Borkmann's Point (22 page)

“What were you doing last Friday evening?” asked Van
Veeteren to set the ball rolling.

“Last Friday?” said Podworsky. “What the hell do you want
to know what I was doing last Friday for? It’s ages since the last
of them died, surely—?”

“If you answer my questions instead of repeating them, it
will go more quickly,” said Van Veeteren. “I thought you said
you were in a hurry.”

Podworsky opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“All right,” he said, and seemed to be thinking back.
Van Veeteren didn’t move a muscle.
“Nothing special in the evening,” Podworsky eventually

decided. “I went around to chat with Saulinen about the boat
in the afternoon—got the keys and so on. Then I drove home.
Next question, please!”

“What were you doing the night Simmel was murdered?”
“I’ve already explained that to the skirt who’s supposed to
be a cop. I was at home asleep. That’s what I usually do at
night.”
“Can anybody confirm that?” asked Münster.
“My cats,” said Podworsky.
“And when Rühme died?” asked Van Veeteren.
“When was that?”
“The night between the eighth and ninth of this month.”
“God only knows. The same, I suppose.”
“Did you know Heinz Eggers?”
“No.”
“Any alibi for the Eggers murder?”
“I was in Chadów. Stop pissing around and asking me
things I’ve already told you guys!”
“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “What were you doing in
Aarlach in March 1983?”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“Aarlach in 1983?”
“Stop messing me around,” snorted Van Veeteren. “You
were in the hospital for a week, for God’s sake.”
“Ah,” grunted Podworsky. “You mean that damn business.
What the hell has that got to do with this?”
“Is it you or me who’s asking the questions?”
Podworsky groaned.
“You’re a real ugly bastard!”
“I think we’ll take a pause there,” said Van Veeteren. He
pushed back his chair and stood up. “I gather they eat rotten
fish in some countries—Sweden, unless I’m much mistaken.”
“Hang on, for fuck’s sake!” said Podworsky. “Aarlach—of
course I can tell you about that, if you damn well insist. Sit
down!”
Van Veeteren sat down. Podworsky lit another cigarette
and scratched his head.
“Well?” said Van Veeteren.
“What’s the time limit on proceedings for illegal distilling?”
asked Podworsky.
“You’ll be all right,” said Van Veeteren.
“Sure?”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Never trust the fucking cops,” said Podworsky. “Switch
that fucking machine off !”
Van Veeteren nodded, and Münster switched off the tape
recorder. Podworsky gave a hoarse laugh.
“All right. Here you have it. I’d hit upon a consignment of
spirits that needed selling on—”
“Hit upon?” said Van Veeteren.
“Let’s call it that,” said Podworsky.
“How much?”
“Quite a lot.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“And you see, I had this pal, a Dane, in Aarlach who had a
buyer, a fucking medic, as it turned out, who wasn’t too fond
of paying what he owed.”
“What was his name?” interrupted Münster.
“His name? Fuck knows. I can’t remember. Well, something beginning with B. Bloe-something—”
“Bleuwe?” suggested Van Veeteren.
“Yeah, that’s probably it—one of those academic assholes
who thought he could make some easy cash by selling booze
to his snotty pals. We’d reached agreement on everything, the
delivery was arranged, everything fixed up, all that remained
now was payment—”
“And?” said Van Veeteren.
“That was what we were going to sort out at that pub...
and this little prick sits there with his pal and thinks he can pull
a fast one on me! What do you reckon the odds are on that,
Constable?”
“How much are we talking about?” asked Münster.
“Quite a bit,” said Podworsky. “We’d sunk a fair amount,
and I got a bit annoyed, of course. I only regret one thing—”
“What?” said Van Veeteren.
“That I didn’t wait for the Dane before I went for them,”
said Podworsky, succumbing to a sudden coughing fit. He had
to turn away and double up with his hands over his mouth, and
it lasted for nearly half a minute. Münster looked at Van
Veeteren. Tried to work out what he was thinking, but that
was impossible, as usual. As for himself, he thought Podworsky’s story sounded pretty plausible; at least he didn’t give
the impression of making it up as he went along.
Although you could never be sure, of course. He’d seen this
kind of thing before. And got it wrong before, as well.
“What was the name of his pal?” asked Van Veeteren when
Podworsky had finished coughing.
“Eh?”
“Bleuwe’s mate. What was he called?”
“No idea,” said Podworsky.
“Did he ever introduce himself ?” asked Münster.
“He might have, but I’m fucked if I can remember the
name of somebody I punched on the nose twelve years ago.”
“Ten,” said Van Veeteren. “What was his name?”
“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Are you not all there,
and what’s going on?”
Van Veeteren waited for a few seconds while Podworsky
stared at them, shifting his gaze from one to the other as if he
were asking himself how on earth he could have landed in
front of two idiots instead of two police officers.
Mind you, in his world the difference probably wasn’t all
that great, Münster conceded.
“His name was Maurice Rühme,” said Van Veeteren.
Podworsky gaped at him.
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
He leaned back in his chair and thought things over for a
while.
“OK,” he said eventually. “Let’s be clear about one thing—I
didn’t manage to kill the bastard in that goddamn bar, and I
haven’t succeeded in doing it since then either. Any more questions?”
“Not right now,” said Van Veeteren, standing up again. “But
you can sit here and think this over, and maybe we’ll get back
to you.” He knocked on the door and Kropke and Mooser
returned with the cuffs.
“You fucking bastards,” said Podworsky, and there’s no
doubt that it sounded as if he meant it.
The decision to release Eugen Podworsky, and as soon as possible inform the media of the disappearance of Inspector
Moerk, was taken at about nine p.m. on Sunday evening, by a
majority vote of three to one. Bausen, Münster and Van Veeteren were in favor, Kropke against. Mooser abstained, possibly because he was somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden and
very definitely onetime adoption of democratic procedures.
“I’ll speak to Cruickshank now, tonight,” said Van Veeteren.
“I’ve promised him a bit of advance information. Press conference tomorrow afternoon?”
Bausen agreed.
“Three o’clock,” he decided. “And we can expect the whole
parade, as I said before—television, radio, the lot. It’s not all
that common for a murderer to put the cuffs on the police, you
have to say.”
“The general public reckon it ought to be the other way
around,” said Van Veeteren. “One can see their point, it has to
be admitted.”
“What shall we say about Podworsky?” wondered Kropke.
“Not a goddamn word,” said Bausen. “Mouths shut is the
order of the day.” He looked around the table. “DCI Van
Veeteren and I will talk to the press, nobody else.”
“Typical,” muttered Kropke.
“That’s an order,” said Bausen. “Go home and get some
sleep now. Tomorrow is another day, and we’re certain to be
on TV. It might help if we looked like normal human beings.
I’ll release Podworsky.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Van Veeteren. “It might be useful
for there to be more than one of us.”

It was past eleven before the kids finally went to bed. They
opened a bottle of wine and put on a Mostakis tape, and after
several failed attempts, they finally managed to get a fire going.
They spread the mattresses out on the floor and undressed
each other.

“We’ll wake them up,” said Münster.
“No, we won’t,” said Synn. She stroked his back and crept
down under the blankets. “I put a bit of a sleeping pill into
their hot chocolate.”
“Sleeping pill?” he thundered, trying to sound outraged.
“Only a little bit. Won’t do them any lasting harm. Come
here!”
“OK,” said Münster, and restored relations with his wife.

Monday announced its arrival with a stubborn and persistent
downpour that threatened to go on forever. Van Veeteren
woke up at about seven, contemplated the rain for a while and
decided to go back to bed. This place changes its weather more
often than I change my shirt, he thought.

By a quarter past nine he was sharing a breakfast table in
the dining room with Cruickshank, who seemed to be remarkably invigorated and in a strikingly good mood, despite the
early hour and the fact that he must have been up working for
most of the night.

“Phoned it through at three this morning,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll be damned if the night desk didn’t want to stop
the presses, but they eventually settled for the afternoon edition. Talk about Jack the Ripper hysteria!”

Van Veeteren looked decidedly miserable.
“Cheer up!” said Cruickshank. “You’ll soon have cracked it.
He’s gone too far this time. Did she really have some idea who
he was?”
“Presumably,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s what he must
have thought, at least.”
Cruikshank nodded.
“Have you sent out the press release yet?” he asked, looking
around the empty dining room. “I don’t notice any of my colleagues rushing in for the kill.”
Van Veeteren checked his watch.
“Another quarter of an hour, I think. Must finish breakfast
and then go into hiding. It’s pissing out there.”
“Hmm,” said Cruickshank, chewing away at a croissant.
“It’ll be shit over the ankles down there.”
“Down where?”
“On the beach and in the woods, of course. With all the
photographers and private dicks.”
“You’re probably right,” said Van Veeteren, sighing again.
“Anyway, I think it’s time I went to the police station and
locked myself in.”
“Good luck,” said Cruickshank. “I’ll see you this afternoon. I expect I’ll still be here, waiting for my fellow union
members.”
. . .

“Well, that was that,” said the chief of police, flopping back onto
the leather sofa. “I have to say that I prefer the newspaper boys.”
Van Veeteren agreed.
“Those well-oiled talking heads on TV make me vomit;
they really do. Do you have a lot to do with that crowd?”
He kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes rather cautiously, as if he were uncertain whether or not they were still
there.
“I can’t say that I have much of an interest in encouraging them,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s be honest; it’s reasonable
that they should start forming their own ideas. But you handled
them pretty well, I thought.”
“Thank you,” said Bausen. “But we’re definitely in trouble,
no matter how you look at it. Has Hiller been onto you?”
Van Veeteren sat back in his chair behind the chief of
police’s desk.
“Of course,” he said. “He wanted to send ten men from
Selstadt and another ten from Oostwerdingen—plus a team of
forensic officers to run a fine-tooth comb over the jogging
track.”
Bausen linked his hands behind the back of his head and
gazed out of the window.
“A brilliant idea, in weather like this,” he said. “Does he
want you to take charge completely? I mean, damn it to hell,
I’ve only got five days left. I’m quitting on Friday, no matter
what. Made up my mind last night—I’m starting to feel like a
football coach with a two-year losing streak.”
“The leadership question never came up,” said Van
Veeteren. “In any case, I’ve promised to clear up the whole
thing by Friday.”
Bausen was distinctly skeptical.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, filling his pipe. “Let’s leave it at
that. Have you spoken to her parents?”
“Mrs. Moerk, yes,” said Van Veeteren.
“Did it go well?”
“Not especially. Why should it?”
“No, it’s a long time since anything went well,” said Bausen.

“I’ve been watching TV,” said Synn. “They don’t give you very
good marks.”

“That’s odd,” said Münster. “Something smells good; what
are we eating?”
“Creole chicken,” said his wife, giving him a kiss. “Do you
think she’s dead?” she whispered in his ear; there’s a limit to
what the children of a police officer can be expected to put up
with, after all.
“I don’t know,” he said, and just for a moment he once
again felt the cold despair well up inside him.
“I saw Dad on TV,” said his daughter, interrupting their
conversation and hugging his thigh. “I’ve been swimming in
the rain.”
“You’ve been swimming in the sea, you idiot,” said his son.
“Have we any more sleeping pills?” wondered Münster.

Van Veeteren leaned back against the pillows and picked up the
Melnik report yet again. He weighed it in his hand for a while,
his eyes closed.

Horrific, he thought. Absolutely horrific.
Or perhaps painful might be a better word to describe it.

Hidden away somewhere in these damn documents was the
answer, but he couldn’t find it. Thirty-four pages, a total of
seventy-five names. He’d underlined them and re-counted
twice—women, lovers and possible lovers, good friends, fellow
students, colleagues, neighbors, members of the same golf
club—right down to the most casual acquaintances, marginal
figures who had happened to cross the path of Maurice Rühme
at one time or another. And then occasions—journeys, exams,
final exams, appointments, parties, new addresses, congresses,
cocaine withdrawal clinics—it was all there, noted down in
those densely packed pages, neatly and comprehensively
recorded in the dry prose of DCI Melnik. It was a masterpiece
of detective work, no doubt about it; but even so, he couldn’t
draw any conclusions from it. Not a damn thing!

What was it?
What the hell had Beate Moerk noticed?
Or did she know something that the others didn’t know?

Could that be it? Could it be that he hadn’t passed Borkmann’s
point yet, despite everything?

He had her notebooks on his bedside table. Three of them,
which he hadn’t gotten around to looking at yet.
It went against the grain. If they really did contain something of significance, why had the murderer left them there?
He’d had plenty of time, and didn’t seem to be a person who
left anything to chance.
And if in fact she was still alive, despite everything, would
he be intruding upon the holy territory of her private life?
Trampling all over her most sacred ground? Before he opened
them, he couldn’t have the slightest idea about what she had
confided to these notebooks. They hadn’t been meant for him
to read, that was for sure.
Did the same reservations apply if she was still alive, come
to that?
Yes, of course. Maybe even more so.
He shut his eyes and listened to the rain pattering down. It
must have been raining for more than twenty-four hours,
heavy and relentless, from an unremitting sky. Leaden and
impenetrable. Did the weather never change in this godforsaken hole? he thought.
Whatever; it wasn’t a bad way of presenting what they
were up against. Nonstop nudging at the same point. Marking
time and never moving on. Waves in a dead sea...
The clock in St. Anna’s church struck twelve. He sighed,
opened his eyes, then concentrated for the fourth time on the
report from Aarlach.
“Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?” said Wilmotsen
with a sigh, contemplating the layouts.
“All right,” said the editor. “If we’ve printed a double run,
we might as well make everything double.”
The news of Inspector Moerk’s disappearance and the circumstances in which it took place had clearly proved to be a
trial of manhood for Wilmotsen, the headline setter on
de
Journaal.
The opposing concepts Important Information and
Big Letters were simply not possible to reconcile within the
space available, and for the first time in the newspaper’s eightyyear-old history, they had been forced to prepare two separate
placards.
In order not to abandon the duty to provide full information, that is. In order not to undervalue the dignity of this hairraising drama that was now entering its fourth (or was it the
fifth?) act in their peaceful hometown of Kaalbringen.