by Håkan Nesser
Bausen hesitated.
“Hmm,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Münster and I will go to her flat,” said Van Veeteren after another pause. “I think we might try to do a bit of ferreting around as well, without making it obvious—”
“Are we going to keep this hushed up, then?” asked Kropke, looking at everybody in turn.
“For a while, at least,” Bausen decided. “When the newspapers get hold of this, all hell will let loose.”
“No doubt about that,” said Van Veeteren.
“Kropke and Mooser,” said Bausen. “Go find Podworsky!”
Kropke nodded.
“Any tips?”
“No.”
“And Bang?” wondered Bang.
Bausen thought for a moment.
“Cycle over to Mrs. Simmel’s and find out if she knows anything about the car bomb. And about Podworsky, of course.”
“Er . . . ?” said Bang, looking rather worried.
“Kropke will tell you what questions to ask.”
“All right,” sighed Kropke.
“We meet again and report at six o’clock,” said Bausen.
Van Veeteren stood up.
“Have you got any good picklocks?” he asked.
Bausen shook his head.
“OK, we’ll have to tell the janitor some fairy stories instead.”
Münster crumpled a paper cup and threw it into the trash can.
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “but is it really right not to put all available resources into finding Inspector Moerk?”
“You mean the mass media and search parties and the whole shebang?” said Bausen.
“Yes.”
Bausen scratched the back of his head and looked worried.
“You’re wrong, Münster,” said Van Veeteren. “We mustn’t start thinking with our hearts. If she’s alive, she’s alive. If she’s dead, she’s dead. That might sound callous, but it’s a fact. In no circumstances will she be lying somewhere just now and bleeding to death. We’ll give ourselves another forty-eight hours—till Monday lunchtime. If all hell is going to break loose anyway, there’s no reason why we should hasten the process.”
“All right,” sighed Münster.
35
It took almost half an hour to walk from the police station to Vrejsbakk and Beate Moerk’s apartment, mainly because Van Veeteren didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. He walked all the way with his hands in his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched, as if he felt cold in the pale fall sunshine. Münster tried asking a few questions, but soon gave up; it was obvious that Van Veeteren was deep in thought and had no intention of being disturbed. He was evidently also convinced that Münster knew the way, for he stayed a couple of paces behind him the whole time, staring fixedly at Münster’s heels.
After some considerable effort Münster succeeded in tracking down the janitor, a grumpy old man surrounded by a distinct aroma of stale sweat. Mentioning vaguely in passing that their visit was important in connection with the ongoing investigation, and that Miss Moerk happened to be away on important police business, Münster also persuaded him to let them into the apartment.
“I hope you can sort something out soon,” said the old man, with a sharp glint in his eye. “It’s not everybody who can afford to live at The See Warf for weeks on end.”
Van Veeteren came to life and fixed the janitor with his steely gaze.
“If I were you, I’d be damn careful what I say,” he growled. “And I’d also go home and have a good wash. Open that door!”
The janitor said nothing, and unlocked the door.
“Thank you, we’ll manage on our own now,” said Van Veeteren.
“I shouldn’t think we’ll find anything relevant here.”
Münster looked around.
“Why not?”
“Because the murderer has had plenty of time to come here and hide away whatever he wanted to hide away—loads of time.”
Münster saw his point.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
“Once,” said Münster. “What are we looking for?”
“The Melnik report, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “But I’ll bet you a hundred guilders that we don’t find it.”
“Oh, yes?” said Münster. “Why not?”
“You can work that out for yourself. Where should it be, do you think?”
Münster thought for a moment.
“In her study,” he said. “She was working on a few theories of her own about the murder; she has several exercise books full of notes.”
“Is this it, in here?”
“Yes.”
“Stop,” said Van Veeteren. “Before we start rummaging around, can you see anything unusual? Anything to suggest that he’s been here and snooped around?”
Münster eyed the neat and tidy desk with its penholder, notepad, telephone, papers. The bookcases with bamboo curtains, the reproductions by Kandinsky and Schaffner.
“No,” he said.
“An orderly woman, obviously,” said Van Veeteren. “It ought to be on her desk, don’t you think?”
“I would assume so,” said Münster.
After looking around for ten minutes, Van Veeteren had had enough and they gave up. They left the apartment and told the janitor that he could lock the door again. The old man muttered something, but evidently didn’t dare come out with any more views about their alleged benefits to society.
“There are two possibilities,” said Van Veeteren as they emerged into Rejders Allé, which led back toward the town center. “Either she had them in the car with her, or he was here and took them away last night.”
“Forgive my stupidity,” said Münster, “but why do you think it’s so important?”
“Because she’ll have made a note, of course,” snorted Van Veeteren. “She wrote in the message to you that something had struck her regarding the Melnik report. Whatever it was, it’s virtually certain that she’ll have made a note in the margin. A question mark, a cross, some underlining—could be anything. That would no doubt be enough for us to nail him if we discovered what it was. Are you with me?”
“If you say so,” said Münster.
They walked on in silence for another fifty yards.
“So it’s not Podworsky?” said Münster.
“I don’t know. I’ve started to have my doubts but, the devil only knows, it could be him. It’s that word bizarre that intrigues me. You can think all kinds of things about that loner on the heath, but why should he be bizarre?”
Münster didn’t answer. I’d better read that report again as soon as I get back to the hotel, he thought. Maybe something might strike me—
“If we’re really lucky, it might be in the car, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “But we’d have to be goddamn king-sized lucky. Let’s go there now.”
“Are you good at breaking into cars?” asked Van Veeteren as they approached the smokehouse.
“Could be worse,” said Münster.
“It would be useful if we didn’t attract too much attention. There are a lot of people around here, after all. It would be a pity if they were to start smelling a rat when we’ve postponed the arrival of hell until Monday.”
He took a piece of steel wire from his pocket.
“Is this good enough?”
Münster examined it.
“I should think so.”
“OK, then. I’ll stay here. You go and open up. Thirty seconds—no more.”
Münster walked across the parking lot. He crouched down by the red Mazda and had unlocked it inside ten seconds.
“Good,” said Van Veeteren, joining him. “Impressive skills. Jump in, for God’s sake!”
It didn’t take them long to establish that Beate Moerk’s car was as devoid of leads as was her apartment. In any case, it was clear that neither she nor her presumed murderer had been careless enough to leave a vital report lying around in the car.
Well, to
tell the truth, it was possible that Inspector Moerk had been . . . Van Veeteren sighed and got out of the car.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s follow the route she took once again. The beach as well this time.”
Münster nodded.
“Make sure you keep your eyes peeled! It was somewhere around here that she disappeared last night, that’s definite. There’s not much in this case that you can say that about.”
“No,” said Münster. “I agree with you there.”
Van Veeteren rummaged around in his pockets for cigarettes, and to his delight came up with Bausen’s pack.
“Somewhere,” he said, gesturing with his arm, “somewhere out there he was lying in wait and then pounced yesterday evening. Waited for her to come running, and then—”
“And then?” said Münster.
Van Veeteren lit a cigarette and examined the spent match before flicking it over his shoulder.
“I don’t know,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m damned if I know. But one thing is clear. He didn’t attack her with the ax this time—not out here, at least. We can’t have missed that much blood.”
“That’s some consolation,” said Münster.
“Of course it is,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go, then?”
36
“How’s it going?” asked Hiller.
Van Veeteren regarded the telephone with repugnance.
“Well,” he said.
“Well?” said Hiller. “You’ll soon have been at it for a month. There are those who think it’s high time the case was solved.”
“They’re welcome to come give us a hand,” said Van Veeteren.
“At least you could send us some kind of report. Some people would like to know what you’re actually doing—”
“Some people are welcome to disappear up their own asses.”
Hiller muttered something incomprehensible.
“Do you need reinforcements?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “But Münster would no doubt like to go back home for a few days.”
“Why?”
“Wife and children. Have you heard of such creatures?”
Hiller muttered again.
“Would you like Reinhart to relieve him?”
“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll have a word with Münster, but we’ll wait until after Monday.”
“Monday? Why after Monday?”
“Read the newspapers, and you’ll understand.”
“What the hell—?”
“Or watch the box. Monday’s when some new light will be cast on the case, you might say.”
Various strange noises could be heard in the receiver, but Van Veeteren could not be certain if they were due to a bad line or the chief of police gasping for breath.
“Are you saying that your report is going to come via the mass media? That is the goddamnedest thing,” he eventually managed to articulate, before Van Veeteren interrupted him.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I have to go out and tail an ugly crook now. I’ll get back to you.”
There was a crackling noise again. Van Veeteren put down the receiver and pulled out the plug.
With three bottles of brown ale in a bucket of cold water on the floor, and a dish of fat olives within easy reach, he slid down into the bath and switched off the light.
He closed his eyes and made his head comfortable against the edge of the tub, then stretched out a hand, fished up the open bottle and took a couple of deep swigs.
I’m not going to get up until I’ve solved this business, he thought, but soon realized that it might be prudent to adjust the demands somewhat. What the hell would the others say on Monday if they found themselves with not only a missing inspector to deal with, but a drowned DCI as well?
Enough of setting silly deadlines and similar nonsense, he decided. Back to basics. The Axman. Concentrate.
There was an old rule that occasionally used to crop up, which he had no doubt inherited from Borkmann, one of the few police officers he’d come across for whom he had nothing but respect and admiration. Probably the only one, now that he came to think of it, which was most likely connected with the time aspect: Borkmann had completed his final years in post as a chief inspector up in Frigge, where Van Veeteren himself was just beginning his career as a probationer. Be that as it may, he still felt confidence and trust in the old guy; of course, he no longer needed to analyze the circumstances in detail. Even a hardened old cop needs the occasional firm foothold or lifeboat to cling to, he used to tell himself. Borkmann’s rule was hardly a rule; in fact, it was more of a comment, a landmark for tricky cases.
In every investigation, he maintained, there comes a point beyond which we don’t really need any more information. When we reach that point, we already know enough to solve the case by means of nothing more than some decent thinking. A good investigator should try to establish when that point has been reached, or rather, when it has been passed; in his memoirs, Borkmann went so far as to claim that it was precisely this ability, or the lack of it, which distinguishes a good detective from a bad one.
A bad one carries on unnecessarily.
Van Veeteren emptied the first of the bottles and took two olives.
What happened when information continued streaming in once that point had been reached?
In the best-case scenario, it made no difference.
In most cases it didn’t cause too much damage.
In the worst-case scenario, it was a big disadvantage. Made smoke screens, splintered resources and caused problems.
Van Veeteren chewed away and sucked the stones clean. Borkmann was right, certainly. And this case was definitely a worst-case scenario. How much easier it was to catch somebody who was content with just one murder than to track down a serial killer, in which case the information—tips, tracks, leads and suspicions—almost inevitably led to the simple and obvious being engulfed by the mass of material.
How much easier it was to cash in on a one-pawn advantage when there were fewer pieces on the board.
The question was simple: Had the point been passed?
Did he already know enough, sitting here in his hot bath, to pick out the Axman? Was there any point in continuing to search for tracks and leads?
He groped around the bottom of the bucket for the opener. Already he knew the answer. Or at least, he had made up his mind about it.
Yes.
Yes. The murderer was there. Carefully concealed in the mishmash of interrogations and minutes and discussions. Hidden and tucked away in the even more confused convolutions inside his own brain. The Axman was there. It was just a matter of fishing him out.
He found the opener. That was something, at least.
Pro primo, he thought.
Three men have been murdered in Kaalbringen. Heinz Eggers on June 28. Ernst Simmel on August 31. Maurice Rühme on September 8. Same weapon, same method. Same killer.
No doubt about that.
Pro secundo.
Despite comprehensive and assiduous work, we haven’t succeeded in finding the slightest link between the three victims (apart from the fact that they had moved to Kaalbringen this year) until a report concerning the third victim’s time in Aarlach comes into the investigators’ hands. Everybody notices immediately that a certain Eugen Podworsky occurs in the background (but only in the background, nota bene) of two of the cases. Inspector Moerk reads the report and is struck by something “bizarre.” She announces that she is going to check out the matter, does so, and—
Pro tertio.
—is exposed, no, discovered or observed while carrying out this check (whatever it might have been) by the murderer. (He might possibly have seen her purely by chance.) The murderer follows her and strikes (?) when Moerk appropriately enough is in the woods, in the back of beyond . . .
Something like that, yes. That was it, really. Was there any possibility of different scenarios? Yes, of course. But he didn’t want to think so. This is how it must hav
e happened. He took another drink and started wondering if he ought to get out of the bath and fetch a cigarette.
Smoke in the bath? What decadence!
But why not? Dripping and shivering, he padded into his room. He collected an ashtray, his lighter and Bausen’s old, crumpled pack of HB cigarettes, then flopped back into the warm water, lit up and inhaled deeply.
Pro . . . what the devil’s the Latin for four? Who the hell cares?
Fourth: What had Moerk discovered? What was it?
What the hell was it that nobody else, not even he, had noticed? Unless it was just Podworsky, that is; and the more he thought about it, the more sure he was that it wasn’t. He had scrutinized the report once again earlier in the evening, and hadn’t found a thing—neither had Bausen nor Münster nor Kropke. It was incomprehensible. Bizarre.
Bizarre?
And where had she gone to?
To check?
Check what?
He slammed his fist down into the water and was surprised for a second by the lack of resistance. Was she so damn stupid that she’d walked straight into the murderer’s web? Straight into his arms, like some half-witted girl in any crime movie you cared to name?
He couldn’t believe that. Surely that wasn’t possible? If there was anybody based in this station whom he had confidence in, it was Inspector Moerk . . . well, Bausen as well, of course, he had to admit that. But would Beate Moerk have—
No, he refused to believe it.
What other possibility was there?
That the murderer had got lucky?
Very possible.
That she’d been on his trail earlier and he’d realized that? Kept an eye on her?
Possible, also. Münster had spoken about her ambitions as a private detective.
He dropped the cigarette into the bucket. No need to dirty the ashtray, he thought.
But where had she gone?
That was the key. He took a few olives. Between half past six, approximately, and five or ten minutes past seven yesterday evening, Beate Moerk had driven her red Mazda from The See Warf to the parking lot close to the smokehouse off the Esplanade. Somewhere along the way she had checked up on something bizarre and attracted the attention of the murderer.
