He was wearing a warm casual shirt, black and white checked, and a padded jacket. His heavy shoes had left wet marks on the parquet floor, prints of rubber soles with a mountaineering profile.

“Oh, I see, I’m sorry,” Hunkeler replied.

“That was four years ago. Life goes on, I’m in love with someone new.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. We get along well. May I introduce you to these gentlemen?”

“Please. If you don’t mind, I’ll jot down the names.” He pulled out his notebook, the one with the blue graph paper. He looked at the men. Old fellows with lined faces and heavy hands. Two of them, widowers, wore double wedding rings. All of them looked unshaven and bleary-eyed. “Why are you sitting here instead of lying in your beds?” he asked.

“Beat heard about it on Radio Basilisk,” Cattaneo explained. “He rang some of us. We want to know what’s going on in the allotments.”

“And the others?”

“A few had spent the night there. As an exception, because it was New Year’s Eve. What’s the situation, if I may ask? Are you leading the investigation? Or is it Paul Wirz from Saint-Louis, or that pompous snob from Mulhouse? What’s his name again?”

“Bardet,” said the man next to him. “I’ve never met anyone so arrogant. We’re to remain available, he said. For how long? And who’s in charge here anyway?”

“This Anton Flückiger, what sort of person was he?” Hunkeler asked.

“He was one of us,” replied Cattaneo. “Is it true that they tore his head off?”

“One step at a time,” said Hunkeler. “Nice and slowly, please.” He took out his pen and noted down what he heard.

Werner Siegrist, stationery shop owner on Blumenrain, chair of the Stadtgärten-West allotment association. The one who asked who was in charge here. Thick white hair. Coffee with cream.

Matthyas Schläpfer, graphic designer, Bachlettenstrasse, vice chair, double wedding ring. Coffee with schnapps.

Rudolf Pfeifer, carpenter, Lothringerstrasse. Double wedding ring. Black tea.

Beat Pfister, antiquarian and bric-a-brac trader, Hegenheimerstrasse. Wedding ring. Coffee with schnapps.

All retired, Hunkeler noted, everyday folk, respectable members of the public. “Hang on,” he said, “I forgot something. What was your line of work?”

Ettore Cattaneo, he wrote, laboratory assistant, Mittlere Strasse. New partner, therefore without ring. Coffee with schnapps.

“So, what now?” Siegrist asked. “Is there even any point writing this stuff down, seeing as it isn’t you conducting the investigation?”

“As the allotments are on French territory, the Saint-Louis gendarmerie is in charge,” Hunkeler explained. “In murder cases, it’s the Police Nationale Judiciaire in Mulhouse. As the victim was a Swiss citizen, Mulhouse will work with the Basel criminal investigation department. For these situations, there is a contact man. His name is Pierre Morath, he lives in Village Neuf and has an office at the Spiegelhof station. The Police Nationale will issue a mutual assistance request and the public prosecutor will respond to it. It will all sort itself out. By the way, it was two Swiss allotment holders who found the deceased. Füglistaller and Stebler. Has anyone seen them this morning?”

They thought about this for a long time. They scratched their heads, they rubbed their chins. Sips of beer and coffee were taken.

“Has anyone seen them?” Schläpfer asked. “Not me, I haven’t seen them.”

They all shook their heads, nobody had seen them.

Hunkeler waited, let them stew a while. “I was under the impression that several people had spent the night on their allotments and celebrated together,” he then said.

“Did any of you spend the night in the allotments?” Siegrist asked.

No, nobody had spent the night in the allotments.

“I heard that Füglistaller and Stebler’s cabins are right next to B35,” Hunkeler persisted. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, Füglistaller has B37 and Stebler has B39,” Siegrist replied. “All you need to do is look at the plot map, it’s all on there.”

“Exactly. I understand that you want to protect your friends. But this isn’t the way to do it.”

“OK,” said Siegrist, “you’ll find out anyway. Füglistaller kept rabbits on his plot, although that’s frowned upon. Keeping small animals is permitted, provided the keeper is a member of a pet owners’ association. And he is. Anyway, he’s not the only one. Beat Pfister here keeps ducks.”

“That’s right,” Pfister chimed in. “And my ducks have a good life.”

“Füglistaller loved his rabbits, so he never ate them himself. He usually killed two at a time. He hung them up on meathooks and skinned them. Then he gave them away for free. This all worked perfectly fine, until early December. Or when was it?”

“No,” said Pfister, “it was more like mid-December. It was already cold. We’d had the first snowfall. Anyway, that Sunday, he found all fourteen of the rabbits dead in front of his cabin. All laid out together. They were handsome Swiss Spotteds, with good soft fur. All killed with a blow to the neck. The animals could easily still have been eaten, but Füglistaller wouldn’t give them to anyone. He buried them all in the garden, even though that’s not allowed.”

“It was OK,” Siegrist corrected. “The hole was deep enough.”

“Who do you think killed the animals?” Hunkeler asked.

“No idea,” said Siegrist.

Hunkeler waited a while. Then he closed his notebook and slid it into his pocket. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get much else out of them. “Just one more thing,” he said. “Is there something like an allotment rule book?”

Siegrist nodded without looking up. “The landlady has a copy.”

“Well then,” Hunkeler said cheerfully. “We’re bound to see each other again soon.” He went over to the bar to pay.

“It’s OK,” said the landlady. “The bill’s already been settled. Here’s the community allotment rule book.” She pointed at the pamphlet she’d placed on the bar.

The cluster of people outside was bigger now; word about the murder had got around. People fell silent when they saw him coming. They looked at him with angry eyes.

“Finally,” one of them said. “Finally one of the Basel cops has turned up. Where have you been? Sleeping on the job? D’you think we want to leave it to those French clowns to solve this murder? He was one of us.”

Hunkeler stopped and took a close look at the man. He was around seventy, stockily built, in a green hunting jacket.

“I’m the elected grounds warden here. Walter Widmer is my name. The allotment holders are strictly required to follow my orders. And by the way, it’s forbidden to carry a firearm in the allotments.”

“Of course,” said Hunkeler. “Everything is forbidden in the allotments, isn’t it?”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Of course not. Why would I be?” He pushed the man aside and joined Haller. “Has fat Hauser been here?”

“No, not yet.”

“If you need backup, call in. There must be a few out on patrol.”

“I’ve already called several times. Everyone was on duty into the early hours.” Haller elaborately tapped out his pipe. “Can you imagine how many people it would take to seal off the whole allotment area? Twenty or thirty probably.”

“But don’t let fat Hauser in. Not this time.”

“If he wants to get in, he can climb over the fence somewhere.”

The morning mist had cleared and it was noticeably warmer, but a bank of heavy clouds hovered over the western horizon. The concrete tower of the gravel quarry loomed on the left, with the dark band of the Vosges mountains visible further north. The gravestones of the Jewish cemetery could be seen through the fence on the right and behind them the chimney of the waste incineration plant. In the distance, the outstretched mountains of the Black Forest were bathed in sunshine. An odd contrast. Must be the föhn wind coming over the Alps, or perhaps a warm westerly from the sea?

Hunkeler walked along Roggenburgstrasse. To the left and right stood blocks of apartments, five storeys high, with large windows and playgrounds outside. Swings, slide, the usual stuff. He had lived in that kind of apartment for a time, over on Markircherstrasse, with his wife and his daughter Isabelle. It was years since he’d last seen her.

The sky had blackened, dark clouds were now hovering over the city and it started to snow again. Not softly and quietly, no dancing flakes. This was something between hail and sleet, he supposed. It pattered down, and he pulled up his hood.

Further along, by the bend, stood the play barn of the adventure playground. He’d been there a couple of times, with his daughter. It was many years ago, or had he dreamed it? Now, on this New Year’s Day morning, the barn appeared to be empty. Next to it was the practice room of Cannibal Frost, a heavy metal band everyone at the CID department was well-acquainted with. Breach of the peace, time and again. The tenants in the surrounding apartments had forced through a 10 p.m. curfew on band practice. But the youngsters were only just getting started then. Endless accusations of criminal damage. If something in the area had been broken or stolen, it was blamed on the Cannibals.

Hunkeler knew the band a little. He quite liked the lads. But their music was too loud for him. The room seemed to be unoccupied now, he couldn’t see any lights. Perhaps it was just because of the sleet. It was hammering down so hard you couldn’t see more than twenty yards.

As he crossed Hegenheimerstrasse towards the Luzernerring Restaurant, a small car came racing towards him. He saved himself with a leap onto the sidewalk. It was fat Hauser, the fastest camera in Basel. He was out and about for Zurich’s tabloid press.