Borkmann's Point by Håkan Nesser Page B

pawns, and then
the h-file would be wide open. His remaining bishop was stuck
behind his own pawns on the king’s side. Bad play, really shitty
play—he could have accepted a loss if he’d been black, but
when he had the white pieces and was able to use the Russian
opening, there was no excuse. No excuse at all.
Bausen came rushing out.
“Call it a draw, for God’s sake!” he yelled. “He’s done it
again!”
Van Veeteren leaped to his feet.
“When?”
“I don’t know. They phoned in five minutes ago. Come on
for Christ’s sake! This is an emergency!”
He plowed his way through the undergrowth with Van
Veeteren after him, but stopped at the gate.
“Oh, shit! The car keys...”
“Are you really thinking of driving?” said Van Veeteren.
“You’ve drunk at least three pints!”
Bausen hesitated.
“We’ll walk,” he said. “It’s only a few hundred yards.”
“Let’s go!” said Van Veeteren.
    Constable Bang had been first on the scene, and had succeeded
in waking up the whole apartment block in the space of a few
minutes. When Bausen and Van Veeteren came around the
corner, lights were on in every window and there were masses
of people milling about on the stairs and landings.
    Bang had placed himself in the relevant doorway, however,
so there was no risk of unauthorized persons trampling all
over the crime scene, at least. In firm but friendly fashion
Bausen started ushering the neighbors back into their own
apartments, while Van Veeteren turned his attention to the
young woman sitting on the floor at Bang’s feet, shivering. It
looked as if she’d discovered the body and called the police.
    “My name’s Van Veeteren,” he said. “Would you like something to drink?”
She shook her head. He took hold of her hands and noted
that they were icy cold and trembling.
“What’s your name?”
“Beatrice Linckx. We live together. His name’s Maurice
Rühme.”
“I know,” said Bausen, who had cleared away all the neighbors. “You can go with Mrs. Clausewitz for the time being, and
she’ll give you something hot to drink.”
A chubby woman was peering at the scene from behind him.
“Come along, little Beatrice,” she said, holding up a yellow
blanket. “Come on. Auntie Anna will look after you.”
Miss Linckx clambered to her feet and went with Mrs.
Clausewitz as bidden, albeit unsteadily.
“There’s goodness in the world as well,” said Bausen. “We
mustn’t forget that. Shall we take a look? I’ve instructed Bang
to keep the rabble at bay.”
Van Veeteren swallowed and peeked in through the door.
“God Almighty!” said Chief Inspector Bausen.
    The body of Maurice Rühme was lying just inside the door,
and at first glance it looked as if every single drop of blood had
left it. The wall-to-wall carpet in the hall, some four or five
square yards, was so thoroughly soaked that it was barely possible to guess its original color. Van Veeteren and Bausen remained in the doorway.
“We’d better wait for the crime scene boys,” said Van
    Veeteren.
“There are some footprints there,” said Bausen, pointing.
“Yes, I can see them.”
“The same blow, more or less...”
That seemed to be right. Rühme was lying on his stomach
    with his arms underneath him, as if he’d fallen forward but not
managed to stop himself. His head was still attached, but it
looked as if it had very nearly been severed as well. His face
was turned to one side and slightly upward, and his wide-open
eyes appeared to be staring at a point level with Bausen’s knees,
more or less. Not only blood had flowed out of the opening in
his neck, but also some undigested bits of food, by the look of
it... and something fleshy that was still attached somewhere.
Van Veeteren assumed it must be his tongue.
    “He must have been here for some time,” said Bausen.
“Have you noticed the smell?”
“Twenty-four hours at least,” said Van Veeteren. “Shouldn’t
the forensic team