Borkmann's Point (2 page)

“Hello?”
“Van Veeteren?”
“That depends.”
“Ha ha...Hiller here. How are things?”
Van Veeteren suppressed an urge to slam the receiver

“Splendid, thank you. It’s just that I was under the impression that my vacation wasn’t over until Monday.”
“Precisely! I thought you maybe fancied a few more days?”
Van Veeteren said nothing.
“I’ll bet you’d love to stay a bit longer by the coast if you
had the chance, wouldn’t you.”
“...”
“Another week, perhaps? Hello?”
“I’d be grateful if you would come to the point, sir,” said
Van Veeteren.
The chief of police seemed to have a coughing fit, and Van
Veeteren sighed.
“Yes, well, a little something has turned up in Kaalbringen.
That’s only about twenty or thirty miles away from the cottage
you’re staying in; I don’t know if you’re familiar with the place.
We’ve been asked to help out, in any case.”
“What’s it all about?”
“Murder. Two of them. Some madman running around
and cutting people’s heads off with an ax or something. It’s all
in the papers today, but maybe you haven’t—”
“I haven’t seen a paper for three weeks,” said Van Veeteren.
“The latest one—the second, that is—happened yesterday,
or rather, the day before. Anyway, we have to send them some
reinforcements, and I thought that as you were in the area
already, well...”
“Thank you very much.”
“I’ll leave it up to you for the time being. I’ll send up Münster or Reinhart next week. Assuming you haven’t solved it by
then, of course.”
“Who’s chief of police? In Kaalbringen, I mean.”
Hiller coughed again.
“His name’s Bausen. I don’t think you know him. Anyway,
he only has another month to go before he retires, and he
doesn’t seem all that thrilled to have been handed this on his
plate just now.”
“How very odd,” said Van Veeteren.
“You’ll go straight there tomorrow, I take it?” Hiller was
starting to wind up the conversation. “That will mean you
don’t have to double the journey unnecessarily. Is the water
still warm enough for swimming, by the way?”
“I spend all of every day splashing around.”
“Really...really. Well, I’ll phone them and say you’ll be
turning up tomorrow afternoon. OK?”
“I want Münster,” said Van Veeteren.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Hiller.
Van Veeteren put down the receiver and stood for a while
staring at the telephone before pulling out the plug. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d forgotten to buy food. Damn!
What made him think of that now? He wasn’t even hungry,
so it must have something to do with Hiller. He fetched a beer
from the fridge and went out onto the patio and settled back in
a deck chair.
Ax murderer?
He opened the can and, pouring the beer into a tall glass,
tried to remember if he’d ever come across this sort of violence before. He’d been a police officer for thirty years—more
than that—but no matter how hard he searched and ransacked
his brain, he couldn’t dig out a single ax murderer from the
murky depths of his memory.
I suppose it’s about time, he thought, taking a sip of beer.
“Mrs. Simmel?”
The corpulent woman opened the door wide.
“Please come in.”
Beate Moerk did as she was bidden and tried her best to
look sympathetic. She handed her light overcoat to Mrs. Simmel, who fussed as she arranged it on a hanger in the hall.
Then she ushered her visitor into the house, tugging nervously
at her tight black dress that had doubtless seen better days.
Coffee was served on a smoked-glass table between substantial
leather sofas in the large living room. Mrs. Simmel flopped
down into one of them.
“I take it you’re a police officer?”
Beate Moerk sat down and put her briefcase on the sofa
beside her. She was used to the question. Had expected it, in
fact. People evidently had no difficulty in accepting policewomen in uniform, but coping with the fact that wearing a
uniform was not a necessary part of the job seemed to be a different matter. How could a woman wear something fashionable and attractive and still carry out her police duties?
Was that still the bottom line? That it was harder to interview women? Men were often embarrassed, but opened up.
Women went straight to the point, but at the same time were
less forthcoming.
Nevertheless, she was confident that Mrs. Simmel was not
going to be a problem. She was sitting on the sofa, breathing
heavily. Big and ungainly, her eyes swollen but naïve.
“Yes, I’m a police inspector. My name’s Beate Moerk. I’m
sorry that I have to inconvenience you so soon after...what’s
happened. Is there anybody staying with you?”
“My sister,” said Mrs. Simmel. “She’s just gone down to the
store.”
Beate Moerk nodded and took a notebook out of her briefcase. Mrs. Simmel poured coffee.
“Sugar?”
“No, thank you. Can you tell me what happened last Tuesday evening?”
“I’ve already...I spoke about it with another police officer
yesterday.”
“Chief Inspector Bausen, yes. But I’d be grateful if you
could go through it one more time.”
“I don’t see why...I didn’t have anything special to say.”
“Your husband went out at around eight o’clock, I gather
you said.”
Mrs. Simmel gave a little sob, but regained control of herself.
“Yes.”
“Why did he go out?”
“He was going to meet a business contact. At The Blue
Ship, I think.”
“Did he often do business there?”
“Now and again. He is...was...in real estate.”
“But we understand that your husband was alone in The
Blue Ship.”
“He can’t have turned up.”
“Who?”
“His business contact.”
“No, evidently not. But your husband didn’t come home
instead, when this other person didn’t put in an appearance?”
“No...no, I suppose he thought he might as well have dinner, seeing as he was there anyway.”
“He hadn’t eaten already?”
“No, not dinner.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who he was going to meet.”
“No...no, I never interfere in my husband’s business.”
“I understand.”
Mrs. Simmel gestured toward the cake dish and helped herself to a chocolate biscuit.
“What time did you expect him home?”
“Around...well, about midnight, I suppose.”
“What time did you go to bed yourself ?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmel, but your husband has been murdered. We simply have to ask all sorts of questions. If we don’t,
we’ll never be able to catch the man who did it.”
“I suppose it’s the same one.”
“The same as what?”
“The one who killed that Eggers in June.”
Beate Moerk nodded.
“There is evidence to suggest that, yes. But there again, it
could be that somebody was, er, inspired by that.”
“Inspired?”
“Yes, somebody who used the same method. You never
know, Mrs. Simmel.”
Mrs. Simmel swallowed, and took another biscuit.
“Did your husband have any enemies?”
Mrs. Simmel shook her head.
“Many friends and acquaintances?”
“Yes...”
“A lot of business contacts you weren’t all that well acquainted with, perhaps?”
“Yes, lots.”
Beate Moerk paused and took a sip of coffee. It was weak
and wishy-washy. If you did what her hostess had done and
added two lumps of sugar, it would have been impossible to
say what it was.
“I have to ask you to allow me to ask a few questions that
you might find a bit indiscreet. I hope you realize how serious
this business is, and that you’ll answer them as honestly as
you can.”
Mrs. Simmel scraped her cup nervously against the saucer.
“How would you describe your marriage?”
“Excuse me?”
“What sort of a married life did you have? You’d been married for thirty years, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two, yes. Your children have flown the nest. Did
you still have much contact?”
“With the children, you mean?”
“No, with your husband.”
“Well...yes, I suppose so.”
“Who are your closest friends?”
“Friends? The Bodelsens and the Lejnes... and the Klingforts, of course. And the family, naturally. My sister and her
husband. Ernst’s brother and sister... And our children, it
goes without saying. Why do you want to know about them?”
“Do you know if your husband had a relationship with any
other woman?”
Mrs. Simmel stopped chewing and tried to look as if she
hadn’t understood the question.
“With another woman?”
“Or several. If he’d been unfaithful, for instance.”
“No . . .” She shook her head slowly. “Who might that have
been? Who would have had him?”
That was one way of looking at it, of course. Beate Moerk
took a drink of coffee in order to suppress a smile.
“Has there been anything lately that you noticed? Anything
unusual about your husband’s behavior, I mean.”
“No.”
“Or anything else you can think of ?”
“No. What could that have been?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Simmel, but it would be very helpful if
you could think carefully about the last few weeks. Something
might occur to you. Did you go away this summer, for instance?”
“Two weeks in July, that’s all. A package holiday, but...
but we went to different places. I went with a friend to Kos.
Ernst went off with a friend of his.”
“To Kos?”
“No, not to Kos.”
“Where to, then?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I see... And apart from that you’ve been at home?”
“Yes, apart from the odd day now and then, when we went
off in
Vanessa...
That’s our boat. We sometimes go sailing,
and stop somewhere for the night.”
Beate Moerk nodded.
“I understand. But there was nothing special that your husband was worried about lately?”
“No...no, I don’t think so.”
“No new friends or acquaintances?”
“No...”
“He didn’t tell you about or hint at anything unusual?”
“No.”
Beate Moerk sighed and put down her pen. She leaned back
in the sofa.
“And how was business?”
“Fine,” Mrs. Simmel answered, seeming surprised. “Fine, I
think...”
As if there were no other possibility, thought Beate Moerk
as she dusted a few crumbs from her skirt.
“Do you work, Mrs. Simmel?”
She seemed to hesitate.
“I sometimes help my husband at his office now and then.”
“Doing what?”
“This and that...smartening the place up. Flowers and
cleaning, that sort of thing...”
“I’m with you. It’s in Grote Plein, is that right?”
Mrs. Simmel nodded.
“When were you last there?”
“The last time? Er, that would be in May, I think.”
My word, you are a busy bee! thought Beate Moerk.

She had a look around the house as well, mainly because
Bausen had instructed her to do so. Mrs. Simmel led the way,
puffing and panting, and Beate Moerk found herself feeling
almost sorry for her, having to keep up all these large rooms.
Mind you, no doubt there was a cleaning lady to help out.

It wasn’t easy to see what good it would do, but there again,
it was always the same with murder investigations. The aim
was to gather facts and information of every kind imaginable—
the more the better—and file it all away, ready for when some
kind of breakthrough was achieved, at which point the tiniest
little detail could suddenly prove to be the key to the whole
puzzle... case...mystery, or whatever you wanted to call it.

Beate Moerk hadn’t been involved in a murder investigation for over six years, not since she was a probationer down
in Goerlich, and then she hadn’t been much more than a
messenger: knocking on doors, passing on messages, sitting
in freezing-cold cars waiting for something to happen that
never did.

But now they were faced with an ax murderer. Her, Kropke
and Detective Chief Inspector Bausen. No wonder it all
seemed a bit odd. Some big shot or other was evidently being
sent to help them out but basically it was their case. Local
people naturally expected them to be the ones who sorted it
all out.

And when she thought about Kropke and Bausen, she realized that much depended on her for a successful outcome.
“Would you like to see the basement as well?”
She nodded, and Mrs. Simmel puffed and panted her way
down the stairs.
In June, when the first one happened, she’d been on vacation, in a cottage in Tatrabergen with Janos. She’d broken up
with him since then or, at least, put him on ice for a while.
She’d missed the first few days of the case, and even if she
would never admit it, she’d been fretting about it quite a lot.
Heinz Eggers. She’d read up all about it and put herself in
the picture, obviously. She’d taken part in the interviews and
interrogations, drawn up outline plans and solved puzzles for
the rest of the summer. But they hadn’t gotten very far, she’d
be the first to admit. After all those hours of interrogation and
consideration, they didn’t seem to have dug up even the slightest trace of a suspicion. Both she and Kropke had put in so
many hours of overtime by now that they must be due at least
an extra month’s leave—and she might very well cash that in,
provided they’d caught the confounded Axman first.
That’s what they called him in the newspapers: the Axman.
And now he’d struck again.
Her mind elsewhere, she allowed Mrs. Simmel to take her
on a guided tour of the house. Six rooms and a kitchen, if she’d
counted right—for two people. Only one now. Plus a poolroom and a sauna in the basement. Patio and a large garden
facing the woods. Real estate? Bausen had given Kropke the
task of digging around in Simmel’s company. Not a bad idea, in
fact. Surely they would come up with something?
But what the hell could Heinz Eggers and Ernst Simmel
possibly have in common?
Needless to say, that was the question that had been nagging away inside her ever since they’d found Simmel’s body,
but so far she hadn’t even managed to hit on anything even
resembling a guess.
Or was there no link?
Was it just somebody killing at random?
No motive whatsoever, and a month in between strikes.
When he felt like it. Were they really dealing with a madman,
as some people maintained? A lunatic?
She shuddered, and the hairs on her arms were standing
on end.
Get a grip, Beate! she thought.
. . .

She took her leave of Grete Simmel on the paved drive leading
into the garage, taking a shortcut over the neat lawn and stepping over the low fence in faux jacaranda. She settled down
behind the wheel of her car and considered indulging in a cigarette, but suppressed the urge. She’d gone over four weeks
without now, and it would take more than an axman to break
her willpower again.