Borkmann's Point (23 page)

next victim?
it said on the first placard, over a slightly blurred picture of a
smiling Beate Moerk.
have you seen the red mazda?
the public was asked on the second one, where it was also
stated that
baffled police appeal for help.

Inside the newspaper, more than half the space was devoted to
the latest development in the Axman case. There were a mass
of pictures: aerial photographs of the parking lot at the smokehouse (with a white cross marking the spot where Moerk had
left her car; since Sunday evening it had been securely garaged
in the police station basement after being searched for eight
hours by forensic officers from Selstadt) and another of the
beach and the woods, and more photos of Moerk and of
Bausen and Van Veeteren taken at the press conference. Van
Veeteren was leaning back with his eyes closed, a position that
was mainly reminiscent of a state of deep peace—a mummy
or a yogi sunk deep inside himself was the first thing that came
to mind. Far removed from the exertions and idiocies of this
life, and perhaps one had to ask oneself if these people were
really the ones best equipped to track down and put away criminals of the caliber of the killer they were seeking in this case.

Indeed, had there ever been anything like this? A police
inspector abducted, probably murdered! In the middle of an
ongoing investigation! The question was justified.

The text was also variable in character, from the cool
assessment in the leading article that the only honorable thing
for the local council to do in the current circumstances was to
accept responsibility for the Axman scandal and announce new
elections, to the eloquent if divergent speculations about the
borkmann’s point

lunatic, the madman (the ice-cold psychopath) or the terrorist
(the hired hit man from an obscure murderous sect)—and, of
course, the still very popular theory featuring the perfectly
normal, honest citizen, the respectable head of the family, the
man in the same apartment block with a murky past.

Among the more reliable items, and hopefully also the
most productive ones from the point of view of the investigation, was Bausen’s renewed and urgent appeal to the general
public to come forward with any information they might have.

In particular, the critical period between six-fifteen and
seven-fifteen on the Friday evening needed to be pinned down
in detail—Inspector Moerk’s movements from the moment
she left The See Warf until she set off jogging and was observed
by Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. If it was possible to
establish the route taken by Beate Moerk during those sixty
minutes, with and without her red Mazda, well, “it would be a
damn scandal if we couldn’t nail the bastard,” wrote Herman
Schalke, quoting the exact words used by the chief of police.

As early as four in this infernal afternoon, Bausen and Kropke
withdrew to the latter’s office in order to go through and collate the tip-offs and information that had been received so far—
a total of no fewer than sixty-two firsthand sightings, as well as
another twenty or so pieces of secondhand information of various kinds. Münster and Mooser were delegated to receive and
conduct preliminary interviews with the nonstop stream of
witnesses, who were held in check by Bang and Miss deWitt in
the office downstairs, all names and personal data duly recorded.

Nobody was quite clear about what Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren was up to. He had left the police station
after lunch to “make a few inquiries,” but he had not confided
their nature to anybody. On the other hand, he had promised
to be back by five p.m. for the compulsory run-through. A
small press conference was then scheduled for seven-thirty; the
time was a concession to the local television company, whose
regular news program took place then. Anything other than a
live broadcast would be regarded by viewers as a failure and a
crime against all press ethics, the company had argued
peremptorily, and even if Bausen could have taught the young
media guru a thing or two about the law and justice, he had
swallowed his objections and acceded to his request.

“Damn Jesuits!” he had nevertheless exclaimed after replacing the receiver. “Inquisitors in silver ties, huh, no thank you!”
But given the circumstances, of course, it was a question of
making the most of a bad job.
“What the hell is that?” asked Van Veeteren, leaning forward
over the table.
“It’s a map,” explained Kropke. “The drawing pins represent sightings of Inspector Moerk and her Mazda—or rather,
of red Mazdas in general.”
“There are several in Kaalbringen,” said Bausen. “Presumably at least two of them were on the streets on Friday
evening—in addition to hers, that is.”
“Pins with red and yellow heads stand for sightings of the
car,” said Kropke, keen to take over and assert his ownership of
the patent. “Red for the period six-fifteen to six-forty-five, yellow for six-forty-five to seven-fifteen.”
Van Veeteren leaned farther over the table.
“The blue and white pins are witnesses who claim to have
seen her in person—blue for the first half hour, white for the
second. That one is DCI Van Veeteren, for instance.”
He pointed to a white pin on the beach.
“I’m honored,” said Van Veeteren. “How many are there?”
“Twenty-five red and twenty yellow,” said Kropke. “That’s
the car—and then twelve blue and five white.”
Münster moved up alongside his boss and studied the pattern of the drawing pins. Not a bad idea, he had to admit—
provided you knew how to interpret it properly, that is. They
seemed to be quite widespread; evidently sightings had been
made in all parts of town, but in most cases there was just one
isolated pin.
“The point,” said Kropke, “is that we don’t need to worry
about whether a single witness is sufficient or not. Places
where there are several pins ought to be a sufficiently clear
pointer.”
He paused to allow the others to count the pins, and recognize the stroke of genius behind the method.
“Quite clear,” muttered Münster. “The white ones as well.”
“Indubitably,” said Van Veeteren. “No doubt about it.”
“Exactly,” said Kropke, looking pleased. “As you can see,
there are only three conglomerations—in Fisherman’s Square
outside The See Warf, in Grande Place, and the smokehouse.
Twenty-four pins outside The See Warf, eleven out here, eight
by the smokehouse—forty-three out of sixty-two. The rest are
scattered all over the place, as you will have noticed. And it
seems that nobody saw her after DCI Van Veeteren’s sighting.
Apart from the murderer, that is. The beach must have been
pretty deserted.”
“True,” said Van Veeteren.
“Hmm,” said Bausen. “I still don’t think we should get carried away—a third of the sightings must be wrong, if I understand things.”
“Well,” said Kropke. “I think you realize—”
“And both The See Warf and the smokehouse have been
written about in the newspapers.”
“True enough,” said Kropke. “But I think it’s fair to say that
doesn’t matter. The most interesting thing is, of course, Grande
Place—there are eleven witnesses who claim to have seen
either Moerk or her car outside the police station here between
borkmann’s point

half past six and seven, roughly. Two saw her getting out of the
car... those two white drawing pins over there.”

He pointed, and Bausen nodded. Van Veeteren snapped off
a toothpick and dropped it in St. Pieter’s churchyard.
“Which direction was she going?” he asked.
Kropke looked at Bausen.
“Toward here,” he said.
Bausen nodded again.
“OK,” he said. “So there are indications that she came here.
Back to the station.”

“Well?” said Münster, feeling as if he’d just missed the point of
a long and complicated joke. Van Veeteren said nothing. He
dug his hands deeper into his pockets, stood erect again and
emitted a slight hissing noise through his teeth. Münster
recalled his boss’s back trouble, which occasionally manifested
itself.

They sat down around the table again. Kropke was still
looking pleased with himself, but also slightly bewildered, as if
he couldn’t quite work out the implications of what his efforts
had produced. Once again Münster could feel those butterflylike vibrations in his temples—the ones that usually suggested
something was afoot, that a critical point was being approached. That the breakthrough could come at any moment.
He looked around the untidy room. Bang was sitting opposite
him, sweating. Van Veeteren appeared to be half asleep.
Bausen was still studying the map and the drawing pins, sucking in his cheeks and looking almost as if he was dreaming.

Eventually it was Constable Mooser who put into words
the general bewilderment that seemed to be filling the room.
“Here?” he exclaimed. “Why on earth did she come here?”
Three seconds passed. Then both Kropke and Mooser
groaned and said more or less simultaneously:
“Her office!”
“Holy shit!” gasped Bausen, and dropped his as yet unlit
cigarette on the floor. “Has anybody checked her office?”
Mooser and Kropke were already on their way. Münster
had stood up, and Bausen looked as if he’d just failed the first
exam testing the basics of police work. Only Van Veeteren
seemed unperturbed, and was digging around in his breast
pocket.
“Of course,” he muttered. “There’ll be nothing there. But
take a look by all means; six eyes will see more than two, or so
one hopes.”

September 27–October
1

“I take it you know where you are?” he said, and his voice
sounded weary in the extreme.
“I think so,” she said into the darkness.
He coughed.
“You realize that you have no chance of getting out of here
without assistance?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in my hands. Can we agree on that?”
She didn’t answer. She suddenly wondered how such resolute determination could be combined with the deep sorrow
that was obvious in his voice. Wondered and yet understood at
the same time that this was the key to the whole business.
Sorrow and determination.
“Can we agree on that?”
“Yes.”
He paused and adjusted his chair. Probably crossed his legs,
but she was only guessing. The darkness was extremely dense.
“I . . .” she began.
“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t want you to speak unless it’s
necessary. If I want you to say something, I’ll tell you. This is
not going to be a conversation; my intention is simply to tell
you a story. All I ask is that you listen.
“A story,” he repeated.
He lit a cigarette, and for a moment his face was illuminated by a faint red glow.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” he said for the third time.
“Not because I’m asking for understanding or forgiveness—
I’m way past such things—but simply because I want to
remind myself of it one more time, before it’s all over.”
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“Don’t interrupt me,” he said. “I beg you not to spoil this.
Perhaps I haven’t yet made up my mind...”
She could hear his breathing through the dense silence and
darkness. Nine or ten feet away from her, no more. She closed
her eyes, but that didn’t make any difference.
The darkness was there. The smells—stale soil, fresh
tobacco smoke. And the murderer.
Bausen produced two beers from his briefcase, and opened
them.
“We mustn’t forget the other sightings,” he said. “There are
seven or eight other people who are convinced they saw her in
quite different places. She might have had time to do something else as well. The witnesses who saw her here at the station
said it was between half past and a quarter to, isn’t that right?”
Van Veeteren didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette and adjusted
the pieces.
“Kropke had stuck in more than a hundred drawing pins by
the time he went home,” said Bausen. “He’s almost run out of
red ones. That seems to be giving him a bit of a headache, in
fact. Anyway, what do you think?”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“Let’s say she did in fact come here,” he said. “For simplicity’s sake, if nothing else. OK, Mr. Chief of Police, your turn to
start. The Sicilian, I assume?”
“Of course,” said Bausen with a smile, moving his e-pawn.
“All right, she came here. But what the hell did she do?”
“I don’t know,” said Van Veeteren, “but I intend to find out.”
“Really?” said Bausen. “How? Her office didn’t produce
much in the way of leads.”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“I’ll grant you that,” he said. “Your move. If I win, I’ll take
the lead. I hope you’re aware of that.”
“Of course,” said Bausen. “Have you invented some homemade defense against the Sicilian as well? It could be useful to
know.”
“You’ll soon find out,” said Van Veeteren, and allowed himself what might have been meant as a smile, but which in fact
made Bausen wonder if he had a toothache.
Ah, well, life isn’t a game of chess after all, he thought, gazing out of the window. A game of chess involves so very many
more possibilities.
It was dark and deserted out there in the square. A few minutes past eleven; they had agreed to play a sixty-minute game,
but you never knew...The chess clock was at home in the
bookcase, and if they got themselves into a fascinating position, neither of them was likely to want to have to ruin it because of time pressure. On the contrary. There were some
positions that should never be taken any further. They had discussed this before and reached agreement on the matter:
Games should be deep-frozen after the thirty-fifth or fiftieth
move and never completed. (Such as Linkowski versus Queller
in Paris, 1907. After the forty-second. Or Mikoyan versus
Andersson, 1980—in Brest, if he remembered rightly? After the
thirty-fifth, or the thirty-seventh, at any rate.) Games in which
the beauty of the situation was so great that any further move
was bound to ruin it.
It was like life, when you wished that time would call a halt,
at least for a while, he thought. Although there was nothing to
suggest that this game would turn out to be one of those special ones. Nothing at all.
Three days? In three days he would leave this office, and
never set foot in it again...
It felt odd, to say the least, and he wondered how those
three days would turn out. When he observed Van Veeteren
on the other side of his desk, one hand hovering over the
board, there were voices inside him that told him this detective
chief inspector would in fact fulfill his promise and put the
Axman behind bars before Friday. How he would go about it
was not easy to judge, but his colleague was showing signs that
he couldn’t fail to notice: increasing introversion, a tendency to
irritation that had not been present earlier, a certain secretiveness—or whatever you call it—all of which must surely indicate that he was onto something. Getting him to talk about it
seemed to be an impossibility; Münster had also started to
notice the signs, and had explained that they were not unusual.
Familiar indications, rather, for anybody who had seen them
before—clear pointers that something was brewing and that
DCI Van Veeteren was in top gear mentally. That the situation
was precisely as Bausen had suspected, in other words. It could
well be that the thaw was imminent, and this somber police
officer was on the brink of assembling all the pieces of this
complicated jigsaw puzzle.
Ah, well, thought Bausen. But three days? Would that really
be enough?
When it came to the crunch, of course, it wasn’t just a matter of these three days; he was the piece who’d be removed
from the board on Friday. Nevertheless, over this last week he
had steadily formed an impression that the whole business was
a race against time. The murderer would have to be caught
before October 1. That’s what they’d said, and the first was on
Friday.
On Friday he would retire. Exit Bausen. A free man with
every right to fill his time with whatever he fancied. Who
didn’t need to give a damn who the Axman was, and could do
whatever he liked.
Or might he not be too happy about that freedom? Would
this case cast a shadow over his hard-earned future? That was
not impossible. He thought about his wine cellar and its valuable contents.
Three days?
He eyed Van Veeteren’s weighty figure on the other side of
his desk, and concluded that he had no idea where he would
have placed his bet if he’d needed to do so.
“Your move,” said Van Veeteren again, raising his bottle to
his lips.