Borkmann's Point

by Håkan Nesser

  BAUSEN: Tell us how you did it.

  WOLLNER: I killed them with my ax.

  BAUSEN: What kind of ax was it?

  WOLLNER: I’ve had it for several years. A butcher’s tool, I think.

  BAUSEN: Can you describe it?

  WOLLNER: Sharp. Quite light. The blade went in very easily.

  BAUSEN: Where did you get hold of it?

  WOLLNER: Bought it when I was abroad four or five years ago.

  BAUSEN: Where?

  WOLLNER: Italy. I can’t remember what the town was called.

  BAUSEN: Why did you murder Eggers, Simmel and Rühme?

  No Reply.

  KROPKE: Why don’t you answer the question?

  No Reply.

  BAUSEN: Can you give us more details of how you went about it?

  WOLLNER: Which one?

  BAUSEN: Maurice Rühme, for instance.

  WOLLNER: I rang the bell and he opened the door . . . I killed him.

  MOERK: Why?

  WOLLNER: That’s why I went there.

  BAUSEN: Describe exactly what you did.

  WOLLNER: I said I’d hurt my back. Dropped my watch on the floor. As I couldn’t bend down to pick it up, the doctor did it for me . . . I hit him with the ax on the back of his head.

  KROPKE: Were you acquainted with Dr. Rühme?

  WOLLNER: I was a patient of his.

  MOERK: Did he know you were coming?

  WOLLNER: Yes.

  MOERK: Are you saying that he received patients at his home at that time of night?

  WOLLNER: I had to push.

  BAUSEN: What was Rühme wearing?

  WOLLNER: Polo shirt . . . grayish-green. Black trousers, dark-colored socks . . .

  BAUSEN: What time was it?

  WOLLNER: About eleven.

  KROPKE: What was Ernst Simmel wearing when you killed him?

  WOLLNER: White shirt and tie. Jacket and trousers. Brown shoes, I think. It was dark.

  BAUSEN: That’s right, dammit . . . What do you think, Moerk?

  MOERK: I find it difficult to believe you, Mr. Wollner. Why did you do it?

  WOLLNER: I’m prepared to take my punishment.

  Pause. Short break in the tape.

  BAUSEN: You claim that you killed three people, Mr. Wollner. Now you’d damn well better tell me why! We have better things to do than sit here listening to self-punishing types who crave a little attention.

  MOERK: But . . .

  WOLLNER: I killed them because they were evil people.

  BAUSEN: Evil?

  WOLLNER: Evil people.

  BAUSEN: Was that the only reason?

  WOLLNER: It’s reason enough.

  KROPKE: Why those particular three?

  No answer.

  BAUSEN: What were you wearing that evening when you killed Ernst Simmel?

  WOLLNER: What was I wearing?

  BAUSEN: Yes. How were you dressed?

  WOLLNER: I can’t really remember . . . Hat and coat, I think.

  MOERK: And when you killed Rühme?

  WOLLNER: Tracksuit.

  BAUSEN: Why did you leave the ax in Dr. Rühme’s body?

  WOLLNER: He was the last.

  BAUSEN: The last? Aren’t there any more evil people?

  WOLLNER: Not as far as I’m concerned. I’m prepared to take my punishment.

  BAUSEN: You’re not thinking of murdering anybody else?

  WOLLNER: No.

  KROPKE: Why have you come here today of all days?

  WOLLNER: I was forced.

  BAUSEN: Forced? What is your job, Mr. Wollner?

  WOLLNER: I’m a janitor.

  MOERK: Where?

  WOLLNER: At The Light of Life.

  KROPKE: The church, do you mean?

  WOLLNER: Yes.

  Pause. Whispers and the scraping of chairs.

  BAUSEN: Is there anybody who instructed you to commit these murders, Mr. Wollner?

  WOLLNER: I have a mission.

  BAUSEN: Given to you by whom?

  No answer.

  MOERK: God, perhaps?

  WOLLNER: Yes.

  Silence.

  BAUSEN: We’ll take a break here. Mooser, get rid of this bastard and lock him up again. We’ll erase this tape later.

  “Well,” said Bausen. “What do you think?”

  “As mad as a hatter,” said Kropke.

  “He’s lying,” said Moerk.

  “What about the details, though?” said Kropke. “How could he know so many details?”

  Beate Moerk shrugged.

  “The media, presumably . . .”

  “Have the papers printed anything about the clothes?” wondered Mooser.

  “Dunno. We’ll have to check. But they’ve certainly printed quite a lot.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if it turned out to be him,” said Kropke. “The Light of Life crowd are as weird as they come.”

  “No doubt,” said Bausen. “But how weird? They’re not in the habit of wandering around killing people, are they?”

  “Where are our guests today?” wondered Kropke, trying to look knowing.

  “DCI Van Veeteren is questioning some relative or other of Rühme’s, I think,” said Bausen. “No doubt Münster will turn up soon.”

  Beate Moerk coughed.

  “I’ll wager fifty guilders not a word’s been published about the clothes,” said Kropke.

  “Why do you think I asked him,” snorted Bausen.

  “A religious lunatic,” mumbled Beate Moerk. “No, I don’t believe it. Anyway, isn’t it usual for loonies like this to turn up? Confessing to anything and everything?”

  “I assume so,” said Bausen. “We’ll have to ask our experts, when they eventually appear.”

  “Good morning,” said Münster, walking in through the door. “Has anything happened?”

  “Nothing much,” said Beate Moerk. “We have an Axman locked up in a cell, that’s all.”

  “It’s not him,” said Van Veeteren two hours later. “Let him go or send him to the loony bin. But present him with a bill for wasting police time as well.”

  “How can you be so certain?” asked Kropke.

  “I’ve been around for a while,” said Van Veeteren. “You get to know these things. But go ahead and grill him if you need some practice. What does the chief of police think?”

  “I agree with you, I suppose,” said Bausen. “But I’m not a hundred percent convinced . . .”

  “He seems to know too many details,” said Moerk. “How can he know what Rühme was wearing?”

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  “I don’t know. There are lots of possible explanations.”

  “What, for example?” asked Kropke.

  “Well, the usual tendency to talk accounts for a lot. Miss Linckx might have been gossiping to somebody, for instance.”

  “Doubtful,” muttered Kropke. “I still think we should look into this a bit more closely first. We’ve been on this case for several months now, and when a suspect eventually turns up, I don’t think we should dismiss him out of hand.”

  “Do what you like,” said Van Veeteren. “I have other more important things to do, in any case.”

  “OK, OK,” said Bausen. “We’ll give him another grilling then.”

  “Hi!” said Bang. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was an interrogation in progress. Hi, PM!”

  “Hello,” said Wollner.

  “What the hell?” groaned Kropke.

  “Are you two acquainted?” asked Bausen.

  “Depends,” said Bang. “Neighbors, that’s all. What’s he doing here?”

  Wollner stared at the floor.

  “Bang,” said Bausen, trying to retain control of his voice. “Don’t tell us that you’ve been discussing your work with this, er, gentleman in the recent past?”

  Constable Bang shuffled awkwardly and started to look worried.

  “Do you mean about the Axman?”

  “Yes, I mean the Axman,” s
aid Bausen.

  “I suppose I might have,” said Bang. “Does it matter?”

  “You could say that,” said Bausen.

  “Fucking idiot,” said Kropke.

  “Ah, well,” said Bausen. “He cost us the best part of a day. I apologize for not trusting your judgment.”

  “Best never to trust anybody’s judgment,” said Van Veeteren.

  “One day here and there doesn’t make much difference,” said Kropke. “That’s what we’re always doing anyway—wasting time.”

  “Do you have anything constructive to suggest?” wondered Bausen.

  Kropke didn’t respond.

  “What time is it?” asked Mooser.

  “Nearly four,” said Bausen. “Perhaps it’s time to wind up today. Or does anybody have any ideas?”

  Van Veeteren snapped a toothpick. Mooser scratched the back of his neck. Münster stared up at the ceiling. What a shithouse of an investigation! he thought. I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my life. I’ll never see Synn and the kids again. I might as well resign on the spot. I’ll drive back home tonight, and that’s that.

  Inspector Moerk entered the room with a bundle of papers in her hand.

  “What’s this? A wake?” she asked. “It’s come.”

  “What has?” asked Kropke.

  “The report from Aarlach. What’s his name? Melnik? A solid bit of work, by the look of it—thirty-five pages.”

  “Is that all?” wondered Van Veeteren.

  “Let me have a look,” said Bausen, taking hold of the documents. He leafed through them.

  “Well, it’s a chance, I suppose,” he muttered. “I think we can regard this as our homework. I’ll copy it, and then we can all read it before tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Good,” said Van Veeteren.

  “You mean we’re going to work this Saturday as well?” wondered Mooser.

  “We’ll go through it tomorrow morning,” Bausen decided. “Everybody who finds an Axman gets a medal. You’ll all get a copy within the half hour.”

  “Does that include me?” asked Mooser.

  “Of course,” said Bausen. “We’re all in the same club here.”

  “What club is that?” asked Mooser.

  “The headless chickens’ alliance,” said Bausen.

  29

  “I think I need a walk,” said Van Veeteren as they left the sports hall. “Can you take my bag back to the hotel?”

  “Of course,” said Münster. “What do you think of the Melnik report?”

  “Nothing until I’ve read it,” said Van Veeteren. “If you buy me a beer in the bar tonight, we can talk about it then—a nightcap at about eleven, is that a deal?”

  “Maybe,” said Münster.

  “A warm wind,” said Van Veeteren, sniffing the air. “Even though it’s coming from the north. Unusual . . . nature’s out of joint somewhere. I think I’ll stroll along the beach.”

  “See you later,” said Münster, scrambling into the car.

  In the foyer he bumped into Cruickshank, who was on his way to the bar with a few evening papers under his arm. The other reporters had disappeared some days ago; only Cruickshank was still around, for some reason.

  “Good evening. Anything new?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Why do they keep you here day after day?” he asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve written anything for a week now.”

  “It’s at my own request,” said Cruickshank. “Things are a bit nasty on the home front.”

  “Really?” said Münster.

  “My wife won’t have me in the house. Can’t say I blame her either, although it’s not very stimulating hanging around this dump day in, day out. I’m trying to write a series of articles about refugees, but that’s mainly to prevent me from going up the wall.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Münster.

  “What about you?” asked Cruickshank. “I don’t suppose you’re having a fun time either?”

  Münster thought for a moment before replying.

  “No. I wouldn’t say fun was the word.”

  Cruickshank sighed and shrugged.

  “I thought I’d sit in the bar for a while. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Thanks,” said Münster. “I have some reading to do first, later on perhaps.”

  Cruickshank slapped him on the back and headed for the bar. There was a distinct whiff of brandy, Münster noticed as he walked past. A necessity for survival, no doubt. He went to reception and collected his key.

  “Just a minute,” said the girl, reaching down behind the counter. “There’s a message for you as well.”

  She handed him a white envelope that he slipped into his pocket. When he got to his room, he slit it open with a pen and read the contents:

  Hi!

  I’ve just been reading through the Aarlach report. Something struck me.

  Pretty bizarre, but I need to check it out.

  I’ll be at home when I’ve finished jogging at about eight. Ring me then.

  Love,

  B.

  He checked his watch. Twenty past seven. Could there really be something in the report? he wondered, fingering the pile of pages on his bedside table. That would be a blessing worth praying for.

  I’d better get reading, in any case. But first a call to Synn.

  Van Veeteren continued along the Esplanade and past the west pier before going down to the sands. Twilight had started to fall, but there was probably another hour of light left; growing weaker, it was true, but good enough for him to keep his bearings, he thought. The warm wind was even more noticeable down on the beach, and he considered for a moment taking his shoes off and strolling barefoot through the sand—the warm sand next to the wall. But he decided against it. The sea seemed apathetic, as it had done during the weeks he’d spent in the cottage; the waves were choppy but uninterested, devoid of life . . .

  We’ve had enough of each other, the sea and I, he thought, and he became conscious of a mood he recognized from his childhood summers. When he longed to be back at home, longed to be inland, as he used to put it in those days. When he dreamed of eternity shrinking, so that he could overview it. He wanted to put a frame around everything that was timeless and infinite and seemed to grow and grow under the skies along the coast . . .

  Was that what he was feeling now as well?

  Was the bottom line that it was more difficult to handle things by the sea? Did this endless gray mirror make everything incomprehensible and impossible to master? Make this case so totally hopeless? Reinhart claimed that it was in this very place—where land, sea and sky come together—that everything acquired its true weight and significance.

  Its name and attributes.

  Hard to say. Perhaps it was just the opposite. In any case, he was aware that thoughts and ideas drifted and became blurred. When he gazed straight ahead along the slightly curved coastline, which eventually melted into a darkening haze way beyond the west pier, it seemed more difficult than ever to concentrate and focus on something specific. As if everything were being sucked up, vanishing into eternity and the timeless darkness. Yes, Reinhart was wrong, no doubt about it. It was a hindrance, this damn sea.

  On the other hand, it did increase one’s sensitiveness, it had to be admitted. The process was open in both directions . . . no deadlocks to check either impulses or conclusions. Input and output. It was a matter of retaining perceptions and impressions long enough for him to be able to register them, at least for a moment.

  What about the case? The Axman? What were the perceptions that had blown in with the warm winds?

  The wind was back to front. Something was wrong. He’d had that feeling for quite a while, and it was even more noticeable out here on the silent, firm sand. When he thought back, he realized that something had come up during his conversation with Beatrice Linckx. He couldn’t quite remember what it was, hadn’t known at the time either—an expression she’d used, something she’d said in passing, poss
ibly the inherent relationship between the words themselves. An unusual combination. That had been enough, and he had sensed something.

  Something that Bausen had said during their latest game of chess as well—the chief of police had moved a pawn and created an advantage for himself, despite the fact that it was precisely the move that Van Veeteren had foreseen and wanted him to make.

  He’d lit his pipe and said something.

  That was unclear as well. Highly unclear—a sudden whiff of something that had dispersed and disappeared just as quickly as it had come, but had nevertheless left a trace in his memory.

  Good grief! he thought, and spat out a chewed-up toothpick. What kind of garbled thinking was this? What precision! This must be how it feels when Alzheimer’s disease becomes full-blown.

  But on the other hand—he was now building lightning-fast bridges between the extremes—the most significant sign of senile dementia was not that you lost your memory. On the contrary! The portals of memory were open wide and allowed everything to enter. No filtering. Everything.

  Like the sea. Like the waves. And so it was a matter of choosing. Everything or nothing.

  Who was it, then? Who was the Axman? How much longer would he have to hang around this godforsaken place before he could finally put the handcuffs on this damn games player. What was the combination of words that Beatrice Linckx had let slip? What had Bausen said?

  And Laurids Reisin? Sitting at home somewhere weighing the assurance his wife had passed on from the police. Was that anything to rely on? What had he promised? Six to eight days? When was that? Had he already overstepped that limit, in fact?

  No doubt. Van Veeteren sighed.

  A jogger, a woman in a red tracksuit, suddenly jumped down from the Esplanade about twenty yards ahead of him. Her dark hair was tied up with a ribbon the same shade as her jacket. She continued to the water’s edge, to the firm sand, then turned westward, and after only a few seconds, the distance between them had doubled. There was something very familiar about her, and it took him a few moments to work out who it was.

  Inspector Moerk, of course!

  What had Bausen said about her that first day, at the police station?

  Beauty and intuition? Something like that; in any case, whatever it was, he agreed with it wholeheartedly.

  He sighed and put his hands in his pockets. Felt the pack of cigarettes, and argued with himself for a while. Oh, all right, he decided, and by the time he had lit a cigarette, Beate Moerk had vanished into the darkness.