Borkmann's Point by Håkan Nesser

consider marrying a policewoman, so
the choice was a bit limited. Bang, Mooser, Kropke... perish
the thought! She started soaping her breasts... still firm and
bouncy; another recurrent thought was that one of these days
she would start to dislike her breasts—the whole of her body,
come to that. But naturally, that was a trauma she shared with
all women. A fact of life, presumably, and one that had to be
accepted...Anyway, both Kropke and Mooser were married
already. Thank goodness for that.
But it was none of them she wanted to think about tonight.
Why should she? The person she was going to devote her
attention to for the next few hours was not a police officer at
all. On the contrary. It was that other man...
The Axman. Him and nobody else.
He’s the one I want.
She smiled at the thought. Smiled and switched on the light
with a haste that seemed to her a little sudden.
    She had done no more than sit down at her desk when the telephone rang. Beside her was a cup of Russian tea, and the only
light in the room formed a small oval in which her notebooks
basked.
    Her mother, of course. Ah, well, might as well get that call
over with now rather than being interrupted later.
Would Beate be coming home this Sunday? That was what
she wanted to know. Dad would be so pleased. He’d been
depressed all week and the doctors had said that...but that
was something they could come back to, perhaps. What was
she doing? Working! Surely she didn’t have to get involved in
that awful murder business; that was a man’s job, surely?
Hadn’t they got any men in the Kaalbringen police force?
What kind of a place was it?
Ten minutes later the call was over, and her bad conscience
was gnawing at her like an aching tooth. She was looking out
the window, watching the last stages of the sunset as it spread
its symbolic light over the whole sky, and made up her mind
to go home for a few hours on Sunday evening after all. Perhaps she could spend the night there and take the first train
back on Monday morning...yes, she had no alternative, of
course.
She unplugged the telephone. Just in case. After all, it
wasn’t impossible that Janos might ring, and she had no desire
at all to sacrifice a whole evening to that particular bit of bad
conscience... not for a while yet, at least.
The Axman.
She opened the two notepads and placed them side by side.
Started to study the one on the left.
Heinz Eggers, it said at the top, underscored with a double
line.
Born April 23, 1961, in Selstadt.
Died June 28, 1993, in Kaalbringen.
That was indisputable, of course. Below came a long series
of notes. Parents and siblings. School education. Various addresses. A list of women’s names. A number of dates marking
when Eggers had entered or left various penal institutions,
mainly prisons, dates of convictions and sentences...
Two children with different women. The first, a girl, born
in Wodz, August 2, 1985. The mother, one Kristine Lauger. The
second, a boy, born on December 23, the day before Christmas
Eve she had noted earlier, 1991—so he was not yet two.
Mother’s name Matilde Fuchs, address and place of domicile
unknown. She devoted a few seconds’ thought to this woman,
musing on how she appeared to have achieved what Beate herself was striving for. A child without a father—there again, was
that really what she was striving for? Besides, Fuchs could just
as well be a junkie and a whore who had long since given the
unwanted boy away to some other, more suitable guardians.
Yes, that was a far more likely hypothesis.
Well? How far had she got with her meditations last night?
An important question, no doubt... She turned a few pages.
There!
What had Heinz Eggers been doing in that courtyard? That
was the crux of the matter! Why, to be more precise, was this
social outcast, this dropout, in the courtyard at 24 Burgislaan at
one o’clock in the morning (or even later) on June 28, 1993?
She knew that was a