Borkmann's point

20

As soon as she woke up, she went down to the newsstand and bought the newspapers.

It was part of the Sunday ritual, and she could normally count on walking there and back by the time the kettle had boiled. Today it took four times as long. Mrs. Sorenson stopped her outside the front door and wanted her worries put to rest, Mr. Markovic had opinions to shout down from his bal cony, and Miss deMaar at the newsstand refused to hand over the papers until she had been given a detailed report on how the murder hunt was progressing. A family that had only recently moved in, husband and wife and two blubbering chil dren, had views about the competence of the police and their duty to protect ordinary, decent citizens; and when she finally managed to get away, it was only by referring to the important interrogations she was due to conduct after lunch.

“Interrogations! Really?” growled the janitor, Mr. Geurtze, who had materialized out of nowhere. “That’s something, I suppose. And when do you expect to find the next victim?”

It was impossible not to notice his sarcasm. But there again, she reminded herself that Mr. Geurtze never did have anything nice to say. Not since somebody set fire to the rabbit hutches at his allotment a few years ago. She could see his point, in fact; in his world, good had surrendered unconditionally to evil. There was no reason for him to expect anything but unpleasantness and ugly stuff. It was one way of avoiding disappointment.

Perhaps that wasn’t a stupid stance to adopt-not if you were a lonely old man with a weak bladder, cataracts and heart fibrillation. On the other hand, if you were a woman in her prime, perhaps you ought to try for a more balanced view of life.

Stupid old bastard, was Beate Moerk’s conclusion as she locked the door behind her.

The line taken by the newspapers was more or less consistent.

Two and a half months had passed since the first murder, twelve days since the second, three since the last one-surely it was high time the police spoke out? What leads did they have?

What theories were they working on? Had they any concrete suspicions? The general public had a right to be informed!

Nevertheless, the criticism was not as cutting as what she’d been subjected to at the newsstand. Their faith in Bausen and the two experts summoned from outside to assist appeared to be more or less unshaken. The chief of police had evidently succeeded yet again with his spin and tactical ploys at the press conference the day before.

The speculation and guessing games were all the more wholehearted for that.

Who was this macabre demon?

A madman? A psychotic butcher? A perfectly normal citi zen of Kaalbringen with a wife and children and a law-abiding lifestyle?

The latter was, of course, the most attractive possibility from a journalistic point of view-the idea that it could be any body at all! Somebody sitting opposite you on the bus. Some body you chatted to in the line at the post office. One of the supply teachers at the high school. A series of psychologists from various factions pontificated; one newspaper had an article in its Sunday supplement about a number of similar cases, most of them foreign and several decades old. Rolliers, the Nice murderer; Gunther Katz, the grim reaper from

Vermsten; Ernie Fischer, who butchered women in 1930s

Chicago-not to mention the Boston Strangler and various other stars in the criminal firmament.

As there had been no clear guidance from those in charge of the investigation, the garden of speculation was in full bloom. The Neuwe Blatt gave prominence to the so-called Leisner Park theory, which was based on the fact that in at least two of the killings (Simmel and Ruhme), the murderer had probably come from or through that park; and so he must live in one of the apartment blocks in that area. C. G. Gautienne wrote in den Poost that “the accelerating tempo of the murders quite clearly indicates another outrage at the beginning of next week, Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest…”; whereas the

Telegraaf informed its readers of the most effective way of protecting themselves from the Axman, as well as passing on the prophecy of their resident astrologer, Ywonne: The next victim would probably be a forty-two-year-old man in the building trade.

Beate Moerk sighed.

De Journaal, finally, Kaalbringen’s local voice in the media world, naturally devoted more space to the murders than any other newspaper-no less than eighteen pages out of thirty two-and perhaps expressed the general unrest and the mood of the town in its front-page headline-eight columns wide and in war-is-declared typography: who’ll be the next victim?

Beate Moerk dropped the newspapers on the floor and slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

What she would most have liked to do, if she had been free to respond to her body’s signals, was pull the bedspread over her head and go back to sleep.

But it was eleven o’clock. High time to go out for a jog. A couple of miles west along the shore, then three or four back through the woods. It was still windy, but the rain seemed to be holding off. The wind would be behind her on the way out-that was the most important thing. Most of the time, you weren’t affected by the wind in the woods.

“Don’t go out on your own, whatever you do!” her mother had instructed when she phoned yesterday. “Don’t assume that he doesn’t attack women, and don’t fool yourself that your being a police officer will make any difference!”

If it had been anybody else who’d said that, she might have been tempted to pay some attention, but as it was, it was years ago that she had learned the trick of letting her mother’s advice go in one ear and out the other. If by any chance she happened to remember any of the words spoken, it was mainly because she wanted to find justification for ignoring them.

So, let’s get jogging! Obey her body’s pleas to stay in bed and rest for a few more hours? No, not on your life!

A quarter of an hour later she was dressed and ready. She pulled the zipper of her tracksuit top as high as it would go, and tied the broad red headband around her hair.

She checked how she looked in the mirror. It’ll do.

Fear not the devil or the fairies.

Weather, wind or wicked weapon wielders.

Dusk closed in rapidly. It fell like a stage curtain, more or less, and when she entered her apartment it was almost pitch-dark, even though it was only seven o’clock. Her body was tired and aching now. Two hours of jogging and stretching followed by four hours of interrogation at the police station, then working out a program for the coming week with who would do what-needless to say, it all had its effect. Who could ask for more, even from a woman in her prime?

Even so, she refused merely to flop into bed. Despite the protest from her body, she prepared an evening meal of an omelet, some greens and a lump of cheese. She washed up and made coffee. Two hours at her desk in peace and quiet that was what she wanted. Two hours of solitary majesty, with darkness and silence forming a protective dome around her thoughts and ideas, around her notepad, notes and speculations-it was during these evening sessions that she would solve the case. It was here, lost in thought at her desk, that Inspector Beate Moerk would seek out, identify and out smart the Axman!

If not tonight, then very soon, no question about it.

Was there any other cop in this country who had a more romantic attitude toward her job than she did? Hardly likely.

Whatever, there was another rule she was loathe to abandon, even though she was not at all clear where she had got it from:

Any day you fail to carve out even a short time to spend doing what you really want to do is a wasted day.

How very true.

The triangle looked more impressive than ever. Three names, one in each corner. Eggers-Simmel-Ruhme. And a question mark in the middle.

A question mark that needed to be scrubbed out in order to reveal the name of the murderer, a name that would be on people’s lips forever. On the lips of Kaalbringen citizens, at least. People never forget an evildoer. Statesmen, artists and much admired performers disappear in the mists of time, but nobody forgets the name of a murderer.

Three victims. Three male incomers. All of them as differ ent as could be-was it possible to imagine bigger differences?

A dropout, a drug addict and a jailbird.

An established, wealthy but not especially attractive self employed man.

A young doctor, the son of one of the town’s most promi nent worthies.

The more she stared at these names, at her notes, her guesses and her doodles, the more obvious it became that the murder of this third victim had not provided even the shadow of a new lead.

On the contrary. The more there are, the worse it gets, it seemed.

By a quarter to eleven, she realized that she could barely keep her eyes open any longer. She switched off the light, brushed her teeth and crept into bed.

Tomorrow would be another day. She would work hard.

Patiently churning through questions and answers, questions and answers… Perhaps it was this humdrum procedure that would eventually produce the goods. The masses of facts and minutes and tape recordings might eventually crystallize to produce a point, an accumulation of points, which could pro vide the basis for asking the most important question of all.

Who is he?

And it could all indicate a possible answer.

But she would much have preferred to be able to conjure up the face of the murderer, outline for outline, feature for fea ture. To have persuaded the dark hours of the night to carve out a portrait, a finished picture to place on the desk of the chief of police tomorrow morning.

A shortcut. A shortcut eliminating all those boring investi gations.

How much more preferable?