Borkmann's Point (5 page)

“When do you think you will have the murderer under lock
and key?” asked a red-nosed reporter from the local radio station.
“About ten minutes after we’ve found him,” said Bausen.
“Have you any theories you’re working on?” wondered
Malevic, chief reporter on
de Journaal.
“How else do you think we operate?” asked Bausen. “We’re
not working for a newspaper.”
“Who’s actually in charge of the investigation?” asked the
man sent by the
Neuwe Blatt.
“Is it you or DCI Van Veeteren?”
“Who do you think?” responded Van Veeteren, contemplating a comprehensively chewed toothpick. He didn’t answer
anything else, referring all direct questions to Bausen by nodding in his direction. If he was smiling inwardly, nobody could
have told that from the expression on his face.
After twenty minutes most of the questions seemed to
have been asked, and Bausen began issuing instructions.
“I want the local newspapers and the radio to urge everybody who was in town last Tuesday night between eleven
o’clock and midnight, give or take a few minutes, in the area
around The Blue Ship, Hoistraat, the steps down to Fisherman’s Square and the Esplanade leading to the municipal
woods to get in touch with the police from tomorrow onward.
We’ll have two officers on hand at the station to deal with all
the information we receive, and we shall not turn a blind eye if
anybody who was out then fails to report to us. Don’t forget
that we’re dealing with an unusually violent killer.”
“But won’t you have a vast number of responses?” somebody wondered.
“When you’re hunting a murderer, Miss Meuhlich,” said
Bausen, “you have to accept a few minor inconveniences.”

Van Veeteren. “I don’t think anything.”
“The Bausen guy seems to like throwing his weight around,”
said Müller. “Do you think you’ll be able to work with him?”
“You can bet your life,” said Van Veeteren.
“Have you anything to go on?”
“You can write that we have.”
“But you haven’t, in fact?”
“I never said that.”
“How long is it since you last had to leave a case unsolved?”
asked Cruickshank.
“Six years,” said Van Veeteren.
“What was that, then?” asked the photographer, curious.
“The G-file . . .” Van Veeteren stopped chewing and stared
out of the window.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Cruickshank. “I wrote about
that one—”
Two young ladies came in and were about to sit at the next
table, but Müller drove them away.
“Sit in the corner instead,” he urged them. “There’s a
terrible stink here!”
“Well,” began Cruickshank, “are we dealing with a madman, or is it planned?”
“Who says that madmen don’t plan?” said Van Veeteren.
“Is there a link between the victims?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“...”
“How do you know?”
“Give me a Danish pastry!”
“Will there be any more top brass coming?”
“If necessary.”
“Have you any previous experience with ax murderers?”
wondered the photographer.
“I know a fair amount about murderers,” said Van Veeteren.
“And everybody knows how an ax works. How long can your
esteemed journals afford to do without your services and leave
you here in Kaalbringen? Six months?”
“Ha ha,” said Müller. “A few days, I should think. Unless it
happens again, that is.”
“It’ll be some time before that, no doubt.”
“How do you know that?”
“Thank you for the coffee,” said Van Veeteren, standing up.
“I’ll have to leave you now, I’m afraid. Don’t stay up too late,
and don’t write any rubbish!”
“Have we ever written rubbish?” asked Cruickshank.
“What the hell are we doing here?” wondered the photographer when Van Veeteren had left them on their own.
What the hell am I doing here? thought Van Veeteren, and
clambered into the passenger seat next to Bausen.
. . .

“It’s not a pretty sight,” said Bausen. “I think I’ll stay out here
and do a bit of planning.”
Van Veeteren followed the limping pathologist.
“Meuritz,” he said when they had entered the room. “My
name’s Meuritz. Actually based in Oostwerdingen, but I generally do one day a week here as well. It’s been a bit more than
that lately.”
He pulled the trolley out of the deep freeze, and removed
the sheet with an extravagant gesture. Van Veeteren was reminded of something Reinhart had said once: There’s only one
profession. Matador. All the rest are substitutes and shadows.
Bausen was right, no doubt about it. Even if Ernst Simmel
hadn’t exactly been a handsome specimen of a man while on
this earth, neither the Axman nor Meuritz had done anything
to improve the situation. He was lying on his stomach, and for
reasons that Van Veeteren didn’t fully understand but which
were no doubt pedagogical, Meuritz had placed the head at
ninety degrees to the neck in an upward direction, so that the
incision was clearly visible.
“A pretty skillful blow, you have to give him that,” he said,
poking into the wound with a ballpoint pen.
“Skillful?” wondered Van Veeteren.
“Look at this!”
Meuritz held out an X-ray film.
“This is Eggers. Note the angle of entry! Only a couple of
degrees difference. They were exactly the same depth, incidentally...”
Van Veeteren scrutinized the picture of the maltreated
white bones against a black background.
“. . . lands from above, diagonally from the right.”
“Right-handed?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Presumably. Or a left-handed badminton player. Who’s
used to playing forehands way out on the backhand side, if you
follow me.”
“I play three times a week,” said Van Veeteren.
Who was it who had said something about tennis balls not
so long ago?
Meuritz nodded and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead.
“Is it the same weapon?” asked Van Veeteren. “Take that
ballpoint out of his throat, if you don’t mind.”
Meuritz wiped his pen clean on his white coat and put it in
his breast pocket.
“Definitely,” he said. “I can even claim to be able to describe
it—an ax with a very sharp blade, sharpened by an expert no
doubt. Five inches deep and quite wide. Maybe six inches, possibly more.”
“How do you know that?”
“It penetrated exactly the same distance in both cases, and
then it was stopped by the handle. If the blade had been
deeper, the skull would certainly have been severed. Have you
seen the things butchers use to cut up bones with?”
Van Veeteren nodded. Began to regret the fact that he’d
eaten three Danish pastries at Sylvie’s luxury café.
“Time of death?”
“Between half past eleven and half past twelve, roughly
speaking.”
“Can you be more precise?”
“Closer to half past eleven—twenty to twelve, if you were
to really press me.”
“Have you come across anything like this before?” Van
Veeteren indicated the pale blue corpse.
“No. You never stop learning in this business.”
. . .

Although it was three and a half days since Ernst Simmel’s
body had been found, and almost four days since he’d been
murdered, the scene of the crime had not lost its attraction.
The police had sealed it off with red-and-white tape and warning notices, but a trickle of people was still flowing past this
woodland corral, a narrow stream of Kaalbringen citizens who
didn’t want to miss the opportunity of seeing the white markers in among the bushes and the increasingly dark-colored
patch of human blood on the path.

Constable Erwin Bang had been given the task of maintaining order and keeping the most curious at bay, and he carried
out this mission with all the dignity and attention to detail that
his 160-pound frame allowed. The moment there were more
than two visitors at a time, he would get them moving.

It seemed to Van Veeteren that Bang was handling the situation as a spot of traffic policing more than anything else. But
that was of minor significance, of course.

“Can you keep the spectators at bay so that the chief inspector and I can take a look in peace and quiet?” asked Bausen.
“Right, that’s it. Move along!” bellowed Bang, and flocks of
jackdaws and wood pigeons panicked and took to the air.
“Quickly now! This is a crime scene investigation!”
You can go and have a cup of coffee,” said Bausen when
they were on their own. “We’ll be here for about half an hour.
I think we can remove the tape and stuff then. You can take it
all back to the station.”
“Will do!” said Bang, giving a smart salute. He embarked
on his amended duties, and strode off in the direction of the
Esplanade and the harbor café.
“Well,” said Bausen, plunging his hands into his pockets.
“That was Constable Bang.”
Van Veeteren looked around.
“Hmm,” he said.
Bausen produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“Would you like one?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren, “ but I’ll have one even so. Can we
try a little experiment?”
“Your word is my command,” said Bausen, lighting two cigarettes and handing one of them to Van Veeteren. “What do
you want to do?”
“Let’s walk along the path for twenty or thirty yards. Then
I’ll come back with you following me, and I’ll see if I can
hear you.”
“OK,” said Bausen. “But I’ve tested that already. The path
has been trampled down by so many feet, it’s damn hard. You
won’t hear a thing.”
They carried out the experiment, and Bausen’s prediction
proved to be absolutely correct. The distant murmur of the sea
and the rustling of the wind in the trees was sufficient to mask
any other noise. Bausen had more or less been able to put his
hand on Van Veeteren’s shoulder before he’d noticed he was
even there.
“And that’s how it happened,” said Bausen.
Van Veeteren nodded.
“I take it you’ve made a thorough search?” he said.
“Of the crime scene? We most certainly have! We’ve vacuumed every single blade of grass. Not a thing! Just blood, and
more blood. It’s dry, you see. Hasn’t rained for three weeks. No
soft ground anywhere, no footprints. No, I don’t think we’re
going to get any leads of that sort. It looks as if he wiped his
weapon clean at one spot, but that’s all.”
“What about the Eggers case?”
“The same story. We were very interested in a cigarette end
for a long time, but it turned out to be two days old. It occupied several officers for a week.”
“Has Meuritz had backup from forensic officers, by the
way?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Four of them. Not that I think he needed them. Damn
competent doc, even if he can be a bit difficult to work with.”
Van Veeteren bent down and studied the stained grass.
“Have you heard of Heliogabalus?” he asked.
“The guy with the blood on the grass?”
“That’s the one. Roman emperor, 218–222. Killed people
because he liked to see red against green. An uncompromising
aesthete, no doubt about it. Although blood doesn’t keep its
color all that well, it has to be said—”
“No,” said Bausen. “Not really the right motive in this case,
anyway. It must have been pitch-black here last Tuesday night.
Two lights in sequence along the path were out.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “We’ll eliminate Heliogabalus,
then. It’s always good to be able to cross a name off the list.”
Some would-be detectives from the general public were
approaching from the Rikken direction. Bang must have put in
place some kind of barrier down by the harbor, as they’d been
left in peace for nearly ten minutes. Bausen checked his watch.
“Half past four,” he said. “I have a leg of mutton in the
freezer. Only needs some roasting. How about it?”
Van Veeteren hesitated.
“If you allow me a couple of hours at the hotel first.”
“Of course,” said Bausen. “You’re welcome at the nest
around seven. I hope we’ll be able to sit outside.”
Beate Moerk slid down into the bath and switched off the light.
She allowed herself to be swallowed up by the hot water and
imagined that she was inside a womb. That was a recurring
thought, and no doubt had some significance.
She felt her waist and hips, and had the impression that she
was not putting on weight. A hundred and twenty pounds.
She’d run five miles, the last one pretty quickly. It was true
some experts maintained that the most efficient speed for
burning up calories was sixty percent of maximum, but what
the hell! Surely you would lose a few extra ounces if you really
stretched yourself.
That’s enough vanity for now. She rested her head on the
edge of the bath and let her tiredness grow and spread all over
her body. I’m thirty-one, she thought. I’m a thirty-one-year-old
female cop. Without a husband. Without children. Without a
family, a house, a boat...
That was also a recurring thought. She wasn’t too worried
about a house or a boat. She could also imagine getting by
without a husband, for the time being, at least. But children
were another matter. A very different matter.
She was living in a different world, in fact. Perhaps it was to
get away from that feeling that she liked to fantasize about
lying in a womb. Who knows? Of the seven or eight best
friends she’d had since she was a teenager, at least five or six of
them had masses of children by this time; she was aware of
that. Husbands and boats as well, for that matter. Still, thank
God, she wasn’t still living in Friesen; that had been a necessary
condition, of course. She’d never have been able to survive if
she’d had to put up with all that went with living there wherever she turned. Her independent and liberated life would have
shriveled away like a... like a used condom if she’d been
forced to have everybody and everything weighing down on
her all the time. With her parents and childhood misdemeanors and the follies of youth like a caste mark on her forehead. Like a contents list writ large that she could never detach
herself from! Hell, no, she thought.
But there again, sooner or later she would have to give
birth to that child; sooner or later she’d have to toe the line of
accepted lifestyles. She’d known that for some years now, but
every time she celebrated her birthday, at the beginning of January, she would give herself just one more year. A twelvemonth moratorium, she would think. One more round. That
wasn’t a bad birthday present, and it would no doubt be on her
wish list one more year, at least...
She groped for the soap and found it, then changed the subject. This was certainly not the time to start thinking about a
husband and children. Besides, the reality probably was that
only a policeman would consider marrying a policewoman, so
the choice was a bit limited. Bang, Mooser, Kropke... perish
the thought! She started soaping her breasts... still firm and
bouncy; another recurrent thought was that one of these days
she would start to dislike her breasts—the whole of her body,
come to that. But naturally, that was a trauma she shared with
all women. A fact of life, presumably, and one that had to be
accepted...Anyway, both Kropke and Mooser were married
already. Thank goodness for that.
But it was none of them she wanted to think about tonight.
Why should she? The person she was going to devote her
attention to for the next few hours was not a police officer at
all. On the contrary. It was that other man...
The Axman. Him and nobody else.
He’s the one I want.
She smiled at the thought. Smiled and switched on the light
with a haste that seemed to her a little sudden.