by Håkan Nesser
“Well,” said Bausen, plunging his hands into his pockets. “That was Constable Bang.”
Van Veeteren looked around.
“Hmm,” he said.
Bausen produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“Would you like one?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren, “but I’ll have one even so. Can we try a little experiment?”
“Your word is my command,” said Bausen, lighting two cigarettes and handing one of them to Van Veeteren. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s walk along the path for twenty or thirty yards. Then I’ll come back with you following me, and I’ll see if I can hear you.”
“OK,” said Bausen. “But I’ve tested that already. The path has been trampled down by so many feet, it’s damn hard. You won’t hear a thing.”
They carried out the experiment, and Bausen’s prediction proved to be absolutely correct. The distant murmur of the sea and the rustling of the wind in the trees was sufficient to mask any other noise. Bausen had more or less been able to put his hand on Van Veeteren’s shoulder before he’d noticed he was even there.
“And that’s how it happened,” said Bausen.
Van Veeteren nodded.
“I take it you’ve made a thorough search?” he said.
“Of the crime scene? We most certainly have! We’ve vacuumed every single blade of grass. Not a thing! Just blood, and more blood. It’s dry, you see. Hasn’t rained for three weeks. No soft ground anywhere, no footprints. No, I don’t think we’re going to get any leads of that sort. It looks as if he wiped his weapon clean at one spot, but that’s all.”
“What about the Eggers case?”
“The same story. We were very interested in a cigarette end for a long time, but it turned out to be two days old. It occupied several officers for a week.”
“Has Meuritz had backup from forensic officers, by the way?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Four of them. Not that I think he needed them. Damn competent doc, even if he can be a bit difficult to work with.”
Van Veeteren bent down and studied the stained grass.
“Have you heard of Heliogabalus?” he asked.
“The guy with the blood on the grass?”
“That’s the one. Roman emperor, 218–222. Killed people because he liked to see red against green. An uncompromising aesthete, no doubt about it. Although blood doesn’t keep its color all that well, it has to be said—”
“No,” said Bausen. “Not really the right motive in this case, anyway. It must have been pitch-black here last Tuesday night. Two lights in sequence along the path were out.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “We’ll eliminate Heliogabalus, then. It’s always good to be able to cross a name off the list.”
Some would-be detectives from the general public were approaching from the Rikken direction. Bang must have put in place some kind of barrier down by the harbor, as they’d been left in peace for nearly ten minutes. Bausen checked his watch.
“Half past four,” he said. “I have a leg of mutton in the freezer. Only needs some roasting. How about it?”
Van Veeteren hesitated.
“If you allow me a couple of hours at the hotel first.”
“Of course,” said Bausen. “You’re welcome at the nest around seven. I hope we’ll be able to sit outside.”
9
Beate Moerk slid down into the bath and switched off the light. She allowed herself to be swallowed up by the hot water and imagined that she was inside a womb. That was a recurring thought, and no doubt had some significance.
She felt her waist and hips, and had the impression that she was not putting on weight. A hundred and twenty pounds. She’d run five miles, the last one pretty quickly. It was true some experts maintained that the most efficient speed for burning up calories was sixty percent of maximum, but what the hell! Surely you would lose a few extra ounces if you really stretched yourself.
That’s enough vanity for now. She rested her head on the edge of the bath and let her tiredness grow and spread all over her body. I’m thirty-one, she thought. I’m a thirty-one-year-old female cop. Without a husband. Without children. Without a family, a house, a boat . . .
That was also a recurring thought. She wasn’t too worried about a house or a boat. She could also imagine getting by without a husband, for the time being, at least. But children were another matter. A very different matter.
She was living in a different world, in fact. Perhaps it was to get away from that feeling that she liked to fantasize about lying in a womb. Who knows? Of the seven or eight best friends she’d had since she was a teenager, at least five or six of them had masses of children by this time; she was aware of that. Husbands and boats as well, for that matter. Still, thank God, she wasn’t still living in Friesen; that had been a necessary condition, of course. She’d never have been able to survive if she’d had to put up with all that went with living there wherever she turned. Her independent and liberated life would have shriveled away like a . . . like a used condom if she’d been forced to have everybody and everything weighing down on her all the time. With her parents and childhood misdemeanors and the follies of youth like a caste mark on her forehead. Like a contents list writ large that she could never detach herself from! Hell, no, she thought.
But there again, sooner or later she would have to give birth to that child; sooner or later she’d have to toe the line of accepted lifestyles. She’d known that for some years now, but every time she celebrated her birthday, at the beginning of January, she would give herself just one more year. A twelve-month moratorium, she would think. One more round. That wasn’t a bad birthday present, and it would no doubt be on her wish list one more year, at least . . .
She groped for the soap and found it, then changed the subject. This was certainly not the time to start thinking about a husband and children. Besides, the reality probably was that only a policeman would consider marrying a policewoman, so the choice was a bit limited. Bang, Mooser, Kropke . . . perish the thought! She started soaping her breasts . . . still firm and bouncy; another recurrent thought was that one of these days she would start to dislike her breasts—the whole of her body, come to that. But naturally, that was a trauma she shared with all women. A fact of life, presumably, and one that had to be accepted . . . Anyway, both Kropke and Mooser were married already. Thank goodness for that.
But it was none of them she wanted to think about tonight. Why should she? The person she was going to devote her attention to for the next few hours was not a police officer at all. On the contrary. It was that other man . . .
The Axman. Him and nobody else.
He’s the one I want.
She smiled at the thought. Smiled and switched on the light with a haste that seemed to her a little sudden.
She had done no more than sit down at her desk when the telephone rang. Beside her was a cup of Russian tea, and the only light in the room formed a small oval in which her notebooks basked.
Her mother, of course. Ah, well, might as well get that call over with now rather than being interrupted later.
Would Beate be coming home this Sunday? That was what she wanted to know. Dad would be so pleased. He’d been depressed all week and the doctors had said that . . . but that was something they could come back to, perhaps. What was she doing? Working! Surely she didn’t have to get involved in that awful murder business; that was a man’s job, surely? Hadn’t they got any men in the Kaalbringen police force? What kind of a place was it?
Ten minutes later the call was over, and her bad conscience was gnawing at her like an aching tooth. She was looking out the window, watching the last stages of the sunset as it spread its symbolic light over the whole sky, and made up her mind to go home for a few hours on Sunday evening after all. Perhaps she could spend the night there and take the first train back on Monday morning . . . yes, she had no alternative, of course.
She unplugged the telephone. Just in case. After
all, it wasn’t impossible that Janos might ring, and she had no desire at all to sacrifice a whole evening to that particular bit of bad conscience . . . not for a while yet, at least.
The Axman.
She opened the two notepads and placed them side by side. Started to study the one on the left.
Heinz Eggers, it said at the top, underscored with a double line.
Born April 23, 1961, in Selstadt.
Died June 28, 1993, in Kaalbringen.
That was indisputable, of course. Below came a long series of notes. Parents and siblings. School education. Various addresses. A list of women’s names. A number of dates marking when Eggers had entered or left various penal institutions, mainly prisons, dates of convictions and sentences . . .
Two children with different women. The first, a girl, born in Wodz, August 2, 1985. The mother, one Kristine Lauger. The second, a boy, born on December 23, the day before Christmas Eve she had noted earlier, 1991—so he was not yet two. Mother’s name Matilde Fuchs, address and place of domicile unknown. She devoted a few seconds’ thought to this woman, musing on how she appeared to have achieved what Beate herself was striving for. A child without a father—there again, was that really what she was striving for? Besides, Fuchs could just as well be a junkie and a whore who had long since given the unwanted boy away to some other, more suitable guardians. Yes, that was a far more likely hypothesis.
Well? How far had she got with her meditations last night? An important question, no doubt . . . She turned a few pages. There!
What had Heinz Eggers been doing in that courtyard? That was the crux of the matter! Why, to be more precise, was this social outcast, this dropout, in the courtyard at 24 Burgislaan at one o’clock in the morning (or even later) on June 28, 1993?
She knew that was a good question, and even if it was not yet possible to give a definitive answer, she could draw a few conclusions, of course, without exceeding the limits of logic and without sinking into a morass of speculation. Anybody could do that.
First, even if Eggers was a confirmed drug user, one could assume that he was capable of a certain amount of rational thought—there was not a lot of poison in his veins that night; he had died more or less clean and sober (which one might hope, as a good Christian, would stand him in good stead when they started to assess his earthly life on the other side). In any case, Eggers could not possibly have just happened to be at Burgislaan. He must have gone there for some reason. In the middle of the night. On June 28. Alone.
She took a sip of tea.
Second, none of the shady characters Eggers mixed with—and she had questioned all of them very carefully—had the slightest idea what it was all about, not even his so-called girlfriend, who was evidently sleeping like a log on the night in question after spending the previous day or days drinking vast amounts of wine. When she and Kropke had pressed them even harder, insisted that they make an informed guess, all they could come up with was that Heinz must have had a tip-off. A hint. Information that somebody had something to sell . . . some goods. Drugs of some sort . . . heroin or amphetamines or even hash. Could be anything. Heinz took the lot. And what he couldn’t stuff into himself, he would sell to little kids.
Third, ergo, conclusion: The Axman had arranged to meet him. Eggers was the intended victim and nobody else. The deed was carefully planned and prepared. No room for madmen or lunatics and similar epithets that certain people were throwing around. The only possible category of crime was first-degree murder! Not something done on the spur of the moment, no extenuating circumstances, no junkie who happened to hit another one on the head.
First degree. Not a shadow of a doubt about that, or about what kind of a person the Axman was—a meticulous, very self-assured criminal who was absolutely clear about what he was doing. Who didn’t appear to leave anything to chance, and who . . .
Fourth, who had a motive!
She leaned back in her chair and took a deep drink of tea.
A very single-minded murderer.
She moved on to the other notebook.
Ernst Leopold Simmel.
Not so much data here. Only a few pages. She simply hadn’t had the strength to note down the abundance of information Kropke had fished out from such sources as local council records and national registers and company registrations, bankruptcies, shell company dealings, commissions, tax returns, business trips and God only knows what else. She glanced quickly through what she had written, then concentrated on the questions at the end, the ones she’d scribbled down last night before going to bed. The trick was to ask the right questions, as old Wundermaas, her favorite at the police college in Genschen, never ceased to stress. Keep rephrasing them! he used to growl impatiently as he pinned you down with his piercing eyes. The answers can be harder to find than needles in a haystack! So make sure that you’re rummaging in the right haystack, at least!
Well, what were the questions to ask about Simmel? The right ones? She took another sip of tea and started thinking.
What was he doing when he went out last Tuesday evening? She knew that.
Why did he go via Fisherman’s Square? They could be pretty sure of that.
Why did he take the path through the municipal woods? That was obvious.
When did the Axman begin following him? A good starting point, perhaps? What about the answers?
From near The Blue Ship? In all probability, yes. He must then have followed him all the way through town, more or less. Yes, what else could he have done?
What does that imply?
She raised her head and looked through the window. The town was stretched out before her. She switched off her desk lamp and suddenly Kaalbringen was illuminated, lit up by myriad lamps that come into their own when night falls. The main thoroughfares and features were clearly marked—Bungeskirke, Hoistraat, Grande Place, the town hall, the tower blocks out at Dünningen . . . The Fisherman’s Friend. Yes, that must be the restaurant hanging up there on the edge of the cliff; she hadn’t thought of that before. He’d walked past all that; the murderer had walked all the way from The Blue Ship with his victim only a few yards ahead, and there must . . .
There must be witnesses.
That was as obvious as can be. People simply must have seen the Axman as he skulked in the shadow of the walls along Langvej and Hoistraat, as he scampered down the steps, as he sneaked across Fisherman’s Square . . . There’s no other possibility. Whoever he is, he’s not invisible. What does that indicate?
Just as obvious was that tomorrow they would open up their doors, and that famous detective the general public would come teeming into the police station; and sooner or later somebody—possibly several people—would turn up and prove to have seen him. They didn’t know it was him, obviously; but nevertheless, they’d seen him and now they were reporting that fact. They’d seen him full in the face, they had even said hello to him!
That was the way it was. She put the light on again. In a few days they’d have the name of the Axman hidden away among the mass of completely irrelevant information; and nobody would know which one it was, and there’d be no way of separating the wheat from the chaff. Or would it be worth sifting through it all? Would anybody regard it as being worth the trouble? Kropke, perhaps.
Shit! she thought. Just the job for Kropke. If that’s how it’s going to turn out, we might as well acknowledge defeat in advance.
But surely there must be some shortcuts? Cribs? Some way of cutting through the mass of irrelevant data? There must be. So what was the question she could write on the next page with quadruple underscoring?
It was already there.
“Connection???” it said. She stared at it for a while. Then she drew a triangle. Wrote the names Eggers and Simmel in two of the corners. Hesitated for a moment before putting Axman in the third. Contemplated her handiwork.
What on earth am I doing? she thought. What kind of rubbish is this? What childish drivel!
Nevertheless, the drawing certainly looked
plausible. If only I had a computer, she thought, I’d simply feed Simmel into one end and Eggers into the other. The patterns that came up on the screen would sooner or later highlight a point, or produce a bundle of lines that indicated something that made sense. A single name would emerge from the chaos or whatever the mathematical term was, and it would be the name of the Axman. It would be as easy as that!
Oh, come on, thought Beate Moerk. I’m losing my grip! If there’s one thing in this world that I don’t understand, it’s computers.
She closed her notebooks and saw from the clock that it was too late for that Italian film on the TV that she hadn’t really intended watching anyway. No, she was not one for the quantitative approach. Not for her the tedious search through haystack after haystack; Kropke could get on with that, with the help of Mooser and Bang. She had better things to do.
She looked up again, just in time to see the moon glide into the rectangle formed by her window. Full and round . . . Juno! It was a sign, no doubt about it. There were other criteria to be applied to this case. Different assumptions. Intuition! Woman! None of this confounded left side of the brain! Yin, not yang! She sat smiling at the moon. I’m an idiot, she thought. A damn fool! Time to go to bed. Yes, no doubt about it. Lucky that nobody else knows how I’m using my brain. Or rather, abusing it!
She stood up and went into the hall. She slid out of her dressing gown and examined herself in the mirror. Hmm, not too bad, she thought. Could easily be twenty-five, twenty-six, or thereabouts. A pity there isn’t a man waiting for me in my bed.
But she certainly didn’t want him there tomorrow morning as well!
And when she started to doze off a quarter of an hour later, all that drifted into her subconscious through the darkness were the imaginary images of the murderer. Insofar as there are any imaginary images . . .
The Axman?
Could they even be sure that it was a man?
That question registered just as she abandoned her final foothold and submitted to the boundless embrace of slumber. There was no time to consider whether or not Wundermaas would have assigned her to one of the potentially fruitful haystacks.