Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  Beate Moerk sighed.

  De Journaal, finally, Kaalbringen’s local voice in the media world, naturally devoted more space to the murders than any other newspaper—no less than eighteen pages out of thirty-two—and perhaps expressed the general unrest and the mood of the town in its front-page headline—eight columns wide and in war-is-declared typography:

  WHO’LL BE THE NEXT VICTIM?

  Beate Moerk dropped the newspapers on the floor and slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

  What she would most have liked to do, if she had been free to respond to her body’s signals, was pull the bedspread over her head and go back to sleep.

  But it was eleven o’clock. High time to go out for a jog. A couple of miles west along the shore, then three or four back through the woods. It was still windy, but the rain seemed to be holding off. The wind would be behind her on the way out—that was the most important thing. Most of the time, you weren’t affected by the wind in the woods.

  “Don’t go out on your own, whatever you do!” her mother had instructed when she phoned yesterday. “Don’t assume that he doesn’t attack women, and don’t fool yourself that your being a police officer will make any difference!”

  If it had been anybody else who’d said that, she might have been tempted to pay some attention, but as it was, it was years ago that she had learned the trick of letting her mother’s advice go in one ear and out the other. If by any chance she happened to remember any of the words spoken, it was mainly because she wanted to find justification for ignoring them.

  So, let’s get jogging! Obey her body’s pleas to stay in bed and rest for a few more hours? No, not on your life!

  A quarter of an hour later she was dressed and ready. She pulled the zipper of her tracksuit top as high as it would go, and tied the broad red headband around her hair.

  She checked how she looked in the mirror. It’ll do.

  Fear not the devil or the fairies.

  Weather, wind or wicked weapon wielders.

  Dusk closed in rapidly. It fell like a stage curtain, more or less, and when she entered her apartment it was almost pitch-dark, even though it was only seven o’clock. Her body was tired and aching now. Two hours of jogging and stretching followed by four hours of interrogation at the police station, then working out a program for the coming week with who would do what—needless to say, it all had its effect. Who could ask for more, even from a woman in her prime?

  Even so, she refused merely to flop into bed. Despite the protest from her body, she prepared an evening meal of an omelet, some greens and a lump of cheese. She washed up and made coffee. Two hours at her desk in peace and quiet—that was what she wanted. Two hours of solitary majesty, with darkness and silence forming a protective dome around her thoughts and ideas, around her notepad, notes and speculations—it was during these evening sessions that she would solve the case. It was here, lost in thought at her desk, that Inspector Beate Moerk would seek out, identify and outsmart the Axman!

  If not tonight, then very soon, no question about it.

  Was there any other cop in this country who had a more romantic attitude toward her job than she did? Hardly likely. Whatever, there was another rule she was loathe to abandon, even though she was not at all clear where she had got it from: Any day you fail to carve out even a short time to spend doing what you really want to do is a wasted day.

  How very true.

  The triangle looked more impressive than ever. Three names, one in each corner. Eggers—Simmel—Rühme. And a question mark in the middle.

  A question mark that needed to be scrubbed out in order to reveal the name of the murderer, a name that would be on people’s lips forever. On the lips of Kaalbringen citizens, at least. People never forget an evildoer. Statesmen, artists and much admired performers disappear in the mists of time, but nobody forgets the name of a murderer.

  Three victims. Three male incomers. All of them as different as could be—was it possible to imagine bigger differences?

  A dropout, a drug addict and a jailbird.

  An established, wealthy but not especially attractive self-employed man.

  A young doctor, the son of one of the town’s most prominent worthies.

  The more she stared at these names, at her notes, her guesses and her doodles, the more obvious it became that the murder of this third victim had not provided even the shadow of a new lead.

  On the contrary. The more there are, the worse it gets, it seemed.

  By a quarter to eleven, she realized that she could barely keep her eyes open any longer. She switched off the light, brushed her teeth and crept into bed.

  Tomorrow would be another day. She would work hard. Patiently churning through questions and answers, questions and answers . . . Perhaps it was this humdrum procedure that would eventually produce the goods. The masses of facts and minutes and tape recordings might eventually crystallize to produce a point, an accumulation of points, which could provide the basis for asking the most important question of all.

  Who is he?

  And it could all indicate a possible answer.

  But she would much have preferred to be able to conjure up the face of the murderer, outline for outline, feature for feature. To have persuaded the dark hours of the night to carve out a portrait, a finished picture to place on the desk of the chief of police tomorrow morning.

  A shortcut. A shortcut eliminating all those boring investigations.

  How much more preferable?

  21

  Jean-Claude Rühme lived up to his prototype. A broad-shouldered man in his sixties, with a white lion’s mane and sharp but totally petrified features. A cross between a human being and a monument, Van Veeteren thought. Or was it just sorrow that immobilized his face?

  He received Van Veeteren in his study, sitting at his dark-colored desk with red and ocher marquetry. He stood up and raised himself to his full height when he shook hands.

  “I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Van Veeteren, but I haven’t been sleeping well since the accident. Please take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

  His voice was deep and resonant.

  “A glass of soda water,” said Van Veeteren, “if it’s not too much trouble. May I express my sympathy, Dr. Rühme.”

  The doctor barked an instruction into the intercom, and within half a minute a maid appeared with two bottles on a tray.

  “I am grateful for the few days’ grace you have allowed me,” said Rühme. “I’m ready to answer your questions now.”

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  “I’ll be brief, Doctor,” he said. “There are actually just a few specific questions I want to ask you, but before I do so I would beg you . . . most urgently . . . to bring to bear all your intelligence and intuition in order to help us. I prefer to regard the murder of your son as an isolated case, distinct from the others.”

  “Why?”

  “For several reasons, mainly to do with technical aspects of the investigation. It’s easier to concentrate on one thing at a time.”

  “I understand.”

  “If anything at all occurs to you regarding a motive—who might have had a reason for wanting to get your son out of his way—I urge you not to hesitate. You can contact me at any time of day or night. Perhaps you already have an inkling?”

  “No . . . no, no idea at all.”

  “I understand that sorrow can numb the mind, but if anything should occur to you, then . . .”

  “Of course, Mr. Van Veeteren, I assure you that I shall telephone you. I think you said that you had some specific questions?”

  Van Veeteren took a swig of soda water. He fumbled for a toothpick but thought better of it.

  “How would you describe the relationship between you and your son?”

  Dr. Rühme reacted by raising his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. That was all.

  “Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I understand.”

  He jotted down a few nonsense scribbl
es in his notebook and allowed the seconds to pass.

  “No,” said the doctor eventually. “I don’t think you understand at all. Maurice and I had a relationship based on great and mutual respect.”

  “That’s exactly what I have just noted down,” said Van Veeteren. “Are you married, Dr. Rühme?”

  “Divorced twelve years ago.”

  “So your son must have been . . . nineteen at the time?”

  “Yes. We waited until he’d flown the nest. Separated the very month he started his medical studies in Aarlach.”

  “He has lived in Aarlach ever since, is that right?”

  “Yes, until he took up his post at the hospital here in March.”

  “I see,” said Van Veeteren. He stood up and started pacing slowly around the room with his hands behind his back. Stopped in front of a bookcase and contemplated some of the titles . . . walked over to the window and looked out at the well-tended lawns and bushes. Dr. Rühme glanced at his watch and coughed.

  “I’m due to see a patient in twenty minutes,” he said. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to ask the rest of your questions, assuming there are any more.”

  “When did you last visit your son in Leisner Allé?”

  “I’ve never been there,” said Rühme.

  “Your opinion of Beatrice Linckx?”

  “Good. She’s visited me here several times . . . without Maurice.”

  “A messenger?”

  Dr. Rühme made no reply.

  “Your son started his medical studies in 1982—eleven years ago. When did he take his exams?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Nine years? That’s quite a long time, isn’t it, Dr. Rühme?”

  “Some people take longer.”

  “How long did you need?”

  “Five years.”

  “Were there any special reasons in Maurice’s case?”

  Dr. Rühme hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Would you mind telling me what they were?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Cocaine addiction,” said Dr. Rühme, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. Van Veeteren made another note.

  “When was he clean?”

  “It came to my notice in 1984. He stopped totally two years later.”

  “Any legal repercussions?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “I’m with you,” said Van Veeteren. “Everything could be arranged, no doubt?”

  Rühme did not reply.

  “And this post at the hospital, the kind of post that everybody covets—that could also be . . . arranged?”

  Rühme rose to his feet.

  “Those were your words, not mine. Don’t forget that.”

  “I don’t forget all that easily,” said Van Veeteren.

  “Many thanks, Chief Inspector. I fear that I don’t have time to answer any more questions just now . . .”

  “No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I don’t have any more to ask.”

  “I’ve come to talk a bit more about your son,” said Bausen. “Maurice . . .”

  “He’s dead,” said Elisabeth Rühme.

  Bausen took her arm.

  “Do you like walking in the park?”

  “I like the leaves,” said Mrs. Rühme. “Especially when they’re no longer on the trees, but they haven’t started falling properly yet. It’s still September, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Bausen. “Did you meet Maurice often?”

  “Maurice? No, not all that often. Sometimes, though . . . but she, Beatrice, often comes with flowers and fruit. You don’t think she’ll stop coming now that . . . ?”

  “Of course not,” said Bausen.

  “I feel lonely at times. I prefer to be alone, of course, but it’s also nice when somebody comes to visit . . . Funnily enough, I usually think how nice it was afterward. When somebody’s been to see me, and it’s over and done with, I mean. I can feel somehow exhilarated . . . fulfilled; it’s hard to explain.”

  “When did you last see Maurice?” asked Bausen.

  Elisabeth stopped and took off her glasses.

  “I must clean them,” she said. “I can’t see properly through them. Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Bausen.

  She put them back on.

  “When did you last see Maurice?” Bausen asked again.

  “Hard to say. Are you a police officer?”

  “My name’s Bausen. I’m the chief of police here in Kaalbringen. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “Of course I do,” said Elisabeth Rühme. “Your name’s Bausen.”

  He carefully steered her back toward the nicotine-yellow pavilion.

  “It’s beautiful here,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Especially after the leaves have fallen.”

  “Your other son . . . Pierre?”

  “He’s ill. He’ll never get better. Something happened in the church, don’t you know about that?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Bausen.

  “I haven’t seen him for ages,” she said pensively. “Perhaps he can be a doctor now . . . instead of Maurice. Do you think that could be arranged somehow?”

  “Perhaps,” said Bausen. A nurse wearing a white bonnet was approaching them.

  “Thank you for the walk and the chat,” said Bausen. “I’ll ask Beatrice to come and see you next week.”

  “Thank you,” said Elisabeth Rühme. “It’s been nice to take a walk with you. I hope I haven’t been any trouble.”

  “Not at all,” Bausen assured her. “Not at all.”

  So much for Doctor Rühme and his posh family, he thought as he walked to the parking lot, scraping out his pipe.

  22

  “Let’s walk it,” Beate Moerk had suggested. “No point in taking a car for five hundred yards.”

  And so he strolled though the streets of Kaalbringen alongside this lady police inspector, and suddenly found himself thinking about Marie behind the counter at the pharmacy again. She just popped up in his mind, and he preferred not to think about why. His two telephone calls to Synn hadn’t sorted out all the problems, but it looked as if they were on the right track. Obviously, everything would be back to normal if only he could get away from Kaalbringen. If only he could see her again soon.

  Obviously.

  The inspector’s hair wasn’t red. On the contrary. Dark brown, bordering on black. He was careful not to come shoulder to shoulder as they walked. Keeping a decent distance apart needed quite a lot of his concentration, in fact; and when they eventually reached their destination, he had only a vague memory of what they’d been talking about on the way there.

  No great loss, he thought. They’d probably discussed mainly the names of streets and squares they’d passed through . . . but obviously, he’d been surprised. His sense of balance wasn’t quite as it should be, it seemed; he felt a nagging worry that wouldn’t go away. Not the best starting point for detective work, definitely not. Something gnawing away inside him. What the hell was the matter with him?

  “Here we are,” she said. “There’s the entrance, and that’s Leisner Park over there, as you can see.”

  Münster nodded.

  “Shall we walk up, then?” he suggested sardonically.

  “Of course,” she said, eyeing him somewhat perplexedly.

  Beatrice Linckx bade them welcome and gave them a thin smile. There was a new carpet on the floor in the hall, Münster noted. No trace of any blood, but he had no doubt it was all still there in the wood underneath.

  You can’t obliterate blood, Reinhart always said. You cover it up.

  And then there was something about Odysseus washing his hands and the constant return of the waters of the sea that he couldn’t recall exactly just now.

  Pale sunlight filtered into the large living room through the tall windows, and her fragility was more obvious here. She looked composed and ale
rt, but the surface was thin—no more than a layer of overnight ice, he thought, and hoped that Inspector Moerk was sensitive enough to recognize the signs and not fall through it.

  Afterward, it was clear to him that he needn’t have worried. This was Beate Moerk’s interview. She was the one holding the reins, and she made sure she didn’t lose control; they hadn’t agreed on how to split the questioning, but the further they got, the more the teacups were emptied and refilled and the heap of light-colored biscuits (which Miss Linckx had apparently bought from the corner shop) dwindled away, the more his respect for Inspector Moerk grew. He couldn’t have done it any better himself, certainly not, and he found his role quite sufficient and rather relaxing, sitting there in the corner of the sofa and slotting in an occasional question here and there.

  Totally sufficient. It wasn’t just her hair and her appearance. She seemed to be a damned efficient police officer as well.

  “How long had you been living with Maurice, in fact?”

  “Not all that long.”

  Beatrice Linckx brushed a strand of hair from her face. From right to left, a recurrent gesture.

  “A few years?”

  “Yes. We met in September 1988. Moved in together a year later, roughly.”

  “Four years, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Not all that long? Münster thought.

  “Were you born in Aarlach?”

  “No, in Geintz, but I’d lived in Aarlach since I was twelve.”

  “But you didn’t meet Maurice Rühme until 1988. By then he’d already been living there for . . . six years, if I’m not much mistaken?”

  “Aarlach is not a small town, Inspector,” said Beatrice Linckx, with a new, pale smile. “Not like Kaalbringen, although we must have seen each other in the hustle and bustle occasionally, of course. We discussed that very thing, in fact.”