Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  “Do you know anything about what he was doing during those years before you met?”

  She hesitated.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know some things. But we didn’t speak about it. He didn’t want to, and it was a closed chapter.”

  “I understand. No old friends from that time either? Who are still around, I mean.”

  “Not many.”

  “But there are some?”

  Beatrice Linckx thought for a moment.

  “Two.”

  “Would you mind giving us their names?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Beate Moerk handed over her notepad and Miss Linckx scribbled down a few words.

  “Telephone numbers as well?”

  “Yes, please,” said Beate Moerk. Beatrice Linckx left the room and returned with an address book.

  “Thank you,” said Beate Moerk when she had the notepad returned. “Do you find it unpleasant when we poke our noses into your affairs like this?”

  “You’re only doing your job, I assume.”

  “Why did you move to Kaalbringen?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated slightly again. “Maurice was quite negative at first, of course. I don’t know if you are aware of his relationship with Jean-Claude, his father, that is?”

  Beate Moerk nodded.

  “I suppose it was me who talked him around, I’m afraid. Well, it was to do with work, of course; I assume you realize that. The posts were advertised at the same time—the very same day, in fact—and I expect I thought . . . that it was a sign, as it were. Maurice thought it was something different.”

  “What were you doing in Aarlach?”

  “Maurice had a temporary post in the long-term ward. Not exactly his specialty. I was working at three or four different schools.”

  “And out of the blue you each found your dream job in Kaalbringen?”

  “Maybe not dream jobs, but a big improvement, even so. More in line with our level of education, you might say.”

  Beate Moerk turned a page of her notebook and thought for a moment. Miss Linckx poured some more tea. Münster stole a glance at the two women. Tried to imagine Synn sitting in the third, empty armchair, but couldn’t quite manage it—the same age, all three, more or less, he thought; and he wondered why that thought had occurred to him. Perhaps it was about time he asked a question—was that what Inspector Moerk was waiting for?

  “Perhaps we should get down to the nitty-gritty,” he said, “so that we don’t need to take up too much of your time, Miss Linckx.”

  “By all means.”

  “Have you any idea at all about who might have killed your fiancé?”

  The question was a bit brutal, perhaps. He saw that Moerk gave him a quick glance, but the reply came without the slightest hesitation.

  “No. I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Did he have any enemies?” asked Beate Moerk, taking over again now that he’d smashed the door down. “Somebody you know who didn’t like him for one reason or another?”

  “No, I think he was quite well liked by most people.”

  “Anybody he was on bad terms with? At work, perhaps?” asked Münster, but Beatrice Linckx merely shook her head.

  “Before we leave,” said Beate Moerk, “we’ll ask you for a list of your closest friends and the colleagues Maurice had most to do with, but perhaps you could tell us about the most important ones right now?”

  “Who might have murdered him, you mean?”

  For the first time there was a hint of hostility in her voice.

  “Most murders are committed by somebody quite close to the victim,” said Münster.

  “What are you getting at?” said Beatrice Linckx, and red patches started to grow on her cheeks. “I can’t think of a single name . . . I haven’t the slightest suspicion. I took it for granted that we were dealing with this madman . . . isn’t that the case? I mean, he’s already killed two people who had nothing at all in common with Maurice.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Linckx,” said Beate Moerk. “I’m afraid we have to ask you all kinds of questions, and some of them might appear to be bizarre or impertinent. Would you please promise that you’ll contact us the moment you think of even the slightest little thing that could have to do with the murder?”

  “A telephone call, somebody who said something that seemed a bit odd, if Maurice ever acted strangely in some way or other,” added Münster.

  “Of course,” said Beatrice Linckx. “I don’t want to criticize the police in any way. Obviously, there’s nothing I want more than for you to catch him.”

  “Good,” said Münster. “Speaking of colleagues, by the way—Dr. Mandrijn, is he somebody Maurice had much to do with? He works at the hospital as well.”

  She thought about it.

  “A bit, I think,” she said. “But not much . . . I’m not sure who he is, but Maurice did mention his name once or twice.”

  Inspector Moerk made a note, and chewed at her pen.

  “You work at the Seldon Hospice, is that right?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As a welfare officer?”

  “As a psychologist, rather—”

  “Do you come into contact with Pierre, Maurice’s brother?”

  Beatrice went over to the window and looked out over the park before answering.

  “Nobody comes into contact with Pierre,” she said at length. “Nobody at all.”

  “I understand,” said Beate Moerk.

  When they came out, they found that it had started raining again; and when she suggested they should have a beer at The Blue Ship, he agreed without a second thought. It was true that they’d downed so much tea that their need of fluid intake was fulfilled for some considerable time to come; but it was a good idea to become acquainted with this establishment as well. If his memory served him correctly, it was from there that the second victim, Ernst Simmel, had embarked on the last stroll he would ever take in this life.

  He opened the door and bowed somewhat chivalrously. What the devil am I doing? he thought.

  “Are you married?” she asked when they had sat down.

  Münster took out his wallet and showed her a photograph of Synn.

  “She’s pretty,” said Beate Moerk. “Good, I don’t need to worry.”

  “Two kids as well,” said Münster. “What about you?”

  “No to both questions,” said Beate Moerk with a smile. “But that’s only temporary.”

  “Cheers,” said Münster, and smiled as well.

  23

  “Cocaine?” wondered Bausen.

  “It’s a link, in any case,” said Kropke. “To Eggers, that is.”

  “Doubtful,” said Münster.

  “A weak link, in that case,” said Van Veeteren. “Cocaine is an upper-class drug; don’t forget that. I doubt if Heinz Eggers and his mates used to sit around and get high on anything as sophisticated as that. Not their line, as simple as that.”

  Bausen agreed.

  “But we have to follow it up, of course. Mind you, given the number of people on drugs nowadays, it’s probably no more than a normal statistical probability.”

  “Two out of three?” asked Inspector Moerk.

  “A bit high perhaps, I grant you. But of course we must look into it. We don’t have much else to do, let’s face it.”

  “How far is it between Selstadt and Aarlach?” asked Münster.

  “A hundred, hundred and twenty miles, I suppose,” said Bausen.

  “A hundred and eleven and a half,” said Kropke.

  “Just checking to make sure you were awake,” said Bausen. “Van Veeteren?”

  Van Veeteren stopped rolling a coin over his knuckles.

  “Well,” he said. “I think it’s as important as it damn well can be for us to get Rühme’s time in Aarlach mapped out as accurately as possible. I’ve spoken to Melnik, the chief of police there, and he’s promised to put two men onto it—probably has already
, in fact. He’ll send us a report as soon as he’s done, in any case—in a few days, I hope. A week, perhaps.”

  “And then what?” asked Kropke.

  “We’ll have to see,” said Van Veeteren. “If nothing else, we can pick out all the names and run them against all the material we have on Eggers and Simmel. That could be a job for you, Kropke, and your computer?”

  Kropke frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up.

  “All right,” he said. “Not a bad idea, I suppose.”

  “OK,” said Bausen. “The neighbors, Mooser? How has that gone?”

  Mooser leafed slightly nervously through his papers.

  “We’ve been in touch with all of them but two—twenty-six in all. Nobody’s seen a damn thing—between ten last Wednesday night and two the next morning, that is. Those were the times we said, weren’t they?”

  “That’s correct,” said Bausen. “Meuritz guesses it was some time around about then. He was reluctant to be more precise than that on this occasion—not possible, I assume. I can’t help feeling he’s had a damn great stroke of luck, our dear friend the Axman. In Simmel’s case he followed him all the way through town, more or less, but with Rühme he just strolls across the street and into the apartment block. Rings the doorbell and cuts his head off. And nobody sees him. No witnesses.”

  “Apart from Moen,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Ah, yes,” said Bausen with a sigh. “Moen and Peerhovens . . . one of them aged ninety-five years and the other’d made a night of it and was less than sober.”

  “Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren. “No doubt we’ll nail him before long. I think I sniff the traces of a scent—”

  “What do we do first?” asked Beate Moerk.

  Bausen leafed through his notebook.

  “You and . . . Münster, perhaps?”

  Münster nodded.

  “You take the hospital. Colleagues, and anybody else who strikes you. See what you can get out of them. You have a blank check.”

  “Good,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Kropke and Mooser . . . I think we need to extend the neighborhood a bit. Knock on a few doors around Leisner Park as well. Kropke can draw up a plan. Take Bang with you—he needs a bit of exercise—but for God’s sake, write down your questions in advance. And Kropke keeps pressing ahead with Simmel and Spain as well, of course. Nothing’s turned up there yet, I don’t suppose?”

  Kropke shook his head.

  “A lot of crap, but nothing significant.”

  “DCI Van Veeteren and I ought to take a closer look at the ax,” said Bausen. “The guys in forensics are a bit vague, but their best guess is that it’s a specialist tool used in the butchery trade, made around ten or twelve years ago. We’ve got the names of four possible manufacturers—and ten or so possible retail outlets. It doesn’t sound very promising, of course, but I suppose we’d better waste a day on it, even so. And then we have Simmel’s son and daughter coming here tomorrow. Mustn’t forget them, even if I wouldn’t put a lot of money on them either, but still, you never know. Any questions?”

  “Who’s going to do the friends and acquaintances?” asked Münster. “Rühme’s, that is.”

  “You two,” said Bausen. “But the hospital first. You have the list, don’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t we send somebody to Aarlach?” asked Beate Moerk. “That must be the place where we’re most likely to draw out a lead, surely?”

  “DCI Melnik wouldn’t appreciate any outside interference, I can assure you of that,” said Van Veeteren. “But he can establish the age of a lump of dog shit if he’s feeling inspired.”

  “Really,” said Beate Moerk. “One of those, is he?”

  “I have some appointments with a few of Simmel’s lady friends as well,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m looking forward to that very much.”

  Phew! thought Beate Moerk as she left the police station. What a miserable bunch.

  “How far is it to the hospital?” asked Münster.

  “A long way,” said Moerk. “We’ll take your car.”

  24

  He looked around. Then sat down at one of the empty tables on the glazed-in terrace, ordered a glass of stout and spread out de Journaal in front of him. He breathed a sigh of cautious satisfaction. It was some time since he’d last been to The Fisherman’s Friend.

  He took several long drafts of beer, then started to read what they’d written about the case. Not without a degree of satisfaction. This was the fifth day after the latest murder, and the coverage was still more than two pages. There was very little new information; the theories were becoming increasingly absurd, as far as he could judge . . . the silence on the part of the police was bound to irritate the journalists, no doubt, and it looked as if several of them were losing faith.

  No wonder, he thought, and gazed down at the harbor. No wonder. A solitary trawler was making its way out toward the open sea from down below. The sea and the sky were an identical shade of gray; the sun appeared unwilling to show itself today. It looked disconsolate.

  Disconsolate? For a brief moment he wondered why that particular word had occurred to him.

  He had killed three people and the police didn’t have a single lead, as far as he could tell. It would have been interesting to see to see what they wrote in the other papers as well, but they’d been sold out. For obvious reasons, to be sure. He took another draft of beer and allowed the brewer’s wort to force tears into the corners of his eyes. No, if he understood the situation rightly, he was as safe as ever.

  Beyond reach and beyond punishment.

  It felt somewhat remarkable, no doubt about that, although on the other hand, it was more or less what he’d reckoned on . . . wasn’t it? Had he reckoned on anything at all, in fact? Was there an afterward? Had he thought about this period? The long drawn-out epilogue, or whatever it was?

  He watched the gulls circling around the top of the cliff. They sometimes came so close that their wing tips brushed against the window . . . and he suddenly recalled how he’d been sitting up here one day when one of them had flown straight into the windowpane. At full speed, without checking. It had presumably had a clear view ahead, and death against the cold glass must have come as a complete shock to the poor bird. No notice, no premonitions . . . just like the blow from the ax, it seemed to him, and he sat for quite a while thinking about that bird and the smear of blood and innards it had left clinging to the pane, which he was able to conjure up in his mind’s eye, for some reason. And then he thought about the woman for whose sake all this was taking place . . . about her, whose death had not come as a shock at all—it was more a case of a fruit becoming ripe—and he wondered if it really was all over now, everything. If everything had been restored to its rightful place, justice achieved, and if there was any possibility of her being able to give him a sign. And if so, where that could happen . . .

  There was probably more than one place, now that he came to think about it.

  And about how he would cope with this new emptiness that seemed to have replaced the previous one, and sometimes felt like an enormous vacuum inside him. Insistent and almost endless. But inside him.

  I have dug a hole in order to fill another one, he thought. And this new one is so much bigger. Give me a sign, Bitte!

  “A spectacular place,” said Van Veeteren, looking around.

  “The terrace is best,” said Bausen. “You’re sitting on top of the world, as it were.”

  Van Veeteren sat down. Thought fleetingly about The Blue Ship. It was quite empty up here as well, but perhaps it was different in the evenings. At the moment, there was only a solitary gentleman with a newspaper by the picture window, and a few women in hats just in front of the grand piano. A waiter dressed in black bowed and handed over two menus bound in leather.

  “Lunch,” said Van Veeteren. “Now it’s my turn. Get enough inside you to keep you going for a while. We all work best on a full stomach—think best, at least.”

  “I wasn’t born y
esterday,” said Bausen.

  “I can’t take any more of this,” said Beate Moerk. “If I have to talk to another single doctor, I’ll strangle him.”

  “Go back to the car and wait,” said Münster. “I’ll deal with this Mandrijn person—he’s due in five minutes.”

  “Is he the one who lived in Simmel’s house?”

  Münster nodded.

  “OK,” said Beate Moerk. “Give him what he deserves. I’m going to lie down on the backseat under the blanket.”

  “Good,” said Münster.

  “My name is Inspector Kropke,” said Kropke.

  “Funny first name,” said the woman, with a yawn. “But come in, even so.”

  “So you lived next door to the Simmels in Las Brochas?”

  “I certainly did.”

  “Did you mix with them socially as well?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  She raised her eyebrows a little.

  “Why not? Because we had no desire to mix with them, of course. We met at the occasional party, naturally, but the bottom line was that they didn’t have any style. My husband had quite a lot to do with Ernst, but I could never make her out.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, the wife . . . Grete, or whatever her name is.”

  “Were there any . . . improprieties as far as the Simmels were concerned?”

  “Improprieties? What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, did you hear anything . . . did they have any enemies, was there anything illegal, for instance? We’re trying to find a motive, you see—”

  “My dear Inspector, we don’t go ferreting about for such things in Las Brochas. We leave everybody in peace there. Lots of people have moved there precisely to get away from all the interfering authorities who can’t stop sticking their noses into other people’s business.”

  Style? thought Kropke.

  “So that’s the way it is,” he said. “Maybe you think we shouldn’t give a toss about tracking down murderers and that kind of thing?”

  “Don’t be silly. Go and do your job. That’s what you’re paid to do, after all. But leave honest folk in peace. Was there anything else?”