Read Borkmann's Point for Free Online Page A

sweaty, hairy back, heavy
buttocks thrusting violently into her and pressing her up
against the wall, her legs wide apart and her eyes reflecting his
own, seeing what he sees... just for a second before he turns
on his heel and leaves.
The same images... and imposed upon them, penetrating
them, the image of the ten-year-old with blond plaits, roaring
with laughter, running toward him along the beach. Arms outstretched, eyes gleaming. Bitte...
He woke up. In a cold sweat as usual, and it was several seconds before he remembered, before he got the upper hand...
the weapon...the intense feeling of bliss as he swung it through
the air and the dull thud as it penetrated their necks. The lifeless bodies and the blood bubbling out...
That blood.
If only that blood would flow over those dream images.
Cover them in stains, make them incomprehensible, unrecognizable. Destroy them. Settle the bill once and for all, reduce
all debts to zero... But even so, it was not about his torture. It
wasn’t about the images, it was about what the images were
based on. The reality behind them. The reality.
Her revenge, not his. That ten-year-old running toward
him, whose life had come to a sudden stop. Who was blocked
and obstructed in midstride, just as abruptly and inexorably as
in the photograph. It was about her and nobody else.
He fumbled for his cigarettes. Didn’t want to put the light
on. Darkness was what was needed; he didn’t want to see anything now. He struck a match. Lit the cigarette and inhaled
deeply, resolutely. Immediately felt that warm sensation again
spreading through his body, a tidal wave flowing up into his
head and making him smile. He thought about his weapon
again. Could see it before him in the darkness. He was an exhilarated Macbeth suddenly, and he wondered how long he
would have to wait before it was time to let it speak again...
In the clear light of morning and with a fresh breeze blowing
in from the sea, Kaalbringen seemed to have forgotten that it
was terror stricken. Van Veeteren had a late breakfast on his
balcony and observed the teeming crowds in Fisherman’s
Square down below. There were obviously more than delicacies from the depths of the sea being sold from the stalls under
their colorful awnings—more like everything under the sun.
Saturday morning was market day; the sun was shining and life
went on.
The clock in the low limestone church struck ten, and Van
Veeteren realized that he had slept for almost eleven hours.
Eleven hours? Did that really mean, he asked himself, that
what he needed in order to get a good night’s sleep was a murder hunt? He contemplated that theory as he tapped the top of
his egg. It seemed absurd. And what was that insidious feeling
that had taken possession of him this peaceful morning? He’d
noticed it when he was in the shower, tried to rinse it away, but
out here in the salty air it had returned with renewed strength.
Spun esoteric threads of indolence around his soul and whispered seductive words in his ears...
It was that he had no need to exert himself.
The solution to this case would come to him of its own
accord. Strike him as a result of some coincidence. A gift from
the heavens. A deus ex machina!
A mercy devoutly to be wished, thought Van Veeteren. Fat
chance!
But the thought was there nevertheless.
    Cruickshank and Müller were sitting in the foyer, waiting for
him. They had been joined by a photographer, a bearded
young man who brandished a flash gun at his face the moment
he emerged from the lift.
    “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” said Müller.
“It looks like it,” said Van Veeteren.
“Can we have a chat after the press conference?” asked
    Cruickshank.
“If you write what I tell you to write. One word too many
and you’ll be banned for two years!”
“Of course,” said Müller with a smile. “Usual rules.”
“I’ll be at Sylvie’s between noon and half past twelve,” said
Van Veeteren,