Borkmann's Point (8 page)

“Are you sober today?” asked Bausen, putting the coffee tray on
the table and sitting down.

“I’m alluss sober on a Monday,” said Peerhovens. “I have a
job to do, haven’t I?”
“Looking after the grocery carts at Maerck’s?”
“That’s it. You have to take what you can get nowadays.”
Bausen held out a packet of cigarettes and Peerhovens took
what he could get.
“Coffee and a cigarette—it’s like I alluss said. It pays to stay
on good terms with the cops.”
“I hope you haven’t made this up in order to get the occasional...favor?” said Bausen, leaning forward over the table.
Peerhovens jumped and started to look nervous.
“No, no, for Chrissake, Chief Inspector! I’d never dream of
lying to the cops! I saw him just as clear as I can see you
now...coming from Klaarmann’s...me, that is. I’d been
talking with Wauters and Egon Schmidt, if you know—”
Bausen nodded.
“I’d just passed the bookstore, on the way home. I live in
Pampas, if you know—”
“I know,” said Bausen.
“Anyway, just as I come around the corner, into Hoistraat,
that is, I turn left, of course, and I see a figure hurrying down
the steps. He’d come from, well, from The Blue Ship, if you
like, and he seemed to be in a hurry.”
“In a hurry?”
“Yeah, he was more or less running down the steps,
sort of—”
“Describe him!” said Bausen.
“Well, it all happened a bit quick, but he was wearing one of
those thin overcoats that was flapping a bit. And a hat, yeah, a
floppy hat, sort of, and it was pulled down so I couldn’t see a
fuck...er, sorry...any detail of his face.”
“What color was his coat?”
“Color? Well, brown. Or blue, sort of. Pretty dark anyway.”
“And his hat?”
“Even darker. But not black. It all happened very quick, like
I said. And I didn’t really think about it then, like... not until
Kovvy told me somebody had killed Simmel.”
“Kovvy?”
“Kowalski...Radon Kowalski. The guy that lives underneath me. Good solid guy.”
“When did you hear about it?”
“When? Well, I guess it must have been the next day...
Yes, that’s it... late afternoon. We bumped into each other on
the stairs, and that’s when he told me. ‘Have you heard that the
Axman’s killed Ernst Simmel?’ he said.”
“And even so you waited until yesterday before you went to
the police,” said Bausen sternly. “Why?”
Peerhovens stared down at his coffee cup.
“Well...I...” he said. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I
thought it wasn’t anything important. And I’d been a bit under
the weather, but then I heard on the radio—”
“How much had you drunk last Tuesday evening?”
“Hard to say... not easy to say,” said Peerhovens. “I mean,
I’d been at Klaarmann’s for a few hours, so I suppose I’d had
quite a bit. Wauters had brought a bottle of his own as well.”
“I’m with you,” said Bausen. “And you wouldn’t recognize
this person if you were to see him again?”
Peerhovens shook his head.
“What did he look like, by the way? Big or small...well
built or thin?”
“No, no, I didn’t have chance to ob... observe that. Somewhere in between, I suppose. No, I wouldn’t recognize him.”
Bausen nodded.
“What about his hat and coat? Not them either?”
Peerhovens hesitated and was given a cigarette.
“Thanks. No,” he said eventually. “I can’t really say I would.”
Bausen sighed. He stood up and left Vincent Peerhovens to
his fate. At least he’s bright enough to see that he’d be running
a risk, he thought.
Having seen the Axman, that is.

“Marie Zelnik?” asked Beate Moerk.

She could see that the woman on the red sofa must actually
be several years younger than she was herself, and that gave
her a dubious feeling of insecurity. On the one hand, it aroused
a sort of dormant protective urge; but on the other, she was
forced to restrain her antipathy and distaste. Repress her
repugnance.

The animosity seemed to be mutual. Marie Zelnik leaned
back with one leg crossed over the other in such a way that her
leather skirt pointedly revealed most of her thigh. She was
smoking, and examining her nails.

“I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“You earn you living as a prostitute, is that right?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“What else do you do?”
No answer.
“I’d like you to tell me a bit about Ernst Simmel. I under-

stand he was one of your clients, wasn’t he?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything that might be of use to the investigation. How

long have you...
been in contact with him, for instance?”
“About six months, roughly... since he came back.”
“How often?”
She shrugged.
“Not all that often. Once a month, or even less. He went

more often with Katja.”
“Katja Simone?”
“Yes.”
“We know about that. Inspector Kropke has spoken to her

already.”
“So I heard.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immediately. Disgusting, thought Beate Moerk.

“What was he like?”
“Simmel? Your average sort of John.”
Beate Moerk made a note.
“How did he usually make contact?”
Marie Zelnik thought that one over.
“Most times the same day,” she said. “Never made an

appointment... phoned from the pub and asked if he could
come around.”
“And could he?”
“Sometimes.”
Beate Moerk was searching for questions to ask. She realized that for once, she could have been better prepared and
wondered what she was really trying to find out.
“When did you last meet?”
“A week before he died, or thereabouts.”
“How did he seem?”
“As usual...horny as hell, not much staying power.”
To her surprise, Beate Moerk realized she was blushing.
“Did he used to tell you things?”
“What kind of things?”
“About his life—his family, for instance? His wife?”
“Never.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Why should I?”
“And he... paid with no problems?”
What an idiotic question! Beate Moerk could feel herself
losing control now. She’d better make sure she got out of here
without doing anything rash.
“Of course he paid.”
Marie Zelnik looked at her with some amusement. Beate
Moerk had another go.
“And there was nothing special about him? Anything you
think...might have been connected with his murder? That
we ought to know about?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Beate Moerk admitted. “How much do you
charge?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself.
“That depends,” said Marie Zelnik.
“Depends on what?”
“How they fuck me, of course. There are all kinds of variations, but maybe you don’t know about that, Inspector. I only
take men, by the way.”
You disgusting little bitch! thought Beate Moerk. Thank
your lucky stars that I didn’t set Bausen onto you! She sat for a
while trying to think of more questions to put to this arrogant
hussy, but nothing came to mind.
“Many thanks,” she said, getting to her feet. “This has been
a most interesting conversation. Most interesting. If I weren’t
on duty, I’d probably throw up all over your fake carpet.”
At least that had gone some way toward restoring the balance, she told herself.
He had slept late on Tuesday.
He deserved it. A week had passed since he’d put an end to
Ernst Simmel in the woods, and there was no sign that the
police were onto his trail. No sign at all.
He’d never thought they would be. He’d known from the
beginning that the first two murders would cause him relatively few problems. Number three was a different matter altogether, however. People had realized what was happening. It
wasn’t simply a one-off, as they’d imagined when they found
Eggers. Not some impulsive murderer who went after just one
unfortunate victim, but one with several names on his list.
Several would have to have their heads cut off before justice
was done.
The images still came to him in his dreams, and just as he
had expected, it was number three who stood out now—the
man who was still alive and whose turn it was next. It wasn’t a
very clear image, however: There weren’t such strong memories of him, no on-the-spot snapshot. Perhaps that corner of
the sofa, though, when he’d sat there with his cool, somewhat
superior air—the young, well-dressed, upper-class puppy who
always got by, thanks to his breeding and social status. Who
floated up to the surface when others were dragged down. Dry
shod and hair neatly combed.
Who landed on his feet when others were killed by the fall.
God, how he hated this self-serving aristocracy! The worst of
them all...When he compared this one with the others, he
could see it in letters of fire. He was the instigator. He carried
the greatest blame; he would receive the harshest punishment.
That was another reason why he needed to be extra careful
this time. He must do something to make clear his significance
beyond all shadow of a doubt—something extra, which had
been part of his plan from the very start. Not in order to make
people understand—they wouldn’t in any case—they’d be horrified, perhaps, but they wouldn’t understand. No, it was for
his own sake.
And for hers.

He spent the morning being practical. Polished the cutting
edge until it was almost impossibly sharp. Then wrapped it in
the muslin rag and hid it in the usual place. Burned the coat
and hat in the open fire; it was time for different disguises now.
Sat for a long time at the kitchen table, smoking and thinking
about how to approach it, and eventually decided on the artistic touch to make this time special. It would be bound to
involve a degree of risk but very little, he told himself. Very
little, and from the point of view of news value, it was most
attractive. He didn’t doubt for a second that this time he would
dominate both television and the newspapers—for a day at
least. Perhaps several.

Surprising thoughts, these. In no way had this been his
motive, but perhaps it was as somebody had said: A man much
borkmann’s point
prefers to die in the arena than at home in bed! So much
depends on the battle itself. The actions and the drama.

Or was there something he’d misunderstood when it came
to the crunch? No matter what, it couldn’t be denied that the
whole business had acquired a dimension that he hadn’t foreseen from the start... hadn’t taken into account. An unbidden
stimulus and the sweet taste of temptation that naturally had
nothing at all to do with the basic problems.

With life. With death.
With necessity.

In the evening he went out for a walk. Partly to reconnoiter the
area he had in mind, partly to satisfy and come to terms with
an obscure need to wander around town. His town.

Kaalbringen. The community stuck fast to the diagonal
running from the flat plains and up to the high coast in the
east. The rounded bay, the spit of land pointing a finger at the
open sea, the busy entrance to the harbor with the quays and
breakwaters, the marina with restless luxury yachts and cabin
cruisers rubbing against jetties and mooring posts...He spent
quite a while up in the ruined Monastery of St. Hans, with the
wind and the seagulls screaming and dancing all around him;
he looked down at the streets, the squares and the muddle of
houses. The churches: St. Bunge, St. Anna and St. Pieter; copper, copper and red brick. The two hotels with their backs to
the land, chests toward the sea: The See Warf and the old
Bendix; the municipal woods cutting through the buildings
like a sharp-edged sword; the private houses in Rikken and
Werdingen. On the other side, hardly visible in the afternoon
haze, the apartment blocks at Pampas, Vrejsbakk and the industrial estate looking like a miniature model on the other side
of the river.

His Kaalbringen. With a sudden flash of insight, he realized
that he hadn’t felt for a very long time as closely attached to the
town as he did now. In these circumstances. Perhaps there was
a meaning and a source of comfort in that...He was the
Axman. The town down below was in his grip of iron. Down
below people were now going out in the evenings in groups, or
locking themselves in. His shadow weighed heavy and dark. If
the town was on the lips of people all over the country, it was
no doubt thanks to him.

And this was the unexpected dimension. So far from the
real force behind it all. The motive.
Could he have anything against that? He didn’t think so.
Perhaps he was even pleased, in some mysterious way.
Brigitte. Bitte.

It was only when the lights went on down below that he
noticed the onset of dusk. He put his hands in his pockets and
started strolling slowly back to town. He thought for a while
about his time schedule...gave himself two days, no more.
Tomorrow evening, or the one after; the rhythm was not without significance.

It was important to listen to the inner voice.
“There is a little tiny connection,” said Beate Moerk, “but it’s
not much to go on.”

“What’s that?” wondered Kropke, without turning his head
from his computer.
“Both Eggers and Simmel had only recently arrived in Kaalbringen. Well, Simmel was coming back again, of course. But
in any case, neither of them was here a year ago, for instance.”
Van Veeteren folded up his newspaper and left his seat in
the window bay.
“When did Eggers turn up?” he asked. “Was it May, or—”
“More like the beginning of April, and at first he used to
travel back and forth quite a bit. Simmel moved back into his
house in February.”
“And what conclusions do you draw from that?” asked
Kropke.
“None at all,” said Beate Moerk. “I just thought it might be
worth noting, nothing else.”
Van Veeteren rummaged around in his pocket for a toothpick, but in vain. “It might not be a bad idea,” he muttered. “I
think I’ll make a house call now.”
House call? thought Kropke when the door had closed
behind the chief inspector. What the hell does he mean by a
house call?

On the way he called in on Bausen, who was busy emptying his
desk drawers.
“Burning your boats, are you?”
“Yes. I don’t want to leave anything compromising. Kropke
can be a pedantic devil, you know.”
“No new brainstorms?”
Bausen shook his head.
“It’s been ten days now. They say that if you don’t clear up a
case inside two weeks, you’ll never solve it.”
“Lots of time,” said Van Veeteren. “Have you spoken to
that Mandrijn fellow?”
“Mandrijn? Yes, of course. Why?”
“There was just something I thought of,” said Van
Veeteren. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you promised me
a chance at revenge tonight.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Bausen. “Try the NimzoIndian defense; then you’re bound to win.”
“I’ll bring a bottle with me. I don’t want to steal any more
of your pension.”
Bausen threw out his arms.
“If you insist, Chief Inspector.”