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thought about it, the more sure he was that it wasn t. He had
scrutinized the report once again earlier in the evening, and
2 3 5
hadn t found a thing neither had Bausen nor Münster nor
Kropke. It was incomprehensible. Bizarre.
Bizarre?
And where had she gone to?
To check?
Check what?
He slammed his fist down into the water and was surprised
for a second by the lack of resistance. Was she so damn stupid
that she d walked straight into the murderer s web? Straight
into his arms, like some half-witted girl in any crime movie
you cared to name?
He couldn t believe that. Surely that wasn t possible? If
there was anybody based in this station whom he had confi-
dence in, it was Inspector Moerk. . . well, Bausen as well, of
course, he had to admit that. But would Beate Moerk have
No, he refused to believe it.
What other possibility was there?
That the murderer had got lucky?
Very possible.
That she d been on his trail earlier and he d realized that?
Kept an eye on her?
Possible, also. Münster had spoken about her ambitions as
a private detective.
He dropped the cigarette into the bucket. No need to dirty
the ashtray, he thought.
But where had she gone?
That was the key. He took a few olives. Between half past
six, approximately, and five or ten minutes past seven yesterday
evening, Beate Moerk had driven her red Mazda from The See
Warf to the parking lot close to the smokehouse off the
Esplanade. Somewhere along the way she had checked up on
something bizarre and attracted the attention of the murderer.
b o r k m a n n s p o i n t
Let s hope to God, thought Van Veeteren, that the red car
attracted the attention of somebody else as well . . . that
would be enough.
But all hell would have to be let loose first, he reminded
himself.
Then Laurids Reisin came into his head and Mrs. Reisin
in her shabby coat, and Miss Marnier, one of Simmel s lady
friends he d interviewed one afternoon a hundred years ago;
and he realized that he was being subjected to yet another
unnecessary information attack. He put the light on and
decided to go through the Melnik report one more time. As an
antidote, if nothing else.
Then he would have a chat with Münster in the bar.
He needed to find out for sure if Münster really did want to
get back to his family and garden.
It s not necessary, said Münster.
What do you mean, not necessary? And what the hell are
you sitting there smiling at?
Münster turned his head away and coughed into his hand.
Excuse me, he said. But Synn and the kids are coming
up here tomorrow. She phoned half an hour ago.
Coming up here? exclaimed Van Veeteren, looking con-
fused.
Yes, she s borrowed a holiday cottage from a friend of hers
out at Geelnackt. That s only about six miles from here. I m
moving out there tomorrow afternoon.
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
Münster, he said, I think that s a fantastic woman you ve
got hold of.
I know, said Münster, looking embarrassed.
2 3 7
They drank each other s health, and Van Veeteren gestured
to the waiter.
Just a small beer, he explained. How many times have
you read the Melnik report?
Twice, said Münster.
Found anything?
Münster shook his head.
What do you think about that bomb business? he asked.
Van Veeteren hesitated briefly.
Hard to say, he said. I don t really understand what
somebody like Heinz Eggers could have to do with Basque sep-
aratists, or the others, come to that. We ll hear tomorrow
morning if Bausen has found out any more about it, I expect.
What do you think?
Nothing, said Münster. I hope I don t have to go to the
Costa del Sol, in any case, now that I ve got my family up here
and so on.
You can take my word for that, said Van Veeteren.
Where s Cruickshank, by the way? I thought he was a perma-
nent resident in the bar.
He went up to bed about a quarter of an hour ago, said
Münster. I think he was sulking because you canceled that
insider interview.
Oh, yeah. Poor bastard, said Van Veeteren. Still, if he can
keep calm until Monday, he ll have all the more to report.
He certainly will, thought Münster.
37
The Sunday before the infernal Monday served up a clear
morning with warm winds from the southwest. Without
needing to exchange any words on the subject, Van Veeteren
and Münster chose to walk to the police station.
It was quite simply one of those mornings, and Münster
could feel the sluggishness and reluctance in both his own and
Van Veeteren s footsteps. The very moment they emerged
from Weivers Gränd, the Bungeskirke bells started ringing for
the first service of the day. Van Veeteren paused for a moment
to gaze at its dark portals and muttered something incompre-
hensible. Münster contemplated the canvas spread out before
him. The splendid Hanseatic gables. The mythological bronze
sculptures with the gently trickling water. The lopsided square
resting peacefully under the tinkling chimes, completely
deserted apart from an occasional pigeon strutting around,
pecking food from between the cobbles. And a dark-skinned
road sweeper standing by the bookshop, whistling Verdi.
Münster plunged his hands into his pockets and gripped
his thin briefcase under his arm, and as they crossed over the
uneven cobbles, a perception of the absurdity of his surround-
ings slowly took possession of him. The inherent and indis-
putable lunacy. Their task and activities seemed preposterous
2 3 9
in this sleepy little coastal town on a Sunday morning like this.
How pale a murderer looks in daylight, as somebody once said.
And how impossible it was to grasp that they were on their
way yet again, for the nth time, to assemble around the oval
table in the bilious-yellow conference room at the police sta-
tion, to sit down and roll up their shirtsleeves for yet another
discussion of who this madman might be.
The man wandering around this idyllic little town chop-
ping the heads off his fellow men.
The man because of whom a whole community was living
in fear and trembling, and whose doings had been on every-
body s lips as practically the only topic of conversation for
week after week now.
The man, in fact, whose identity it was his own, DCI Van
Veeteren s, and all the others duty to discover and establish so
that these goings-on could be banished from this world at last.
And what the hell were people going to say tomorrow?
Yes, preposterous is the only word for it, thought Münster,
squinting up at the sun above the copper roof of the police
station. Or perhaps bizarre, to use Beate Moerk s word.
And the most difficult thing to understand, the most impos-
sible thing to comprehend, was, of course, what could have
happened to her.
Could it really be that at this very moment she was lying
with her head cut off somewhere in the town or its vicinity? A
slowly decomposing corpse just waiting to be discovered. Was
that possible to imagine? She, the woman he had so nearly. . .
He swallowed and kicked at an empty cigarette pack that
had evidently avoided the attention of the road sweeper.
And this afternoon he would be reunited with Synn and the
children.
He had to ask himself how she could have made the deci-
b o r k m a n n s p o i n t
sion to come here without the slightest warning a sudden
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