Borkmann's Point (12 page)

Münster approved.

“Maurice Rühme, in that case,” he said. “No point in poking around old corpses when there’s a fresh one at hand.”
“My view exactly,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ll go far, one of
these fine days.”
“Just now I’ll settle for going to bed,” said Münster. “Good
night, sir!”
As soon as she woke up, she went down to the newsstand and
bought the newspapers.
It was part of the Sunday ritual, and she could normally
count on walking there and back by the time the kettle had
boiled. Today it took four times as long. Mrs. Sorenson
stopped her outside the front door and wanted her worries put
to rest, Mr. Markovic had opinions to shout down from his balcony, and Miss deMaar at the newsstand refused to hand over
the papers until she had been given a detailed report on how
the murder hunt was progressing. A family that had only
recently moved in, husband and wife and two blubbering children, had views about the competence of the police and their
duty to protect ordinary, decent citizens; and when she finally
managed to get away, it was only by referring to the important
interrogations she was due to conduct after lunch.
“Interrogations! Really?” growled the janitor, Mr. Geurtze,
who had materialized out of nowhere. “That’s something, I
suppose. And when do you expect to find the next victim?”
It was impossible not to notice his sarcasm. But there again,
she reminded herself that Mr. Geurtze never did have anything
nice to say. Not since somebody set fire to the rabbit hutches at
his allotment a few years ago. She could see his point, in fact; in
his world, good had surrendered unconditionally to evil. There
was no reason for him to expect anything but unpleasantness
and ugly stuff. It was one way of avoiding disappointment.
Perhaps that wasn’t a stupid stance to adopt—not if you
were a lonely old man with a weak bladder, cataracts and heart
fibrillation. On the other hand, if you were a woman in her
prime, perhaps you ought to try for a more balanced view of
life.
Stupid old bastard, was Beate Moerk’s conclusion as she
locked the door behind her.

The line taken by the newspapers was more or less consistent.
Two and a half months had passed since the first murder,
twelve days since the second, three since the last one—surely it
was high time the police spoke out? What leads did they have?
What theories were they working on? Had they any concrete
suspicions? The general public had a right to be informed!

Nevertheless, the criticism was not as cutting as what she’d
been subjected to at the newsstand. Their faith in Bausen and
the two experts summoned from outside to assist appeared to
be more or less unshaken. The chief of police had evidently
succeeded yet again with his spin and tactical ploys at the press
conference the day before.

The speculation and guessing games were all the more
wholehearted for that.
Who was this macabre demon?
A madman? A psychotic butcher? A perfectly normal citizen of Kaalbringen with a wife and children and a law-abiding
lifestyle?
The latter was, of course, the most attractive possibility
from a journalistic point of view—the idea that it could be anybody at all! Somebody sitting opposite you on the bus. Somebody you chatted to in the line at the post office. One of the
supply teachers at the high school. A series of psychologists
from various factions pontificated; one newspaper had an
article in its Sunday supplement about a number of similar
cases, most of them foreign and several decades old. Rolliers,
the Nice murderer; Günther Katz, the grim reaper from
Vermsten; Ernie Fischer, who butchered women in 1930s
Chicago—not to mention the Boston Strangler and various
other stars in the criminal firmament.
As there had been no clear guidance from those in charge
of the investigation, the garden of speculation was in full
bloom. The
Neuwe Blatt
gave prominence to the so-called Leisner Park theory, which was based on the fact that in at least
two of the killings (Simmel and Rühme), the murderer had
probably come from or through that park; and so he must live
in one of the apartment blocks in that area. C. G. Gautienne
wrote in
den Poost
that “the accelerating tempo of the murders
quite clearly indicates another outrage at the beginning of next
week, Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest . . .”; whereas the
Telegraaf
informed its readers of the most effective way of protecting themselves from the Axman, as well as passing on the
prophecy of their resident astrologer, Ywonne: The next victim
would probably be a forty-two-year-old man in the building
trade.
Beate Moerk sighed.
De Journaal,
finally, Kaalbringen’s local voice in the media
world, naturally devoted more space to the murders than any
other newspaper—no less than eighteen pages out of thirtytwo—and perhaps expressed the general unrest and the mood
of the town in its front-page headline—eight columns wide
and in war-is-declared typography:

who’ll be the next victim?
Beate Moerk dropped the newspapers on the floor and
slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

What she would most have liked to do, if she had been free
to respond to her body’s signals, was pull the bedspread over
her head and go back to sleep.

But it was eleven o’clock. High time to go out for a jog. A
couple of miles west along the shore, then three or four back
through the woods. It was still windy, but the rain seemed to
be holding off. The wind would be behind her on the way
out—that was the most important thing. Most of the time,
you weren’t affected by the wind in the woods.

“Don’t go out on your own, whatever you do!” her mother
had instructed when she phoned yesterday. “Don’t assume that
he doesn’t attack women, and don’t fool yourself that your
being a police officer will make any difference!”

If it had been anybody else who’d said that, she might have
been tempted to pay some attention, but as it was, it was years
ago that she had learned the trick of letting her mother’s
advice go in one ear and out the other. If by any chance she
happened to remember any of the words spoken, it was
mainly because she wanted to find justification for ignoring
them.

So, let’s get jogging! Obey her body’s pleas to stay in bed
and rest for a few more hours? No, not on your life!
A quarter of an hour later she was dressed and ready. She
pulled the zipper of her tracksuit top as high as it would go,
and tied the broad red headband around her hair.
She checked how she looked in the mirror. It’ll do.
Fear not the devil or the fairies.
Weather, wind or wicked weapon wielders.
. . .

Dusk closed in rapidly. It fell like a stage curtain, more or less,
and when she entered her apartment it was almost pitch-dark,
even though it was only seven o’clock. Her body was tired and
aching now. Two hours of jogging and stretching followed by
four hours of interrogation at the police station, then working
out a program for the coming week with who would do
what—needless to say, it all had its effect. Who could ask for
more, even from a woman in her prime?

Even so, she refused merely to flop into bed. Despite the
protest from her body, she prepared an evening meal of an
omelet, some greens and a lump of cheese. She washed up
and made coffee. Two hours at her desk in peace and quiet—
that was what she wanted. Two hours of solitary majesty,
with darkness and silence forming a protective dome around
her thoughts and ideas, around her notepad, notes and
speculations—it was during these evening sessions that she
would solve the case. It was here, lost in thought at her desk,
that Inspector Beate Moerk would seek out, identify and outsmart the Axman!

If not tonight, then very soon, no question about it.
Was there any other cop in this country who had a more
romantic attitude toward her job than she did? Hardly likely.
Whatever, there was another rule she was loathe to abandon,
even though she was not at all clear where she had got it from:
Any day you fail to carve out even a short time to spend doing
what you really want to do is a wasted day.
How very true.
The triangle looked more impressive than ever. Three
names, one in each corner. Eggers—Simmel—Rühme. And a
question mark in the middle.
A question mark that needed to be scrubbed out in order to
reveal the name of the murderer, a name that would be on
people’s lips forever. On the lips of Kaalbringen citizens, at
least. People never forget an evildoer. Statesmen, artists and
much admired performers disappear in the mists of time, but
nobody forgets the name of a murderer.
Three victims. Three male incomers. All of them as different as could be—was it possible to imagine bigger differences?
A dropout, a drug addict and a jailbird.
An established, wealthy but not especially attractive selfemployed man.
A young doctor, the son of one of the town’s most prominent worthies.
The more she stared at these names, at her notes, her
guesses and her doodles, the more obvious it became that the
murder of this third victim had not provided even the shadow
of a new lead.
On the contrary. The more there are, the worse it gets, it
seemed.
By a quarter to eleven, she realized that she could barely
keep her eyes open any longer. She switched off the light,
brushed her teeth and crept into bed.
Tomorrow would be another day. She would work hard.
Patiently churning through questions and answers, questions
and answers...Perhaps it was this humdrum procedure that
would eventually produce the goods. The masses of facts and
minutes and tape recordings might eventually crystallize to
produce a point, an accumulation of points, which could provide the basis for asking the most important question of all.
Who is he?
And it could all indicate a possible answer.
But she would much have preferred to be able to conjure
up the face of the murderer, outline for outline, feature for feature. To have persuaded the dark hours of the night to carve
out a portrait, a finished picture to place on the desk of the
chief of police tomorrow morning.
A shortcut. A shortcut eliminating all those boring investigations.
How much more preferable?
Jean-Claude Rühme lived up to his prototype. A broadshouldered man in his sixties, with a white lion’s mane and
sharp but totally petrified features. A cross between a human
being and a monument, Van Veeteren thought. Or was it just
sorrow that immobilized his face?
He received Van Veeteren in his study, sitting at his darkcolored desk with red and ocher marquetry. He stood up and
raised himself to his full height when he shook hands.
“I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Van Veeteren, but I haven’t
been sleeping well since the accident. Please take a seat. Would
you like something to drink?”
His voice was deep and resonant.
“A glass of soda water,” said Van Veeteren, “if it’s not too
much trouble. May I express my sympathy, Dr. Rühme.”
The doctor barked an instruction into the intercom, and
within half a minute a maid appeared with two bottles on a
tray.
“I am grateful for the few days’ grace you have allowed
me,” said Rühme. “I’m ready to answer your questions now.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“I’ll be brief, Doctor,” he said. “There are actually just a few
specific questions I want to ask you, but before I do so I would
beg you...most urgently...to bring to bear all your intelligence and intuition in order to help us. I prefer to regard the
murder of your son as an isolated case, distinct from the
others.”
“Why?”
“For several reasons, mainly to do with technical aspects of
the investigation. It’s easier to concentrate on one thing at a
time.”
“I understand.”
“If anything at all occurs to you regarding a motive—who
might have had a reason for wanting to get your son out of his
way—I urge you not to hesitate. You can contact me at any
time of day or night. Perhaps you already have an inkling?”
“No...no, no idea at all.”
“I understand that sorrow can numb the mind, but if anything should occur to you, then...”
“Of course, Mr. Van Veeteren, I assure you that I shall telephone you. I think you said that you had some specific questions?”
Van Veeteren took a swig of soda water. He fumbled for a
toothpick but thought better of it.
“How would you describe the relationship between you
and your son?”
Dr. Rühme reacted by raising his eyebrows a fraction of an
inch. That was all.
“Thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “I understand.”
He jotted down a few nonsense scribbles in his notebook
and allowed the seconds to pass.
“No,” said the doctor eventually. “I don’t think you understand at all. Maurice and I had a relationship based on great
and mutual respect.”
“That’s exactly what I have just noted down,” said Van
Veeteren. “Are you married, Dr. Rühme?”
“Divorced twelve years ago.”
“So your son must have been... nineteen at the time?”
“Yes. We waited until he’d flown the nest. Separated the
very month he started his medical studies in Aarlach.”
“He has lived in Aarlach ever since, is that right?”
“Yes, until he took up his post at the hospital here in
March.”
“I see,” said Van Veeteren. He stood up and started pacing
slowly around the room with his hands behind his back.
Stopped in front of a bookcase and contemplated some of the
titles...walked over to the window and looked out at the
well-tended lawns and bushes. Dr. Rühme glanced at his watch
and coughed.
“I’m due to see a patient in twenty minutes,” he said. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to ask the rest of your questions,
assuming there are any more.”
“When did you last visit your son in Leisner Allé?”
“I’ve never been there,” said Rühme.
“Your opinion of Beatrice Linckx?”
“Good. She’s visited me here several times...without
Maurice.”
“A messenger?”
Dr. Rühme made no reply.
“Your son started his medical studies in 1982—eleven years
ago. When did he take his exams?”
“Two years ago.”
“Nine years? That’s quite a long time, isn’t it, Dr. Rühme?”
“Some people take longer.”
“How long did you need?”
“Five years.”
“Were there any special reasons in Maurice’s case?”
Dr. Rühme hesitated, but only for a moment.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would you mind telling me what they were?” asked Van
Veeteren.
“Cocaine addiction,” said Dr. Rühme, clasping his hands on
the desk in front of him. Van Veeteren made another note.
“When was he clean?”
“It came to my notice in 1984. He stopped totally two years
later.”
“Any legal repercussions?”
The doctor shook his head.
“No, nothing like that.”
“I’m with you,” said Van Veeteren. “Everything could be
arranged, no doubt?”
Rühme did not reply.
“And this post at the hospital, the kind of post that everybody covets—that could also be...arranged?”
Rühme rose to his feet.
“Those were your words, not mine. Don’t forget that.”
“I don’t forget all that easily,” said Van Veeteren.
“Many thanks, Chief Inspector. I fear that I don’t have time
to answer any more questions just now...”
“No problem,” said Van Veeteren. “I don’t have any more
to ask.”