Borkmann's point

3

“Mrs. Simmel?”

The corpulent woman opened the door wide.

“Please come in.”

Beate Moerk did as she was bidden and tried her best to look sympathetic. She handed her light overcoat to Mrs. Sim mel, who fussed as she arranged it on a hanger in the hall.

Then she ushered her visitor into the house, tugging nervously at her tight black dress that had doubtless seen better days.

Coffee was served on a smoked-glass table between substantial leather sofas in the large living room. Mrs. Simmel flopped down into one of them.

“I take it you’re a police officer?”

Beate Moerk sat down and put her briefcase on the sofa beside her. She was used to the question. Had expected it, in fact. People evidently had no difficulty in accepting police women in uniform, but coping with the fact that wearing a uniform was not a necessary part of the job seemed to be a dif ferent matter. How could a woman wear something fashion able and attractive and still carry out her police duties?

Was that still the bottom line? That it was harder to inter view women? Men were often embarrassed, but opened up.

Women went straight to the point, but at the same time were less forthcoming.

Nevertheless, she was confident that Mrs. Simmel was not going to be a problem. She was sitting on the sofa, breathing heavily. Big and ungainly, her eyes swollen but naive.

“Yes, I’m a police inspector. My name’s Beate Moerk. I’m sorry that I have to inconvenience you so soon after… what’s happened. Is there anybody staying with you?”

“My sister,” said Mrs. Simmel. “She’s just gone down to the store.”

Beate Moerk nodded and took a notebook out of her brief case. Mrs. Simmel poured coffee.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you. Can you tell me what happened last Tues day evening?”

“I’ve already… I spoke about it with another police officer yesterday.”

“Chief Inspector Bausen, yes. But I’d be grateful if you could go through it one more time.”

“I don’t see why… I didn’t have anything special to say.”

“Your husband went out at around eight o’clock, I gather you said.”

Mrs. Simmel gave a little sob, but regained control of herself.

“Yes.”

“Why did he go out?”

“He was going to meet a business contact. At The Blue

Ship, I think.”

“Did he often do business there?”

“Now and again. He is… was… in real estate.”

“But we understand that your husband was alone in The

Blue Ship.”

“He can’t have turned up.”

“Who?”

“His business contact.”

“No, evidently not. But your husband didn’t come home instead, when this other person didn’t put in an appearance?”

“No… no, I suppose he thought he might as well have din ner, seeing as he was there anyway.”

“He hadn’t eaten already?”

“No, not dinner.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who he was going to meet.”

“No… no, I never interfere in my husband’s business.”

“I understand.”

Mrs. Simmel gestured toward the cake dish and helped her self to a chocolate biscuit.

“What time did you expect him home?”

“Around… well, about midnight, I suppose.”

“What time did you go to bed yourself?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmel, but your husband has been mur dered. We simply have to ask all sorts of questions. If we don’t, we’ll never be able to catch the man who did it.”

“I suppose it’s the same one.”

“The same as what?”

“The one who killed that Eggers in June.”

Beate Moerk nodded.

“There is evidence to suggest that, yes. But there again, it could be that somebody was, er, inspired by that.”

“Inspired?”

“Yes, somebody who used the same method. You never know, Mrs. Simmel.”

Mrs. Simmel swallowed, and took another biscuit.

“Did your husband have any enemies?”

Mrs. Simmel shook her head.

“Many friends and acquaintances?”

“Yes…”

“A lot of business contacts you weren’t all that well ac quainted with, perhaps?”

“Yes, lots.”

Beate Moerk paused and took a sip of coffee. It was weak and wishy-washy. If you did what her hostess had done and added two lumps of sugar, it would have been impossible to say what it was.

“I have to ask you to allow me to ask a few questions that you might find a bit indiscreet. I hope you realize how serious this business is, and that you’ll answer them as honestly as you can.”

Mrs. Simmel scraped her cup nervously against the saucer.

“How would you describe your marriage?”

“Excuse me?”

“What sort of a married life did you have? You’d been mar ried for thirty years, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two, yes. Your children have flown the nest. Did you still have much contact?”

“With the children, you mean?”

“No, with your husband.”

“Well… yes, I suppose so.”

“Who are your closest friends?”

“Friends? The Bodelsens and the Lejnes… and the Kling forts, of course. And the family, naturally. My sister and her husband. Ernst’s brother and sister… And our children, it goes without saying. Why do you want to know about them?”

“Do you know if your husband had a relationship with any other woman?”

Mrs. Simmel stopped chewing and tried to look as if she hadn’t understood the question.

“With another woman?”

“Or several. If he’d been unfaithful, for instance.”

“No…” She shook her head slowly. “Who might that have been? Who would have had him?”

That was one way of looking at it, of course. Beate Moerk took a drink of coffee in order to suppress a smile.

“Has there been anything lately that you noticed? Anything unusual about your husband’s behavior, I mean.”

“No.”

“Or anything else you can think of?”

“No. What could that have been?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Simmel, but it would be very helpful if you could think carefully about the last few weeks. Something might occur to you. Did you go away this summer, for in stance?”

“Two weeks in July, that’s all. A package holiday, but… but we went to different places. I went with a friend to Kos.

Ernst went off with a friend of his.”

“To Kos?”

“No, not to Kos.”

“Where to, then?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I see… And apart from that you’ve been at home?”

“Yes, apart from the odd day now and then, when we went off in Vanessa… That’s our boat. We sometimes go sailing, and stop somewhere for the night.”

Beate Moerk nodded.

“I understand. But there was nothing special that your hus band was worried about lately?”

“No… no, I don’t think so.”

“No new friends or acquaintances?”

“No…”

“He didn’t tell you about or hint at anything unusual?”

“No.”

Beate Moerk sighed and put down her pen. She leaned back in the sofa.

“And how was business?”

“Fine,” Mrs. Simmel answered, seeming surprised. “Fine, I think…”

As if there were no other possibility, thought Beate Moerk as she dusted a few crumbs from her skirt.

“Do you work, Mrs. Simmel?”

She seemed to hesitate.

“I sometimes help my husband at his office now and then.”

“Doing what?”

“This and that… smartening the place up. Flowers and cleaning, that sort of thing…”

“I’m with you. It’s in Grote Plein, is that right?”

Mrs. Simmel nodded.

“When were you last there?”

“The last time? Er, that would be in May, I think.”

My word, you are a busy bee! thought Beate Moerk.

She had a look around the house as well, mainly because

Bausen had instructed her to do so. Mrs. Simmel led the way, puffing and panting, and Beate Moerk found herself feeling almost sorry for her, having to keep up all these large rooms.

Mind you, no doubt there was a cleaning lady to help out.

It wasn’t easy to see what good it would do, but there again, it was always the same with murder investigations. The aim was to gather facts and information of every kind imaginable the more the better-and file it all away, ready for when some kind of breakthrough was achieved, at which point the tiniest little detail could suddenly prove to be the key to the whole puzzle… case… mystery, or whatever you wanted to call it.

Beate Moerk hadn’t been involved in a murder investi gation for over six years, not since she was a probationer down in Goerlich, and then she hadn’t been much more than a messenger: knocking on doors, passing on messages, sitting in freezing-cold cars waiting for something to happen that never did.

But now they were faced with an ax murderer. Her, Kropke and Detective Chief Inspector Bausen. No wonder it all seemed a bit odd. Some big shot or other was evidently being sent to help them out but basically it was their case. Local people naturally expected them to be the ones who sorted it all out.

To arrest this madman.

And when she thought about Kropke and Bausen, she real ized that much depended on her for a successful outcome.

“Would you like to see the basement as well?”

She nodded, and Mrs. Simmel puffed and panted her way down the stairs.

In June, when the first one happened, she’d been on vaca tion, in a cottage in Tatrabergen with Janos. She’d broken up with him since then or, at least, put him on ice for a while.

She’d missed the first few days of the case, and even if she would never admit it, she’d been fretting about it quite a lot.

Heinz Eggers. She’d read up all about it and put herself in the picture, obviously. She’d taken part in the interviews and interrogations, drawn up outline plans and solved puzzles for the rest of the summer. But they hadn’t gotten very far, she’d be the first to admit. After all those hours of interrogation and consideration, they didn’t seem to have dug up even the slight est trace of a suspicion. Both she and Kropke had put in so many hours of overtime by now that they must be due at least an extra month’s leave-and she might very well cash that in, provided they’d caught the confounded Axman first.

That’s what they called him in the newspapers: the Axman.

And now he’d struck again.

Her mind elsewhere, she allowed Mrs. Simmel to take her on a guided tour of the house. Six rooms and a kitchen, if she’d counted right-for two people. Only one now. Plus a pool room and a sauna in the basement. Patio and a large garden facing the woods. Real estate? Bausen had given Kropke the task of digging around in Simmel’s company. Not a bad idea, in fact. Surely they would come up with something?

But what the hell could Heinz Eggers and Ernst Simmel possibly have in common?

Needless to say, that was the question that had been nag ging away inside her ever since they’d found Simmel’s body, but so far she hadn’t even managed to hit on anything even resembling a guess.

Or was there no link?

Was it just somebody killing at random?

No motive whatsoever, and a month in between strikes.

When he felt like it. Were they really dealing with a madman, as some people maintained? A lunatic?

She shuddered, and the hairs on her arms were standing on end.

Get a grip, Beate! she thought.

She took her leave of Grete Simmel on the paved drive leading into the garage, taking a shortcut over the neat lawn and step ping over the low fence in faux jacaranda. She settled down behind the wheel of her car and considered indulging in a ciga rette, but suppressed the urge. She’d gone over four weeks without now, and it would take more than an axman to break her willpower again.

On the drive, watching her pull away, stood Mrs. Simmel, a black, depressed colossus who had suddenly been saddled with a house worth a million, a sailing boat and a real estate com pany.

And God only knows what else.

The visit had made several things clearer, in any case.

It wasn’t Grete Simmel who had been lying in wait with the ax in the woods; Beate Moerk was 100 percent certain of that.

She was almost equally sure that the victim’s wife hadn’t hired anybody else to carry out the attack, and that she wasn’t involved in any other way. Needless to say, there was no solid evidence to support any of these conclusions; but why not bow to your good judgment and intuition when you’ve been blessed with an abundance of both qualities?

Why not indeed?

She checked her watch. There was time to go home and take a shower before meeting that big shot, she decided.