Borkmann's point

24

He looked around. Then sat down at one of the empty tables on the glazed-in terrace, ordered a glass of stout and spread out de Journaal in front of him. He breathed a sigh of cautious satisfaction. It was some time since he’d last been to The Fisherman’s Friend.

He took several long drafts of beer, then started to read what they’d written about the case. Not without a degree of satisfaction. This was the fifth day after the latest murder, and the coverage was still more than two pages. There was very little new information; the theories were becoming increas ingly absurd, as far as he could judge… the silence on the part of the police was bound to irritate the journalists, no doubt, and it looked as if several of them were losing faith.

No wonder, he thought, and gazed down at the harbor. No wonder. A solitary trawler was making its way out toward the open sea from down below. The sea and the sky were an identi cal shade of gray; the sun appeared unwilling to show itself today. It looked disconsolate.

Disconsolate? For a brief moment he wondered why that particular word had occurred to him.

He had killed three people and the police didn’t have a single lead, as far as he could tell. It would have been interest ing to see to see what they wrote in the other papers as well, but they’d been sold out. For obvious reasons, to be sure. He took another draft of beer and allowed the brewer’s wort to force tears into the corners of his eyes. No, if he understood the situation rightly, he was as safe as ever.

Beyond reach and beyond punishment.

It felt somewhat remarkable, no doubt about that, al though on the other hand, it was more or less what he’d reck oned on… wasn’t it? Had he reckoned on anything at all, in fact? Was there an afterward? Had he thought about this period? The long drawn-out epilogue, or whatever it was?

He watched the gulls circling around the top of the cliff.

They sometimes came so close that their wing tips brushed against the window… and he suddenly recalled how he’d been sitting up here one day when one of them had flown straight into the windowpane. At full speed, without checking.

It had presumably had a clear view ahead, and death against the cold glass must have come as a complete shock to the poor bird. No notice, no premonitions… just like the blow from the ax, it seemed to him, and he sat for quite a while thinking about that bird and the smear of blood and innards it had left clinging to the pane, which he was able to conjure up in his mind’s eye, for some reason. And then he thought about the woman for whose sake all this was taking place… about her, whose death had not come as a shock at all-it was more a case of a fruit becoming ripe-and he wondered if it really was all over now, everything. If everything had been restored to its rightful place, justice achieved, and if there was any possibility of her being able to give him a sign. And if so, where that could happen…

There was probably more than one place, now that he came to think about it.

And about how he would cope with this new emptiness that seemed to have replaced the previous one, and sometimes felt like an enormous vacuum inside him. Insistent and almost endless. But inside him.

I have dug a hole in order to fill another one, he thought.

And this new one is so much bigger. Give me a sign, Bitte!

“A spectacular place,” said Van Veeteren, looking around.

“The terrace is best,” said Bausen. “You’re sitting on top of the world, as it were.”

Van Veeteren sat down. Thought fleetingly about The Blue

Ship. It was quite empty up here as well, but perhaps it was dif ferent in the evenings. At the moment, there was only a soli tary gentleman with a newspaper by the picture window, and a few women in hats just in front of the grand piano. A waiter dressed in black bowed and handed over two menus bound in leather.

“Lunch,” said Van Veeteren. “Now it’s my turn. Get enough inside you to keep you going for a while. We all work best on a full stomach-think best, at least.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” said Bausen.

“I can’t take any more of this,” said Beate Moerk. “If I have to talk to another single doctor, I’ll strangle him.”

“Go back to the car and wait,” said Munster. “I’ll deal with this Mandrijn person-he’s due in five minutes.”

“Is he the one who lived in Simmel’s house?”

Munster nodded.

“OK,” said Beate Moerk. “Give him what he deserves. I’m going to lie down on the backseat under the blanket.”

“Good,” said Munster.

“My name is Inspector Kropke,” said Kropke.

“Funny first name,” said the woman, with a yawn. “But come in, even so.”

“So you lived next door to the Simmels in Las Brochas?”

“I certainly did.”

“Did you mix with them socially as well?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

She raised her eyebrows a little.

“Why not? Because we had no desire to mix with them, of course. We met at the occasional party, naturally, but the bot tom line was that they didn’t have any style. My husband had quite a lot to do with Ernst, but I could never make her out.”

“Her?”

“Yes, the wife… Grete, or whatever her name is.”

“Were there any… improprieties as far as the Simmels were concerned?”

“Improprieties? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, did you hear anything… did they have any ene mies, was there anything illegal, for instance? We’re trying to find a motive, you see-”

“My dear Inspector, we don’t go ferreting about for such things in Las Brochas. We leave everybody in peace there. Lots of people have moved there precisely to get away from all the interfering authorities who can’t stop sticking their noses into other people’s business.”

Style? thought Kropke.

“So that’s the way it is,” he said. “Maybe you think we shouldn’t give a toss about tracking down murderers and that kind of thing?”

“Don’t be silly. Go and do your job. That’s what you’re paid to do, after all. But leave honest folk in peace. Was there any thing else?”

“No, thank you,” said Kropke. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Name and address?” said Bang.

“Why?” asked the twelve-year-old.

“This is a police investigation,” said Bang.

“Uwe Klejmert,” said the boy. “The address is here.”

Bang noted it down.

“Where were you on the evening of Wednesday, Septem ber eighth?”

“Is that last week? When the Axman murdered Maurice

Ruhme?”

“Yes.”

“Then I was at home.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I watched Clenched Fist till ten o’clock. Then I went to bed.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Yes, my sister had made my bed.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Did he scream?”

“Who?”

“Ruhme.”

“I don’t think so,” said Bang. “I didn’t hear anything, in any case, and I was the first on the scene. Are your parents not at home?”

“No,” said the boy. “They’re at work. They’ll be home around six.”

“All right,” said Bang. “Tell them to report to the police if they think they might have some significant information.”

“Signi…?”

“Significant. If they’ve seen or heard anything odd, that is.”

“So that you can nail the Axman?”

“Exactly.”

“I promise,” said Uwe Klejmert.

Bang put his notebook away in his inside pocket, and saluted.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why Sis made my bed?”

“All right,” said Bang. “Why did she? I’ve never heard of a sister making the bed for anybody.”

“She’d borrowed my Walkman and broke the earphones.”

“Typical sister,” said Bang.

“Do you have a pleasant time at your hotel in the evenings, you and DCI Van Veeteren?” asked Beate Moerk.

“Very pleasant,” said Munster.

“Otherwise I could offer you a toasted sandwich and a glass of wine.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?” said Beate Moerk. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to avoid talking shop.”

“That’s no problem,” said Munster. “I have a feeling we ought to get this case solved pretty damn soon.”

“My own feeling precisely,” said Beate Moerk.