Borkmann's Point (4 page)

They were all that constituted the material concerning the
Eggers case. He tipped them onto the bed and hesitated for a
moment. Then he rang reception and ordered a beer. He
tucked the folders under his arm and went to sit on the balcony.

It took him several minutes to adjust the parasol so that he
wasn’t troubled by the evening sun, but once he’d sorted that
out and the girl had brought his beer, he sat out there until he’d
read every single word.

The conclusion he drew was simple and straightforward,
and perhaps best expressed in Inspector Moerk’s words: “We
don’t know a damn thing.”

He wasn’t exactly looking forward to listening to the
recordings of all the interviews. In normal circumstances, if
he’d been on home ground, he would have had them typed out
as a matter of course; but as things were, it was no doubt best
to take the bull by the horns and put the earphones on. In any
case, he decided to postpone that chore until later, or even
tomorrow. Instead, he moved on to the next murder, as
depicted in the newspapers. He’d acquired four—two national
ones and two issues of a local rag, today’s and yesterday’s.

The national dailies had suitably large, fat headlines, but
the text was decidedly thin. They evidently hadn’t sent any
reporters to Kaalbringen yet. No doubt they would turn up at
the press conference. The man in charge of the case, Chief
Inspector Bausen, had issued a statement but had only revealed
the alleged fact that the police were following up several lines
of inquiry.
Oh, really? thought Van Veeteren.
The local rag was called
de Journaal,
and the coverage was

more substantial: pictures of Bausen, the place where the body
was discovered and the victim—albeit one from when he was
still alive. And a photograph of Eggers. The headline on the
front page said the axman strikes again. town terror
stricken, and on an inside page a couple of questions were
highlighted: “Who’ll be the next victim?” and “Are our police
up to it?”

He skimmed through the articles and read the obituary of
Ernst Simmel, who was something of a local stalwart and honorary citizen, it seemed—a member of the Rotary Club, a
director of the local football club and on the board of the bank.
He had held several offices previously, before moving to live in
Spain...no sooner is he back home than he’s brutally murdered.

De mortuis
. . . thought Van Veeteren, and threw the newspaper onto the floor. What the hell am I doing here?
He took off his shirt and padded into the bathroom. What
was the name of that restaurant?
The Blue Ship?

The assumption that representatives of the national press
would turn up proved to be well founded. As he walked
through the hotel foyer, two middle-aged gentlemen darted
out of the bar. Their ruddy complexions were a telltale indication of their trade, and Van Veeteren paused with a sigh.

Telegraaf
!”
“Müller from the
Allgemejne
!” announced the other. “I think
we’ve met—”
“My name’s Rölling,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m a traveling
salesman specializing in grandfather clocks. There must be
some mistake.”
“Ha ha,” said Müller.
“When can we have a chat?” asked Cruickshank.
“At the press conference in the police station at eleven
o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Van Veeteren, opening the
front door.
“Is it you or Bausen who’s in charge of the investigation?”
asked Müller.
“What investigation?” said Van Veeteren.

The main color used for the interior decoration of The Blue
Ship was red. The bar was no more than half full, and there
were plenty of empty tables in the dining room. Van Veeteren
was seated right at the back, with no near neighbors; but even
so, he hadn’t even started his main course before a thin gentleman with gleaming eyes and a nervous smile materialized in
front of him.

“Excuse me. Schalke from
de Journaal.
You’re that chief
inspector, aren’t you?”
Van Veeteren didn’t respond.
“I was the last person to speak to him. I’ve been interviewed by Bausen and Kropke, of course; but if you’d like a
chat, I’d be happy to oblige.”
He glanced down meaningfully at the empty chair opposite
the chief inspector.
“Could we meet in the bar when I’ve finished eating?” proposed Van Veeteren.
Schalke nodded and withdrew. Van Veeteren started to
work his way listlessly through something described cryptically on the menu as “Chef ’s Pride with Funghi and Mozzarella.” When he’d finished his meal and paid his bill, he still
had no idea what he’d been eating.

“He sat on the same chair as you’re on now,” said Schalke.
“Very much alive. One thing is certain. He had no idea he was
going to have his head chopped off. He acted exactly the same
as he always did.”

“And how was that?” asked Van Veeteren, sucking the froth
off his beer.
“How was that? Well...a bit distant and supercilious, to
tell you the truth. Not easy to talk to. He was always like that.
His mind was sort of... elsewhere.”
That doesn’t surprise me, thought Van Veeteren.
“He seemed to be trying to flirt a bit with one of the girls
sitting over there.”
He pointed.
“Flirt?”
“Well, maybe that’s exaggerating it. But he was giving her
the eye all right.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Are you saying that Ernst Simmel was a... philanderer?”
Schalke hesitated, but only for a second.
“Well, not quite that, I don’t think. I didn’t know him all
that well, and he’d been away for several years...kicked over
the traces now and then, I suppose, but nothing serious.”
“His marriage wasn’t all that serious either then, I assume,”
said Van Veeteren.
“No...You could put it like that, I suppose.”
“And he left here at about eleven?”
“A few minutes past.”
“Which way did he go?”
“That way.” Schalke pointed again. “Down toward the
square and the harbor.”
“Didn’t he live in the other direction?”
“You can go either way, in fact. It’s just that it’s a bit longer
via the harbor.”
“You didn’t see anybody follow him?”
“No.”
“Why do you think he took the longer route?”
“I don’t know. Women, perhaps.”
“Whores?”
“Yes...we have one or two. They usually hang about
down there.”
“Did you notice anybody else leave the bar after Simmel?”
“No...I’ve been thinking about that, but I don’t think anybody did.”
Van Veeteren sighed.
“What questions would you ask if you were in my place?”
Schalke considered.
“God knows! I haven’t a clue, to be honest.”
“You don’t have any theories about what happened?”
Schalke considered again. It was obvious that he would
have loved to come up with a bold hypothesis, but he gave up
after a while.
“No, none at all, to be honest,” he said. “It must be a madman, I reckon...Somebody who’s escaped from a funny
farm, maybe?”
Funny farm? thought Van Veeteren. A well-chosen expression for a scribbler to use, I must say.
“Bausen’s been following that up,” he said. “The only person who’s escaped is a confused old lady in her nineties. Has
Alzheimer’s and goes around in a wheelchair...”
“I don’t suppose it’s her then,” said Schalke.
Van Veeteren drained his beer and decided it was time to go
home. He hopped off his bar stool and thanked Schalke for his
assistance.
“Is it always as empty as this here?” he asked.
“Good Lord, no!” said Schalke. “It’s usually packed. I mean,
it’s Friday and all that...People are just scared stiff. They
daren’t go out!”
Scared stiff ? thought Van Veeteren as he stood on the pavement outside. Yes, of course they’re scared stiff.

It took him barely ten minutes to walk from The Blue Ship
to the harbor and The See Warf. Quite a few cars were around,
but he saw no more than a dozen or so pedestrians, all of them
in groups. The few bars and cafés that were open also seemed
to be fairly empty. The Palladium cinema had started its lateevening showing, but he had the impression that it was just as
empty in there. Even if the Kaalbringen nightlife was nothing
to write home about, the trend was clear enough.

The murderer... the executioner... the Axman left nobody unaffected.
Hardly surprising. He stood for a while outside his hotel
and wondered if he maybe ought to go to the municipal woods
and take a look but decided to wait. No doubt it would be better to do that in daylight.
There were a lot of other things to take care of tomorrow,
of course, but as he settled down in bed and switched on the
cassette player, it was Inspector Moerk’s words that were ringing in his ears.
Nothing. We don’t know a damn thing.
An attractive woman, incidentally, he thought. A pity I’m
not twenty-five years younger.
By the time he’d heard one and a half interviews, he was
sleeping like a log.
In his dreams the old images came back to haunt him again.
The same images. The same desperate inability to act, the
same sterile white-hot fury—Bitte in the corner by the sofa
with her arms covered in needle marks and eyes like black,
empty wells. The pimp, thin as a rake with jet-black, straggly
hair, eyeing him scornfully and sneering. Hands raised, palms
up, and shaking his head. And the other man—her face over
the shoulders of the naked man. A sweaty, hairy back, heavy
buttocks thrusting violently into her and pressing her up
against the wall, her legs wide apart and her eyes reflecting his
own, seeing what he sees... just for a second before he turns
on his heel and leaves.
The same images... and imposed upon them, penetrating
them, the image of the ten-year-old with blond plaits, roaring
with laughter, running toward him along the beach. Arms outstretched, eyes gleaming. Bitte...
He woke up. In a cold sweat as usual, and it was several seconds before he remembered, before he got the upper hand...
the weapon...the intense feeling of bliss as he swung it through
the air and the dull thud as it penetrated their necks. The lifeless bodies and the blood bubbling out...
That blood.
If only that blood would flow over those dream images.
Cover them in stains, make them incomprehensible, unrecognizable. Destroy them. Settle the bill once and for all, reduce
all debts to zero... But even so, it was not about his torture. It
wasn’t about the images, it was about what the images were
based on. The reality behind them. The reality.
Her revenge, not his. That ten-year-old running toward
him, whose life had come to a sudden stop. Who was blocked
and obstructed in midstride, just as abruptly and inexorably as
in the photograph. It was about her and nobody else.
He fumbled for his cigarettes. Didn’t want to put the light
on. Darkness was what was needed; he didn’t want to see anything now. He struck a match. Lit the cigarette and inhaled
deeply, resolutely. Immediately felt that warm sensation again
spreading through his body, a tidal wave flowing up into his
head and making him smile. He thought about his weapon
again. Could see it before him in the darkness. He was an exhilarated Macbeth suddenly, and he wondered how long he
would have to wait before it was time to let it speak again...
In the clear light of morning and with a fresh breeze blowing
in from the sea, Kaalbringen seemed to have forgotten that it
was terror stricken. Van Veeteren had a late breakfast on his
balcony and observed the teeming crowds in Fisherman’s
Square down below. There were obviously more than delicacies from the depths of the sea being sold from the stalls under
their colorful awnings—more like everything under the sun.
Saturday morning was market day; the sun was shining and life
went on.
The clock in the low limestone church struck ten, and Van
Veeteren realized that he had slept for almost eleven hours.
Eleven hours? Did that really mean, he asked himself, that
what he needed in order to get a good night’s sleep was a murder hunt? He contemplated that theory as he tapped the top of
his egg. It seemed absurd. And what was that insidious feeling
that had taken possession of him this peaceful morning? He’d
noticed it when he was in the shower, tried to rinse it away, but
out here in the salty air it had returned with renewed strength.
Spun esoteric threads of indolence around his soul and whispered seductive words in his ears...
It was that he had no need to exert himself.
The solution to this case would come to him of its own
accord. Strike him as a result of some coincidence. A gift from
the heavens. A deus ex machina!
A mercy devoutly to be wished, thought Van Veeteren. Fat
chance!
But the thought was there nevertheless.

Cruickshank and Müller were sitting in the foyer, waiting for
him. They had been joined by a photographer, a bearded
young man who brandished a flash gun at his face the moment
he emerged from the lift.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” said Müller.
“It looks like it,” said Van Veeteren.
“Can we have a chat after the press conference?” asked

Cruickshank.
“If you write what I tell you to write. One word too many
and you’ll be banned for two years!”
“Of course,” said Müller with a smile. “Usual rules.”
“I’ll be at Sylvie’s between noon and half past twelve,” said
Van Veeteren, handing in his room key at reception.
“Sylvie’s? What’s that?” asked the photographer, taking a
new picture.
“You’ll have to work that out for yourselves,” said Van
Veeteren.

Detective Chief Inspector Bausen took charge of the assembled journalists and immediately stamped his authority on the
proceedings. He started by waiting for several minutes until
you could have heard a drop of sweat fall in the packed conference room. Then he started to speak, but stopped the moment
anybody whispered or coughed and fixed the perpetrator with
a beady eye. If anybody dared to interrupt him, he delivered
the warning that a repeated offense would result in the sinner’s
being ejected from the room forthwith by Kropke and Mooser.
And he himself would help out if need be.

But he answered calmly and methodically the questions
that were put to him, adopting a precisely judged degree of
superiority that exposed and established the limited intellectual faculties of the questioner. Always assuming he had any.