Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  He paused.

  “What did you do?” she asked after a while.

  “I hit him. Punched him on the nose. Hadn’t the strength to do any more than that. He disappeared. I phoned for an ambulance and got both of them into hospital . . . she died three weeks later. Bitte died at the hospital in Selstadt. Forgive me, I’m too tired to go into the details.”

  “How?”

  He waited again and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Dropped it on the floor and stamped out the glow with his foot.

  “Slit her own throat as she threw herself out of a sixth-floor window . . . wanted to make sure. That was September 30, 1988. She was twenty-seven years old.”

  He remained sitting there for longer than usual this time. Sat the usual three or four yards away from her in the darkness, breathing heavily. Neither of them spoke; she gathered there was nothing else to add. He had finished now.

  He had achieved his vengeance.

  The story was told.

  It was all over.

  They sat there in the darkness, and it seemed to her that they were simply two actors who happened to be still onstage, even though the curtain had long since come down.

  What now? she wondered. What comes next?

  What will Horatio do after the death of Hamlet?

  Live and tell the story one more time, as he had been requested to do?

  Die by his own hand, which is his wish?

  In the end she dared to put the question:

  “What do you intend to do?”

  She could hear him give a start. Perhaps he had actually fallen asleep. He seemed to be enveloped by infinite weariness, in any case, and she immediately felt that she would have liked to give him advice.

  Some kind of comfort. But there was none, of course.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve played my part. I must receive a sign. Must go there and wait for a sign . . .”

  He stood up.

  “What day is it?” she asked suddenly, without knowing why.

  “It’s not day,” he said. “It’s night.”

  Then he left her again.

  Well, I’m still alive, she thought in surprise. And night is the mother of day . . .

  50

  Van Veeteren took the lead.

  Led the way through the darkness that was starting to become less intense. A narrow strip of gray dawn had forced its way in under the trees, but it was still too early to make out anything but vague outlines, flickerings and shadows. Sound still held sway over light, the ear over the eye. A jumble of faint rustling and squeals from small animals scuttling away from their feet as they moved forward. A strange place, thought Münster.

  “Take it easy now,” Van Veeteren had urged them. “It’s a helluva lot better to arrive a quarter of an hour later without being discovered.”

  They eventually turned the corner and emerged onto the stone paving. Van Veeteren opened the door. It squeaked faintly, and Münster could sense that he was concerned; but they were all inside within half a minute.

  They split up. Two up the stairs. He and Münster downstairs.

  It was pitch-dark, and he switched on his flashlight.

  “It’s only a guess,” he whispered over his shoulder, “but I’m pretty damn sure that I’m right, even so!”

  Münster nodded and followed hard on his heels.

  “Look!” exclaimed Van Veeteren, stopping. He pointed the beam at an old doll’s house crammed full of toys: dolls, teddy bears and everything else you could think of. “I ought to have realized even then . . . but that would have been asking a bit much, I suppose.”

  They continued downward, Münster half a step behind him. The smell of soil grew stronger—soil and the slight remains of stale cigarette smoke. The passage grew narrower and the ceiling lower, making them crouch slightly, leaning forward—groping their way forward, despite the flickering beam from the flashlight.

  “Here,” said Van Veeteren suddenly. He stopped and shone the flashlight on a solid wooden door with double bolts and a bulky padlock. “Here it is!”

  He knocked cautiously.

  No sound.

  He tried again, a little harder, and Münster could hear a faint noise from the other side.

  “Inspector Moerk?” said Van Veeteren, his cheek pressed against the damp door.

  Now they could hear a clear and definite “Yes,” and simultaneously Münster felt something burst inside him. Tears poured down his face and nothing on earth could have stopped them. I’m a forty-two-year-old cop standing here weeping like a little kid. Godammit!

  But he couldn’t care less. He stood behind Van Veeteren’s back and wept under the cover of darkness. Thank you, he thought, without having any idea whom he was addressing.

  Van Veeteren took out the crowbar, and after a couple of failed attempts managed to make the padlock give way. He drew back the bolts and opened the door . . .

  “Take the light away,” whispered Beate Moerk, and all Münster could see of her were the chains, her mass of tousled hair and the hands she was holding over her eyes.

  Before doing as she’d asked, Van Veeteren shone the beam around the walls for a few seconds.

  Then he muttered something unintelligible and switched off.

  Münster fumbled his way over to her. Raised her to her feet . . . she leaned heavily on him, and it was clear that he would have to carry her. He carefully lifted her up, and noticed that he was still crying.

  “How are you?” he managed to blurt out as she laid her head on his shoulder, and his voice sounded surprisingly steady.

  “Not too good,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”

  “No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I ought to have realized sooner, though . . . I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the chains on for a bit longer. We don’t have the right equipment with us.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Beate Moerk. “But when you’ve got them off, I want a bathroom for three hours.”

  “Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ve built up plenty of overtime.”

  Then he started to lead them back.

  Kropke and Mooser were already waiting for them on the patio.

  “He’s not at home,” said Kropke.

  “Oh, shit,” said Van Veeteren.

  “You can put me down if you like,” said Beate Moerk. “I might be able to walk . . .”

  “Out of the question,” said Münster.

  “Where the hell is he?” grunted Van Veeteren. “It’s half past five in the morning . . . shouldn’t he be in his goddamn bed?”

  Beate Moerk had opened her eyes, but was shading them with her hand from the faint light of dawn.

  “He was with me not long ago,” she said.

  “Not long ago?” said Kropke.

  “I have a bit of a problem with judging time,” she explained. “An hour . . . maybe two.”

  “He didn’t say where he was going?” asked Van Veeteren.

  Beate Moerk searched her mind.

  “No,” she said. “But he wanted a sign, he said—”

  “A sign?” said Mooser.

  “Yes.”

  Van Veeteren thought that over for a while. He lit a cigarette and started pacing up and down over the paving stones.

  “Hmm,” he said eventually and came to a halt. “Yes, that’s possible, of course . . . why not? Münster!”

  “Yes.”

  “See to it that the chains are removed and get Inspector Moerk to the hospital.”

  “Home,” said Beate Moerk.

  Van Veeteren muttered.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll send a doctor instead.”

  She nodded.

  “Kropke and Mooser, come with me!”

  “Where do you think he is?” asked Kropke when Münster and Moerk had left.

  “With his family,” said Van Veeteren. “Where he belongs.”

  51

  “I’ll be all right,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Sure?”

&n
bsp; “Of course. A spell in the bath and I’ll be a rose again.”

  “The doctor will be here in half an hour. I’d prefer to stay until then.”

  “No, thank you,” she said with a faint smile. “Get back to your family now.”

  He paused, his hand on the door handle.

  “That report . . . ” he said. “How much of it did you read, in fact?”

  She laughed.

  “All right, I’ll come clean. Nothing. It was the pagination that intrigued me. When I handed over the original, I looked at the last page and saw that it numbered thirty-five, at the bottom . . . I think I said something about it at the time.”

  “True,” said Münster, remembering the moment.

  “There were no numbers on the copy . . . that’s all. I didn’t know a thing about his daughter when I drove to the station. I’ve only been working here for four years; she was dead when I started. I just wanted to check if I could find anything in the copying room. I suppose he must have seen me when I arrived, or as I was leaving . . . that’s all. Maybe it was pure coincidence; I don’t know if he thought I knew something. Anything else you’re wondering about?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Well, quite a bit in fact,” he said. “But it can wait.”

  “Go now,” she said. “But give me a hug first, if you can stand the stink.”

  “Come on, I’ve been carrying you around all morning,” said Münster, throwing his arms around her.

  “Ouch,” said Beate Moerk.

  “So long, then,” said Münster. “Look after yourself.”

  “You too.”

  He saw him from some considerable distance away.

  In the faint light of dawn, he was standing in the same place as he’d been that evening, right at the beginning.

  Back then, when he’d chosen not to approach him. Not to disturb his sorrow.

  Like then, he had his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Head bowed. He was standing perfectly still, legs wide apart, as if he’d been waiting for a long time and wanted to make sure that he didn’t lose his balance.

  Concentrating hard. Deep in what might have been prayer, Van Veeteren thought, but perhaps he was simply waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

  Or perhaps it was just sorrow. His back made it so clear he didn’t want to be disturbed that Van Veeteren hesitated to approach. He gestured to Kropke and Mooser to keep their distance . . . so that he would have him to himself for at least a short while.

  “Good morning,” he said when there were only a couple of yards left, and Bausen must have heard his footsteps in the gravel. “I’m coming now.”

  “Good morning,” said Bausen, without moving.

  Van Veeteren put his hand on Bausen’s shoulder. Stood still for a while, reading what it said on the headstone.

  Brigitte Bausen

  6/18/1961–9/30/1988

  Helena Bausen

  2/3/1932–9/27/1991

  “Yesterday?” said Van Veeteren.

  Bausen nodded.

  “Five years ago. As you can see, her mother didn’t quite make it in the end . . . but she was only three days short.”

  They stood in silence for a while. Van Veeteren could hear Kropke coughing in the background, and held up a warning hand without looking around.

  “I ought to have realized sooner,” he said. “You’ve given me a few signs.”

  Bausen didn’t answer at first. Shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.

  “Signs,” he said eventually. “I don’t receive any signs . . . I’ve been standing here, waiting, for quite a long time, not just right now . . .”

  “I know,” said Van Veeteren. “Perhaps . . . perhaps the absence of any is a sign in itself.”

  Bausen raised his eyes.

  “God’s silence?” He shuddered, and looked Van Veeteren in the eye. “I’m sorry about Moerk . . . have you released her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I needed somebody to explain everything to. Didn’t realize that before I took her, but that’s how it was. I never thought of killing her.”

  “Of course not,” said Van Veeteren. “When did you gather that I’d caught on?”

  Bausen hesitated.

  “That last game of chess, perhaps. But I wasn’t sure—”

  “Nor was I,” said Van Veeteren. “I had trouble finding a motive.”

  “But you know now?”

  “I think so. Kropke did a bit of research yesterday . . . what a disgusting mess.”

  “Moerk knows all about it. You can ask her. I haven’t the strength to go through it all again. I’m so tired.”

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  “That telephone call yesterday . . .” said Bausen. “I wasn’t fooled; it was more a question of being polite, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “It was an opening gambit I’d made up myself.”

  “More of an endgame,” said Bausen. “I thought it took you a bit long, even so . . .”

  “My car broke down,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes,” said Bausen. “Let’s.”

  V

  October 2

  52

  The beach was endless.

  Van Veeteren paused and gazed out to sea. There were big waves, for once. A fresh wind was gathering strength, and on the horizon a dark cloud bank was growing more ominous. No doubt it would be raining by evening.

  “I think we should go back now,” he said.

  Münster nodded. They’d been walking for more than half an hour. Synn had promised a meal by three o’clock, and the children would no doubt need some cleaning up before they would be allowed at the table.

  “Bart!” yelled Münster, waving. “We’re going back now!”

  “All right!” shouted the six-year-old, completing his final attack on the enemy buried in the sand.

  “I’m tired,” said Münster’s daughter. “Carry me!”

  He lifted her onto his shoulders, and they started walking slowly back along the beach.

  “How is he?” asked Münster when he felt that Marieke had fallen asleep and Bart was sufficiently far ahead.

  “Not too bad,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s not that concerned about the future. The main thing is that he’s done what he had to do.”

  “Did he want to be caught?”

  “No, but it didn’t matter very much either. He was in an impossible position once Moerk started on his trail, of course.”

  Münster thought for a moment.

  “How many lines were there about Brigitte Bausen in the Melnik report, in fact?” he said. “There can’t have been all that much—”

  “Exactly one page. About that year they were living together, that is. Her name was mentioned twice. Melnik had no idea, of course; not even he can know the names of every chief of police in the country. If he’d had a bit more time—Bausen, that is—he could have substituted another name instead of removing a whole page. If he had, he might have gotten away with it. But we were standing waiting for him, more or less, and for Christ’s sake, we were bound to have noticed that something funny was going on.”

  Münster nodded.

  “I find it hard to see that what he did was so dreadful,” he said. “Morally speaking, I mean—”

  “Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “You might say that he had every right—maybe not to cut the heads off three people—but to do something about his enormous sorrow.”

  He fumbled around in his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. Was forced to stop and cup his hand around the lighter before he could produce a flame.

  “Enormous sorrow and enormous determination,” he said, “those are the main ingredients in this dish. Those are Moerk’s words, not mine, but they’re pretty good as a summary. Sorrow and determination—and necessity. The world we live in is not a nice place—but we’ve been aware of that for quite some time, haven’t we?”

  They walked in silence for a while. Münster rem
embered something else Beate Moerk had said about her conversations with Bausen in the cellar.

  Life imposes certain conditions upon us, she reported that he said. If we don’t accept the challenge, we become petrified. We don’t have any real choice.

  Petrified? Was that right? Was that really what it looked like—this vain battle against evil? Where the result, no matter how puny and unsuccessful it might turn out to be, was nevertheless the important thing; where only the deed itself, the principle, had any significance?

  And the only reward was to avoid petrification. Only?

  Perhaps that was enough.

  But the lives of three people—?

  “What do you think?” Van Veeteren interrupted his train of thought. “What punishment would you give him if it were up to you?”

  “In the best of all worlds?”

  “In the best of all worlds.”

  “I don’t know,” said Münster. “What do you think?”

  Van Veeteren considered for a while.

  “Not easy,” he said. “Lock him up in the cellar, perhaps, like he did with Moerk. But in rather more humane conditions, of course—a lamp, some books . . . and a corkscrew.”

  They fell silent again. Walked side by side down to the water’s edge and let their summaries sink in. The wind was growing stronger. It came in gusts, which you could almost lean into at times, Münster felt. Bart came running up with some new finds for his collection of stones. He off-loaded them into his father’s pockets and raced ahead again. When the low whitewashed cottage came into view once more, Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

  “In any case,” he said, “he’s the most likable murderer I’ve ever come across. It’s not often you have an opportunity of mixing so much with them either—before you put them behind bars, that is.”

  Münster looked up. There was a new tone in Van Veeteren’s voice, a totally surprising hint of self-irony. Something he’d never detected before, and could barely imagine. It was suddenly hard to hold back a smile.

  “How did the chess go?” he asked.

  “I won, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “What the hell do you think? It took some time, that’s all.”