Borkmann's Point (14 page)

“Ah, yes,” said Bausen with a sigh. “Moen and Peerhovens... one of them aged ninety-five years and the other’d
made a night of it and was less than sober.”

“Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren. “No doubt we’ll nail him
before long. I think I sniff the traces of a scent—”
“What do we do first?” asked Beate Moerk.
Bausen leafed through his notebook.
“You and...Münster, perhaps?”
Münster nodded.
“You take the hospital. Colleagues, and anybody else who
strikes you. See what you can get out of them. You have a
blank check.”
“Good,” said Beate Moerk.
“Kropke and Mooser...I think we need to extend the
neighborhood a bit. Knock on a few doors around Leisner Park
as well. Kropke can draw up a plan. Take Bang with you—he
needs a bit of exercise—but for God’s sake, write down your
questions in advance. And Kropke keeps pressing ahead with
Simmel and Spain as well, of course. Nothing’s turned up there
yet, I don’t suppose?”
Kropke shook his head.
“A lot of crap, but nothing significant.”
“DCI Van Veeteren and I ought to take a closer look at the
ax,” said Bausen. “The guys in forensics are a bit vague, but
their best guess is that it’s a specialist tool used in the butchery
trade, made around ten or twelve years ago. We’ve got the
names of four possible manufacturers—and ten or so possible
retail outlets. It doesn’t sound very promising, of course, but
I suppose we’d better waste a day on it, even so. And then
we have Simmel’s son and daughter coming here tomorrow.
Mustn’t forget them, even if I wouldn’t put a lot of money on
them either, but still, you never know. Any questions?”
“Who’s going to do the friends and acquaintances?” asked
Münster. “Rühme’s, that is.”
“You two,” said Bausen. “But the hospital first. You have the
list, don’t you?”
“Shouldn’t we send somebody to Aarlach?” asked Beate
Moerk. “That must be the place where we’re most likely to
draw out a lead, surely?”
“DCI Melnik wouldn’t appreciate any outside interference,
I can assure you of that,” said Van Veeteren. “But he can establish the age of a lump of dog shit if he’s feeling inspired.”
“Really,” said Beate Moerk. “One of those, is he?”
“I have some appointments with a few of Simmel’s lady
friends as well,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m looking forward to
that very much.”

Phew! thought Beate Moerk as she left the police station. What
a miserable bunch.
“How far is it to the hospital?” asked Münster.
“A long way,” said Moerk. “We’ll take your car.”
He looked around. Then sat down at one of the empty tables
on the glazed-in terrace, ordered a glass of stout and spread
out
de Journaal
in front of him. He breathed a sigh of cautious
satisfaction. It was some time since he’d last been to The Fisherman’s Friend.
He took several long drafts of beer, then started to read
what they’d written about the case. Not without a degree of
satisfaction. This was the fifth day after the latest murder, and
the coverage was still more than two pages. There was very
little new information; the theories were becoming increasingly absurd, as far as he could judge... the silence on the part
of the police was bound to irritate the journalists, no doubt,
and it looked as if several of them were losing faith.
No wonder, he thought, and gazed down at the harbor. No
wonder. A solitary trawler was making its way out toward the
open sea from down below. The sea and the sky were an identical shade of gray; the sun appeared unwilling to show itself
today. It looked disconsolate.
Disconsolate? For a brief moment he wondered why that
particular word had occurred to him.
He had killed three people and the police didn’t have a
single lead, as far as he could tell. It would have been interesting to see to see what they wrote in the other papers as well,
but they’d been sold out. For obvious reasons, to be sure. He
took another draft of beer and allowed the brewer’s wort to
force tears into the corners of his eyes. No, if he understood
the situation rightly, he was as safe as ever.
Beyond reach and beyond punishment.
It felt somewhat remarkable, no doubt about that, although on the other hand, it was more or less what he’d reckoned on...wasn’t it? Had he reckoned on anything at all, in
fact? Was there an afterward? Had he thought about this
period? The long drawn-out epilogue, or whatever it was?
He watched the gulls circling around the top of the cliff.
They sometimes came so close that their wing tips brushed
against the window . . . and he suddenly recalled how he’d
been sitting up here one day when one of them had flown
straight into the windowpane. At full speed, without checking.
It had presumably had a clear view ahead, and death against
the cold glass must have come as a complete shock to the poor
bird. No notice, no premonitions... just like the blow from
the ax, it seemed to him, and he sat for quite a while thinking
about that bird and the smear of blood and innards it had left
clinging to the pane, which he was able to conjure up in his
mind’s eye, for some reason. And then he thought about the
woman for whose sake all this was taking place... about her,
whose death had not come as a shock at all—it was more a case
of a fruit becoming ripe—and he wondered if it really was all
over now, everything. If everything had been restored to its
rightful place, justice achieved, and if there was any possibility
of her being able to give him a sign. And if so, where that could
happen...
There was probably more than one place, now that he
came to think about it.
And about how he would cope with this new emptiness
that seemed to have replaced the previous one, and sometimes
felt like an enormous vacuum inside him. Insistent and almost
endless. But inside him.
I have dug a hole in order to fill another one, he thought.
And this new one is so much bigger. Give me a sign, Bitte!

“A spectacular place,” said Van Veeteren, looking around.
“The terrace is best,” said Bausen. “You’re sitting on top of
the world, as it were.”
Van Veeteren sat down. Thought fleetingly about The Blue
Ship. It was quite empty up here as well, but perhaps it was different in the evenings. At the moment, there was only a solitary gentleman with a newspaper by the picture window, and a
few women in hats just in front of the grand piano. A waiter
dressed in black bowed and handed over two menus bound in
leather.
“Lunch,” said Van Veeteren. “Now it’s my turn. Get enough
inside you to keep you going for a while. We all work best on a
full stomach—think best, at least.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” said Bausen.

“I can’t take any more of this,” said Beate Moerk. “If I have to
talk to another single doctor, I’ll strangle him.”

“Go back to the car and wait,” said Münster. “I’ll deal with
this Mandrijn person—he’s due in five minutes.”
“Is he the one who lived in Simmel’s house?”
Münster nodded.
“OK,” said Beate Moerk. “Give him what he deserves. I’m
going to lie down on the backseat under the blanket.”
“Good,” said Münster.

“My name is Inspector Kropke,” said Kropke.
“Funny first name,” said the woman, with a yawn. “But
come in, even so.”
“So you lived next door to the Simmels in Las Brochas?”
“I certainly did.”
“Did you mix with them socially as well?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Why not?”
She raised her eyebrows a little.
“Why not? Because we had no desire to mix with them, of
course. We met at the occasional party, naturally, but the bottom line was that they didn’t have any style. My husband had
quite a lot to do with Ernst, but I could never make her out.”
“Her?”
“Yes, the wife...Grete, or whatever her name is.”
“Were there any...improprieties as far as the Simmels
were concerned?”
“Improprieties? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, did you hear anything... did they have any enemies, was there anything illegal, for instance? We’re trying to
find a motive, you see—”
“My dear Inspector, we don’t go ferreting about for such
things in Las Brochas. We leave everybody in peace there. Lots
of people have moved there precisely to get away from all the
interfering authorities who can’t stop sticking their noses into
other people’s business.”
Style? thought Kropke.
“So that’s the way it is,” he said. “Maybe you think we
shouldn’t give a toss about tracking down murderers and that
kind of thing?”
“Don’t be silly. Go and do your job. That’s what you’re paid
to do, after all. But leave honest folk in peace. Was there anything else?”
“No, thank you,” said Kropke. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Name and address?” said Bang.
“Why?” asked the twelve-year-old.
“This is a police investigation,” said Bang.
“Uwe Klejmert,” said the boy. “The address is here.”
Bang noted it down.
“Where were you on the evening of Wednesday, September eighth?”

“Is that last week? When the Axman murdered Maurice

Rühme?”
“Yes.”
“Then I was at home.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I watched
Clenched Fist
till ten o’clock. Then I went

to bed.”
“Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Yes, my sister had made my bed.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Did he scream?”
“Who?”
“Rühme.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bang. “I didn’t hear anything, in any

case, and I was the first on the scene. Are your parents not at
home?”

“No,” said the boy. “They’re at work. They’ll be home
around six.”
“All right,” said Bang. “Tell them to report to the police if
they think they might have some significant information.”
“Signi...?”
“Significant. If they’ve seen or heard anything odd, that is.”
“So that you can nail the Axman?”
“Exactly.”
“I promise,” said Uwe Klejmert.
Bang put his notebook away in his inside pocket, and
saluted.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why Sis made my bed?”
“All right,” said Bang. “Why did she? I’ve never heard of a
sister making the bed for anybody.”
“She’d borrowed my Walkman and broke the earphones.”
“Typical sister,” said Bang.

“Do you have a pleasant time at your hotel in the evenings, you
and DCI Van Veeteren?” asked Beate Moerk.
“Very pleasant,” said Münster.
“Otherwise I could offer you a toasted sandwich and a glass
of wine.”
“Tonight?”
“Why not?” said Beate Moerk. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be
able to avoid talking shop.”
“That’s no problem,” said Münster. “I have a feeling we
ought to get this case solved pretty damn soon.”
“My own feeling precisely,” said Beate Moerk.
She swooped down on him just outside the entrance, and he
realized she must have been standing there, waiting. Hidden
by the privet hedge that ran all the way along the front of the
hotel, presumably. Or behind one of the poplars.
A tall and rather wiry woman in her fifties. Her dark flowerpatterned shawl was tied loosely around her hair and fell down
over her high shoulders. For a brief moment he thought she
might be one of his teachers from high school, but that was no
more than a fleeting impression; he could never remember
names and, in any case, it wouldn’t have been possible.
“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?”
“Yes.”
She put her hand on his arm and looked straight at him
from very close quarters. Stared him in the eye, as if she were
very nearsighted or was trying to establish an unusual level of
intimacy.
“Could I speak to you for a few minutes, please?”
“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “What’s it about? Shall we
go inside?”
Is she mad? he wondered.
“If you could just walk around the block with me. I prefer
to talk out of doors. It’ll only take five minutes.”
Her voice was deep and melancholy. Van Veeteren agreed
and they started walking down toward the harbor. They turned
right into Dooms Alley, in among the topsy-turvy gables, and it
was only when they had entered the deep shadow that she
started to present her problem.
“It’s about my husband,” she explained. “His name’s Laurids and he’s always had a bit of a problem with his nerves...
nothing he couldn’t get over; he’s never been put away or anything like that. Just a bit worried. But now he no longer dares
to leave home...”
She paused, but Van Veeteren said nothing.
“Ever since last Friday—that’s almost a week now—he’s
stayed home because he’s frightened of the Axman. He doesn’t
go to work, and now they’ve told him he’ll be fired if he goes
on like this—”
Van Veeteren stopped in his tracks.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
She let go of his arm. Stared down at the ground as if she
were ashamed.
“Well, I thought I’d track you down and ask how it’s
going...I told him about it, and I do think that he would dare
to go out again if I could go back home with some kind of
reassuring or soothing comment from you.”
Van Veeteren nodded. Good God! he thought.
“Tell your husband...what’s your name, by the way?”
“Christine Reisin. My husband’s called Laurids Reisin.”
“Tell him he has no need to be afraid,” said Van Veeteren.
“He can go back to work. We’re very hopeful we can nail this
murderer in... six to eight days at most.”
She looked up and eyed him from close quarters again.
“Thank you, Mr. Van Veeteren,” she said eventually. “Very
many thanks. I feel I can rely on you.”
Then she turned on her heel and vanished into one of the
narrow alleys. Van Veeteren stood there watching her.
How easy it is to fool a woman, he thought. A woman
you’ve only known for five minutes.

The episode stuck in his mind, and as he stood in the shower,
trying to scrub her out of his memory, it became clear to him
that Laurids Reisin would hang over him like a bad conscience
for as long as this investigation lasted.

The man who daren’t leave home.
Somebody was on the way to losing his job—and his dignity, no doubt—simply because Van Veeteren and the others—
Münster, Bausen, Kropke and Moerk—couldn’t track down
this damn murderer.
Were there more like that, perhaps? Why not?
How much collective fear—terror and dread—was in existence at this moment in Kaalbringen? Assuming it was possible
to measure such things...
He stretched out on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Counted.
Six days since the murder of Maurice Rühme.
Fifteen since Simmel.
Eggers? Two and a half months.
And what did they have?
Well, what? A mass of information. An absolute abundance
of details about this and that—and no pattern.
Not the slightest trace of a suspicion, and no leads at all.
Three men who had recently moved into Kaalbringen.
From Selstadt, from Aarlach, from Spain.
Two were drug abusers; one of those had given it up several years ago. The weapon was under lock and key. The murderer had handed it over to them himself.
Melnik’s report? Hadn’t arrived yet, but was that anything
to count on? The material they had on Eggers and Simmel,
and what little they had on Rühme, had so far turned up no
similarities at all, apart from the way they’d died, the way he’d
gone about it. No name in the background to link them
together—nothing. Would anything turn up in Aarlach? He
doubted it.
Damnation!
He didn’t even have a hunch, and he usually did. Not a
single little idea, nothing nagging away inside his brain, trying
to draw attention to itself—nothing odd, no improbable coincidences, nothing.
Not a damned thing, as they’d said.
It was as if the whole of this case had never really happened. Or had taken place on the other side of a wall—an
impenetrable, bulletproof glass pane through which he could
only vaguely make out a mass of incomprehensible people and
events, dancing slowly in accordance with some choreography
that made no sense to him. All the different, pointless and
meaningless connections...
A course of events with one single, totally blind, observer.
DCI Van Veeteren.
As if it didn’t affect him.
And then Laurids Reisin.
There again, wasn’t it always like this? he asked himself as
he fumbled around in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.
Wasn’t this just the usual familiar feeling of alienation that
occasionally used to creep up on him? Wasn’t it...?
The hell it was! He cut his train of thought short. Produced
a cigarette. Lit it and went to stand by the window. Looked out
over the square.
Darkness was closing in over the town. The shops had
closed for the day, and people were few and far between; the
stall holders outside the covered market were busy packing up
their wares, he noted. Over there in the arcade a few musicians
were playing for deaf ears, or for nobody at all. He raised his
gaze and eyed the churchyard and the path up to the steep hill
on the edge of his field of vision; he looked farther left: the
tower blocks in Dünningen. To the right: the municipal woods,
Rikken and whatever it was called, that other district. Somewhere or other...
. . . somewhere or other out there was a murderer, feeling
more and more secure.
We have to make a breakthrough now, thought Van
Veeteren. It’s high time.
So that people dare to go out—if for no other reason.