Hakan Nesser - Borkmann's point

The totality of suffering in the world down the ages?

The overall power of evil?

Or it might just be that damn obstinacy everybody talks about. My obstinacy and peculiar strength… and the fact that

I always keep putting off having that baby…

Or maybe a bit of both? The same thing?

If that was the case, what the hell did it matter? Her thoughts wandered off and she could no longer find the thread. She clenched her fists, but after a few seconds could no longer feel them. They turned numb and evaporated; in the same inevitable way as her vain efforts to follow a line of thought.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “It was that same year. He van ished that same summer… came back last spring, as did the other two. Surely it has to be a sign when all three suddenly turn up in Kaalbringen within a few weeks of each other.

Don’t try to tell me that it’s just a coincidence. It was a sign from Bitte. From Bitte and from Helena, it’s so damn obvious that you can’t possibly ignore it… Will anybody be able to understand that?”

There was a sudden sharp edge to his voice. Indignation at having been wronged. As if it wasn’t in fact he himself who was behind it all. As if he was not responsible for these murders.

As if…

Merely an instrument.

Something that Wundermaas had said came back to her possibly not word for word, but the gist-something about there being a necessity behind most murders, a compulsion that was stronger than anything behind other actions; if that was not the case, they would never take place, never need to be carried out.

If there was an alternative.

Necessity. Sorrow, determination and necessity… yes, she understood that this was the way it was.

Sorrow. Determination. Necessity.

She waited for the continuation, but there was none. Only his heavy breathing that cut through the darkness, and it struck her that it was this very moment, at this second, when time had stood still, that he was making up his mind about her own fate.

“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered.

Maybe it was too early. Maybe she didn’t want to give him time to think it through.

He didn’t answer. He stood up and backed out through the door.

Closed it and locked it. Shot the bolts.

Once again she was alone. She listened to his footsteps fad ing away and huddled up against the wall. Pulled the blankets over her.

One left, she thought. He has one more to tell me about.

And then?

And then?

If he’d had the ability to see into the future, if only for a few hours, it is possible that he’d have given lunch a miss without more ado. And set off for Kaalbringen as quickly as possible.

As it was-with the solution of this long drawn-out case clearly within reach-he decided instead to indulge him self with a Canaille aux Prunes at Arno’s Cellar, a little sea food restaurant he remembered from the occasion more than twenty years earlier when he’d spent a week here on a course.

In any case, he probably needed a few hours to think things over in peace and quiet; how he directed the final act of this drama was of some significance-of considerable significance, in fact. The Axman needed to be arrested as painlessly as pos sible, and also as far as possible, the question of motives in vestigated and clarified. And then there was the problem concerning Inspector Moerk, of course. There were probably plenty of opportunities to put a foot wrong and, to quote

Bausen, it was a long time since anything had gone well with this case.

However, he could think of no better companion than a good meal.

After the pear in brandy and the coffee, he had made up his mind about the various problems-a strategy that seemed to him to have good odds of working and involved as good a chance of avoiding injury to Inspector Moerk as could be hoped.

Assuming she was still alive, that is. He wanted to believe it, of course, but probabilities didn’t seem to play much of a role in this case.

Probabilities? he thought. I ought to have known by now.

It was half past three. He paid his bill, left his corner table and occupied the phone booth in the vestibule.

Three calls. First to Bausen at home in his nest; then Mun ster-no answer at the cottage-no doubt he was still on the beach with Synn and the kids. Then Kropke at the police sta tion. This call cost Van Veeteren half an hour; the inspector evidently found it a little difficult to catch on to what was hap pening, but when they eventually finished the conversation,

Van Veeteren had the feeling that everything would work out well, notwithstanding.

He set off shortly after four o’clock, and he had barely reached

Ulming, after a mere seven or eight miles, when he noticed his generator warning light blinking. Before long it was emitting a constant and ominous glow, and matters were not helped by the driver cursing and beating the dashboard with both fists.

On the contrary, the bastard of a car started coughing and los ing speed, and when he came to a service station, he was forced to admit that he had no choice.

He uttered a few more choice oaths, put on his right-hand blinker and left the highway.

“A new generator,” said the young mechanic after a cursory look under the hood. “Probably not possible to do anything about it today.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked apologetic. Van Veeteren cursed.

“Well, okay, if it’s so urgent and if you’re prepared for what it’ll cost.”

Hmm. It might well take four or five hours… he’d have to drive to town, of course, to buy a new one, but if the customer was in a hurry, he could hire a car, naturally. There were one or two available.

“And leave my stereo system here?” roared the detective chief inspector, with a broad gesture encompassing the depressing sight of the workshop interior. “What the hell do you take me for?”

“All right,” said the mechanic. “Might I suggest that you wait in the cafe? You can buy books and magazines at the news stand.”

Damnation! thought Van Veeteren. Bloody car! I won’t be back in Kaalbringen until one or two in the morning.

“Phone!” yelled Bart.

Munster and his family had stayed on the beach until the sun had started to sink behind the line of trees in the west.

They had only just walked through the door after a day filled with games, relaxation and reunion. Munster carefully placed the sleeping four-year-old in bed while Synn went to answer the phone.

“It’s DCI Van Veeteren,” she whispered, with her hand over the earpiece. “He sounds like a barrel of gunpowder about to go off. Something to do with the car.”

Munster took the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

That was more or less the only word he spoke for the next ten minutes or more. He just stood there in the window recess, listening and nodding while his wife and his son prowled around and around him in ever-decreasing circles. A single look was enough for Synn to understand, and she passed on her knowledge to her six-year-old, who had been through this many times before.

No doubt about it. The car was not what this call was really about. She could hear that in the voice of her husband’s boss at the other end of the line: a muffled but unstoppable tornado.

She saw it in her husband’s face as well-in his body language, the profile of his jaw. Tense, resolute. A slight touch of white under his ears…

It was time.

And slowly that feeling of worry surged toward and over her. The feeling she couldn’t speak about, not even to him, but which she knew she shared with every other policeman’s wife all over the world.

The possibility that… The possibility of something hap pening that…