Hakan Nesser - Borkmann's point

“On the contrary, Inspector,” sighed Moerk. Kropke frowned.

Oh, dear, thought Van Veeteren.

“Coffee?” Bausen’s question was rhetorical, and he was already passing around mugs.

“If it’s true,” said Van Veeteren, “what Inspector Moerk says, then it’s highly probable that you’ve already interrogated the murderer. If you’ve sifted through the… the dregs, that is?”

“Presumably,” said Bausen. “But now Simmel has turned up. I think that changes the situation quite a bit.”

“Definitely,” said Moerk.

Kropke put on a new transparency. It was obviously a pic ture of where Eggers was found-dumped behind some garbage cans in the rear courtyard of an apartment block wait ing to be demolished, by the look of it.

“Was he murdered on the spot?” asked Van Veeteren.

“More or less,” said Kropke. “Only moved a few yards at most.”

“What was he doing there?”

“No idea,” said Bausen. “Drug dealing, I suppose.”

“What time was it?”

“One, two in the morning, something like that.”

“Was he high?”

“Not especially.”

“Why do they have garbage cans outside an apartment block that’s due to be demolished?”

Bausen pondered for a while.

“Dunno… I’ve no idea, in fact.”

Van Veeteren nodded. Kropke poured out some coffee and Beate Moerk opened a carton from the bakery, brimful of Dan ish pastries.

“Excellent,” said Van Veeteren.

“From Sylvie’s, a top-notch bakery and cafe,” said Bausen.

“I recommend a visit. You’ll get a twenty percent discount if you tell them you’re a copper. It’s just around the corner from here.”

Van Veeteren removed his toothpick and helped himself to a pastry.

“Anyway,” said Kropke, “as far as Eggers is concerned, we’re rowing against the tide, you might say.”

“What about the weapon?” asked Van Veeteren, speaking with his mouth full. “What does the doctor have to say?”

“Just a moment.”

Kropke produced a new transparency-a sketch of how the ax blade, or whatever it was, had cut its way through the back of Eggers’s neck, passing straight through the vertebrae, artery, gullet-the lot.

“A massive blow?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Not necessarily,” said Beate Moerk. “It depends on what the blade looks like, and it seems to have been extremely sharp-and thin.”

“Which means that not so much force was needed,” added Kropke.

“You can also see,” said Beate Moerk, “that it came at quite an angle, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything special. It could indicate that the murderer was quite short, or rather tall.

It all depends on how he held the weapon. And what it looks like, of course.”

“Just think how many different ways there are of hitting a tennis ball,” said Kropke.

Van Veeteren took another Danish pastry.

“And it’s likely that the weapon was an ax?” he asked.

“Of some kind,” said Bausen. “I think we’ll move on to

Simmel now. Maybe Inspector Moerk would like to fill us in?”

Beate Moerk cleared her throat and leafed through her notebook.

“Well, we haven’t got very far yet. It was only the day before yesterday, at eight in the morning, that a jogger found him in the municipal woods. He first noticed blood on the path; and when he stopped to investigate, he saw the body just a few yards away. The murderer doesn’t seem to have made much of an effort to hide it. He-the jogger, that is-called the police right away. Chief Inspector Bausen and I went to the spot together, and we were able to establish that, well, that we seemed to be dealing with the same killer as last time.”

“Cut down from behind,” said Bausen. “A bit harder and the head would have been severed altogether. It looked like one hell of a mess.”

“The same weapon?” asked Van Veeteren.

“Ninety percent certain,” said Kropke.

“A hundred would be better,” said Van Veeteren.

“Presumably,” said Bausen, “we’re not talking about an ordinary ax. The blade appears to be wider than it’s deep.

Maybe six or even eight inches. No sign of either end of the blade in Eggers or Simmel, according to the pathologist, at least. And Simmel especially had a real bull neck.”

“A machete, perhaps?” suggested Van Veeteren.

“I’ve looked into that,” said Bausen. “I wondered if it might be some kind of knife or sword with a very strong blade, but the cutting edge is straight, not curved like a machete.”

“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “Maybe that’s not the most important thing at this stage. What’s the link between Eggers and Simmel?”

Nobody spoke.

“That’s a good question,” said Bausen.

“We haven’t found one yet,” said Kropke. “But we’re look ing, of course-”

“Scoundrels, the pair of them,” said Bausen. “But in different leagues, you might say. I reckon Simmel’s business affairs wouldn’t stand all that much broad daylight shining on them, but that’s something for the tax lawyers rather than ordinary mortals like us. He’s never been involved in anything specifi cally criminal. Not like Eggers, I mean.”

“Or at least, he’s not been caught,” said Moerk.

“Drugs?” said Van Veeteren. “They usually unite princes and paupers.”

“We have no indications of any such involvement,” said Kropke.

It would be no bad thing if we solved this business before a new chief of police takes over, thought Van Veeteren.

“What was he doing in the woods?”

“On his way home,” said Beate Moerk.

“Where from?”

“The Blue Ship restaurant. He’d been there from half past eight until eleven, roughly. There are several witnesses. Went for a stroll through the town, it seems. The last people to see him alive were a couple of women in Fisherman’s Square-at about twenty past eleven, give or take a minute or so.”

“What does the pathologist’s report say about the time of death?”

“The final version is due tomorrow,” said Bausen. “As things look at the moment, between eleven and one. Well, half past eleven and one, I suppose.”

Van Veeteren leaned back and looked up at the ceiling.

“That means there are two possibilities,” he said, and waited for a reaction.

“Precisely,” said Beate Moerk. “Either the murderer was lying in wait by the path, ready to have a go at whoever came past, or he followed Simmel from the restaurant.”

“He might have just bumped into him,” said Kropke. “By accident, in other words-”

“And he had an ax with him-by accident?” said Moerk.

Good, thought Van Veeteren. I wonder if Bausen has enter tained the idea of having a female successor? Although it’s not up to him, of course.

Four reporters were lying in wait by the front desk, but Bausen was clearly used to sending them packing.

“Press conference tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock sharp. Not a word out of us until then!”

Van Veeteren declined Bausen’s offer of a modest meal and a lift back to the hotel.

“I need some fresh air. Thought I’d buy some newspapers as well.”

Bausen nodded.

“Here’s my phone number in case you change your mind. I expect I’ll be in all evening.”

He handed a business card to Van Veeteren, who put it in his breast pocket. The chief of police clambered into his some what battered Toyota and drove away. Van Veeteren watched him go.

Nice fellow, he thought. I wonder if he plays chess as well.

He looked at his watch. Half past five. A couple of hours’ work in his room, and then dinner. That sounded like a good way of passing the time. That was just about the only skill he’d managed to acquire over the years: the ability to kill time.