Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery

by Håkan Nesser

  “We’re going to arrest the Axman tomorrow morning,” he explained. “The others are coming here tonight to sort out tactics.”

  “Coming here?” said Synn.

  “Wicked,” said the six-year-old boy. “I’ll go with you.”

  Plans were laid by half past four. It had taken a bit longer than Van Veeteren had imagined; the question of motive had been kicked around, and nobody was quite sure how it all hung together. But they had sorted it out as far as possible. They couldn’t get any further now, and even if a few pieces of the puzzle were still missing, everybody was clear about the overall picture.

  “No point in waiting any longer,” said Van Veeteren.

  “Everybody knows what they have to do... I don’t think we’re exposing ourselves to much of a risk, but it’s just as well to take precautions. Mooser?”

  Mooser tapped his bulging hip.

  “Münster?”

  Münster nodded.

  “Chief of Police?”

  Another nod, and Van Veeteren closed his notebook.

  “All right. Let’s go!”

  49

  The thought of death came like a considerate guest, but once she had let it in, it decided to stay.

  All at once it was living with her. Uninvited and inexorable.

  Like a hand squeezing her midriff. Like a slowly swelling tumor. A gray cloud spreading throughout her body, smother-ing her thoughts under still more hopeless darkness.

  Death. Suddenly it had become the only reality she possessed. This is the end, she told herself, and it was nothing especially traumatic or upsetting. She was going to die...either by his hand or of her own accord. Lying curled up here on the floor under all these blankets, with this aching body of hers and with this writhing soul, which was the most fragile part of her... that was what would give way first, she knew now; once she had opened the door to death, the spark of life inside her was slowly dimming. Perhaps it would be only a hundred or seventy or even twenty intakes of breath before it would be extinguished. She had started counting now; people always did when they were in prison, she knew that. She’d read about prisoners who had kept themselves sane thanks to this constant counting, the only snag being that she had nothing to count. No events. No noises. No time.

  Only her own breathing and pulse.

  . . .

  She was waiting for him now. Longing for him as if he were her lover... her warder, her executioner, her murderer?

  Whatever. Every change, every incident, every imaginable interruption... anything but this constant intercourse with death.

  Her considerate and demanding guest.

  The dish of food was half full, but she could no longer get anything down. She would occasionally moisten her tongue with water, but she was not in the least thirsty either. She struggled as far as the bucket, but could produce nothing...all her bodily functions had left her, one after another, it was as simple as that.

  Why didn’t he come?

  Even if time no longer existed, she had the feeling that something must have delayed him. She made up her mind to count up to four thousand heartbeats, and if he hadn’t arrived by then, she would...

  …she would count another four thousand heartbeats.

  Was it possible to distinguish between a thousand heartbeats and another thousand heartbeats? Could it be done? And if so, what was the point?

  And as she counted, that hand squeezed tighter and tighter.

  The cloud grew.

  Death filled her.

  “I’m late,” he said, and she could barely hear his voice.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He sat there in silence, and she noticed that she was now counting his breaths. Rasping in the darkness as usual, but even so his, not hers... something that didn’t emanate from herself.

  “Tell me your story,” she begged.

  He lit a cigarette and suddenly she felt the faint glow growing and forcing its way inside her... all at once the whole of her body was filled with light and the next moment she lost consciousness. She woke up in a glittering white world, where a pulsating and vibrant gleam was so strong and powerful that it was rumbling inside her. Vertiginous spirals spun around inside her head, and she plunged into them, was sucked up and carried by this infernally rotating whiteness, this flood of raging light...

  Then it began to recede. The torrent slowed down and found a slowly swaying rhythm; waves and breakers, and the smell of earth returned. Of earth and smoke. Once again she saw only darkness and a trembling red point, and she realized that something had happened. She didn’t know what, but she had been elsewhere and was now back. And the cloud was no longer spreading.

  Something had happened.

  “Tell me your story,” she said, and now her voice was steady, like before. “Tell me about Heinz Eggers.”

  “Heinz Eggers,” he said, and hesitated as he usually did at the start. “Yes, I’ll tell you about Heinz Eggers as well. It’s just that I am so tired, so very tired... but I’ll keep going to the end, of course.”

  She had no time to reflect on what his words might imply.

  He cleared his throat and started.

  “It was in Selstadt... she moved there. Or was moved there. Was taken in hand by the social services and placed in Trieckberg; do you know Trieckberg?”

  “No.”

  “One of those community homes that manages to help the odd patient... doesn’t just allow them to drift out then back in, out and back in, until they finally die of an overdose or a dirty needle. It manages to help the odd patient. Then... we had contact, good contact; we went to visit her, and she wasn’t too bad. There was a spark of light again, but after a few months we heard that she had run away... it was a long, long time before we were tipped off that she might be in Selstadt. Trieckberg isn’t far from there. I drove to Selstadt and searched... after a few days I dug up an address and went there. It was a drug den, of course. I’ve seen a fair amount, but I’ve never seen anybody in a worse state than Brigitte and the other woman in Heinz Eggers’s stable... that’s what he called it. His stable. He obviously thought I’d come for a quick session with one or both of his whores. He might have had more, come to that . . .”

  He paused.

  “What did you do?” she asked after a while.

  “I hit him. Punched him on the nose. Hadn’t the strength to do any more than that. He disappeared. I phoned for an ambu-lance and got both of them into hospital... she died three weeks later. Bitte died at the hospital in Selstadt. Forgive me, I’m too tired to go into the details.”

  “How?”

  He waited again and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  Dropped it on the floor and stamped out the glow with his foot.

  “Slit her own throat as she threw herself out of a sixth-floor window... wanted to make sure. That was September 30, 1988. She was twenty-seven years old.”

  . . .

  He remained sitting there for longer than usual this time. Sat the usual three or four yards away from her in the darkness, breathing heavily. Neither of them spoke; she gathered there was nothing else to add. He had finished now.

  He had achieved his vengeance.

  The story was told.

  It was all over.

  They sat there in the darkness, and it seemed to her that they were simply two actors who happened to be still onstage, even though the curtain had long since come down.

  What now? she wondered. What comes next?

  What will Horatio do after the death of Hamlet?

  Live and tell the story one more time, as he had been requested to do?

  Die by his own hand, which is his wish?

  In the end she dared to put the question:

  “What do you intend to do?”

  She could hear him give a start. Perhaps he had actually fallen asleep. He seemed to be enveloped by infinite weariness, in any case, and she immediately felt that she would have liked to give him
advice.

  Some kind of comfort. But there was none, of course.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve played my part. I must receive a sign. Must go there and wait for a sign . . .”

  He stood up.

  “What day is it?” she asked suddenly, without knowing why.

  “It’s not day,” he said. “It’s night.”

  Then he left her again.

  Well, I’m still alive, she thought in surprise. And night is the mother of day...

  50

  Van Veeteren took the lead.

  Led the way through the darkness that was starting to become less intense. A narrow strip of gray dawn had forced its way in under the trees, but it was still too early to make out anything but vague outlines, flickerings and shadows. Sound still held sway over light, the ear over the eye. A jumble of faint rustling and squeals from small animals scuttling away from their feet as they moved forward. A strange place, thought Münster.

  “Take it easy now,” Van Veeteren had urged them. “It’s a helluva lot better to arrive a quarter of an hour later without being discovered.”

  They eventually turned the corner and emerged onto the stone paving. Van Veeteren opened the door. It squeaked faintly, and Münster could sense that he was concerned; but they were all inside within half a minute.

  They split up. Two up the stairs. He and Münster downstairs.

  It was pitch-dark, and he switched on his flashlight.

  “It’s only a guess,” he whispered over his shoulder, “but I’m pretty damn sure that I’m right, even so!”

  Münster nodded and followed hard on his heels.

  “Look!” exclaimed Van Veeteren, stopping. He pointed the beam at an old doll’s house crammed full of toys: dolls, teddy bears and everything else you could think of. “I ought to have realized even then... but that would have been asking a bit much, I suppose.”

  They continued downward, Münster half a step behind him. The smell of soil grew stronger—soil and the slight remains of stale cigarette smoke. The passage grew narrower and the ceiling lower, making them crouch slightly, leaning forward—groping their way forward, despite the flickering beam from the flashlight.

  “Here,” said Van Veeteren suddenly. He stopped and shone the flashlight on a solid wooden door with double bolts and a bulky padlock. “Here it is!”

  He knocked cautiously.

  No sound.

  He tried again, a little harder, and Münster could hear a faint noise from the other side.

  “Inspector Moerk?” said Van Veeteren, his cheek pressed against the damp door.

  Now they could hear a clear and definite “Yes,” and simultaneously Münster felt something burst inside him. Tears poured down his face and nothing on earth could have stopped them.

  I’m a forty-two-year-old cop standing here weeping like a little kid. Godammit!

  But he couldn’t care less. He stood behind Van Veeteren’s back and wept under the cover of darkness. Thank you, he thought, without having any idea whom he was addressing.

  Van Veeteren took out the crowbar, and after a couple of failed attempts managed to make the padlock give way. He drew back the bolts and opened the door...

  “Take the light away,” whispered Beate Moerk, and all Münster could see of her were the chains, her mass of tousled hair and the hands she was holding over her eyes.

  Before doing as she’d asked, Van Veeteren shone the beam around the walls for a few seconds.

  Then he muttered something unintelligible and switched off.

  Münster fumbled his way over to her. Raised her to her feet... she leaned heavily on him, and it was clear that he would have to carry her. He carefully lifted her up, and noticed that he was still crying.

  “How are you?” he managed to blurt out as she laid her head on his shoulder, and his voice sounded surprisingly steady.

  “Not too good,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”

  “No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I ought to have realized sooner, though... I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the chains on for a bit longer. We don’t have the right equipment with us.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Beate Moerk. “But when you’ve got them off, I want a bathroom for three hours.”

  “Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ve built up plenty of overtime.”

  Then he started to lead them back.

  Kropke and Mooser were already waiting for them on the patio.

  “He’s not at home,” said Kropke.

  “Oh, shit,” said Van Veeteren.

  “You can put me down if you like,” said Beate Moerk. “I might be able to walk...”

  “Out of the question,” said Münster.

  “Where the hell is he?” grunted Van Veeteren. “It’s half past five in the morning... shouldn’t he be in his goddamn bed?”

  Beate Moerk had opened her eyes, but was shading them with her hand from the faint light of dawn.

  “He was with me not long ago,” she said.

  “Not long ago?” said Kropke.

  “I have a bit of a problem with judging time,” she explained. “An hour... maybe two.”

  “He didn’t say where he was going?” asked Van Veeteren.

  Beate Moerk searched her mind.

  “No,” she said. “But he wanted a sign, he said—”

  “A sign?” said Mooser.

  “Yes.”

  Van Veeteren thought that over for a while. He lit a cigarette and started pacing up and down over the paving stones.

  “Hmm,” he said eventually and came to a halt. “Yes, that’s possible, of course... why not? Münster!”

  “Yes.”

  “See to it that the chains are removed and get Inspector Moerk to the hospital.”

  “Home,” said Beate Moerk.

  Van Veeteren muttered.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll send a doctor instead.”

  She nodded.

  “Kropke and Mooser, come with me!”

  “Where do you think he is?” asked Kropke when Münster and Moerk had left.

  “With his family,” said Van Veeteren. “Where he belongs.”

  51

  “I’ll be all right,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Sure?”

  “Of course. A spell in the bath and I’ll be a rose again.”

  “The doctor will be here in half an hour. I’d prefer to stay until then.”

  “No, thank you,” she said with a faint smile. “Get back to your family now.”

  He paused, his hand on the door handle.

  “That report... ” he said. “How much of it did you read, in fact?”

  She laughed.

  “All right, I’ll come clean. Nothing. It was the pagination that intrigued me. When I handed over the original, I looked at the last page and saw that it numbered thirty-five, at the bottom... I think I said something about it at the time.”

  “True,” said Münster, remembering the moment.

  “There were no numbers on the copy... that’s all. I didn’t know a thing about his daughter when I drove to the station.

  I’ve only been working here for four years; she was dead when I started. I just wanted to check if I could find anything in the copying room. I suppose he must have seen me when I arrived, or as I was leaving... that’s all. Maybe it was pure coincidence; I don’t know if he thought I knew something. Anything else you’re wondering about?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Well, quite a bit in fact,” he said. “But it can wait.”

  “Go now,” she said. “But give me a hug first, if you can stand the stink.”

  “Come on, I’ve been carrying you around all morning,” said Münster, throwing his arms around her.

  “Ouch,” said Beate Moerk.

  “So long, then,” said Münster. “Look after yourself.”

  “You too.”

  He saw hi
m from some considerable distance away.

  In the faint light of dawn, he was standing in the same place as he’d been that evening, right at the beginning.

  Back then, when he’d chosen not to approach him. Not to disturb his sorrow.

  Like then, he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

  Head bowed. He was standing perfectly still, legs wide apart, as if he’d been waiting for a long time and wanted to make sure that he didn’t lose his balance.

  Concentrating hard. Deep in what might have been prayer, Van Veeteren thought, but perhaps he was simply waiting.

  Waiting for something to happen.

  Or perhaps it was just sorrow. His back made it so clear he didn’t want to be disturbed that Van Veeteren hesitated to approach. He gestured to Kropke and Mooser to keep their distance... so that he would have him to himself for at least a short while.

  “Good morning,” he said when there were only a couple of yards left, and Bausen must have heard his footsteps in the gravel. “I’m coming now.”

  “Good morning,” said Bausen, without moving.

  Van Veeteren put his hand on Bausen’s shoulder. Stood still for a while, reading what it said on the headstone.

  Brigitte Bausen

  6 ⁄18 ⁄1961–9 ⁄30 ⁄1988

  Helena Bausen

  2 ⁄3 ⁄1932–9 ⁄27⁄1991

  “Yesterday?” said Van Veeteren.

  Bausen nodded.

  “Five years ago. As you can see, her mother didn’t quite make it in the end... but she was only three days short.”

  They stood in silence for a while. Van Veeteren could hear Kropke coughing in the background, and held up a warning hand without looking around.

  “I ought to have realized sooner,” he said. “You’ve given me a few signs.”