The Zurich Conspiracy

didn’t answer my messages on your answering machine or your cell phone. That’s why I’m here.”
    Helene was already at the door. “Sorry, but I didn’t get back until Sunday and had to get ready for this nature hike on Monday. I was simply too tired to call back. I didn’t have the impression that it was urgent, forgive me. But let’s talk downstairs.”
    Josefa picked up her cup and followed her through the concealed door in the next room that led to a small, dark back room. Helene went ahead; a large animal hanging from the ceiling came into view. She didn’t know immediately what it was, since a piece of its skin was already stripped off. Then she made out the animal’s head; it was hung by the hind legs, its dark, dead eyes staring into nothingness.
    “A deer,” Helene explained. “Somebody hit it on the road and left it there. I sent the kids home, it was too cold for them today anyway, and went to take care of this animal. The game warden is sick, and his assistant is going after a large dog that’s been attacking game. So he asked me to bring the deer here and start working on it.”
    She put on an apron and plastic gloves and picked up a knife lying on the table. Josefa saw a big bucket of bloody guts in the corner.
    “Was the deer already dead?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the exposed flesh.
    “I had to shoot it, it couldn’t be saved.” Helene separated the skin from the flanks. She worked quickly and skillfully in spite of the low light. After a while, she muttered, “You’ve got to kill animals sometimes if you want to help them.”
    The room was ice cold and reminded Josefa of a dungeon.
    Helene cast a glance at her. “Sorry, I can’t heat this room. The meat stays fresh longer. Erwin, he’s the number-two game warden, he’ll be coming later on to cut this animal up. I’ll get a few choice cuts for sure. And you will be invited for a saddle of venison.”
    But Josefa didn’t respond; she wasn’t in the mood for jokes so Helene turned back to her work again.
    Josefa sat down on an overturned plastic pail beyond the lamplight beam and announced in a firm voice, “Helene, I’ve got to ask you a few questions.” Her friend mumbled something unintelligible and kept her head down. “Why did you lead me to believe you were in Canada when it appears that you were in Germany?”
    If Helene was surprised, she didn’t show it. “I never told you I was going to Canada,” she answered calmly and kept on working. “I only said that I’ll be meeting Greg. Who told you I was in Germany anyway?”
    Josefa ignored the question and pressed on. “There are just too many extraordinary coincidences—too many extraordinary situations. Your cousin was in Tenerife precisely when Thüring disappeared. She was also in the bar where Thüring was partying; she was even photographed with him. She happened by chance to be in the same hotel as I was, she recognized me and just happened to know Pius Tschuor’s name. Then Salzinger dies, supposedly shot with his own hunting rifle.” Josefa was rocking back and forth on the pail, her arms folded on her chest in an attempt to keep warm.
    “Just by chance he died near Vals in Graubünden, and just by chance that’s where you and your father always went hunting. I phoned your mother, Helene, and she told me that you were in Vals for a few days at the end of July—precisely when Salzinger had his accident. You’ve never breathed a word about this. And then I met you a little while later at the Münster. Wouldn’t it have been natural for you to say something about your trip?”
    Her friend turned away from the deer and looked at her as she wiped her knife on her apron.
    “I know that the Swixan bankruptcy was tragic for your father,” Josefa continued, “and it certainly was for you too. I’ve got to get it out, Helene, sorry that I have to open old wounds.”
    Helene said nothing.
    But this time Josefa did not want to keep anything back; the issue was too important. “I also know that Freya’s father paid a terrible price for Swixan’s downfall. And Freya probably did too.”
    “Josefa, I—” Helene started to say.
    “No, please let me finish,” Josefa begged, “or I’ll lose my train of thought. Where was I? Oh, yes. So then you spent the Christmas holidays in Germany and not in Canada. At the same time as Karl Westek, who was in Germany like you, was killed in his Porsche because somebody tinkered with the brakes or