Borkmann's Point (11 page)

“The witness,” said Bausen. “Let’s examine Mr. Moen’s evidence a little more closely. It’s crucial that we don’t mess things
up here.”

“Absolutely,” said Van Veeteren.
“We’ve spoken to him, both Inspector Moerk and I,” said
Bausen, “with somewhat different outcomes, I suppose you
could say. Anyway, his name is Alexander Moen, and he lives in
the apartment above Rühme and Linckx. He claims he noticed
somebody coming in the front door of the apartment block
shortly before eleven on Wednesday evening, and then saw the
same person hurrying out again some fifteen minutes later.
For the whole of that time, Moen was sitting at the table in his
kitchen, looking out over Leisner Park and the avenue waiting
for and then listening to the eleven o’clock news on the radio.”
“There’s no reason to doubt that,” said Beate Moerk. “It’s
part of his evening ritual to sit there listening. He’s been doing
it for the last thirty years, it seems.”
“There wasn’t an eleven o’clock news until 1972,” maintained Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren. “Anyway, I don’t think it matters much. Can we get his description of this man? That’s the
interesting bit, of course. Bausen first.”
“OK, I talked to him that same night,” said Bausen. “He
awoke for the same reason as all the other tenants, hmm—” He
glanced at Bang, who was still busy with the Danish pastries.
“—and evidently couldn’t get back to sleep. Stood there on
the stairs in his slippers and dressing gown at three-thirty in the
morning, and was keen to give evidence.”
“He’s ninety-four years old,” said Beate Moerk, to put Münster in the picture.
“Anyway,” said Bausen, “he claimed that he’d seen a man
enter the building from the direction of the park—”
“Door lock?” asked Münster.
“Hasn’t been working for several days,” said Kropke.
“—and go in through the front door. He was wearing some
kind of tracksuit, dark with lighter markings. Tall and thin and
carrying a parcel, or a bundle—well, he eventually decided that
it was a bundle. He didn’t see anything of the man’s face
because it was in the shadows all the time, but he thinks he had
a beard—and quite long hair. Anyway, a quarter of an hour
passed, or thereabouts, and then the man came out again and
hurried into the park. That was more or less all, but it took
more than half an hour to extract it.”
“The bundle?” asked Kropke. “Was he still carrying the
bundle when he came out again?”
“Moen doesn’t remember that. He was uncertain about
practically every detail, and to start with, he wasn’t even sure
of the day; but when we were able to link it up with what had
been said on the news, we eventually concluded that it must
have been that Wednesday night. The question is: Was it the
murderer he saw? I have to say that I’m very doubtful.”
“Even if it was the Axman,” said Van Veeteren, “what he
had to say might not be all that helpful. Inspector Moerk?”
“Well,” said Beate Moerk, sucking at her pencil. “I don’t
know. I spoke to him this morning. I had the impression that
he was a bit absentminded, but when we came to the point, he
seemed to be clearer. Isn’t that the way it usually is? They’re
generally more sure of the details than they are of the whole
picture, as it were. My father’s in the early stages of dementia,
so I have some idea about how it works.”
“OK,” said Kropke. “What did he have to say?”
“The same as he told the chief inspector to start with,” said
Beate Moerk. “Same times, same bundle—it’s just the description that was different.”
“What did he tell you, then?” asked Mooser.
“That it was quite a short, sturdy person—powerful, rather.
He sticks to the bit about the tracksuit, but he says he didn’t see
the man’s hair because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes.”
“Did you remind him about what he’d said earlier?” asked
Kropke.
“Yes, but he couldn’t really remember what he’d said. It was
in the middle of the night, and he was tired. I suspect the chief
inspector is right: We’re not going to get much useful information out of this gentleman.”
“Which doesn’t prevent us from keeping a weather eye
open for joggers, whether or not they’re carrying a bundle,”
said Van Veeteren. “It’s as long as it is short. Incidentally,
Meuritz hasn’t yet established the time of death. We shall see if
he died during the eleven o’clock news or not. In Simmel’s
case, he could pinpoint the time to the exact minute; don’t forget that!”
He broke the toothpick in two and gazed meaningfully at
Bausen’s pack of cigarettes.
“Well, that’s it,” said Bausen. “Any ideas? You can say whatever you like. We’ll go through the strategy after lunch, but
right now, anything goes. Well, what do you think?”
Bang belched. Kropke glowered at him, leaving no doubt as
to what would happen to him once Bausen was no longer in
charge, assuming that Kropke would be the one who took
over, that is. Van Veeteren leaned back in his chair until it
creaked. Münster sighed.
“At least one thing’s obvious,” said Beate Moerk eventually.
“Regarding the motive, that is. Maurice Rühme is the Axman’s
third victim, and he’s the third one who moved to Kaalbringen
this year. Don’t try to tell me this isn’t significant.”
It had started quite promisingly, in fact, but after ten minutes it
was the same old story. The DCI’s 5–1 lead was transformed via
6–6 and 7–10 to the usual and satisfying score of 9–15. In subsequent sets, Münster’s greater mobility and better precision
reaped their reward. His short, angled strokes interspersed
with long, high lobs were triumphant as always. It was the
same old story, and perhaps Van Veeteren was not in peak condition after the last few days’ cigarettes and wine. In any case,
after 6–15, 8–15 and 5–15, he’d had enough; and they handed
possession of the court over to two young men who had spent
the last few minutes watching them with a degree of scorn.
“The light is poor in this hall,” muttered Van Veeteren, and
they ambled back to the changing rooms.
“Very,” said Münster.
“Not much of a floor either. Easy to slip.”
“Exactly,” said Münster.
“Hard to play with borrowed rackets as well.”
“Hopeless.”
“But we’ll have another joust the day after tomorrow even
so,” Van Veeteren decided. “We need to keep in training if
we’re to solve this case.”
“You could be right,” said Münster.
The dining room at The See Warf was practically empty
when they sat down at a window table. Only Cruickshank and
Müller were adorning a table not far away, accompanied by a
man and a woman from TV6. Van Veeteren had spoken to all
four of them at the press conference a few hours previously,
and none of them showed any sign of wanting to disturb their
dinner.
“Nobody seems to be venturing outdoors anymore in this
town,” said Van Veeteren, looking around him. “People are a
bit illogical. This last time, he actually struck in somebody’s
home—Rühme’s, that is.”
Münster agreed.
“I’ve started to believe it’s a pretty weird business, this thing
we’re mixed up in,” said Van Veeteren, helping himself to
salad. “They do excellent fish here, by the way, especially the
turbot, if you are inclined that way.”
“How do you mean, weird?” asked Münster politely.
“God knows,” said Van Veeteren, chewing away. “Just a
feeling—but I generally have my hunches.”
Münster leaned closer to the windowpane in order to see
through the reflections. The sea looked dark and choppy out
there. The weather had changed during the morning; banks of
cloud came scuttling in from the northwest in rapid succession
and one shower had followed hard on the heels of another all
day. The boats in the marina were tossing about in the high
waves, and Münster suddenly felt tuned to the raging of the
elements, Nature’s own protest at the deeds and sayings of
mankind—murderers roaming around unrestrained and all
that crap.
Or was it his relationship with Synn? He still hadn’t been in
touch with her and was starting to be annoyed by the DCI’s
smug musings. Still, he had a fair amount of experience, and
this is how things usually went—and he hoped that everything
would be back to normal when he could get through to her. It
seemed selfish, to say the least, sitting here and fretting about
his private life while people were expecting him to do all he
could to set traps for the Executioner, or the Mad Axman, or
whatever name happened to be in vogue at the moment.
“I can’t work out what his motive is,” said Van Veeteren.
“He must have a hell of a good reason for going out there and
cutting three people’s heads off.”
“You don’t believe it’s a madman, then?”
“Not for a minute,” said Van Veeteren. “On the contrary, I
think we’re looking at some very carefully planned acts. His
intention has been to kill these three men—Eggers, Simmel
and Rühme—and that’s what he’s done. We won’t nail him
unless we can find the motive, Münster. The motive!”
“And there aren’t any more names on his list?”
Van Veeteren took a sip of beer and gazed out to sea.
“God knows,” he said again. “We must sit down and take a
good look at this, Münster. There are several different possibilities, and I want us to make up our minds what our priorities are going to be.”
“What possibilities?” asked Münster, as was no doubt the
intention.
“Well,” said Van Veeteren, “off the top of my head I can
only think of two. The first is, of course, that there is a clear
and distinct link between the victims, that he’s had an allimportant reason for murdering these three particular individuals. As yet, we don’t know what that link is, but it could very
well be that as soon as we do, everything will fall into place.
We’ll have him in a little box.”
Münster nodded.
“Moerk’s idea?” he said.
“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s the only one we’ve
discovered so far. All three of them arrived in Kaalbringen this
year, that much is certain. It could be a coincidence, of course,
but I don’t think so. There’s an opening here, but where the
hell does it get us?”
“Not very far,” said Münster.
“No,” sighed Van Veeteren. “We need something more.
Although it may be that they’ve nothing more in common
than the link with the murderer. Obviously, you’d expect the
local police to find out what the connection is before we do,
but if this is all there is, well... that means—”
“—that we’ll see everything as clear as day as soon as we
find him,” interrupted Münster. “But not until then.”
“Not a damn thing until then,” said Van Veeteren. “Would
you like dessert, or just coffee?”
“Just coffee,” said Münster.

“Just let things take their course, then,” said Münster, trying
not to sound impatient. “Sooner or later we’ll fall over something. Or else he’ll strike again. How many new arrivals are
there, by the way? He might be after all of them.”

“About fifty this year, Bausen says. But let’s hope the motive
is a bit more specific than that. I think we should cross our fingers and hope the press doesn’t latch on to Moerk’s thesis. It
could be a bit awkward, providing police protection for all
incomers; we’ve got enough panic as it is. No, let’s solve this
like greased lightning, Münster; I think that would be best for
all concerned! I want to get home as soon as possible.”

Same here, thought Münster. He toyed with the idea of
suggesting a changing of the guard, that Reinhart and Rooth
should come and relieve them; but of course, that was not very
realistic. No, it would doubtless be best to consider themselves
citizens of Kaalbringen for the immediate future, and if only
he could get a call though to Synn, as he’d already established,
he was sure he’d be able to put up with everything fate threw
at him.

“What’s the other possibility?” he remembered to ask.
“Huh,” said Van Veeteren, scratching the back of his neck.
“That it’s all a bluff, pure and simple.
The ABC Murders
—have
you read it?”
Münster shook his head.
“The murderer launches a whole series of murders to camouflage the fact that there’s only one victim he has his sights
on. He kills them in alphabetical order, but it’s only the C murder that is significant—from his point of view, that is.”
“I see,” said Münster. “So Eggers and Simmel might be red
herrings, as it were? The victim who really counts is Rühme. A
bit far-fetched, I’d have thought.”
“It could be Eggers or Simmel as well—the main character,
that is—don’t forget that! That would be even more farfetched.”
“But would he keep going afterward? No, I think that’s psychologically impossible.”
“Not impossible,” said Van Veeteren. “Less credible, perhaps. The one who matters might also be number six, or number thirteen, although I’m inclined to think this isn’t an ABC
affair.”
“What is it, then?” Münster ventured to ask after a pause.
Van Veeteren stirred his coffee slowly with a toothpick.
“A murderer,” he said deliberately, “who is a perfectly normal citizen of this town, and who had a damn good reason to
kill Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Rühme. All of
them men, all of them recent arrivals.”
Great, thought Münster. So now we know.
“How many candidates are there?” he asked.
“I’ve done a few sums,” said Van Veeteren. “If we leave out
the women—”
“Can we do that?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren, “but we’ll do it all the same. And
the elderly, and children, which we’re not really permitted to
do either. Well, that leaves us with about fifteen thousand
people.”
“Excellent,” said Münster. “Can we ask all male citizens
between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five to turn up at the
station and produce an alibi?”
“Of course we can,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ve no doubt that
Kropke would be delighted to feed them all into his computer.
Should be ready by around Christmas, I would think.”
“A shortcut might not be a bad idea,” said Münster.
“That’s what we’re going to find,” said Van Veeteren, finishing off his coffee. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Really?” said Münster. “I was beginning to wonder...”

Veeteren as Münster reached for the door handle.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, even if this isn’t an ABC affair, it might be an idea to

off-load a couple of the murders. Concentrate on just one of
them, as if the others had never happened. That way you avoid
diluting your concentration. If we solve one, we no doubt
solve them all. Three flies with one thwack.”