Borkmann's Point by Håkan Nesser Page A

good question, and even if it was not
yet possible to give a definitive answer, she could draw a few
conclusions, of course, without exceeding the limits of logic
and without sinking into a morass of speculation. Anybody
could do that.
First, even if Eggers was a confirmed drug user, one could
assume that he was capable of a certain amount of rational
thought—there was not a lot of poison in his veins that night;
he had died more or less clean and sober (which one might
hope, as a good Christian, would stand him in good stead
when they started to assess his earthly life on the other side). In
any case, Eggers could not possibly have just happened to be at
Burgislaan. He must have gone there for some reason. In the
middle of the night. On June 28. Alone.
She took a sip of tea.
Second, none of the shady characters Eggers mixed with—
and she had questioned all of them very carefully—had the
slightest idea what it was all about, not even his so-called girlfriend, who was evidently sleeping like a log on the night in
question after spending the previous day or days drinking vast
amounts of wine. When she and Kropke had pressed them
even harder, insisted that they make an informed guess, all
they could come up with was that Heinz must have had a tipoff. A hint. Information that somebody had something to
sell...some goods. Drugs of some sort... heroin or amphetamines or even hash. Could be anything. Heinz took the lot.
And what he couldn’t stuff into himself, he would sell to little
kids.
Third, ergo, conclusion: The Axman had arranged to meet
him. Eggers was the intended victim and nobody else. The
deed was carefully planned and prepared. No room for madmen or lunatics and similar epithets that certain people were
throwing around. The only possible category of crime was
first-degree murder! Not something done on the spur of the
moment, no extenuating circumstances, no junkie who happened to hit another one on the head.
First degree. Not a shadow of a doubt about that, or about
what kind of a person the Axman was—a meticulous, very
self-assured criminal who was absolutely clear about what he
was doing. Who didn’t appear to leave anything to chance, and
who...
Fourth, who had a motive!
She leaned back in her chair and took a deep drink of tea.
A very single-minded murderer.
    She moved on to the other notebook.
Ernst Leopold Simmel.
Not so much data here. Only a few pages. She simply hadn’t
    had the strength to note down the abundance of information
Kropke had fished out from such sources as local council
records and national registers and company registrations,
bankruptcies, shell company dealings, commissions, tax
returns, business trips and God only knows what else. She
glanced quickly through what she had written, then concentrated on the questions at the end, the ones she’d scribbled
down last night before going to bed. The trick was to ask the
right questions, as old Wundermaas, her favorite at the police
college in Genschen, never ceased to stress. Keep rephrasing
them! he used to growl impatiently as he pinned you down
with his piercing eyes. The answers can be harder to find than
needles in a haystack! So make sure that you’re rummaging in
the right haystack, at least!
    Well, what were the questions to ask about Simmel? The
right ones? She took another sip of tea and started thinking.
What was he doing when he went out last Tuesday
evening? She knew that.
Why did he go via Fisherman’s Square? They could be
pretty sure of that.
Why did he take the path through the municipal woods?
That was obvious.
When did the Axman begin following him? A good starting
point, perhaps? What about the answers?
From near The Blue Ship? In all probability, yes. He must
then have followed him all the way through town, more or
less. Yes, what else could he have done?
What does that imply?
She raised her head and looked through the window. The
town was stretched out before her.