Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery [2] (Inspector Van Veeteren Series)

Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery [2] (Inspector Van Veeteren Series)

International Bestseller  Internationally bestselling author Häkan Nesser makes his U.S. debut with this riveting tale of murder and suspense that reveals the deep humanity of the characters portrayed even as it sends chills up the spine.   Chief Inspector Van Veeteren is called to the sleepy coastal town of Kalbringen to assist the local police in the investigation of two recent ax murders. Soon the case turns from bad to worse when another body turns up and one of Van Veeteren’s colleagues, a young female detective, disappears without a trace. Now Van Veeteren must find the killer, and, it is hoped, his colleague, before anyone else comes to harm. Riveting and intellectually satisfying, Borkmann’s Point unfolds like a chess match where each move could prove deadly. “Keeps you on the edge of your seat.... You don’t want it to end.” — San Francisco Chronicle   “Nesser has a penetrating eye for the skull beneath the skin." — The New York Times   “Appealing.... Engaging.... Unexpectedly poignant.... A lean whodunit whose narrative speed and concision are admirable.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch   “Cerebral.... An atmospheric mystery.” — The Plain Dealer Håkan Nesser was born in 1950 in Sweden. In 1993 he was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Prize for new authors for his novel Mind’s Eye , and is the only author to have won the Academy’s best novel award three times: in 1994 for Borkmann’s Point ; in 1996 for Woman With Birthmark ; and in 2007 for A Rather Different Story . In 1999 he was awarded the Crime Writers of Scandinavia’s Glass Key Award for the best crime novel of the year for Carambole . His novels have been published to wide acclaim in twenty-five countries. Had Ernst Simmel known he was to be the Axman's second victim, he would no doubt have downed a few more drinks at The Blue Ship. As it was, he settled for a brandy with his coffee and a whiskey on the rocks in the bar, while trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with the bleached-blond woman in the far corner; but anyway, his heart wasn't in it. Presumably, she was one of the new employees at the canning factory. He had never seen her before, and he had a fair idea about the available talent. To his right was Herman Schalke, a reporter on de Journaal, trying to interest him in a cheap weekend trip to Kaliningrad or somewhere of the sort, and when they eventually got round to pinning down his last evening, it seemed probable that Schalke must have been the last person in this life to speak to Simmel. Always assuming that the Axman didn't have some message to impart before finishing him off, that is. Which wasn't all that likely since the blow, as in the previous case, had come diagonally from behind and from slightly below, so a little chat seemed improbable. "Ah, well!" Simmel had said after draining the last drops from his glass. "I'd better be getting back to the old lady." If Schalke remembered rightly, that is. In any case, he'd tried to talk him out of it. Pointed out that it was barely eleven and the night was yet young. But Simmel had been adamant. That was the right word. Adamant. Just eased himself off his bar stool. Adjusted his glasses and stroked that pathetic wisp of hair over his bald head like he always did--as if that would fool anybody--muttered a few words, then left. The last Schalke had seen of him was the white outline of his back as he paused in the doorway and seemed to be hesitating about which direction to take. Looking back, that was distinctly odd. For Christ's sake, surely Simmel knew his way home? But maybe he just stood there for a few seconds to fill his lungs with the fresh night air. It had been a hot day; summer was not over yet and the evenings had started to exude a mellowness enriched by many months of summer sun. Enriched and refined. As if made for drinking in deep draughts, somebody had said. These nights. In fact, it wasn't a bad night for a journey to the other side, if one might be allowed such a thought. Schalke's section of de Journaal was mainly concerned with matters sporting and a dash of folklore, but in his capacity as the last person to have seen Simmel alive, he had presumed to write an obituary of the property developer who had been so suddenly plucked from our midst . . . a pillar of our society, one might say, who had just returned to his native town after a sojourn of several years abroad (on the Costa del Sol along with other like-minded citizens with a bent for effective tax planning, but perhaps this was not the occasion to refer to that), survived by a wife and two grown-up children, having reached the age of fifty but still in the prime of his life, no doubt about that. The scent of evening seemed full of promise; he paused in the doorway, hesitating. Would it be a good idea to take a stroll over to Fisherman's Square and down by the harbor? What was the point of going home as early as this? The sweetish smell of the bedroom and Grete's o