Borkmann's Point by Håkan Nesser Page A

hadn’t been able to get
through to him when she’d tried to phone on the way home,
but he knew she was due back tonight. No doubt he’d opened
a bottle of something, and maybe he’d have some toasted
sandwiches up his sleeve as well. Onion rings, mushrooms,
fresh basil and cheese... She took her bags out of the trunk
and crossed the street, stiff after the long journey but looking
forward to what lay ahead... keen to get into the apartment.
To come home.
    What Beatrice Linckx hadn’t the slightest inkling of was that
the kitchen light had been on for more than twenty-four hours
and that although Maurice was in fact up there, he was by no
means in the state she’d expected. Nor were there any toasted
sandwiches, and nobody had opened a bottle of wine to
breathe—and she wouldn’t be able to snuggle down into that
hot bath for many hours yet. When she eventually did so, it
would be in a neighbor’s bathtub, and in a state that she would
never have been able to foresee.
The door was unlocked. She pressed down the handle and
went in.
    Afterward, a lot of people wondered about her behavior. She
did as well. Given the circumstances, pretty well anything might
be regarded as normal; but even so, you had to ask questions.
    She switched on the light in the hall. Stared at Maurice for a
few seconds, then picked up her bag again and backed out
through the door. Closed it and went back downstairs. Hesitated for a moment when she emerged onto the sidewalk, then
crossed the road and sat in her car again.
    Sat there hugging the steering wheel and trying to heave
the heavy stone of forgetfulness over the opening to her consciousness. Trying to rewind time, just a few hours... back to
when she was happy and unaware... the hours before, the
unsullied normality... the road, the cars, the oncoming headlights, the Waldstein Sonata over her loudspeakers, the rain on
the windshield, the mint pastilles in the bag on the empty seat
beside her... looking forward to coming home.
    She hadn’t seen anything. Still hadn’t gone up to the apartment. She sat in the car and rested for a while before going up
to see Maurice...to the sandwiches and the wine; her warm
red dressing gown; the sofa and the plaid throws; Heyman’s
String Quintet; candles in the designer candlestick... sitting
here waiting...
borkmann’s point
. . .
    Nearly two hours later she wound down the window. The
evening air and a veil of drizzle crept in and brought her back
to reality. For the second time, she picked up her bags and
crossed the street. Didn’t look up at the apartment now. Knew
that all she could expect to find in store for her was Maurice,
and at ten minutes past one she had calmed down sufficiently
to phone the police and inform them that the Axman had dispatched another victim.

September 10–24
    “It’s the bishop that’s in the wrong place,” said Bausen.
“I can see that,” said Van Veeteren.
“F6 would have been better. As it is now, you’ll never manage to get it out. Why didn’t you use the Nimzo-Indian
defense, as I suggested?”
    “I’ve never mastered it properly,” muttered Van Veeteren.
“There’s more oomph in the Russian—”
“Oomph, yes,” said Bausen. “So much oomph it whips up a
damn gale and blows big holes through your own lines. Do
you give up?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m not dead yet.” He checked
his watch. “Good Lord! It’s nearly a quarter past one!”
“No problem. Night is the mother of day.”
“You have no more pieces than I have, after all—”
“Not necessary by this stage. My h-pawn will become a
queen in another three or four moves at most.”
The telephone rang, and Bausen went indoors to answer it.
“What the hell?” he muttered. “At this time in the morning...”
Van Veeteren leaned forward and studied the situation. No
doubt about it. Bausen was right. It was hopeless. Black could
force the exchange of both castles and central