Borkmann's Point (20 page)

“I must say it’s a damn peculiar coincidence,” said the chief of
police. “Don’t you think? What the hell was he doing there? It’s
a hundred and fifty miles from here, and Eugen Podworsky has
never been renowned as a great traveler, quite the contrary.
What was the date, by the way?”

“March
15, 1983,” said Kropke. “For some reason or other he
gets involved in a violent barroom brawl with two young medical students, one of whom is Maurice Rühme. They smash up
furniture and fittings to the tune of thousands of guilders, and
both Podworsky and Rühme’s pal are hospitalized for several
weeks. There’s talk of prosecution, but eventually a settlement
is reached—”

“Jean-Claude Rühme?” said Van Veeteren.
“Presumably,” said Bausen. “We have to dig deeper into
this, I guess. Get more flesh on the bones from Melnik; and
track down this other student, Christian Bleuwe, wasn’t that
his name?”
“Unfortunately—” said Van Veeteren.
“Unfortunately what?”
“He’s dead. It doesn’t say so in the report, but I phoned
Melnik this morning and he told me. Died in connection with
an explosion two years ago. I asked Melnik to find out more
details of that brawl as well. He says he’ll get back to me.”
Kropke was making notes. Bausen frowned.
“An explosion?” he said.
Van Veeteren nodded and dug into his breast pocket.
“No toothpicks left,” he said. “Do you happen to have a cig-
arette?”
Bausen handed over a pack.
“What kind of explosion?”
“A terrorist thing, it seems,” said Van Veeteren, clicking
away at his lighter. “Basque separatists, according to Melnik,
but he wasn’t sure.”
“Where?” asked Münster.
“Where?” said Van Veeteren, managing to light his cigarette at last. “In Spain, of course. Somewhere on the Costa del
Sol. Car bomb. Bleuwe and two Spaniards killed—”
Kropke stood up and seemed to be chewing his words.
“Was it...was it in...what the hell’s the place called?”
“Could it be that you are trying to think of Las Brochas?”
wondered Van Veeteren, attempting to produce a smoke ring.
He sometimes almost excels himself, thought Münster.
“Las Brochas, yes, that’s it!” almost yelled Kropke.
“Not quite,” said Van Veeteren. “Fuengirola, but that’s only
a dozen miles away.”

“But what the hell does all this mean, in fact?” said Kropke.
“Can somebody explain it to me?”

Bausen was filling his pipe, and looked at Van Veeteren.
“Well,” said Van Veeteren. “Hard to say. In any case, we’ll
have to wait until we hear more about that barroom brawl. It
could be just a strange coincidence—there are more of those
than we often imagine. But it’s possible that it might be of significance, of course.”

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, and suddenly Münster
could detect a tremor in the air. The concentration and intense
thinking being done by everyone in the room seemed tangible,
and a familiar shiver ran up his spine. Was this the moment
when things started to fall into place? Were they about to start
wrapping it up now?

“I’ll contact Melnik,” said Bausen.
“What are we going to do about Moerk?” asked Kropke.
Bausen hesitated.
“Hmm,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Münster and I will go to her flat,” said Van Veeteren after

another pause. “I think we might try to do a bit of ferreting
around as well, without making it obvious—”

“Are we going to keep this hushed up, then?” asked Kropke,
looking at everybody in turn.
“For a while, at least,” Bausen decided. “When the newspapers get hold of this, all hell will let loose.”
“No doubt about that,” said Van Veeteren.
“Kropke and Mooser,” said Bausen. “Go find Podworsky!”
Kropke nodded.
“Any tips?”
“No.”
“And Bang?” wondered Bang.
Bausen thought for a moment.
“Cycle over to Mrs. Simmel’s and find out if she knows anything about the car bomb. And about Podworsky, of course.”
“Er...?” said Bang, looking rather worried.
“Kropke will tell you what questions to ask.”
“All right,” sighed Kropke.
“We meet again and report at six o’clock,” said Bausen.
Van Veeteren stood up.
“Have you got any good picklocks?” he asked.
Bausen shook his head.
“OK, we’ll have to tell the janitor some fairy stories
instead.”
Münster crumpled a paper cup and threw it into the trash
can.
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “but is it really right not to
put all available resources into finding Inspector Moerk?”
“You mean the mass media and search parties and the
whole shebang?” said Bausen.
“Yes.”
Bausen scratched the back of his head and looked worried.
“You’re wrong, Münster,” said Van Veeteren. “We mustn’t
start thinking with our hearts. If she’s alive, she’s alive. If she’s
dead, she’s dead. That might sound callous, but it’s a fact. In no
circumstances will she be lying somewhere just now and bleeding to death. We’ll give ourselves another forty-eight hours—
till Monday lunchtime. If all hell is going to break loose
anyway, there’s no reason why we should hasten the process.”
“All right,” sighed Münster.
It took almost half an hour to walk from the police station to
Vrejsbakk and Beate Moerk’s apartment, mainly because Van
Veeteren didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. He walked all
the way with his hands in his trouser pockets and his shoulders
hunched, as if he felt cold in the pale fall sunshine. Münster
tried asking a few questions, but soon gave up; it was obvious
that Van Veeteren was deep in thought and had no intention of
being disturbed. He was evidently also convinced that Münster
knew the way, for he stayed a couple of paces behind him the
whole time, staring fixedly at Münster’s heels.
After some considerable effort Münster succeeded in tracking down the janitor, a grumpy old man surrounded by a distinct aroma of stale sweat. Mentioning vaguely in passing that
their visit was important in connection with the ongoing investigation, and that Miss Moerk happened to be away on important police business, Münster also persuaded him to let them
into the apartment.
“I hope you can sort something out soon,” said the old
man, with a sharp glint in his eye. “It’s not everybody who can
afford to live at The See Warf for weeks on end.”
Van Veeteren came to life and fixed the janitor with his
steely gaze.
“If I were you, I’d be damn careful what I say,” he growled.
“And I’d also go home and have a good wash. Open that door!”
The janitor said nothing, and unlocked the door.
“Thank you, we’ll manage on our own now,” said Van
Veeteren.

“I shouldn’t think we’ll find anything relevant here.”
Münster looked around.
“Why not?”
“Because the murderer has had plenty of time to come

here and hide away whatever he wanted to hide away—loads
of time.”
Münster saw his point.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
“Once,” said Münster. “What are we looking for?”
“The Melnik report, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’ll
bet you a hundred guilders that we don’t find it.”
“Oh, yes?” said Münster. “Why not?”
“You can work that out for yourself. Where should it be, do
you think?”
Münster thought for a moment.
“In her study,” he said. “She was working on a few theories
of her own about the murder; she has several exercise books
full of notes.”
“Is this it, in here?”
“Yes.”
“Stop,” said Van Veeteren. “Before we start rummaging
around, can you see anything unusual? Anything to suggest
that he’s been here and snooped around?”
Münster eyed the neat and tidy desk with its penholder,
notepad, telephone, papers. The bookcases with bamboo curtains, the reproductions by Kandinsky and Schaffner.
“No,” he said.
“An orderly woman, obviously,” said Van Veeteren. “It
ought to be on her desk, don’t you think?”
“I would assume so,” said Münster.
After looking around for ten minutes, Van Veeteren had
had enough and they gave up. They left the apartment and told
the janitor that he could lock the door again. The old man
muttered something, but evidently didn’t dare come out with
any more views about their alleged benefits to society.
“There are two possibilities,” said Van Veeteren as they
emerged into Rejders Allé, which led back toward the town
center. “Either she had them in the car with her, or he was here
and took them away last night.”
“Forgive my stupidity,” said Münster, “ but why do you
think it’s so important?”
“Because she’ll have made a note, of course,” snorted Van
Veeteren. “She wrote in the message to you that something
had struck her regarding the Melnik report. Whatever it was,
it’s virtually certain that she’ll have made a note in the margin.
A question mark, a cross, some underlining—could be anything. That would no doubt be enough for us to nail him if we
discovered what it was. Are you with me?”
“If you say so,” said Münster.
They walked on in silence for another fifty yards.
“So it’s not Podworsky?” said Münster.
“I don’t know. I’ve started to have my doubts but, the devil
only knows, it could be him. It’s that word
bizarre
that
intrigues me. You can think all kinds of things about that loner
on the heath, but why should he be bizarre?”
Münster didn’t answer. I’d better read that report again as
soon as I get back to the hotel, he thought. Maybe something
might strike me—
“If we’re really lucky, it might be in the car, of course,” said
Van Veeteren. “But we’d have to be goddamn king-sized lucky.
Let’s go there now.”

“Are you good at breaking into cars?” asked Van Veeteren as
they approached the smokehouse.
“Could be worse,” said Münster.
“It would be useful if we didn’t attract too much attention.
There are a lot of people around here, after all. It would be a
pity if they were to start smelling a rat when we’ve postponed
the arrival of hell until Monday.”
He took a piece of steel wire from his pocket.
“Is this good enough?”
Münster examined it.
“I should think so.”
“OK, then. I’ll stay here. You go and open up. Thirty seconds—no more.”
Münster walked across the parking lot. He crouched down
by the red Mazda and had unlocked it inside ten seconds.
“Good,” said Van Veeteren, joining him. “Impressive skills.
Jump in, for God’s sake!”
It didn’t take them long to establish that Beate Moerk’s car
was as devoid of leads as was her apartment. In any case, it was
clear that neither she nor her presumed murderer had been
careless enough to leave a vital report lying around in the car.
Well, to tell the truth, it was possible that Inspector Moerk
had been...Van Veeteren sighed and got out of the car.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s follow the route she took once
again. The beach as well this time.”
Münster nodded.
“Make sure you keep your eyes peeled! It was somewhere
around here that she disappeared last night, that’s definite.
There’s not much in this case that you can say that about.”
“No,” said Münster. “I agree with you there.”
Van Veeteren rummaged around in his pockets for cigarettes, and to his delight came up with Bausen’s pack.
“Somewhere,” he said, gesturing with his arm, “somewhere out there he was lying in wait and then pounced yesterday evening. Waited for her to come running, and then—”
“And then?” said Münster.
Van Veeteren lit a cigarette and examined the spent match
before flicking it over his shoulder.
“I don’t know,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m damned if I know.
But one thing is clear. He didn’t attack her with the ax this
time—not out here, at least. We can’t have missed that much
blood.”
“That’s some consolation,” said Münster.
“Of course it is,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go, then?”
“How’s it going?” asked Hiller.
Van Veeteren regarded the telephone with repugnance.
“Well,” he said.
“Well?” said Hiller. “You’ll soon have been at it for a month.
There are those who think it’s high time the case was solved.”
“They’re welcome to come give us a hand,” said Van
Veeteren.
“At least you could send us some kind of report. Some
people would like to know what you’re actually doing—”
“Some people are welcome to disappear up their own asses.”
Hiller muttered something incomprehensible.
“Do you need reinforcements?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “But Münster would no doubt
like to go back home for a few days.”
“Why?”
“Wife and children. Have you heard of such creatures?”
Hiller muttered again.
“Would you like Reinhart to relieve him?”
“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll have a word with Münster, but we’ll wait until after Monday.”
“Monday? Why after Monday?”
“Read the newspapers, and you’ll understand.”
“What the hell—?”
“Or watch the box. Monday’s when some new light will be
cast on the case, you might say.”
Various strange noises could be heard in the receiver, but
Van Veeteren could not be certain if they were due to a bad
line or the chief of police gasping for breath.
“Are you saying that your report is going to come via the
mass media? That is the goddamnedest thing,” he eventually
managed to articulate, before Van Veeteren interrupted him.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I have to go out and tail an ugly
crook now. I’ll get back to you.”
There was a crackling noise again. Van Veeteren put down
the receiver and pulled out the plug.

With three bottles of brown ale in a bucket of cold water on
the floor, and a dish of fat olives within easy reach, he slid
down into the bath and switched off the light.

He closed his eyes and made his head comfortable against
the edge of the tub, then stretched out a hand, fished up the
open bottle and took a couple of deep swigs.

I’m not going to get up until I’ve solved this business, he
thought, but soon realized that it might be prudent to adjust
the demands somewhat. What the hell would the others say
on Monday if they found themselves with not only a missing
inspector to deal with, but a drowned DCI as well?

Enough of setting silly deadlines and similar nonsense, he
decided. Back to basics. The Axman. Concentrate.

There was an old rule that occasionally used to crop up, which
he had no doubt inherited from Borkmann, one of the few
police officers he’d come across for whom he had nothing but
respect and admiration. Probably the only one, now that he
came to think of it, which was most likely connected with the
time aspect: Borkmann had completed his final years in post as
a chief inspector up in Frigge, where Van Veeteren himself was
just beginning his career as a probationer. Be that as it may, he
still felt confidence and trust in the old guy; of course, he no
longer needed to analyze the circumstances in detail. Even a
hardened old cop needs the occasional firm foothold or
lifeboat to cling to, he used to tell himself. Borkmann’s rule
was hardly a rule; in fact, it was more of a comment, a landmark for tricky cases.