Borkmann's point

13

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 rela tively few problems. Number three was a different matter alto gether, 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 memo ries 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 hor rified, 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 artis tic 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 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 fore seen 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; cop per, 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 in dustrial 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 with out significance.

It was important to listen to the inner voice.