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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
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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 citi-
zen 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 any-
b o r k m a n n  s p o i n t
body at all! Somebody sitting opposite you on the bus. Some-
body 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 Leis-
ner 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 pro-
tecting 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 thirty-
two 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:
1 3 1
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.
b o r k m a n n  s p o i n t
. . .
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 out-
smart 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.
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]