Borkmann's point

39

The decision to release Eugen Podworsky, and as soon as pos sible inform the media of the disappearance of Inspector Moerk, was taken at about nine p.m. on Sunday evening, by a majority vote of three to one. Bausen, Munster and Van Vee teren were in favor, Kropke against. Mooser abstained, possi bly because he was somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden and very definitely onetime adoption of democratic procedures.

“I’ll speak to Cruickshank now, tonight,” said Van Veeteren.

“I’ve promised him a bit of advance information. Press confer ence tomorrow afternoon?”

Bausen agreed.

“Three o’clock,” he decided. “And we can expect the whole parade, as I said before-television, radio, the lot. It’s not all that common for a murderer to put the cuffs on the police, you have to say.”

“The general public reckon it ought to be the other way around,” said Van Veeteren. “One can see their point, it has to be admitted.”

“What shall we say about Podworsky?” wondered Kropke.

“Not a goddamn word,” said Bausen. “Mouths shut is the order of the day.” He looked around the table. “DCI Van Veeteren and I will talk to the press, nobody else.”

“Typical,” muttered Kropke.

“That’s an order,” said Bausen. “Go home and get some sleep now. Tomorrow is another day, and we’re certain to be on TV. It might help if we looked like normal human beings.

I’ll release Podworsky.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Van Veeteren. “It might be useful for there to be more than one of us.”

It was past eleven before the kids finally went to bed. They opened a bottle of wine and put on a Mostakis tape, and after several failed attempts, they finally managed to get a fire going.

They spread the mattresses out on the floor and undressed each other.

“We’ll wake them up,” said Munster.

“No, we won’t,” said Synn. She stroked his back and crept down under the blankets. “I put a bit of a sleeping pill into their hot chocolate.”

“Sleeping pill?” he thundered, trying to sound outraged.

“Only a little bit. Won’t do them any lasting harm. Come here!”

“OK,” said Munster, and restored relations with his wife.

Monday announced its arrival with a stubborn and persistent downpour that threatened to go on forever. Van Veeteren woke up at about seven, contemplated the rain for a while and decided to go back to bed. This place changes its weather more often than I change my shirt, he thought.

By a quarter past nine he was sharing a breakfast table in the dining room with Cruickshank, who seemed to be remark 2 5 1 ably invigorated and in a strikingly good mood, despite the early hour and the fact that he must have been up working for most of the night.

“Phoned it through at three this morning,” he said enthusi astically. “I’ll be damned if the night desk didn’t want to stop the presses, but they eventually settled for the afternoon edi tion. Talk about Jack the Ripper hysteria!”

Van Veeteren looked decidedly miserable.

“Cheer up!” said Cruickshank. “You’ll soon have cracked it.

He’s gone too far this time. Did she really have some idea who he was?”

“Presumably,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s what he must have thought, at least.”

Cruikshank nodded.

“Have you sent out the press release yet?” he asked, looking around the empty dining room. “I don’t notice any of my col leagues rushing in for the kill.”

Van Veeteren checked his watch.

“Another quarter of an hour, I think. Must finish breakfast and then go into hiding. It’s pissing out there.”

“Hmm,” said Cruickshank, chewing away at a croissant.

“It’ll be shit over the ankles down there.”

“Down where?”

“On the beach and in the woods, of course. With all the photographers and private dicks.”

“You’re probably right,” said Van Veeteren, sighing again.

“Anyway, I think it’s time I went to the police station and locked myself in.”

“Good luck,” said Cruickshank. “I’ll see you this after noon. I expect I’ll still be here, waiting for my fellow union members.”

“Well, that was that,” said the chief of police, flopping back onto the leather sofa. “I have to say that I prefer the newspaper boys.”

Van Veeteren agreed.

“Those well-oiled talking heads on TV make me vomit; they really do. Do you have a lot to do with that crowd?”

He kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes rather cau tiously, as if he were uncertain whether or not they were still there.

“I can’t say that I have much of an interest in encourag ing them,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s be honest; it’s reasonable that they should start forming their own ideas. But you handled them pretty well, I thought.”

“Thank you,” said Bausen. “But we’re definitely in trouble, no matter how you look at it. Has Hiller been onto you?”

Van Veeteren sat back in his chair behind the chief of police’s desk.

“Of course,” he said. “He wanted to send ten men from

Selstadt and another ten from Oostwerdingen-plus a team of forensic officers to run a fine-tooth comb over the jogging track.”

Bausen linked his hands behind the back of his head and gazed out of the window.

“A brilliant idea, in weather like this,” he said. “Does he want you to take charge completely? I mean, damn it to hell,

I’ve only got five days left. I’m quitting on Friday, no matter what. Made up my mind last night-I’m starting to feel like a football coach with a two-year losing streak.”

“The leadership question never came up,” said Van

Veeteren. “In any case, I’ve promised to clear up the whole thing by Friday.”

Bausen was distinctly skeptical.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, filling his pipe. “Let’s leave it at that. Have you spoken to her parents?”

“Mrs. Moerk, yes,” said Van Veeteren.

“Did it go well?”

“Not especially. Why should it?”

“No, it’s a long time since anything went well,” said Bausen.

“I’ve been watching TV,” said Synn. “They don’t give you very good marks.”

“That’s odd,” said Munster. “Something smells good; what are we eating?”

“Creole chicken,” said his wife, giving him a kiss. “Do you think she’s dead?” she whispered in his ear; there’s a limit to what the children of a police officer can be expected to put up with, after all.

“I don’t know,” he said, and just for a moment he once again felt the cold despair well up inside him.

“I saw Dad on TV,” said his daughter, interrupting their conversation and hugging his thigh. “I’ve been swimming in the rain.”

“You’ve been swimming in the sea, you idiot,” said his son.

“Have we any more sleeping pills?” wondered Munster.

Van Veeteren leaned back against the pillows and picked up the Melnik report yet again. He weighed it in his hand for a while, his eyes closed.

Horrific, he thought. Absolutely horrific.

Or perhaps painful might be a better word to describe it.

Hidden away somewhere in these damn documents was the answer, but he couldn’t find it. Thirty-four pages, a total of seventy-five names. He’d underlined them and re-counted twice-women, lovers and possible lovers, good friends, fellow students, colleagues, neighbors, members of the same golf club-right down to the most casual acquaintances, marginal figures who had happened to cross the path of Maurice Ruhme at one time or another. And then occasions-journeys, exams, final exams, appointments, parties, new addresses, congresses, cocaine withdrawal clinics-it was all there, noted down in those densely packed pages, neatly and comprehensively recorded in the dry prose of DCI Melnik. It was a masterpiece of detective work, no doubt about it; but even so, he couldn’t draw any conclusions from it. Not a damn thing!

What was it?

What the hell had Beate Moerk noticed?

Or did she know something that the others didn’t know?

Could that be it? Could it be that he hadn’t passed Borkmann’s point yet, despite everything?

He had her notebooks on his bedside table. Three of them, which he hadn’t gotten around to looking at yet.

It went against the grain. If they really did contain some thing of significance, why had the murderer left them there?

He’d had plenty of time, and didn’t seem to be a person who left anything to chance.

And if in fact she was still alive, despite everything, would he be intruding upon the holy territory of her private life?

Trampling all over her most sacred ground? Before he opened them, he couldn’t have the slightest idea about what she had confided to these notebooks. They hadn’t been meant for him to read, that was for sure.

Did the same reservations apply if she was still alive, come to that?

Yes, of course. Maybe even more so.

He shut his eyes and listened to the rain pattering down. It must have been raining for more than twenty-four hours, heavy and relentless, from an unremitting sky. Leaden and impenetrable. Did the weather never change in this godfor saken hole? he thought.

Whatever; it wasn’t a bad way of presenting what they were up against. Nonstop nudging at the same point. Marking time and never moving on. Waves in a dead sea…

The clock in St. Anna’s church struck twelve. He sighed, opened his eyes, then concentrated for the fourth time on the report from Aarlach.