Borkmann's point ivv-2

by Håkan Nesser

  Whatever, this piece of evidence suggested that the time of the murder could most probably be fixed at 2340 give or take a minute or so.

  “That’s about it, more or less,” said Kropke, closing his note book.

  “We ought to give Meuritz a cigar,” said Van Veeteren. “It looks as if he was spot-on regarding the time of death. What I want to know is how the murderer managed to cross the square. I mean, there were-let me see-six or seven people there at the critical moment.”

  “Eight,” said Kropke. “At least eight. He probably walked along the arcade. There’s a line of columns along the western side of the square, the Waalska Building-I don’t know if you’ve noticed them, Chief Inspector. The lighting is pretty bad there. None of our witnesses went that way.”

  “As if built for a murderer,” sighed Bausen. “Well, gentle men, what do you think? A good day?”

  Mooser scratched himself behind the ear with a pencil and yawned. Kropke studied his notes. Van Veeteren drained the last drops from his cardboard cup and registered that there was a world of difference between stale, lukewarm coffee and white Meursault.

  “Hard to say,” he said. “At least we’ve acquired a great deal of information. And tomorrow is another day.”

  “Monday,” Mooser made so bold as to point out.

  “He could have been waiting there in the woods,” said

  Kropke, who had evidently been following his own line of thought. “We shouldn’t dismiss that possibility out of hand.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Van Veeteren, “I think I’d like to con duct a series of little interviews now. Unless our leader has other tasks lined up for me, of course?”

  “None at all,” said Bausen. “Good police officers know how to keep themselves usefully occupied.”

  Mooser yawned again.

  12

  “You were his legal adviser, is that right?” asked Van Veeteren, taking a toothpick out of his breast pocket.

  “More a good friend of the family,” smiled the lawyer.

  “One doesn’t exclude the other, does it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Eugen Klingfort’s office had the touch of a luxury cabin about it. Bright teak panels with heavy brass fittings here and there. Built-in bookcases with rows of leather-bound volumes, every one of them unopened since they’d left the printer’s. A leather-covered filing cabinet, a bar counter that could fold into the desk, a Wassermann/Frisch safe.

  The incarnation of bad taste, thought Van Veeteren. The more money they have to satisfy it with, the more ghastly it gets.

  “And for how long?” he asked.

  “How long? Oh, you mean… let’s see, twenty-five or Hakan Nesser thirty years, something like that. Ever since I established myself in Kaalbringen, I think it’s fair to say. Would you like a cigar, Chief Inspector?”

  “No, thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “What state were his affairs in?”

  “His affairs? What do you mean?”

  “I want to know what state Ernst Simmel’s affairs were in.

  You were his financial adviser, after all; I thought we’d agreed on that.”

  Klingfort lay back in his chair and let his chins rest on his chest. A bit on the corpulent side, thought Van Veeteren.

  “His affairs were in perfectly good shape.”

  “And his will?”

  “There is no will. He didn’t need one. Grete and the chil dren will each get a share of his estate; there are no unusual cir cumstances.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Now, listen here, Mr. Veeteren-”

  “Van Veeteren.”

  “-Van Veeteren. I’ve already wasted enough time on that with Inspector Kropke. If you imagine that I have any inten tion of going through everything once again just because you are a rank higher, well…”

  “Well what?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Well, you’re deluding yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Klingfort. I gather there must be some thing fishy hidden away, but we’ll no doubt be able to track it down without your help.”

  Eugen Klingfort snorted and lit a cigar.

  “Let me make one thing crystal clear to you,” he said after creating a few thick clouds of smoke. “There isn’t the slightest trace of any irregularity with regard to Ernst’s affairs or his estate.”

  “So you exclude the possibility that the murderer could have had financial motives?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Yes.”

  “But were there not people who owed him money?”

  “Of course he had debtors. But not the kind of debts you are implying.”

  “What am I implying?” asked Van Veeteren, placing his toothpick on the arm of his chair. “Tell me!”

  Klingfort didn’t answer, but his face had started to turn somewhat redder.

  “What do you think about the murder?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “A lunatic,” replied Klingfort without hesitation. “I’ve said that right from the start. Make sure you catch him, so that law abiding citizens can wander about the streets at night without fear of assault.”

  “Did you go to prostitutes with him?” asked Van Veeteren.

  The question came just as Klingfort was inhaling, and the lawyer had a coughing fit that Van Veeteren realized must have been quite painful. Klingfort stood up as quickly as his massive frame allowed, and staggered over to the window. When he came back, he took a swig of soda water from the bar shelf.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” he said when he had recovered, trying to bellow. “This is clearly nothing short of abuse of power.”

  “It’s public knowledge that Simmel used prostitutes,” said

  Van Veeteren, unconcerned. “I just wondered if you could give me any names.”

  “Would you please get out now and leave me in peace.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Sit down and answer my questions.

  This is a murder inquiry and I have the authority to take you to the station if I want to. Don’t get so high and mighty, Mr. Klingfort. I’m used to shooting down much higher fliers than I’ve noticed around here.”

  Eugen Klingfort remained standing in the middle of the room with his chins on his chest. He looks like a sick walrus, thought Van Veeteren.

  “You’re spilling ash on the carpet,” he said. “Well? I’m wait ing for some names of those women.”

  “I have… I have nothing to do with that side of Ernst’s life,” said Klingfort, going back to his desk chair. “Nothing! I suppose he might have gone off with the odd one of… the usual ones… occasionally. I have no doubt the chief of police has their names.”

  “I want the ones who are not known to the police,” said

  Van Veeteren. “You are comfortably married, Mr. Klingfort.

  Wife, children, your own house-don’t you realize that I can make things very difficult for you if you insist on being willful?”

  The solicitor rummaged in his desk drawer. He produced a scrap of paper and scribbled down something, then slid it over to Van Veeteren.

  “But I can assure you that this has nothing at all to do with the murder.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Ab solutely nothing.”

  I didn’t think for a moment it had, thought Van Veeteren when he emerged into the street. But a shit needs to be reminded that he’s a shit now and then.

  “Are you sober today?” asked Bausen, putting the coffee tray on the table and sitting down.

  “I’m alluss sober on a Monday,” said Peerhovens. “I have a job to do, haven’t I?”

  “Looking after the grocery carts at Maerck’s?”

  “That’s it. You have to take what you can get nowadays.”

  Bausen held out a packet of cigarettes and Peerhovens took what he could get.

  “Coffee and a cigarette-it’s like I alluss said. It pays to stay on good terms with the cops.”

  “I hope you haven’t made this up in order to get the occa sional… favor?” said Bausen
, leaning forward over the table.

  Peerhovens jumped and started to look nervous.

  “No, no, for Chrissake, Chief Inspector! I’d never dream of lying to the cops! I saw him just as clear as I can see you now… coming from Klaarmann’s… me, that is. I’d been talking with Wauters and Egon Schmidt, if you know-”

  Bausen nodded.

  “I’d just passed the bookstore, on the way home. I live in Pampas, if you know-”

  “I know,” said Bausen.

  “Anyway, just as I come around the corner, into Hoistraat, that is, I turn left, of course, and I see a figure hurrying down the steps. He’d come from, well, from The Blue Ship, if you like, and he seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry?”

  “Yeah, he was more or less running down the steps, sort of-”

  “Describe him!” said Bausen.

  “Well, it all happened a bit quick, but he was wearing one of those thin overcoats that was flapping a bit. And a hat, yeah, a floppy hat, sort of, and it was pulled down so I couldn’t see a fuck… er, sorry… any detail of his face.”

  “What color was his coat?”

  “Color? Well, brown. Or blue, sort of. Pretty dark anyway.”

  “And his hat?”

  “Even darker. But not black. It all happened very quick, like

  I said. And I didn’t really think about it then, like… not until Kovvy told me somebody had killed Simmel.”

  “Kovvy?”

  “Kowalski… Radon Kowalski. The guy that lives under neath me. Good solid guy.”

  “When did you hear about it?”

  “When? Well, I guess it must have been the next day…

  Yes, that’s it… late afternoon. We bumped into each other on the stairs, and that’s when he told me. ‘Have you heard that the

  Axman’s killed Ernst Simmel?’ he said.”

  “And even so you waited until yesterday before you went to the police,” said Bausen sternly. “Why?”

  Peerhovens stared down at his coffee cup.

  “Well… I…” he said. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I thought it wasn’t anything important. And I’d been a bit under the weather, but then I heard on the radio-”

  “How much had you drunk last Tuesday evening?”

  “Hard to say… not easy to say,” said Peerhovens. “I mean, I’d been at Klaarmann’s for a few hours, so I suppose I’d had quite a bit. Wauters had brought a bottle of his own as well.”

  “I’m with you,” said Bausen. “And you wouldn’t recognize this person if you were to see him again?”

  Peerhovens shook his head.

  “What did he look like, by the way? Big or small… well built or thin?”

  “No, no, I didn’t have chance to ob… observe that. Some where in between, I suppose. No, I wouldn’t recognize him.”

  Bausen nodded.

  “What about his hat and coat? Not them either?”

  Peerhovens hesitated and was given a cigarette.

  “Thanks. No,” he said eventually. “I can’t really say I would.”

  Bausen sighed. He stood up and left Vincent Peerhovens to his fate. At least he’s bright enough to see that he’d be running a risk, he thought.

  Having seen the Axman, that is.

  “Marie Zelnik?” asked Beate Moerk.

  She could see that the woman on the red sofa must actually be several years younger than she was herself, and that gave her a dubious feeling of insecurity. On the one hand, it aroused a sort of dormant protective urge; but on the other, she was forced to restrain her antipathy and distaste. Repress her repugnance.

  The animosity seemed to be mutual. Marie Zelnik leaned back with one leg crossed over the other in such a way that her leather skirt pointedly revealed most of her thigh. She was smoking, and examining her nails.

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You earn you living as a prostitute, is that right?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “What else do you do?”

  No answer.

  “I’d like you to tell me a bit about Ernst Simmel. I under — stand he was one of your clients, wasn’t he?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything that might be of use to the investigation. How long have you… been in contact with him, for instance?”

  “About six months, roughly… since he came back.”

  “How often?”

  She shrugged.

  “Not all that often. Once a month, or even less. He went more often with Katja.”

  “Katja Simone?”

  “Yes.”

  “We know about that. Inspector Kropke has spoken to her already.”

  “So I heard.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immedi ately. Disgusting, thought Beate Moerk.

  “What was he like?”

  “Simmel? Your average sort of John.”

  Beate Moerk made a note.

  “How did he usually make contact?”

  Marie Zelnik thought that one over.

  “Most times the same day,” she said. “Never made an appointment… phoned from the pub and asked if he could come around.”

  “And could he?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Beate Moerk was searching for questions to ask. She real ized that for once, she could have been better prepared and wondered what she was really trying to find out.

  “When did you last meet?”

  “A week before he died, or thereabouts.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “As usual… horny as hell, not much staying power.”

  To her surprise, Beate Moerk realized she was blushing.

  “Did he used to tell you things?”

  “What kind of things?”

  “About his life-his family, for instance? His wife?”

  “Never.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Why should I?”

  “And he… paid with no problems?”

  What an idiotic question! Beate Moerk could feel herself losing control now. She’d better make sure she got out of here without doing anything rash.

  “Of course he paid.”

  Marie Zelnik looked at her with some amusement. Beate

  Moerk had another go.

  “And there was nothing special about him? Anything you think… might have been connected with his murder? That we ought to know about?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” Beate Moerk admitted. “How much do you charge?” The question slipped out before she could stop her self.

  “That depends,” said Marie Zelnik.

  “Depends on what?”

  “How they fuck me, of course. There are all kinds of varia tions, but maybe you don’t know about that, Inspector. I only take men, by the way.”

  You disgusting little bitch! thought Beate Moerk. Thank your lucky stars that I didn’t set Bausen onto you! She sat for a while trying to think of more questions to put to this arrogant hussy, but nothing came to mind.

  “Many thanks,” she said, getting to her feet. “This has been a most interesting conversation. Most interesting. If I weren’t on duty, I’d probably throw up all over your fake carpet.”

  At least that had gone some way toward restoring the bal ance, she told herself.

  13

  He had slept late on Tuesday.

  He deserved it. A week had passed since he’d put an end to

  Ernst Simmel in the woods, and there was no sign that the police were onto his trail. No sign at all.

  He’d never thought they would be. He’d known from the beginning that the first two murders would cause him rela tively few problems. Number three was a different matter alto gether, however. People had realized what was happening. It wasn’t simply a one-off, as they’d imagined when they found

  Eggers. Not some impulsive murderer who went after just one unfortunate
victim, but one with several names on his list.

  Several would have to have their heads cut off before justice was done.

  The images still came to him in his dreams, and just as he had expected, it was number three who stood out now-the man who was still alive and whose turn it was next. It wasn’t a very clear image, however: There weren’t such strong memo ries of him, no on-the-spot snapshot. Perhaps that corner of the sofa, though, when he’d sat there with his cool, somewhat superior air-the young, well-dressed, upper-class puppy who always got by, thanks to his breeding and social status. Who floated up to the surface when others were dragged down. Dry shod and hair neatly combed.

  Who landed on his feet when others were killed by the fall.

  God, how he hated this self-serving aristocracy! The worst of them all… When he compared this one with the others, he could see it in letters of fire. He was the instigator. He carried the greatest blame; he would receive the harshest punishment.

  That was another reason why he needed to be extra careful this time. He must do something to make clear his significance beyond all shadow of a doubt-something extra, which had been part of his plan from the very start. Not in order to make people understand-they wouldn’t in any case-they’d be hor rified, perhaps, but they wouldn’t understand. No, it was for his own sake.

  And for hers.

  He spent the morning being practical. Polished the cutting edge until it was almost impossibly sharp. Then wrapped it in the muslin rag and hid it in the usual place. Burned the coat and hat in the open fire; it was time for different disguises now.

  Sat for a long time at the kitchen table, smoking and thinking about how to approach it, and eventually decided on the artis tic touch to make this time special. It would be bound to involve a degree of risk but very little, he told himself. Very little, and from the point of view of news value, it was most attractive. He didn’t doubt for a second that this time he would dominate both television and the newspapers-for a day at least. Perhaps several.

  Surprising thoughts, these. In no way had this been his motive, but perhaps it was as somebody had said: A man much prefers to die in the arena than at home in bed! So much depends on the battle itself. The actions and the drama.