Hakan Nesser - Borkmann's point

Van Veeteren rummaged around in his pockets for ciga rettes, and to his delight came up with Bausen’s pack.

“Somewhere,” he said, gesturing with his arm, “some where out there he was lying in wait and then pounced yester day evening. Waited for her to come running, and then-”

“And then?” said Munster.

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette and examined the spent match before flicking it over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m damned if I know.

But one thing is clear. He didn’t attack her with the ax this time-not out here, at least. We can’t have missed that much blood.”

“That’s some consolation,” said Munster.

“Of course it is,” said Van Veeteren. “Shall we go, then?”

“How’s it going?” asked Hiller.

Van Veeteren regarded the telephone with repugnance.

“Well,” he said.

“Well?” said Hiller. “You’ll soon have been at it for a month.

There are those who think it’s high time the case was solved.”

“They’re welcome to come give us a hand,” said Van Veeteren.

“At least you could send us some kind of report. Some people would like to know what you’re actually doing-”

“Some people are welcome to disappear up their own asses.”

Hiller muttered something incomprehensible.

“Do you need reinforcements?”

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “But Munster would no doubt like to go back home for a few days.”

“Why?”

“Wife and children. Have you heard of such creatures?”

Hiller muttered again.

“Would you like Reinhart to relieve him?”

“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ll have a word with Mun ster, but we’ll wait until after Monday.”

“Monday? Why after Monday?”

“Read the newspapers, and you’ll understand.”

“What the hell-?”

“Or watch the box. Monday’s when some new light will be cast on the case, you might say.”

Various strange noises could be heard in the receiver, but

Van Veeteren could not be certain if they were due to a bad line or the chief of police gasping for breath.

“Are you saying that your report is going to come via the mass media? That is the goddamnedest thing,” he eventually managed to articulate, before Van Veeteren interrupted him.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I have to go out and tail an ugly crook now. I’ll get back to you.”

There was a crackling noise again. Van Veeteren put down the receiver and pulled out the plug.

With three bottles of brown ale in a bucket of cold water on the floor, and a dish of fat olives within easy reach, he slid down into the bath and switched off the light.

He closed his eyes and made his head comfortable against the edge of the tub, then stretched out a hand, fished up the open bottle and took a couple of deep swigs.

I’m not going to get up until I’ve solved this business, he thought, but soon realized that it might be prudent to adjust the demands somewhat. What the hell would the others say on Monday if they found themselves with not only a missing inspector to deal with, but a drowned DCI as well?

Enough of setting silly deadlines and similar nonsense, he decided. Back to basics. The Axman. Concentrate.

There was an old rule that occasionally used to crop up, which he had no doubt inherited from Borkmann, one of the few police officers he’d come across for whom he had nothing but respect and admiration. Probably the only one, now that he came to think of it, which was most likely connected with the time aspect: Borkmann had completed his final years in post as a chief inspector up in Frigge, where Van Veeteren himself was just beginning his career as a probationer. Be that as it may, he still felt confidence and trust in the old guy; of course, he no longer needed to analyze the circumstances in detail. Even a hardened old cop needs the occasional firm foothold or lifeboat to cling to, he used to tell himself. Borkmann’s rule was hardly a rule; in fact, it was more of a comment, a land mark for tricky cases.

In every investigation, he maintained, there comes a point beyond which we don’t really need any more information.

When we reach that point, we already know enough to solve the case by means of nothing more than some decent think ing. A good investigator should try to establish when that point has been reached, or rather, when it has been passed; in his memoirs, Borkmann went so far as to claim that it was pre cisely this ability, or the lack of it, which distinguishes a good detective from a bad one.

A bad one carries on unnecessarily.

Van Veeteren emptied the first of the bottles and took two olives.

What happened when information continued streaming in once that point had been reached?

In the best-case scenario, it made no difference.

In most cases it didn’t cause too much damage.

In the worst-case scenario, it was a big disadvantage. Made smoke screens, splintered resources and caused problems.

Van Veeteren chewed away and sucked the stones clean.

Borkmann was right, certainly. And this case was definitely a worst-case scenario. How much easier it was to catch some body who was content with just one murder than to track down a serial killer, in which case the information-tips, tracks, leads and suspicions-almost inevitably led to the simple and obvious being engulfed by the mass of material.

How much easier it was to cash in on a one-pawn advan tage when there were fewer pieces on the board.

The question was simple: Had the point been passed?

Did he already know enough, sitting here in his hot bath, to pick out the Axman? Was there any point in continuing to search for tracks and leads?

He groped around the bottom of the bucket for the opener.

Already he knew the answer. Or at least, he had made up his mind about it.

Yes.

Yes. The murderer was there. Carefully concealed in the mishmash of interrogations and minutes and discussions. Hid den and tucked away in the even more confused convolutions inside his own brain. The Axman was there. It was just a mat ter of fishing him out.

He found the opener. That was something, at least.

Pro primo, he thought.

Three men have been murdered in Kaalbringen. Heinz

Eggers on June 28. Ernst Simmel on August 31. Maurice Ruhme on September 8. Same weapon, same method. Same killer.

No doubt about that.

Pro secundo.

Despite comprehensive and assiduous work, we haven’t succeeded in finding the slightest link between the three vic tims (apart from the fact that they had moved to Kaalbringen this year) until a report concerning the third victim’s time in

Aarlach comes into the investigators’ hands. Everybody notices immediately that a certain Eugen Podworsky occurs in the background (but only in the background, nota bene) of two of the cases. Inspector Moerk reads the report and is struck by something “bizarre.” She announces that she is going to check out the matter, does so, and Pro tertio.

— is exposed, no, discovered or observed while carrying out this check (whatever it might have been) by the murderer. (He might possibly have seen her purely by chance.) The murderer follows her and strikes (?) when Moerk appropriately enough is in the woods, in the back of beyond…

Something like that, yes. That was it, really. Was there any possibility of different scenarios? Yes, of course. But he didn’t want to think so. This is how it must have happened. He took another drink and started wondering if he ought to get out of the bath and fetch a cigarette.

Smoke in the bath? What decadence!

But why not? Dripping and shivering, he padded into his room. He collected an ashtray, his lighter and Bausen’s old, crumpled pack of HB cigarettes, then flopped back into the warm water, lit up and inhaled deeply.