Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  He lit his cigarette, and the flame from his lighter almost blinded her.

  “She came back, and we didn’t know whether to hope or have doubts. We did both, of course; you can’t carry on living in a state of constant despair, not until you’ve achieved that final insight; but it’s probably still not possible, not even then. In any case, she refused to live at home with us. We found an apartment for her in Dünningen. She moved in at the beginning of March; it was only one room and a kitchen, but quite big, even so. Light and clean, on the fifth floor with a view over the sea from the balcony. She was still on the sick list and could only work part-time. Detoxified and attending therapy, so it should have been OK . . . she worked afternoons at Henkers. We discovered later that she couldn’t handle it, but we knew nothing at the time. We didn’t interfere; didn’t want to give the impression that we were checking up on her. It had to be on her terms, not ours, some bloody self-important, know-it-all social worker had insisted. So we kept in the background, stayed out of the way . . . damn pointless, all that. Anyway, she lived there that spring, and she managed, we thought, but her income, the money she had to have for the things we thought she didn’t need anymore, well, that came from guys like Ernst Simmel. Ernst Simmel . . .”

  He paused and took a deep drag on his cigarette. She watched the glowing point moving around and suddenly felt an urge to smoke herself. Perhaps he would have given her one if she’d asked, but she didn’t dare.

  “One evening at the end of April, I drove out to visit her for some reason or other. I’d hardly been there at all since she’d moved in. I can’t remember why I went; it can’t have been anything especially important, in any case, and it disappeared from my head the moment I got there . . .”

  Another pause, and the cigarette glowed again. He coughed a few times. She leaned her head against the wall and waited. Waited, and knew.

  “I rang the doorbell. It was evidently broken, so I tried the handle . . . it wasn’t locked, and I went in. Entered the hall and looked around. The bedroom door was half open . . . I heard noises and couldn’t help looking in. Well, I was able to see him getting full value for his money . . .”

  “Simmel?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  More silence. He cleared his throat and inhaled again. Stabbed out the cigarette on the ground, and stamped on the glowing ash with his foot.

  “As I stood in the doorway, our eyes met. She looked straight at me over the shoulder of that shit . . . they were standing pressed up against the wall. I think that if I’d had a weapon with me at that moment, an ax or a knife or whatever, I’d have killed him there and then. Or maybe I’d have been too paralyzed . . . those eyes of hers, Brigitte’s eyes as she allowed that man to have his way with her, it was the same look I’d seen once before. I recognized it immediately; she was seven or eight then, and it must have been the first time she’d seen starving, dying children and understood what was involved . . . some television report from Africa. It was the same eyes that had looked at me all those years ago. The same desperation. The same feeling of helplessness when confronted with the evil of the world . . . I went back home and don’t think I slept a wink for a whole month.”

  He paused and lit another cigarette.

  “Was it the same year that Simmel moved to Spain?” she asked, and was surprised to discover how strong her curiosity was despite everything. To find that she was listening carefully to his story and that she was affected by it as if the wounds were her own . . . that her own predicament and despair were perhaps no more than a reflection and an example of something far, far greater.

  The totality of suffering in the world down the ages?

  The overall power of evil?

  Or it might just be that damn obstinacy everybody talks about. My obstinacy and peculiar strength . . . and the fact that I always keep putting off having that baby . . .

  Or maybe a bit of both? The same thing?

  If that was the case, what the hell did it matter? Her thoughts wandered off and she could no longer find the thread. She clenched her fists, but after a few seconds could no longer feel them. They turned numb and evaporated; in the same inevitable way as her vain efforts to follow a line of thought.

  “Yes,” he said eventually. “It was that same year. He vanished that same summer . . . came back last spring, as did the other two. Surely it has to be a sign when all three suddenly turn up in Kaalbringen within a few weeks of each other. Don’t try to tell me that it’s just a coincidence. It was a sign from Bitte. From Bitte and from Helena, it’s so damn obvious that you can’t possibly ignore it . . . Will anybody be able to understand that?”

  There was a sudden sharp edge to his voice. Indignation at having been wronged. As if it wasn’t in fact he himself who was behind it all. As if he was not responsible for these murders. As if . . .

  Merely an instrument.

  Something that Wundermaas had said came back to her—possibly not word for word, but the gist—something about there being a necessity behind most murders, a compulsion that was stronger than anything behind other actions; if that was not the case, they would never take place, never need to be carried out.

  If there was an alternative.

  Necessity. Sorrow, determination and necessity . . . yes, she understood that this was the way it was.

  Sorrow. Determination. Necessity.

  She waited for the continuation, but there was none. Only his heavy breathing that cut through the darkness, and it struck her that it was this very moment, at this second, when time had stood still, that he was making up his mind about her own fate.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she whispered.

  Maybe it was too early. Maybe she didn’t want to give him time to think it through.

  He didn’t answer. He stood up and backed out through the door.

  Closed it and locked it. Shot the bolts.

  Once again she was alone. She listened to his footsteps fading away and huddled up against the wall. Pulled the blankets over her.

  One left, she thought. He has one more to tell me about. And then?

  And then?

  48

  If he’d had the ability to see into the future, if only for a few hours, it is possible that he’d have given lunch a miss without more ado. And set off for Kaalbringen as quickly as possible.

  As it was—with the solution of this long drawn-out case clearly within reach—he decided instead to indulge himself with a Canaille aux Prunes at Arno’s Cellar, a little seafood restaurant he remembered from the occasion more than twenty years earlier when he’d spent a week here on a course.

  In any case, he probably needed a few hours to think things over in peace and quiet; how he directed the final act of this drama was of some significance—of considerable significance, in fact. The Axman needed to be arrested as painlessly as possible, and also as far as possible, the question of motives investigated and clarified. And then there was the problem concerning Inspector Moerk, of course. There were probably plenty of opportunities to put a foot wrong and, to quote Bausen, it was a long time since anything had gone well with this case.

  However, he could think of no better companion than a good meal.

  After the pear in brandy and the coffee, he had made up his mind about the various problems—a strategy that seemed to him to have good odds of working and involved as good a chance of avoiding injury to Inspector Moerk as could be hoped.

  Assuming she was still alive, that is. He wanted to believe it, of course, but probabilities didn’t seem to play much of a role in this case.

  Probabilities? he thought. I ought to have known by now.

  It was half past three. He paid his bill, left his corner table and occupied the phone booth in the vestibule.

  Three calls. First to Bausen at home in his nest; then Münster—no answer at the cottage—no doubt he was still on the beach with Synn and the kids. Then Kropke at the police station. This call cost Van Veeteren half an hour; the ins
pector evidently found it a little difficult to catch on to what was happening, but when they eventually finished the conversation, Van Veeteren had the feeling that everything would work out well, notwithstanding.

  He set off shortly after four o’clock, and he had barely reached Ulming, after a mere seven or eight miles, when he noticed his generator warning light blinking. Before long it was emitting a constant and ominous glow, and matters were not helped by the driver cursing and beating the dashboard with both fists. On the contrary, the bastard of a car started coughing and losing speed, and when he came to a service station, he was forced to admit that he had no choice.

  He uttered a few more choice oaths, put on his right-hand blinker and left the highway.

  “A new generator,” said the young mechanic after a cursory look under the hood. “Probably not possible to do anything about it today.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked apologetic. Van Veeteren cursed.

  “Well, okay, if it’s so urgent and if you’re prepared for what it’ll cost.”

  Hmm. It might well take four or five hours . . . he’d have to drive to town, of course, to buy a new one, but if the customer was in a hurry, he could hire a car, naturally. There were one or two available.

  “And leave my stereo system here?” roared the detective chief inspector, with a broad gesture encompassing the depressing sight of the workshop interior. “What the hell do you take me for?”

  “All right,” said the mechanic. “Might I suggest that you wait in the café? You can buy books and magazines at the newsstand.”

  Damnation! thought Van Veeteren. Bloody car! I won’t be back in Kaalbringen until one or two in the morning.

  “Phone!” yelled Bart.

  Münster and his family had stayed on the beach until the sun had started to sink behind the line of trees in the west. They had only just walked through the door after a day filled with games, relaxation and reunion. Münster carefully placed the sleeping four-year-old in bed while Synn went to answer the phone.

  “It’s DCI Van Veeteren,” she whispered, with her hand over the earpiece. “He sounds like a barrel of gunpowder about to go off. Something to do with the car.”

  Münster took the receiver.

  “Hello?” he said.

  That was more or less the only word he spoke for the next ten minutes or more. He just stood there in the window recess, listening and nodding while his wife and his son prowled around and around him in ever-decreasing circles. A single look was enough for Synn to understand, and she passed on her knowledge to her six-year-old, who had been through this many times before.

  No doubt about it. The car was not what this call was really about. She could hear that in the voice of her husband’s boss at the other end of the line: a muffled but unstoppable tornado. She saw it in her husband’s face as well—in his body language, the profile of his jaw. Tense, resolute. A slight touch of white under his ears . . .

  It was time.

  And slowly that feeling of worry surged toward and over her. The feeling she couldn’t speak about, not even to him, but which she knew she shared with every other policeman’s wife all over the world.

  The possibility that . . . The possibility of something happening that . . .

  She grasped her son’s hand firmly, and refused to let go. Grateful despite everything that she’d had the opportunity of coming here.

  “About two o’clock?” asked Münster in the end. “Yep, I’m with you. We’ll assemble here, yes . . . OK, I can fix that.”

  Then he replaced the receiver and stared fixedly ahead, looking at nothing.

  “That was the damnedest . . .” he said. “But he’s right, of course . . .”

  He shook his head, then became aware of his wife and son, staring at him with the same unspoken question on their faces.

  “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, smothering 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 heart-beats 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 . . .”