Borkmann's Point (17 page)

Moerk:
Wollner:
Why have you come here today of all days?
I was forced.
Forced? What is your job, Mr. Wollner?
I’m a janitor.
Where?
At The Light of Life.
The church, do you mean?
Ye s.
Pause. Whispers and the scraping of chairs.
Is there anybody who instructed you to
commit these murders, Mr. Wollner?
I have a mission.
Given to you by whom?
No answer.
God, perhaps?
Ye s.
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,” said 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.
“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

“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.

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, possibly 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.
Swallowed up.
Darkness, he thought, and took a deep drag. The only thing
big enough to enclose an ocean.
Not a bad idea. He must remember to take it up with Reinhart one of these days.
But maybe the ocean is bigger after all, he realized almost
immediately. No doubt it’s morning on another shore. There’s
always another shore.
She parked in the usual place on the other side of the smokehouse. Locked the car and opened the zip of her tracksuit top
slightly. It was warmer than she’d noticed earlier in the day; she
would certainly be sweating a lot.
She set off, and immediately the heated excitement she felt
in her mind spread all over her body, down to her legs and feet.
The pace she was setting was completely mad so early in the
run. She would pay for this, but it was somehow irresistible.
She simply had to run fast now. Run fast and stretch herself to
the limit in order to get her mind working clearly...to burn
away the nervousness and excessive tension—this vibrant,
almost hysterical feeling of approaching triumph. Of being
about to have the solution in her grasp.
The breakthrough had arrived. Well, that might be overstating it, perhaps, but if she could complete the train of
thought, the one that had been roused to life by the Melnik
report and which now, after the first check, had proved to
be...well, what?
There was nothing to contradict it, at least—nothing at all.
Although what the implications were was another matter altogether.
She jumped down onto the beach and continued running
to the water’s edge. The wind was warmer than ever down
here, and she wished she’d been wearing thinner clothes.
Nothing to contradict it, then. On the contrary. A lot supported it—everything, perhaps. If only she could spell out her
thoughts to Münster tonight, calmly, in peace and quiet, no
doubt it would all become clear-cut.
Dusk was falling, and she wondered if she really ought to
run the full course today as well. It would probably be quite
dark in the woods on the way back, but there again, she was
familiar with every inch...knew every root and every low
branch by now; it would be a botched job if she shortened the
run, and Beate Moerk didn’t like botched jobs.
And Münster wouldn’t phone until after eight. There was
plenty of time.