Borkmann's point

38

Eugen Podworsky certainly looked as if he was in a very bad mood. When Kropke and Mooser brought him to the inter view room, his furrowed face was red with indignation; and to make his attitude crystal clear, he thumped his enormous fists on the table.

“Get these fucking things off my wrists!” he bellowed.

Van Veeteren gave the signal. Kropke unlocked the hand cuffs and left the room, together with Mooser.

“Please sit down,” said Van Veeteren. “My name is Detec tive Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.”

“I couldn’t give a shit what your name is,” said Podworsky, sitting down on the chair. “What the hell is all this?”

“I’m going to ask you some questions in connection with the murders of Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Ruhme.”

“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Again?”

Van Veeteren indicated that Munster should start the tape recorder. Munster pressed the appropriate button, and his superior went through the formalities. Podworsky answered mainly by snorting or swearing, but once he’d been allowed to light a cigarette, he started-at least as far as Munster could see-to be a little more cooperative.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s move it, and get this out of the way; I have half a ton of fish starting to go bad.”

“What were you doing last Friday evening?” asked Van Veeteren to set the ball rolling.

“Last Friday?” said Podworsky. “What the hell do you want to know what I was doing last Friday for? It’s ages since the last of them died, surely-?”

“If you answer my questions instead of repeating them, it will go more quickly,” said Van Veeteren. “I thought you said you were in a hurry.”

Podworsky opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“All right,” he said, and seemed to be thinking back.

Van Veeteren didn’t move a muscle.

“Nothing special in the evening,” Podworsky eventually decided. “I went around to chat with Saulinen about the boat in the afternoon-got the keys and so on. Then I drove home.

Next question, please!”

“What were you doing the night Simmel was murdered?”

“I’ve already explained that to the skirt who’s supposed to be a cop. I was at home asleep. That’s what I usually do at night.”

“Can anybody confirm that?” asked Munster.

“My cats,” said Podworsky.

“And when Ruhme died?” asked Van Veeteren.

“When was that?”

“The night between the eighth and ninth of this month.”

“God only knows. The same, I suppose.”

“Did you know Heinz Eggers?”

“No.”

“Any alibi for the Eggers murder?”

“I was in Chadow. Stop pissing around and asking me things I’ve already told you guys!”

“All right,” said Van Veeteren. “What were you doing in Aarlach in March 1983?”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Aarlach in 1983?”

“Stop messing me around,” snorted Van Veeteren. “You were in the hospital for a week, for God’s sake.”

“Ah,” grunted Podworsky. “You mean that damn business.

What the hell has that got to do with this?”

“Is it you or me who’s asking the questions?”

Podworsky groaned.

“You’re a real ugly bastard!”

“I think we’ll take a pause there,” said Van Veeteren. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I gather they eat rotten fish in some countries-Sweden, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Hang on, for fuck’s sake!” said Podworsky. “Aarlach-of course I can tell you about that, if you damn well insist. Sit down!”

Van Veeteren sat down. Podworsky lit another cigarette and scratched his head.

“Well?” said Van Veeteren.

“What’s the time limit on proceedings for illegal distilling?” asked Podworsky.

“You’ll be all right,” said Van Veeteren.

“Sure?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Never trust the fucking cops,” said Podworsky. “Switch that fucking machine off!”

Van Veeteren nodded, and Munster switched off the tape recorder. Podworsky gave a hoarse laugh.

“All right. Here you have it. I’d hit upon a consignment of spirits that needed selling on-”

“Hit upon?” said Van Veeteren.

“Let’s call it that,” said Podworsky.

“How much?”

“Quite a lot.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“And you see, I had this pal, a Dane, in Aarlach who had a buyer, a fucking medic, as it turned out, who wasn’t too fond of paying what he owed.”

“What was his name?” interrupted Munster.

“His name? Fuck knows. I can’t remember. Well, some thing beginning with B. Bloe-something-”

“Bleuwe?” suggested Van Veeteren.

“Yeah, that’s probably it-one of those academic assholes who thought he could make some easy cash by selling booze to his snotty pals. We’d reached agreement on everything, the delivery was arranged, everything fixed up, all that remained now was payment-”

“And?” said Van Veeteren.

“That was what we were going to sort out at that pub… and this little prick sits there with his pal and thinks he can pull a fast one on me! What do you reckon the odds are on that,

Constable?”

“How much are we talking about?” asked Munster.

“Quite a bit,” said Podworsky. “We’d sunk a fair amount, and I got a bit annoyed, of course. I only regret one thing-”

“What?” said Van Veeteren.

“That I didn’t wait for the Dane before I went for them,” said Podworsky, succumbing to a sudden coughing fit. He had to turn away and double up with his hands over his mouth, and it lasted for nearly half a minute. Munster looked at Van Veeteren. Tried to work out what he was thinking, but that was impossible, as usual. As for himself, he thought Pod worsky’s story sounded pretty plausible; at least he didn’t give the impression of making it up as he went along.

Although you could never be sure, of course. He’d seen this kind of thing before. And got it wrong before, as well.

“What was the name of his pal?” asked Van Veeteren when Podworsky had finished coughing.

“Eh?”

“Bleuwe’s mate. What was he called?”

“No idea,” said Podworsky.

“Did he ever introduce himself?” asked Munster.

“He might have, but I’m fucked if I can remember the name of somebody I punched on the nose twelve years ago.”

“Ten,” said Van Veeteren. “What was his name?”

“What the fuck?” said Podworsky. “Are you not all there, and what’s going on?”

Van Veeteren waited for a few seconds while Podworsky stared at them, shifting his gaze from one to the other as if he were asking himself how on earth he could have landed in front of two idiots instead of two police officers.

Mind you, in his world the difference probably wasn’t all that great, Munster conceded.

“His name was Maurice Ruhme,” said Van Veeteren.

Podworsky gaped at him.

“Oh, fuck,” he said.

He leaned back in his chair and thought things over for a while.

“OK,” he said eventually. “Let’s be clear about one thing-I didn’t manage to kill the bastard in that goddamn bar, and I haven’t succeeded in doing it since then either. Any more ques tions?”

“Not right now,” said Van Veeteren, standing up again. “But you can sit here and think this over, and maybe we’ll get back to you.” He knocked on the door and Kropke and Mooser returned with the cuffs.

“You fucking bastards,” said Podworsky, and there’s no doubt that it sounded as if he meant it.