Håkan Nesser - Borkmanns Point: An Inspector van Veeteren Mystery

An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery Translated from the Swedish by Laurie Thompson
pantheon bo oks, new york

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental. English translation copyright 2006 by Laurie Thompson

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Sweden as Borkmanns Punkt by Albert Bonniers Frlag,Stockholm, in 1994. Copyright 1994 by Hkan Nesser. Published by arrangement with Linda Michaels Ltd., International Literary Agents, New York.

Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNesser, Hkan, [date].
[Borkmanns punkt. English]
Borkmanns point : an Inspector Van Veeteren mystery / Hkan Nesser ; translated from the Swedish by Laurie Thompson.p. cm.
eISBN-13: 978-0-375-42427-4
eISBN-10: 0-375-42427-X
I. Thompson, Laurie, 1938 II. Title.
pt9876.24.e76b6713 2006
839.73'74dc22 2005050935

www.pantheonbooks.com
v1.0
To Sanna and Johannes
But of course, necessity can never be a reason nor an excuse. Only a cause.
C. W. Wundermaas, Former detective chief inspector

Had Ernst Simmel known he was to be the Axmans second victim, he would no doubt have downed a few more drinks at The Blue Ship.

As it was, he settled for a brandy with his coffee and a whiskey on the rocks in the bar, while trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with the bleached-blond woman in the far corner; but anyway, his heart wasnt in it. Presumably, she was one of the new employees at the canning factory. He had never seen her before, and he had a fair idea about the available talent.

To his right was Herman Schalke, a reporter on de Journaal, trying to interest him in a cheap weekend trip to Kaliningrad or somewhere of the sort, and when they eventually got around to pinning down his last evening, it seemed probable that Schalke must have been the last person in this life to speak to Simmel.

Always assuming that the Axman didnt have some message to impart before nishing him off, that is. Which wasnt all that likely since the blow, as in the previous case, had come diagonally from behind and from slightly below, so a little chat seemed improbable.

Ah, well! Simmel had said after draining the last drops from his glass. Id better be getting back to the old lady.
If Schalke remembered rightly, that is. In any case, hed tried to talk him out of it. Pointed out that it was barely eleven and the night was yet young. But Simmel had been adamant.
That was the right word. Adamant. Just eased himself off his bar stool. Adjusted his glasses and stroked that pathetic wisp of hair over his bald head like he always didas if that would fool anybodymuttered a few words, then left. The last Schalke had seen of him was the white outline of his back as he paused in the doorway and seemed to be hesitating about which direction to take.
Looking back, that was distinctly odd. For Christs sake, surely Simmel knew his way home?
But maybe he just stood there for a few seconds to ll his lungs with the fresh night air. It had been a hot day; summer was not over yet and the evenings had started to exude a mellowness enriched by many months of summer sun. Enriched and rened.
As if made for drinking in deep drafts, somebody had said. These nights.
In fact, it wasnt a bad night for a journey to the other side, if one might be allowed such a thought. Schalkes section of de Journaal was mainly concerned with matters sporting and a dash of folklore, but in his capacity as the last person to have seen Simmel alive, he had presumed to write an obituary of the property developer who had been so suddenly plucked from our midst...a pillar of our society, one might say, who had just returned to his native town after a sojourn of several years abroad (on the Costa del Sol along with other likeminded citizens with a bent for effective tax planning, but perhaps this was not the occasion to refer to that), survived by a wife and two grown-up children, having reached the age of fifty but still in the prime of his life, no doubt about that.

The scent of evening seemed full of promise; he paused in the doorway, hesitating.

Would it be a good idea to take a stroll over to Fishermans Square and down by the harbor?
What was the point of going home as early as this? The sweetish smell of the bedroom and Gretes overweight body shot through his mind, and he decided to take a little walk. Only a short one. Even if there was nothing to pick up, the warm night air would make it worth the effort.
He crossed over Langvej and turned off toward Bungeskirke. At the same time, the murderer emerged from the shadows under the lime trees in Leisner Park and started following him. Quietly and carefully, a safe distance behind, not a sound from his rubber soles. Tonight was his third attempt, but even so, there was no trace of impatience. He knew what he had to do, and the last thing on his mind was to rush things.
Simmel continued along Hoistraat and took the steps down toward the harbor. He slowed down when he came to Fishermans Square and sauntered across the deserted cobbles to the covered market. Two women were busy talking at the corner of Dooms Alley, but he didnt appear to pay them any attention. Perhaps he wasnt sure about their status, or perhaps he had something else in mind.
Or maybe he just didnt feel like it. When he came to the quay he paused for a few minutes to smoke a cigarette, watching the boats bobbing in the marina. The murderer took the opportunity of enjoying a cigarette himself in the shadow of the warehouse on the other side of the Esplanade. Held it well hidden inside his cupped hand so that the glow wouldnt give him away, and didnt take his eyes off his victim for a single second.
When Simmel icked his cigarette end into the water and set off in the direction of the municipal woods, the murderer knew that tonight was the night.
True, there were only about three hundred yards of trees here between the Esplanade and Rikken, the yuppie part of the town where Simmel lived, and there were plenty of lights along the paths; but not all were working and three hundred yards could prove to be rather a long way. In any case, when Simmel heard a faint footstep behind him, he was barely fty yards into the woods and the darkness was dense on all sides.
Warm and full of promise, as already noted, but dense.
He probably didnt have time to feel scared. If so, it could only have been in the last fraction of a second. The razor-sharp edge entered from behind, between the second and fourth vertebrae, slicing diagonally through the third, straight through the spinal column, the esophagus and the carotid artery. Half an inch deeper and in all probability his head would have been separated completely from his body.
Which would have been spectacular, but was of minor signicance for the outcome.
In accordance with all imaginable criteria, Ernst Simmel must have been dead even before he hit the ground. His face landed on the well-trodden gravel path with full force, smashing his glasses and causing any number of secondary injuries. Blood was pouring out of his throat, from above and below, and when the murderer carefully dragged him into the bushes, he could still hear a faint bubbling sound. He squatted there in silence while a group of four or ve youths passed by, then wiped his weapon clean in the grass and set off back in the direction of the harbor.