Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery

by Håkan Nesser

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  “Here we are,” she said. “There’s the entrance, and that’s Leisner Park over there, as you can see.”

  Münster nodded.

  “Shall we walk up, then?” he suggested sardonically.

  “Of course,” she said, eyeing him somewhat perplexedly.

  Beatrice Linckx bade them welcome and gave them a thin smile. There was a new carpet on the floor in the hall, Münster noted. No trace of any blood, but he had no doubt it was all still there in the wood underneath.

  You can’t obliterate blood, Reinhart always said. You cover it up.

  And then there was something about Odysseus washing his hands and the constant return of the waters of the sea that he couldn’t recall exactly just now.

  Pale sunlight filtered into the large living room through the tall windows, and her fragility was more obvious here. She looked composed and alert, but the surface was thin—no more than a layer of overnight ice, he thought, and hoped that Inspector Moerk was sensitive enough to recognize the signs and not fall through it.

  Afterward, it was clear to him that he needn’t have worried.

  This was Beate Moerk’s interview. She was the one holding the reins, and she made sure she didn’t lose control; they hadn’t agreed on how to split the questioning, but the further they got, the more the teacups were emptied and refilled and the heap of light-colored biscuits (which Miss Linckx had apparently bought from the corner shop) dwindled away, the more his respect for Inspector Moerk grew. He couldn’t have done it any better himself, certainly not, and he found his role quite sufficient and rather relaxing, sitting there in the corner of the sofa and slotting in an occasional question here and there.

  Totally sufficient. It wasn’t just her hair and her appearance. She seemed to be a damned efficient police officer as well.

  “How long had you been living with Maurice, in fact?”

  “Not all that long.”

  Beatrice Linckx brushed a strand of hair from her face.

  From right to left, a recurrent gesture.

  “A few years?”

  “Yes. We met in September 1988. Moved in together a year later, roughly.”

  “Four years, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Not all that long? Münster thought.

  “Were you born in Aarlach?”

  “No, in Geintz, but I’d lived in Aarlach since I was twelve.”

  “But you didn’t meet Maurice Rühme until 1988. By then he’d already been living there for... six years, if I’m not much mistaken?”

  “Aarlach is not a small town, Inspector,” said Beatrice Linckx, with a new, pale smile. “Not like Kaalbringen, although we must have seen each other in the hustle and bustle occasionally, of course. We discussed that very thing, in fact.”

  “Do you know anything about what he was doing during those years before you met?”

  She hesitated.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know some things. But we didn’t speak about it. He didn’t want to, and it was a closed chapter.”

  “I understand. No old friends from that time either? Who are still around, I mean.”

  “Not many.”

  “But there are some?”

  Beatrice Linckx thought for a moment.

  “Two.”

  “Would you mind giving us their names?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Beate Moerk handed over her notepad and Miss Linckx scribbled down a few words.

  “Telephone numbers as well?”

  “Yes, please,” said Beate Moerk. Beatrice Linckx left the room and returned with an address book.

  “Thank you,” said Beate Moerk when she had the notepad returned. “Do you find it unpleasant when we poke our noses into your affairs like this?”

  “You’re only doing your job, I assume.”

  “Why did you move to Kaalbringen?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated slightly again. “Maurice was quite negative at first, of course. I don’t know if you are aware of his relationship with Jean-Claude, his father, that is?”

  Beate Moerk nodded.

  “I suppose it was me who talked him around, I’m afraid.

  Well, it was to do with work, of course; I assume you realize that. The posts were advertised at the same time—the very same day, in fact—and I expect I thought... that it was a sign, as it were. Maurice thought it was something different.”

  “What were you doing in Aarlach?”

  “Maurice had a temporary post in the long-term ward. Not exactly his specialty. I was working at three or four different schools.”

  “And out of the blue you each found your dream job in Kaalbringen?”

  “Maybe not dream jobs, but a big improvement, even so. More in line with our level of education, you might say.”

  Beate Moerk turned a page of her notebook and thought for a moment. Miss Linckx poured some more tea. Münster stole a glance at the two women. Tried to imagine Synn sitting in the third, empty armchair, but couldn’t quite manage it— the same age, all three, more or less, he thought; and he wondered why that thought had occurred to him. Perhaps it was about time he asked a question—was that what Inspector Moerk was waiting for?

  “Perhaps we should get down to the nitty-gritty,” he said, “so that we don’t need to take up too much of your time, Miss Linckx.”

  “By all means.”

  “Have you any idea at all about who might have killed your fiancé?”

  The question was a bit brutal, perhaps. He saw that Moerk gave him a quick glance, but the reply came without the slightest hesitation.

  “No. I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Did he have any enemies?” asked Beate Moerk, taking over again now that he’d smashed the door down. “Somebody you know who didn’t like him for one reason or another?”

  “No, I think he was quite well liked by most people.”

  “Anybody he was on bad terms with? At work, perhaps?” asked Münster, but Beatrice Linckx merely shook her head.

  “Before we leave,” said Beate Moerk, “we’ll ask you for a list of your closest friends and the colleagues Maurice had most to do with, but perhaps you could tell us about the most important ones right now?”

  “Who might have murdered him, you mean?”

  For the first time there was a hint of hostility in her voice.

  “Most murders are committed by somebody quite close to the victim,” said Münster.

  “What are you getting at?” said Beatrice Linckx, and red patches started to grow on her cheeks. “I can’t think of a single name... I haven’t the slightest suspicion. I took it for granted that we were dealing with this madman... isn’t that the case? I mean, he’s already killed two people who had nothing at all in common with Maurice.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Linckx,” said Beate Moerk. “I’m afraid we have to ask you all kinds of questions, and some of them might appear to be bizarre or impertinent. Would you please promise that you’ll contact us the moment you think of even the slightest little thing that could have to do with the murder?”

  “A telephone call, somebody who said something that seemed a bit odd, if Maurice ever acted strangely in some way or other,” added Münster.

  “Of course,” said Beatrice Linckx. “I don’t want to criticize the police in any way. Obviously, there’s nothing I want more than for you to catch him.”

  “Good,” said Münster. “Speaking of colleagues, by the way—Dr. Mandrijn, is he somebody Maurice had much to do with? He works at the hospital as well.”

  She thought about it.

  “A bit, I think,” she said. “But not much... I’m not sure who he is, but Maurice did mention his name once or twice.”

  Inspector Moerk made a note, and chewed at her pen.

  “You work at the Seldon Hospice, is that right?” she asked.

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  “As a welfare officer?”

  “As a psychologist, rather—”

  “Do you come into contact with Pierre, Maurice’s brother?”

  Beatrice went over to the window and looked out over the park before answering.

  “Nobody comes into contact with Pierre,” she said at length. “Nobody at all.”

  “I understand,” said Beate Moerk.

  When they came out, they found that it had started raining again; and when she suggested they should have a beer at The Blue Ship, he agreed without a second thought. It was true that they’d downed so much tea that their need of fluid intake was fulfilled for some considerable time to come; but it was a good idea to become acquainted with this establishment as well. If his memory served him correctly, it was from there that the second victim, Ernst Simmel, had embarked on the last stroll he would ever take in this life.

  He opened the door and bowed somewhat chivalrously.

  What the devil am I doing? he thought.

  “Are you married?” she asked when they had sat down.

  Münster took out his wallet and showed her a photograph of Synn.

  “She’s pretty,” said Beate Moerk. “Good, I don’t need to worry.”

  “Two kids as well,” said Münster. “What about you?”

  “No to both questions,” said Beate Moerk with a smile.

  “But that’s only temporary.”

  “Cheers,” said Münster, and smiled as well.

  23

  “Cocaine?” wondered Bausen.

  “It’s a link, in any case,” said Kropke. “To Eggers, that is.”

  “Doubtful,” said Münster.

  “A weak link, in that case,” said Van Veeteren. “Cocaine is an upper-class drug; don’t forget that. I doubt if Heinz Eggers and his mates used to sit around and get high on anything as sophisticated as that. Not their line, as simple as that.”

  Bausen agreed.

  “But we have to follow it up, of course. Mind you, given the number of people on drugs nowadays, it’s probably no more than a normal statistical probability.”

  “Two out of three?” asked Inspector Moerk.

  “A bit high perhaps, I grant you. But of course we must look into it. We don’t have much else to do, let’s face it.”

  “How far is it between Selstadt and Aarlach?” asked Münster.

  “A hundred, hundred and twenty miles, I suppose,” said Bausen.

  “A hundred and eleven and a half,” said Kropke.

  “Just checking to make sure you were awake,” said Bausen.

  “Van Veeteren?”

  Van Veeteren stopped rolling a coin over his knuckles.

  “Well,” he said. “I think it’s as important as it damn well can be for us to get Rühme’s time in Aarlach mapped out as accu-rately as possible. I’ve spoken to Melnik, the chief of police there, and he’s promised to put two men onto it—probably has already, in fact. He’ll send us a report as soon as he’s done, in any case—in a few days, I hope. A week, perhaps.”

  “And then what?” asked Kropke.

  “We’ll have to see,” said Van Veeteren. “If nothing else, we can pick out all the names and run them against all the material we have on Eggers and Simmel. That could be a job for you, Kropke, and your computer?”

  Kropke frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up.

  “All right,” he said. “Not a bad idea, I suppose.”

  “OK,” said Bausen. “The neighbors, Mooser? How has that gone?”

  Mooser leafed slightly nervously through his papers.

  “We’ve been in touch with all of them but two—twenty-six in all. Nobody’s seen a damn thing—between ten last Wednesday night and two the next morning, that is. Those were the times we said, weren’t they?”

  “That’s correct,” said Bausen. “Meuritz guesses it was some time around about then. He was reluctant to be more precise than that on this occasion—not possible, I assume. I can’t help feeling he’s had a damn great stroke of luck, our dear friend the Axman. In Simmel’s case he followed him all the way through town, more or less, but with Rühme he just strolls across the street and into the apartment block. Rings the doorbell and cuts his head off. And nobody sees him. No witnesses.”

  “Apart from Moen,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Ah, yes,” said Bausen with a sigh. “Moen and Peerhovens... one of them aged ninety-five years and the other’d made a night of it and was less than sober.”

  “Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren. “No doubt we’ll nail him before long. I think I sniff the traces of a scent—”

  “What do we do first?” asked Beate Moerk.

  Bausen leafed through his notebook.

  “You and... Münster, perhaps?”

  Münster nodded.

  “You take the hospital. Colleagues, and anybody else who strikes you. See what you can get out of them. You have a blank check.”

  “Good,” said Beate Moerk.

  “Kropke and Mooser... I think we need to extend the neighborhood a bit. Knock on a few doors around Leisner Park as well. Kropke can draw up a plan. Take Bang with you—he needs a bit of exercise—but for God’s sake, write down your questions in advance. And Kropke keeps pressing ahead with Simmel and Spain as well, of course. Nothing’s turned up there yet, I don’t suppose?”

  Kropke shook his head.

  “A lot of crap, but nothing significant.”

  “DCI Van Veeteren and I ought to take a closer look at the ax,” said Bausen. “The guys in forensics are a bit vague, but their best guess is that it’s a specialist tool used in the butchery trade, made around ten or twelve years ago. We’ve got the names of four possible manufacturers—and ten or so possible retail outlets. It doesn’t sound very promising, of course, but I suppose we’d better waste a day on it, even so. And then we have Simmel’s son and daughter coming here tomorrow. Mustn’t forget them, even if I wouldn’t put a lot of money on them either, but still, you never know. Any questions?”

  “Who’s going to do the friends and acquaintances?” asked Münster. “Rühme’s, that is.”

  “You two,” said Bausen. “But the hospital first. You have the list, don’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t we send somebody to Aarlach?” asked Beate Moerk. “That must be the place where we’re most likely to draw out a lead, surely?”

  “DCI Melnik wouldn’t appreciate any outside interference, I can assure you of that,” said Van Veeteren. “But he can establish the age of a lump of dog shit if he’s feeling inspired.”

  “Really,” said Beate Moerk. “One of those, is he?”

  “I have some appointments with a few of Simmel’s lady friends as well,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m looking forward to that very much.”

  Phew! thought Beate Moerk as she left the police station. What a miserable bunch.

  “How far is it to the hospital?” asked Münster.

  “A long way,” said Moerk. “We’ll take your car.”

  24

  He looked around. Then sat down at one of the empty tables on the glazed-in terrace, ordered a glass of stout and spread out de Journaal in front of him. He breathed a sigh of cautious satisfaction. It was some time since he’d last been to The Fisherman’s Friend.

  He took several long drafts of beer, then started to read what they’d written about the case. Not without a degree of satisfaction. This was the fifth day after the latest murder, and the coverage was still more than two pages. There was very little new information; the theories were becoming increasingly absurd, as far as he could judge... the silence on the part of the police was bound to irritate the journalists, no doubt, and it looked as if several of them were losing faith.

  No wonder, he thought, and gazed down at the harbor. No wonder. A solitary trawler was making its way out toward the open sea from down below. The sea and the sky were an identi-cal shade of gray; the sun appeared unwilling to sho
w itself today. It looked disconsolate.

  Disconsolate? For a brief moment he wondered why that particular word had occurred to him.

  He had killed three people and the police didn’t have a single lead, as far as he could tell. It would have been interesting to see to see what they wrote in the other papers as well, but they’d been sold out. For obvious reasons, to be sure. He took another draft of beer and allowed the brewer’s wort to force tears into the corners of his eyes. No, if he understood the situation rightly, he was as safe as ever.

  Beyond reach and beyond punishment.

  It felt somewhat remarkable, no doubt about that, although on the other hand, it was more or less what he’d reckoned on... wasn’t it? Had he reckoned on anything at all, in fact? Was there an afterward? Had he thought about this period? The long drawn-out epilogue, or whatever it was?

  He watched the gulls circling around the top of the cliff.

  They sometimes came so close that their wing tips brushed against the window... and he suddenly recalled how he’d been sitting up here one day when one of them had flown straight into the windowpane. At full speed, without checking.

  It had presumably had a clear view ahead, and death against the cold glass must have come as a complete shock to the poor bird. No notice, no premonitions... just like the blow from the ax, it seemed to him, and he sat for quite a while thinking about that bird and the smear of blood and innards it had left clinging to the pane, which he was able to conjure up in his mind’s eye, for some reason. And then he thought about the woman for whose sake all this was taking place... about her, whose death had not come as a shock at all—it was more a case of a fruit becoming ripe—and he wondered if it really was all over now, everything. If everything had been restored to its rightful place, justice achieved, and if there was any possibility of her being able to give him a sign. And if so, where that could happen...

  There was probably more than one place, now that he came to think about it.