The Zurich Conspiracy

“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?”
    Kündig 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