Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery Read online

  “What’s it all about?” she asked, after she’d sat him down on the visitors’ sofa with brown canvas cushions, hung up her hat and coat and put the kettle on in the canteen.

  “I want to confess,” said Mr. Wollner, staring down at the floor.

  Miss deWitt observed him over the top of her frameless spectacles.

  “Confess to what?”

  “The murders,” said Mr. Wollner.

  Miss deWitt thought for a moment.

  “What murders?”

  “The ax murders.”

  “Oh,” said Miss deWitt. She felt a sudden attack of dizzi-ness that she didn’t think was connected with the menopausal flushes she’d been suffering from for some time now. She held on to the table and closed her eyes tightly.

  Then she got a grip on herself. None of the police officers would turn up until about half past seven, she was sure of that.

  She eyed the hunched-up figure on the sofa and established that he didn’t have an ax hidden under his clothes, at least.

  Then she came out from behind the counter, put a hand on his shoulder and asked him to accompany her.

  He did as he was bidden without protesting, allowing himself to be led through the narrow corridors and into the inner-most of the two cells, the one that could be locked.

  “Wait here,” said Miss deWitt. “An officer will come to interrogate you shortly. Anything you say might be used in evidence against you.”

  She wondered why she’d said that last sentence. Mr. Wollner sat on the bench and started wringing his hands, and she decided to leave him to his fate. She considered phoning Mooser, who was duty officer, but decided not to. Instead she made the coffee and waited for Inspector Kropke, who duly put in an appearance at seven-thirty on the dot.

  “The Axman has confessed,” she said.

  “What the hell... ?” said Kropke.

  “I’ve locked him into the cell,” said Miss deWitt.

  “What the hell?” repeated Inspector Kropke. “Who...who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss deWitt. “But I think his name’s Wollner.”

  After thinking it over, Kropke decided that it would be best to wait for one of the DCIs to appear, and so it was twenty minutes to nine before the first interrogation of the presumed murderer could take place. Those present, apart from Kropke and the chief of police, were Inspector Moerk and Constable Mooser.

  To be on the safe side, they recorded the proceedings on two tape recorders, partly with an eye to possible requirements if the case eventually went to court, and partly so that the two experts who had been called in from outside, Van Veeteren and Münster, could be sure of an opportunity to form a correct opinion of the circumstances.

  Bausen: Your full name, please.

  Wollner: Peter Matthias Wollner.

  Bausen: Born?

  Wollner: February 15, 1936.

  Bausen: Address?

  Wollner: Morgenstraat 16.

  Bausen: Kaalbringen?

  Wollner: Yes.

  Bausen: Are you married?

  Wollner: No.

  Bausen: Everything you say may be used in evidence against you. You have the right to remain silent if you wish. Would you like a solicitor to be present?

  Wollner: No.

  Bausen: Why have you come here?

  Wollner: To confess to the murders.

  Bausen: The murders of Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Rühme?

  Wollner: Yes.

  Bausen: Tell us how you did it.

  Wollner: I killed them with my ax.

  Bausen: What kind of ax was it?

  Wollner: I’ve had it for several years. A butcher’s tool, I think.

  Bausen: Can you describe it?

  Wollner: Sharp. Quite light. The blade went in very easily.

  Bausen: Where did you get hold of it?

  Wollner: Bought it when I was abroad four or five years ago.

  Bausen: Where?

  Wollner: Italy. I can’t remember what the town was called.

  Bausen: Why did you murder Eggers, Simmel and Rühme?

  No reply.

  Kropke: Why don’t you answer the question?

  No reply.

  Bausen: Can you give us more details of how you went about it?

  Wollner: Which one?

  Bausen: Maurice Rühme, for instance.

  Wollner: I rang the bell and he opened the door... I killed him.

  Moerk: Why?

  Wollner: That’s why I went there.

  Bausen: Describe exactly what you did.

  Wollner: I said I’d hurt my back. Dropped my watch on the floor. As I couldn’t bend down to pick it up, the doctor did it for me... I hit him with the ax on the back of his head.

  Kropke: Were you acquainted with Dr. Rühme?

  Wollner: I was a patient of his.

  Moerk: Did he know you were coming?

  Wollner: Yes.

  Moerk: Are you saying that he received patients at his home at that time of night?

  Wollner: I had to push.

  Bausen: What was Rühme wearing?

  Wollner: Polo shirt... grayish-green. Black trousers, dark-colored socks...

  Bausen: What time was it?

  Wollner: About eleven.

  Kropke: What was Ernst Simmel wearing when you killed him?

  Wollner: White shirt and tie. Jacket and trousers. Brown shoes, I think. It was dark.

  Bausen: That’s right, dammit... What do you think, Moerk?

  Moerk: I find it difficult to believe you, Mr. Wollner. Why did you do it?

  Wollner: I’m prepared to take my punishment.

  Pause. Short break in the tape.

  Bausen: You claim that you killed three people, Mr.

  Wollner. Now you’d damn well better tell me why! We have better things to do than sit here listening to self-punishing types who crave a little attention.

  Moerk: But...

  Wollner: I killed them because they were evil people.

  Bausen: Evil?

  Wollner: Evil people.

  Bausen: Was that the only reason?

  Wollner: It’s reason enough.

  Kropke: Why those particular three?

  No answer.

  Bausen: What were you wearing that evening when you killed Ernst Simmel?

  Wollner: What was I wearing?

  Bausen: Yes. How were you dressed?

  Wollner: I can’t really remember... Hat and coat, I think.

  Moerk: And when you killed Rühme?

  Wollner: Tracksuit.

  Bausen: Why did you leave the ax in Dr. Rühme’s body?

  Wollner: He was the last.

  Bausen: The last? Aren’t there any more evil people?

  Wollner: Not as far as I’m concerned. I’m prepared to take my punishment.

  Bausen: You’re not thinking of murdering anybody else?

  Wollner: No.

  Kropke: Why have you come here today of all days?

  Wollner: I was forced.

  Bausen: Forced? What is your job, Mr. Wollner?

  Wollner: I’m a janitor.

  Moerk: Where?

  Wollner: At The Light of Life.

  Kropke: The church, do you mean?

  Wollner: Yes.

  Pause. Whispers and the scraping of chairs.

  Bausen: Is there anybody who instructed you to commit these murders, Mr. Wollner?

  Wollner: I have a mission.

  Bausen: Given to you by whom?

  No answer.

  Moerk: God, perhaps?

  Wollner: Yes.

  Silence.

  Bausen: We’ll take a break here. Mooser, get rid of this bastard and lock him up again. We’ll erase this tape later.

  “Well,” said Bausen. “What do you think?”

  “As mad as a hatter,” said Kropke.

  “He’s lying,” said Moerk.
r />   “What about the details, though?” said Kropke. “How could he know so many details?”

  Beate Moerk shrugged.

  “The media, presumably . . .”

  “Have the papers printed anything about the clothes?” wondered Mooser.

  “Dunno. We’ll have to check. But they’ve certainly printed quite a lot.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if it turned out to be him,” said Kropke. “The Light of Life crowd are as weird as they come.”

  “No doubt,” said Bausen. “But how weird? They’re not in the habit of wandering around killing people, are they?”

  “Where are our guests today?” wondered Kropke, trying to look knowing.

  “DCI Van Veeteren is questioning some relative or other of Rühme’s, I think,” said Bausen. “No doubt Münster will turn up soon.”

  Beate Moerk coughed.

  “I’ll wager fifty guilders not a word’s been published about the clothes,” said Kropke.

  “Why do you think I asked him,” snorted Bausen.

  “A religious lunatic,” mumbled Beate Moerk. “No, I don’t believe it. Anyway, isn’t it usual for loonies like this to turn up? Confessing to anything and everything?”

  “I assume so,” said Bausen. “We’ll have to ask our experts, when they eventually appear.”

  “Good morning,” said Münster, walking in through the door. “Has anything happened?”

  “Nothing much,” said Beate Moerk. “We have an Axman locked up in a cell, that’s all.”

  “It’s not him,” said Van Veeteren two hours later. “Let him go or send him to the loony bin. But present him with a bill for wasting police time as well.”

  “How can you be so certain?” asked Kropke.

  “I’ve been around for a while,” said Van Veeteren. “You get to know these things. But go ahead and grill him if you need some practice. What does the chief of police think?”

  “I agree with you, I suppose,” said Bausen. “But I’m not a hundred percent convinced . . .”

  “He seems to know too many details,” said Moerk. “How can he know what Rühme was wearing?”

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  “I don’t know. There are lots of possible explanations.”

  “What, for example?” asked Kropke.

  “Well, the usual tendency to talk accounts for a lot. Miss Linckx might have been gossiping to somebody, for instance.”

  “Doubtful,” muttered Kropke. “I still think we should look into this a bit more closely first. We’ve been on this case for several months now, and when a suspect eventually turns up, I don’t think we should dismiss him out of hand.”

  “Do what you like,” said Van Veeteren. “I have other more important things to do, in any case.”

  “OK, OK,” said Bausen. “We’ll give him another grilling then.”

  . . .

  “Hi!” said Bang. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was an interrogation in progress. Hi, PM!”

  “Hello,” said Wollner.

  “What the hell?” groaned Kropke.

  “Are you two acquainted?” asked Bausen.

  “Depends,” said Bang. “Neighbors, that’s all. What’s he doing here?”

  Wollner stared at the floor.

  “Bang,” said Bausen, trying to retain control of his voice.

  “Don’t tell us that you’ve been discussing your work with this, er, gentleman in the recent past?”

  Constable Bang shuffled awkwardly and started to look worried.

  “Do you mean about the Axman?”

  “Yes, I mean the Axman,” said Bausen.

  “I suppose I might have,” said Bang. “Does it matter?”

  “You could say that,” said Bausen.

  “Fucking idiot,” said Kropke.

  “Ah, well,” said Bausen. “He cost us the best part of a day. I apologize for not trusting your judgment.”

  “Best never to trust anybody’s judgment,” said Van Veeteren.

  “One day here and there doesn’t make much difference,” said Kropke. “That’s what we’re always doing anyway— wasting time.”

  “Do you have anything constructive to suggest?” wondered Bausen.

  Kropke didn’t respond.

  “What time is it?” asked Mooser.

  “Nearly four,” said Bausen. “Perhaps it’s time to wind up today. Or does anybody have any ideas?”

  Van Veeteren snapped a toothpick. Mooser scratched the back of his neck. Münster stared up at the ceiling. What a shit-house of an investigation! he thought. I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my life. I’ll never see Synn and the kids again. I might as well resign on the spot. I’ll drive back home tonight, and that’s that.

  Inspector Moerk entered the room with a bundle of papers in her hand.

  “What’s this? A wake?” she asked. “It’s come.”

  “What has?” asked Kropke.

  “The report from Aarlach. What’s his name? Melnik? A solid bit of work, by the look of it—thirty-five pages.”

  “Is that all?” wondered Van Veeteren.

  “Let me have a look,” said Bausen, taking hold of the documents. He leafed through them.

  “Well, it’s a chance, I suppose,” he muttered. “I think we can regard this as our homework. I’ll copy it, and then we can all read it before tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Good,” said Van Veeteren.

  “You mean we’re going to work this Saturday as well?” wondered Mooser.

  “We’ll go through it tomorrow morning,” Bausen decided.

  “Everybody who finds an Axman gets a medal. You’ll all get a copy within the half hour.”

  “Does that include me?” asked Mooser.

  “Of course,” said Bausen. “We’re all in the same club here.”

  “What club is that?” asked Mooser.

  “The headless chickens’ alliance,” said Bausen.

  “I think I need a walk,” said Van Veeteren as they left the sports hall. “Can you take my bag back to the hotel?”

  “Of course,” said Münster. “What do you think of the Melnik report?”

  “Nothing until I’ve read it,” said Van Veeteren. “If you buy me a beer in the bar tonight, we can talk about it then—a nightcap at about eleven, is that a deal?”

  “Maybe,” said Münster.

  “A warm wind,” said Van Veeteren, sniffing the air. “Even though it’s coming from the north. Unusual... nature’s out of joint somewhere. I think I’ll stroll along the beach.”

  “See you later,” said Münster, scrambling into the car.

  In the foyer he bumped into Cruickshank, who was on his way to the bar with a few evening papers under his arm. The other reporters had disappeared some days ago; only Cruickshank was still around, for some reason.

  “Good evening. Anything new?”

  Münster shook his head.

  “Why do they keep you here day after day?” he asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve written anything for a week now.”

  “It’s at my own request,” said Cruickshank. “Things are a bit nasty on the home front.”

  “Really?” said Münster.

  “My wife won’t have me in the house. Can’t say I blame her either, although it’s not very stimulating hanging around this dump day in, day out. I’m trying to write a series of articles about refugees, but that’s mainly to prevent me from going up the wall.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Münster.

  “What about you?” asked Cruickshank. “I don’t suppose you’re having a fun time either?”

  Münster thought for a moment before replying.

  “No. I wouldn’t say fun was the word.”

  Cruickshank sighed and shrugged.

  “I thought I’d sit in the bar for a while. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Thanks,” said Münster. “I have some reading to do first, later on per
haps.”

  Cruickshank slapped him on the back and headed for the bar. There was a distinct whiff of brandy, Münster noticed as he walked past. A necessity for survival, no doubt. He went to reception and collected his key.

  “Just a minute,” said the girl, reaching down behind the counter. “There’s a message for you as well.”

  She handed him a white envelope that he slipped into his pocket. When he got to his room, he slit it open with a pen and read the contents:

  Hi!

  I’ve just been reading through the Aarlach report.

  Something struck me.

  Pretty bizarre, but I need to check it out.

  I’ll be at home when I’ve finished jogging at about eight. Ring me then.

  Love,

  B.

  He checked his watch. Twenty past seven. Could there really be something in the report? he wondered, fingering the pile of pages on his bedside table. That would be a blessing worth praying for.

  I’d better get reading, in any case. But first a call to Synn.

  Van Veeteren continued along the Esplanade and past the west pier before going down to the sands. Twilight had started to fall, but there was probably another hour of light left; growing weaker, it was true, but good enough for him to keep his bear-ings, he thought. The warm wind was even more noticeable down on the beach, and he considered for a moment taking his shoes off and strolling barefoot through the sand—the warm sand next to the wall. But he decided against it. The sea seemed apathetic, as it had done during the weeks he’d spent in the cottage; the waves were choppy but uninterested, devoid of life...

  We’ve had enough of each other, the sea and I, he thought, and he became conscious of a mood he recognized from his childhood summers. When he longed to be back at home, longed to be inland, as he used to put it in those days. When he dreamed of eternity shrinking, so that he could overview it.

  He wanted to put a frame around everything that was timeless and infinite and seemed to grow and grow under the skies along the coast...

  Was that what he was feeling now as well?

  Was the bottom line that it was more difficult to handle things by the sea? Did this endless gray mirror make everything incomprehensible and impossible to master? Make this case so totally hopeless? Reinhart claimed that it was in this very place—where land, sea and sky come together—that everything acquired its true weight and significance.

  Its name and attributes.

  Hard to say. Perhaps it was just the opposite. In any case, he was aware that thoughts and ideas drifted and became blurred.