Hakan Nesser - Borkmann's point

“That’s it just ahead of us, isn’t it?” said Kropke.

Bausen turned to look ahead and agreed. There it was.

Eugen Podworsky’s house, scantily protected by a rectangle of spruce firs. He was familiar with its history. Built toward the end of the previous century, it had served for a few decades as the home of the more senior peat-cutter families, before the bottom fell out of the industry and it became uneconomical early in the twentieth century; and eventually, like so much else in Kaalbringen and vicinity, it fell into the hands of Ernst

Simmel. And eventually into the none-too-tender care of

Eugen Podworsky.

“It looks like hell,” said Kropke as he parked in the shelter of a comparatively bushy double spruce.

“I know,” said Bausen. “Can you see the truck anywhere?”

Kropke shook his head.

“No point in trying to creep up on him,” said Bausen. “If he’s at home, he’ll have been watching us for the last five minutes-plenty of time to load his shotgun and take position in the kitchen window.”

“Ugh,” said Kropke. “No wonder Simmel didn’t succeed in evicting him.”

“Hmm,” said Bausen. “I don’t understand why he even bothered to try. Who do you think would want to buy a place like this?”

Kropke considered that one.

“No idea,” he said. “Some naive newcomer, perhaps. What shall we do, then?”

“We’d better get inside and check the place out,” said

Bausen. “Now that we’re here. I’ll go first. Keep some way behind me, and have your pistol at the ready in case anything happens. You never know-”

“OK,” said Kropke.

“But I don’t think he’s in.”

Bausen got out of the car and followed the row of straggly fir trees, passing through the gateway, where a rusty, peeling mailbox bore witness to the fact that the post office still made the effort to drive the extra miles over the heath-presumably because Podworsky had threatened to kill the manager if he withdrew the service, Bausen thought. He took the newspaper out of the mailbox.

“Today’s,” he confirmed. “You can put your revolver back in your armpit. He’s not at home.”

They walked along the path to the veranda. On either side of the door was a worn-out leather armchair and a hammock.

Evidently Eugen Podworsky was in the habit of making the most of warm summer and fall evenings. About ten crates of empty bottles were stacked up against the wall; piles of news papers were all over the place, and on a rickety metal table were a transistor radio, a large can full of sand with cigarette butts sticking out of it, and a badly washed beer glass. A yel lowish gray cat rubbed itself against the table leg; another one, slightly darker, lay outstretched in front of the door.

“Well,” said Kropke, “now what?”

“God only knows,” said Bausen. “Who interrogated Pod worsky after the Simmel murder? I take it we’ve interviewed him?”

Kropke scratched his unoccupied armpit.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Moerk… yes, it was Moerk, I’m sure of it.”

Bausen lit a cigarette. He walked up the veranda steps and over to the door. The cat hissed and shifted a couple of feet to one side.

“It’s open,” said Bausen. “Shall we go in?”

Kropke nodded.

“Do you think the inside will be any better than the out — side?”

“I was here once about twelve or fifteen years ago,” said

Bausen, entering the dingy entrance hall. He looked around. “I don’t think he’s done much in the way of decorating…”

Twenty minutes later they were back in the car.

“A pointless visit,” said Kropke.

“Maybe,” said Bausen. “He has a hell of a lot of books.”

“What do you think, Chief Inspector?”

“What do you think, as new chief of police?”

“I don’t know,” said Kropke, trying to avoid sounding embarrassed. “Difficult to say. Coming here wasn’t much help, though. We need to get hold of the man himself. Give him an aggressive interrogation. I think it would help if we were a bit rougher with him than we usually are.”

“You think so?” said Bausen.

Kropke started the car.

“Where do you think he is?”

“In Fisherman’s Square, presumably,” said Bausen. “I seem to remember he has a stall there on Saturdays-I take it you noticed the greenhouses around the back?”

“Yes… of course,” said Kropke. “Shall we go pick him up?

Or do we have to leave him alone because we didn’t find any bloodstained clothing under the bed?”

Bausen said nothing for some time.

“I think we’d better ask the advice of our guests first,” he said. “We have the little problem of Inspector Moerk as well, or had you forgotten that?”

Kropke drummed at the steering wheel.

“Do you think… do you think they’ve found her?”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Bausen. “Not in the state that you’re hinting at, in any case.”

Kropke swallowed and stepped on the gas. He suddenly saw the previous victims with their almost severed heads in his mind’s eye. He glanced down and saw that his knuckles had turned white.

God, he thought, surely she can’t be…

“Nothing?” asked Bausen.

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “Thank God, I suppose you could say. But I’m afraid it’s not much to celebrate-she hasn’t come back from jogging.”

“How do you know?”

“Her car. It’s still parked next to the smokehouse,” said

Mooser.

Bausen nodded.

“What about you?” asked Munster.

“Left the nest,” said Bausen with a shrug.

“The market?” suggested Mooser. “He usually sells vege tables in the square.”

Kropke shook his head.

“No. We’ve just come from there. He hasn’t shown up today.”

“Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh, draping his jacket over the back of his chair. “We need to get a grip now. This business is becoming as clear as porridge.”

“Bang,” said Bausen. “Go to Sylvie’s and tell her we need something really special today.”

Bang saluted and left the room. The others sat down around the table, apart from Van Veeteren, who opened the window and stood gazing out over the rooftops. The chief of police leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. He sighed deeply and stared at the portraits of three of his prede cessors on the wall opposite.

“OK,” he said after a while. “What the hell do we do now?

Please be kind to somebody who’s about to become an old aged pensioner! What the hell do we do now?”

“Hmm,” said Munster. “That’s a good question.”

“I have one more week before I retire,” said Bausen, blow ing his nose. “Fate seems to want me to spend it trying to find one of my inspectors. Find her in some damn ditch with her head cut off-that’s what I call a great way to end a career.”

“Oh, shit,” said Munster.

Nobody spoke. Bausen had clasped his hands in front of him now and closed his eyes. For a brief moment it seemed to

Munster that he was praying, but then he opened both his eyes and his mouth again.

“Yes, a big heap of shit is what I’m surrounded by,” he said.

“Ah, well,” said Van Veeteren, sitting down. “That could well be. But perhaps we ought to spend a little less time swear ing and a little more trying to get somewhere-that’s just a modest suggestion, of course.”

“Excuse me,” said Bausen, sighing deeply. “You’re right, of course, but we might as well wait for the coffee, don’t you think? Kropke, you can tell us the Podworsky story, as we intended in the first place.”

Kropke nodded and started sorting out his papers.

“Shall we make this public knowledge?” asked Mooser.