Borkmann's Point (13 page)

“I’ve come to talk a bit more about your son,” said Bausen.
“Maurice...”

“He’s dead,” said Elisabeth Rühme.
Bausen took her arm.
“Do you like walking in the park?”
“I like the leaves,” said Mrs. Rühme. “Especially when

they’re no longer on the trees, but they haven’t started falling
properly yet. It’s still September, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Bausen. “Did you meet Maurice often?”
“Maurice? No, not all that often. Sometimes, though...
but she, Beatrice, often comes with flowers and fruit. You don’t
think she’ll stop coming now that... ?”
“Of course not,” said Bausen.
“I feel lonely at times. I prefer to be alone, of course, but it’s
also nice when somebody comes to visit... Funnily enough, I
usually think how nice it was afterward. When somebody’s
been to see me, and it’s over and done with, I mean. I can feel
somehow exhilarated...fulfilled; it’s hard to explain.”
“When did you last see Maurice?” asked Bausen.
Elisabeth stopped and took off her glasses.
“I must clean them,” she said. “I can’t see properly through
them. Do you have a handkerchief ?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Bausen.
She put them back on.
“When did you last see Maurice?” Bausen asked again.
“Hard to say. Are you a police officer?”
“My name’s Bausen. I’m the chief of police here in Kaalbringen. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Of course I do,” said Elisabeth Rühme. “Your name’s
Bausen.”
He carefully steered her back toward the nicotine-yellow
pavilion.
“It’s beautiful here,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Especially after the leaves have fallen.”
“Your other son... Pierre?”
“He’s ill. He’ll never get better. Something happened in the
church, don’t you know about that?”
“Yes, I do,” said Bausen.
“I haven’t seen him for ages,” she said pensively. “Perhaps
he can be a doctor now . . . instead of Maurice. Do you think
that could be arranged somehow?”
“Perhaps,” said Bausen. A nurse wearing a white bonnet
was approaching them.
“Thank you for the walk and the chat,” said Bausen. “I’ll
ask Beatrice to come and see you next week.”
“Thank you,” said Elisabeth Rühme. “It’s been nice to take
a walk with you. I hope I haven’t been any trouble.”
“Not at all,” Bausen assured her. “Not at all.”
So much for Doctor Rühme and his posh family, he thought
as he walked to the parking lot, scraping out his pipe.
“Let’s walk it,” Beate Moerk had suggested. “No point in taking a car for five hundred yards.”
And so he strolled though the streets of Kaalbringen alongside this lady police inspector, and suddenly found himself
thinking about Marie behind the counter at the pharmacy
again. She just popped up in his mind, and he preferred not to
think about why. His two telephone calls to Synn hadn’t sorted
out all the problems, but it looked as if they were on the right
track. Obviously, everything would be back to normal if only
he could get away from Kaalbringen. If only he could see her
again soon.
Obviously.
The inspector’s hair wasn’t red. On the contrary. Dark
brown, bordering on black. He was careful not to come shoulder to shoulder as they walked. Keeping a decent distance
apart needed quite a lot of his concentration, in fact; and when
they eventually reached their destination, he had only a vague
memory of what they’d been talking about on the way there.
No great loss, he thought. They’d probably discussed mainly
the names of streets and squares they’d passed through...but
obviously, he’d been surprised. His sense of balance wasn’t
quite as it should be, it seemed; he felt a nagging worry that
wouldn’t go away. Not the best starting point for detective
work, definitely not. Something gnawing away inside him.
What the hell was the matter with him?
“Here we are,” she said. “There’s the entrance, and that’s
Leisner Park over there, as you can see.”
Münster nodded.
“Shall we walk up, then?” he suggested sardonically.
“Of course,” she said, eyeing him somewhat perplexedly.

Beatrice Linckx bade them welcome and gave them a thin
smile. There was a new carpet on the floor in the hall, Münster
noted. No trace of any blood, but he had no doubt it was all
still there in the wood underneath.

You can’t obliterate blood, Reinhart always said. You cover
it up.
And then there was something about Odysseus washing his
hands and the constant return of the waters of the sea that
he couldn’t recall exactly just now.
Pale sunlight filtered into the large living room through the
tall windows, and her fragility was more obvious here. She
looked composed and alert, but the surface was thin—no more
than a layer of overnight ice, he thought, and hoped that
Inspector Moerk was sensitive enough to recognize the signs
and not fall through it.
Afterward, it was clear to him that he needn’t have worried.
This was Beate Moerk’s interview. She was the one holding the
reins, and she made sure she didn’t lose control; they hadn’t
agreed on how to split the questioning, but the further they
got, the more the teacups were emptied and refilled and the
heap of light-colored biscuits (which Miss Linckx had apparently bought from the corner shop) dwindled away, the more
his respect for Inspector Moerk grew. He couldn’t have done it
any better himself, certainly not, and he found his role quite
sufficient and rather relaxing, sitting there in the corner of the
sofa and slotting in an occasional question here and there.
Totally sufficient. It wasn’t just her hair and her appearance. She seemed to be a damned efficient police officer as
well.

“How long had you been living with Maurice, in fact?”
“Not all that long.”
Beatrice Linckx brushed a strand of hair from her face.

From right to left, a recurrent gesture.
“A few years?”
“Yes. We met in September 1988. Moved in together a year

later, roughly.”
“Four years, then?”
“Yes.”
Not all that long? Münster thought.
“Were you born in Aarlach?”
“No, in Geintz, but I’d lived in Aarlach since I was twelve.”
“But you didn’t meet Maurice Rühme until 1988. By then

he’d already been living there for... six years, if I’m not much
mistaken?”

“Aarlach is not a small town, Inspector,” said Beatrice
Linckx, with a new, pale smile. “Not like Kaalbringen, although we must have seen each other in the hustle and bustle
occasionally, of course. We discussed that very thing, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about what he was doing during
those years before you met?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “I know some things. But we didn’t speak

about it. He didn’t want to, and it was a closed chapter.”
“I understand. No old friends from that time either? Who
are still around, I mean.”
“Not many.”
“But there are some?”
Beatrice Linckx thought for a moment.
“Two.”
“Would you mind giving us their names?”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
Beate Moerk handed over her notepad and Miss Linckx
scribbled down a few words.
“Telephone numbers as well?”
“Yes, please,” said Beate Moerk. Beatrice Linckx left the
room and returned with an address book.
“Thank you,” said Beate Moerk when she had the notepad
returned. “Do you find it unpleasant when we poke our noses
into your affairs like this?”
“You’re only doing your job, I assume.”
“Why did you move to Kaalbringen?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated slightly again. “Maurice was quite
negative at first, of course. I don’t know if you are aware of his
relationship with Jean-Claude, his father, that is?”
Beate Moerk nodded.
“I suppose it was me who talked him around, I’m afraid.
Well, it was to do with work, of course; I assume you realize
that. The posts were advertised at the same time—the very
same day, in fact—and I expect I thought... that it was a sign,
as it were. Maurice thought it was something different.”
“What were you doing in Aarlach?”
“Maurice had a temporary post in the long-term ward. Not
exactly his specialty. I was working at three or four different
schools.”
“And out of the blue you each found your dream job in
Kaalbringen?”
“Maybe not dream jobs, but a big improvement, even so.
More in line with our level of education, you might say.”
Beate Moerk turned a page of her notebook and thought
for a moment. Miss Linckx poured some more tea. Münster
stole a glance at the two women. Tried to imagine Synn sitting
in the third, empty armchair, but couldn’t quite manage it—
the same age, all three, more or less, he thought; and he wondered why that thought had occurred to him. Perhaps it was
about time he asked a question—was that what Inspector
Moerk was waiting for?
“Perhaps we should get down to the nitty-gritty,” he said,
“so that we don’t need to take up too much of your time, Miss
Linckx.”
“By all means.”
“Have you any idea at all about who might have killed your
fiancé?”
The question was a bit brutal, perhaps. He saw that Moerk
gave him a quick glance, but the reply came without the slightest hesitation.
“No. I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Did he have any enemies?” asked Beate Moerk, taking
over again now that he’d smashed the door down. “Somebody
you know who didn’t like him for one reason or another?”
“No, I think he was quite well liked by most people.”
“Anybody he was on bad terms with? At work, perhaps?”
asked Münster, but Beatrice Linckx merely shook her head.
“Before we leave,” said Beate Moerk, “we’ll ask you for a
list of your closest friends and the colleagues Maurice had
most to do with, but perhaps you could tell us about the most
important ones right now?”
“Who might have murdered him, you mean?”
For the first time there was a hint of hostility in her voice.
“Most murders are committed by somebody quite close to
the victim,” said Münster.
“What are you getting at?” said Beatrice Linckx, and red
patches started to grow on her cheeks. “I can’t think of a single
name...I haven’t the slightest suspicion. I took it for granted
that we were dealing with this madman...isn’t that the case? I
mean, he’s already killed two people who had nothing at all in
common with Maurice.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Linckx,” said Beate Moerk. “I’m afraid we
have to ask you all kinds of questions, and some of them might
appear to be bizarre or impertinent. Would you please promise
that you’ll contact us the moment you think of even the slightest little thing that could have to do with the murder?”
“A telephone call, somebody who said something that
seemed a bit odd, if Maurice ever acted strangely in some way
or other,” added Münster.
“Of course,” said Beatrice Linckx. “I don’t want to criticize
the police in any way. Obviously, there’s nothing I want more
than for you to catch him.”
“Good,” said Münster. “Speaking of colleagues, by the
way—Dr. Mandrijn, is he somebody Maurice had much to do
with? He works at the hospital as well.”
She thought about it.
“A bit, I think,” she said. “But not much...I’m not sure
who he is, but Maurice did mention his name once or twice.”
Inspector Moerk made a note, and chewed at her pen.
“You work at the Seldon Hospice, is that right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“As a welfare officer?”
“As a psychologist, rather—”
“Do you come into contact with Pierre, Maurice’s
brother?”
Beatrice went over to the window and looked out over the
park before answering.
“Nobody comes into contact with Pierre,” she said at
length. “Nobody at all.”
“I understand,” said Beate Moerk.

When they came out, they found that it had started raining
again; and when she suggested they should have a beer at The
Blue Ship, he agreed without a second thought. It was true that
they’d downed so much tea that their need of fluid intake was
fulfilled for some considerable time to come; but it was a good
idea to become acquainted with this establishment as well. If
his memory served him correctly, it was from there that the
second victim, Ernst Simmel, had embarked on the last stroll
he would ever take in this life.

He opened the door and bowed somewhat chivalrously.
What the devil am I doing? he thought.
“Are you married?” she asked when they had sat down.
Münster took out his wallet and showed her a photograph
of Synn.
“She’s pretty,” said Beate Moerk. “Good, I don’t need to
worry.”
“Two kids as well,” said Münster. “What about you?”
“No to both questions,” said Beate Moerk with a smile.
“But that’s only temporary.”
“Cheers,” said Münster, and smiled as well.
“Cocaine?” wondered Bausen.
“It’s a link, in any case,” said Kropke. “To Eggers, that is.”
“Doubtful,” said Münster.
“A weak link, in that case,” said Van Veeteren. “Cocaine is
an upper-class drug; don’t forget that. I doubt if Heinz Eggers
and his mates used to sit around and get high on anything as
sophisticated as that. Not their line, as simple as that.”
Bausen agreed.
“But we have to follow it up, of course. Mind you, given the
number of people on drugs nowadays, it’s probably no more
than a normal statistical probability.”
“Two out of three?” asked Inspector Moerk.
“A bit high perhaps, I grant you. But of course we must
look into it. We don’t have much else to do, let’s face it.”
“How far is it between Selstadt and Aarlach?” asked
Münster.
“A hundred, hundred and twenty miles, I suppose,” said
Bausen.
“A hundred and eleven and a half,” said Kropke.
“Just checking to make sure you were awake,” said Bausen.
“Van Veeteren?”
Van Veeteren stopped rolling a coin over his knuckles.
“Well,” he said. “I think it’s as important as it damn well can
be for us to get Rühme’s time in Aarlach mapped out as accurately as possible. I’ve spoken to Melnik, the chief of police
there, and he’s promised to put two men onto it—probably has
already, in fact. He’ll send us a report as soon as he’s done, in
any case—in a few days, I hope. A week, perhaps.”
“And then what?” asked Kropke.
“We’ll have to see,” said Van Veeteren. “If nothing else, we
can pick out all the names and run them against all the material
we have on Eggers and Simmel. That could be a job for you,
Kropke, and your computer?”
Kropke frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up.
“All right,” he said. “Not a bad idea, I suppose.”
“OK,” said Bausen. “The neighbors, Mooser? How has that
gone?”
Mooser leafed slightly nervously through his papers.
“We’ve been in touch with all of them but two—twenty-six
in all. Nobody’s seen a damn thing—between ten last Wednesday night and two the next morning, that is. Those were the
times we said, weren’t they?”
“That’s correct,” said Bausen. “Meuritz guesses it was some
time around about then. He was reluctant to be more precise
than that on this occasion—not possible, I assume. I can’t help
feeling he’s had a damn great stroke of luck, our dear friend
the Axman. In Simmel’s case he followed him all the way
through town, more or less, but with Rühme he just strolls
across the street and into the apartment block. Rings the
doorbell and cuts his head off. And nobody sees him. No
witnesses.”
“Apart from Moen,” said Beate Moerk.
borkmann’s point