Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  Swallowed up.

  Darkness, he thought, and took a deep drag. The only thing big enough to enclose an ocean.

  Not a bad idea. He must remember to take it up with Reinhart one of these days.

  But maybe the ocean is bigger after all, he realized almost immediately. No doubt it’s morning on another shore. There’s always another shore.

  30

  She parked in the usual place on the other side of the smokehouse. Locked the car and opened the zip of her tracksuit top slightly. It was warmer than she’d noticed earlier in the day; she would certainly be sweating a lot.

  She set off, and immediately the heated excitement she felt in her mind spread all over her body, down to her legs and feet. The pace she was setting was completely mad so early in the run. She would pay for this, but it was somehow irresistible. She simply had to run fast now. Run fast and stretch herself to the limit in order to get her mind working clearly . . . to burn away the nervousness and excessive tension—this vibrant, almost hysterical feeling of approaching triumph. Of being about to have the solution in her grasp.

  The breakthrough had arrived. Well, that might be overstating it, perhaps, but if she could complete the train of thought, the one that had been roused to life by the Melnik report and which now, after the first check, had proved to be . . . well, what?

  There was nothing to contradict it, at least—nothing at all. Although what the implications were was another matter altogether.

  She jumped down onto the beach and continued running to the water’s edge. The wind was warmer than ever down here, and she wished she’d been wearing thinner clothes.

  Nothing to contradict it, then. On the contrary. A lot supported it—everything, perhaps. If only she could spell out her thoughts to Münster tonight, calmly, in peace and quiet, no doubt it would all become clear-cut.

  Dusk was falling, and she wondered if she really ought to run the full course today as well. It would probably be quite dark in the woods on the way back, but there again, she was familiar with every inch . . . knew every root and every low branch by now; it would be a botched job if she shortened the run, and Beate Moerk didn’t like botched jobs.

  And Münster wouldn’t phone until after eight. There was plenty of time.

  The lactic acid arrived early. No wonder, she thought, and slowed down a little at last. It was unnecessary to make herself so weary that she ended up staggering through the woods.

  A newspaper headline appeared in her mind’s eye:

  WOMAN POLICE INSPECTOR CATCHES AXMAN!

  And an introductory paragraph along the lines of: “Despite the presence of criminal experts from outside, it was Kaalbringen’s own Beate Moerk who solved the case of the ax murderer, which has made headlines all over the country. Our town is deeply grateful to her, now that our citizens can once again walk the streets at will and sleep peacefully in their beds at night.”

  It was not possible to control the flush of satisfaction, and she stepped up the pace again.

  However, she didn’t have very long to take pleasure in what was written about her before another heading came into her mind, totally unexpected. This time it was the title of a book, a book she’d never read, but she could remember holding it in her hand during a book sale back home in Friesen many years ago. It was an English book.

  The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner.

  She lurched to one side and almost fell on the sand.

  How on earth had the title of this book floated up to the surface of her mind just now?

  She dropped the thought and glanced over her shoulder. The beach was deserted. Just as empty behind her as in front of her. She checked the time. Twenty-five past seven—a few more minutes and she’d come to the big rock and the tunnel under the road. Then the gentle climb into the woods, and back home . . .

  Beate Moerk solves the riddle of the ax murderer!

  The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner.

  As she approached the top of the last hill, she felt very tired. The lactic acid was making her thighs ache, and her heart was pumping salvos of blood into her throat . . . nearly at the top now. Pure willpower: clench your fists, grit your teeth and force yourself up those last few yards. Then, once over the top, it’s downhill again—a chance to take it easy, let your body recover, prepare for the last lap, the gently sloping stretch through the beech wood down to the smokehouse and the parking lot . . .

  Thinking about the easy finish, the waiting car and a hot shower carried her to the top and gave her a good start on the downward slope; but even if she’d been a little less tired, and even if the light had been a bit more favorable that warm September evening, it is highly unlikely that she would have noticed the dark steel wire in time.

  It was stretched across the track at just below knee height and right at the bottom of the hill—just where the leaves of a lime tree added another layer to the gathering darkness. She fell headlong to the ground, and before she had even registered what was happening, he was over her.

  31

  “I think we’ll have to ask the press to leave us on our own for a while,” said Van Veeteren, putting his hand on Cruickshank’s shoulder. “But I can take your chair.”

  MŸnster looked up. Van Veeteren had the Melnik report under his arm, and he looked determined. The network of burst blood vessels had changed from red to blue. The bags under his eyes had prominent black edges. Positive signs, no doubt about it.

  “Godammit!” said Cruickshank. “So the breakthrough has come after seven hard years? May I be the first to congratulate you. What’s his name?”

  “Who?” asked MŸnster.

  “The Axman, of course,” said Cruickshank.

  “You can have a ringside interview tomorrow morning,” Van Veeteren promised him. “Provided you’re a good boy and go to bed now.”

  Cruickshank swallowed the remains of his whiskey and water and stood up. Swaying noticeably and looking as if he might be forced to make an emergency landing on the chair again, he managed to recover. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “Gentlemen’s agreement. Good night, gentlemen. You know my room number.”

  He thanked MŸnster for his company, and walked unsteadily out of the bar.

  “Poor devil,” said MŸnster.

  “Why?” asked Van Veeteren. “I’ll have a large beer, please.”

  “Well?” said Van Veeteren, sucking the foam from the top of his tankard. “Youth before beauty. What have you found?”

  MŸnster picked up the bundle of pages and leafed through them.

  “Well,” he said. “There’s this Podworsky—”

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  “Eugen Podworsky, yes. What about him?”

  “I know nothing about him,” said MŸnster. “But there’s a link, in any case. I assume the others, Bausen and the inspectors, can make a better judgment. If he’s known in Kaalbringen, that is . . .”

  Van Veeteren lit a cigarette.

  “I’ve just spoken to Bausen,” he said. “He says it’s not impossible, at least. Seems to be the right type—a loner who lives out in the boonies, on the way to Linden. About four miles inland in a straight line from the coast. He’s been inside for manslaughter as well, although that was an age ago. Yes, this could be an opening; it could be him.”

  “Violent?” asked MŸnster.

  “Has a long memory, in any case, according to Bausen. Not quite right in the head either, it seems. He doesn’t have much contact with other people. Took early retirement in 1975, I think it was. Anyway, we can look into that tomorrow—it would probably be as well to prepare ourselves a bit before we land on him. He could certainly stir up a lot of trouble if it turns out not to be him, says Bausen.”

  MŸnster nodded. Van Veeteren drank deeply, and smacked his lips in contentment.

  “Dammit all, MŸnster,” said Van Veeteren. “I only have to set eyes on his type, and I’ll be able to tell if he did it or not. It’s time we went back hom
e, don’t you think?”

  MŸnster shuffled around on his chair.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Van Veeteren. “Are you about to lay an egg?”

  “Just a little detail, that’s all,” said MŸnster hesitantly. “No doubt it’s not important. I had a message from Inspector Moerk. She’d come across something and asked me to ring her—”

  “And?”

  “Well, she doesn’t answer. She was supposed to be home by eight or so. I’ve tried several times.”

  Van Veeteren checked his watch.

  “Five past eleven,” he said. “Try one more time before you go to bed. It’ll just be a man, no doubt.”

  Yes, thought MŸnster. It’s just a man, of course.

  III

  September 24–27

  32

  Bausen looked unshaven but energetic. He hung his dirt-brown jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves to well above the elbow.

  “Eugen Podworsky,” he said, pointing at Kropke with a yellow pencil. “What do we know about him?”

  “Quite a lot,” said Kropke enthusiastically. “Shall we start from the beginning, or—”

  “Yes,” said Bausen. “I don’t suppose anybody’s managed to miss the fact that he is involved in two of the cases, but it’s probably just as well to establish a comprehensive background before we get going.”

  “One moment,” said Van Veeteren. “I think we need to discuss Inspector Moerk first.”

  Bausen looked around the table, as if he had only just realized that not everybody was present.

  “What’s the matter with Moerk? Why isn’t she here?”

  “Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “I think Münster had better explain.”

  Münster took a deep breath.

  “Well,” he said, “I received a message at the hotel last night . . . from Inspector Moerk. She asked me to call her. Something had struck her in connection with the Melnik report, the note said, but she doesn’t seem to have been home since yesterday evening. I haven’t been able to contact her.”

  “What the hell?” said Bausen. “Something had struck her . . . Podworsky, you mean?”

  Münster flung his arms out wide.

  “I don’t know. Presumably, but it’s not certain. She was going to check it out, the message said.”

  “Check it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Münster.

  “Do you still have the note?” asked Bausen.

  Münster nodded and produced the envelope from his inside pocket. From the corner of his eye he noticed that Van Veeteren was watching him closely, and he knew he was blushing. There was nothing he could do about it, of course, and naturally, it didn’t mean anything in the circumstances. He certainly hadn’t slept for more than two hours, and ever since getting up, he’d had this image of the conference room in his mind’s eye. Either she would be sitting there in her usual place in front of the bookcase . . . or she wouldn’t. Either it had just been a man, or it had been . . . another sort of man. He hardly dared to admit, even to himself, that he had felt a faint glow of satisfaction on discovering that it was not the first alternative. Just a man! Of course that reaction had immediately been swamped by all the possible implications of the other alternative, but it had certainly been there, and undeniably gave him something to think about.

  Bausen read the note. Passed it on.

  “I’ve already seen it,” said Van Veeteren when it came to him. Münster took it back.

  “‘Home by about eight,’” said Bausen. “Hell and damnation! You don’t think that—?”

  “What did it say?” asked Kropke. “‘Rather bizarre’?”

  “‘Pretty bizarre, but I need to check it out,’” said Münster.

  Bausen took out his pipe and sat there with it in his hand. The silence in the room was almost tangible. Bang was chewing gum. Van Veeteren was devoting meticulous attention to two toothpicks, comparing them in detail, before dropping one into his breast pocket and sticking the other between his front teeth. Kropke was drumming his fingertips against one another, and Mooser was gazing out the window.

  Good Lord! thought Münster. They’re all seeing her in their mind’s eye! He swallowed, and felt something cold and wet creeping up into his throat. There was a cramplike convulsion in his diaphragm.

  “Excuse me,” he managed to blurt out as he stood up and hurried to the toilet.

  “Kropke,” said Bausen, “go to your office and phone her.”

  Kropke did as he was bidden. Van Veeteren removed the toothpick.

  “Not much point,” he said. “We’ve already tried twice from the hotel. You noticed the form of address, I suppose?”

  Bausen nodded and went over to the window. He rubbed at his stubble as he contemplated the back courtyard, breathing heavily. Münster and Kropke returned. Kropke shook his head.

  “No reply,” he said. “What does everybody think?”

  “Podworsky?” said Bausen, turning around to face the room. “Do you really think that she’d get it into her head to drive out to Podworsky’s place?”

  Kropke cleared his throat.

  “No,” he said. “That would be most unlike her, in fact—”

  “Sheer lunacy,” said Mooser. “Nobody in his right mind would go there of their own volition. Not even in normal circumstances. If in addition you suspect he might be the Axman, I can’t understand why—”

  But now Münster had had enough.

  “Stop!” he yelled, hitting the table with his fist. “Dammit, it’s time we did something instead of sitting here chewing the cud! All we need to do is to get in a car and drive out to this bastard! What are we waiting for?”

  Bausen looked at him with eyebrows raised.

  “I really believe—” he began.

  “Bravo, Münster!” interrupted Van Veeteren. “I’m inclined to agree with you. A bit of action is called for.”

  Münster leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s OK,” said Bausen. “This is really ugly. If we’re going to—”

  “Just a minute,” said Van Veeteren, leaning over the table. “I think we need to clarify a few things before we take any action. In the first place, I don’t think it’s especially likely that Inspector Moerk did, in fact, drive out to Podworsky’s place. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it was out of the question.”

  “Why?” asked Kropke.

  “The time,” said Van Veeteren. “She didn’t have enough time. She left here when the rest of us went, didn’t she? Around about half past four, or thereabouts?”

  Kropke and Mooser nodded.

  “She had the Melnik report in her briefcase just like we all did. At twenty past six, according to the receptionist, she handed over the message at The See Warf. It said she intended to check something out. Notice that she hadn’t yet done so—she wouldn’t have had time to do anything but read through the report and change into her tracksuit between half past four and twenty past six.”

  “True,” said Bausen.

  “Whatever it was she intended to check out, she did it after leaving the hotel—between half past six and a quarter past seven, roughly. Forty-five minutes, in other words.”

  “A quarter past seven? How do you know that?” asked Kropke.

  “Because I saw her,” said Van Veeteren.

  “Saw her?” bellowed Bausen. “Where?”

  Van Veeteren bit off the toothpick.

  “I saw her on the beach . . . at a quarter past seven.”

  “What was she doing there?” wondered Mooser.

  “Running,” said Van Veeteren. “Westward.”

  Silence again.

  “Expected to be back home by eight,” said Münster.

  “Was she alone?” asked Kropke.

  Van Veeteren shrugged and looked at Münster.

  “Yes,” he said. “All by herself—I think it might be a go
od idea for Münster and me to go and take a look. Maybe we could take Mooser with us?”

  Bausen nodded.

  “Back in two hours?” he suggested. “I think Kropke and I will take a little trip out to Podworsky’s place in the meantime—to see how the land lies, if nothing else.”

  “Is that it?” asked Van Veeteren.

  Mooser nodded.

  “Sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Mooser. “It’s hers. Mazda 323—I’ve even helped her change the fan belt.”

  “It’s hers,” muttered Münster.

  “Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “It was more or less down there that I saw her—two or three hundred yards from here, I should think.”

  He pointed toward the beach. It was no longer the deserted stretch of sand it had been the evening before. It was Saturday, and masses of men, women and children were sauntering about down below. A group of long-haired youths were playing football, dogs were romping around, and several kites were bobbing about in the wind—yellow trembling lumps of butter against the practically clear blue sky. The clouds, the mist and showers of the last few days seemed to have blown away during the night; the gulls were soaring high again and the air felt pure. Salty and invigorating.

  Münster bit his lip. Van Veeteren was swaying back and forth, looking for once at a loss. Unless it’s just a pose, thought Münster. Wouldn’t surprise me.

  It was Mooser who broke the spell.

  “Do you think—?” he said.

  “We don’t think anything,” interrupted Van Veeteren. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “But—?”

  “Shut up!” said Van Veeteren. “This is no time to be playing guessing games. Do you know what track she used to follow?”

  “Well,” said Mooser, “Track and track—back and forth along the beach, perhaps. Or maybe she would take the path through the woods on the way back.”

  “Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “Did she always go jogging on her own?”