{"product_id":"borkmanns-point-isbn-9781400030323","title":"Borkmann's Point","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eInternational Bestseller \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInternationally 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChief 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,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eBorkmann’s  Point\u003c\/b\u003e unfolds like a chess match where each move could prove deadly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Keeps you on the edge of your seat.... You don’t want it to end.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco  Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nesser has a penetrating eye for the skull beneath the skin.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe New  York Times\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Appealing.... Engaging.... Unexpectedly poignant.... A lean  whodunit whose narrative speed and concision are admirable.” —\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Cerebral.... An atmospheric mystery.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eHåkan Nesser\u003c\/b\u003e was born in 1950 in Sweden. In 1993 he was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Prize for new authors for his novel \u003ci\u003eMind’s Eye\u003c\/i\u003e, and is the only author to have won the Academy’s best novel award three times: in 1994 for \u003ci\u003eBorkmann’s Point\u003c\/i\u003e; in 1996 for \u003ci\u003eWoman With Birthmark\u003c\/i\u003e; and in 2007 for \u003ci\u003eA Rather Different Story\u003c\/i\u003e. In 1999 he was awarded the Crime Writers of Scandinavia’s Glass Key Award for the best crime novel of the year for \u003ci\u003eCarambole\u003c\/i\u003e. 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Ah, well!\" Simmel had said after draining the last drops from his   glass. \"I'd better be getting back to the old lady.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Looking back, that was distinctly odd. For Christ's sake, surely   Simmel knew his way home?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    As if made for drinking in deep draughts, somebody had said. These nights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The scent of evening seemed full of promise; he paused in the   doorway, hesitating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Would it be a good idea to take a stroll over to Fisherman's Square   and down by the harbor?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    What was the point of going home as early as this? The sweetish smell   of the bedroom and Grete's overweight body shot through his mind, and   he decided to take a little walk. Only a short one. Even if there was   nothing to pick up, the warm night air would make it worth the effort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He crossed over Langvej and turned off toward Bungeskirke. At the   same time, the murderer emerged from the shadows under the lime trees   in Leisner Park and started following him. Quietly and carefully, a   safe distance behind, not a sound from his rubber soles. Tonight was   his third attempt, but even so, there was no trace of impatience. He   knew what he had to do, and the last thing on his mind was to rush   things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Simmel continued along Hoistraat and took the steps down toward the   harbor. He slowed down when he came to Fisherman's Square and   sauntered across the deserted cobbles toward the covered market. Two   women were busy talking at the corner of Dooms Alley, but he didn't   appear to pay them any attention. Perhaps he wasn't sure about their   status, or perhaps he had something else in mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Or maybe he just didn't feel like it. When he came to the quay he   paused for a few minutes to smoke a cigarette, watching the boats   bobbing in the marina. The murderer took the opportunity of enjoying   a cigarette himself in the shadow of the warehouse on the other side   of the Esplanade. Held it well hidden inside his cupped hand so that   the glow wouldn't give him away, and didn't take his eyes off his   victim for a single second.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When Simmel flicked his cigarette end into the water and set off in   the direction of the municipal woods, the murderer knew that tonight   was the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    True, there were only about three hundred yards of trees here between   the Esplanade and Rikken, the yuppie part of the town where Simmel   lived, and there were plenty of lights along the paths; but not all   were working and three hundred yards could prove to be rather a long   way. In any case, when Simmel heard a faint footstep behind him, he   was barely fifty yards into the woods and the darkness was dense on   all sides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Warm and full of promise, as already noted, but dense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He probably didn't have time to feel scared. If so, it could only   have been in the last fraction of a second. The razor-sharp edge   entered from behind, between the second and fourth vertebrae, slicing   diagonally through the third, straight through the spinal column, the   esophagus and the carotid artery. Half an inch deeper and in all   probability his head would have been separated completely from his   body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Which would have been spectacular, but was of minor significance for   the outcome.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In accordance with all imaginable criteria, Ernst Simmel must have   been dead even before he hit the ground. His face landed on the   well-trodden gravel path with full force, smashing his glasses and   causing any number of secondary injuries. Blood was pouring out of   his throat, from above and below, and when the murderer carefully   dragged him into the bushes, he could still hear a faint bubbling   sound. He squatted there in silence while a group of four or five   youths passed by, then wiped his weapon clean in the grass and set   off back in the direction of the harbor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Twenty minutes later he was sitting at his kitchen table with a   steaming cup of tea, listening to the bath slowly filling up. If his   wife had still been with him, she would doubtless have asked if he'd   had a hard day, and if he was very tired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Not especially, he might have replied. It's taking a bit of time, but   everything is going according to plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Glad to hear it, darling, she might have said, putting a hand on his   shoulder. Glad to hear it . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He nodded, and raised his cup to his mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The sands went on forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Went on forever, the same as ever. A calm, gray sea under a pale sky.   A strip of firm, damp sand next to the water where he could maintain   a reasonable pace. Alongside a drier, grayish-white expanse where   beach grass and windswept bushes took over. Deep inside the salt   marshes birds were wheeling in broad, lazy circles, filling the air   with their melancholy cries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Van Veeteren checked his watch and paused. Hesitated for a moment. In   the hazy distance he could just make out the church steeple in   s'Greijvin, but it was a long way away. If he kept on walking, it   would certainly be another hour before he could sit down with a beer   in the cafe on the square.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It might have been worth the effort, but now that he had paused, it   was hard to convince himself of that. It was three o'clock. He had   set out after lunch--or brunch, depending on how you looked at it. In   any case, at about one o'clock, after yet another night when he had   gone to bed early but failed to drop off to sleep until well into the   small hours. It was hard to tell what was the root cause of his   worries and restlessness as he lay there, tossing and turning in the   sagging double bed, as the gray light of dawn crept ever closer . . .   hard to tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had been on vacation for three weeks now, quite a long time by his   standards, but not exceptional, and as the days passed, during the   last week at least, his daily routine had been delayed just a little.   Four more days and it would be time for him to return to his office,   and he had the distinct impression that when he did so, there would   not be much of a spring in his stride. Even though he hadn't really   done much apart from resting. Lain back on the beach, reading. Sat in   the cafe at s'Greijvin, or nearer at hand in Hellensraut. Strolled up   and down these never-ending sands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The first week out here with Erich had been a mistake. They had both   realized that after the first day, but the arrangement couldn't   easily be changed. Erich had been allowed out on parole on condition   that he stay with his father on this remote stretch of coast. He   still had ten months of his sentence left to serve, and the last time   he had been out on parole the outcome had left much to be desired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He gazed out to sea. It was just as calm and unfathomable as it had   been for the whole of this last week. As if nothing could really make   an impression, not even the wind. The waves dying a natural death on   the beach seemed to have traveled vast distances bearing neither life   nor hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This is not my sea, Van Veeteren thought to himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In July, as his vacation had approached, he had been looking forward   to these days with Erich. When they finally arrived, he could hardly   wait for them to end, so that he could be left in peace; and now,   after a dozen days and nights of solitude, he wanted nothing more   than to get back to work again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Or was it quite as straightforward as that? Was that perhaps just a   convenient way of describing what it was really all about--did there   come a point, he had started to wonder, beyond which we no longer   look forward to something coming, but only to getting away from what   has passed? Getting away. Closing down and moving on, but not looking   forward to starting again. Like a journey whose delights decrease in   direct proportion to the distance traveled from the starting point,   whose sweetness becomes more and more bitter as the goal comes closer   . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Get away, he thought. Put an end to it. Bury it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This is what they call going downhill. There's always another sea ahead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He sighed and removed his sweater. Tied it around his shoulders and   started retracing his steps. He was walking into the wind now, and he   realized that it would take him longer to get back home . . . just as   well to have a few extra hours this evening, come to that. The house   needed tidying up, the fridge emptying, the telephone unplugging. He   wanted to set off early tomorrow. No point in hanging around   unnecessarily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He kicked an abandoned plastic bottle over the sands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It will be fall tomorrow, he thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He could hear the telephone ringing when he came to the gate.   Automatically he started moving more slowly, shortening his strides,   fiddling with his keys, in the hope that it would stop ringing by the   time he entered the house. In vain. The sound was still carving   stubbornly through the gloomy silence. He picked up the receiver.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hello?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Van Veeteren?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That depends.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Ha ha . . . Hiller here. How are things?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Van Veeteren suppressed an urge to slam the receiver down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Splendid, thank you. It's just that I was under the impression that   my vacation wasn't over until Monday.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Precisely! I thought you maybe fancied a few more days?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Van Veeteren said nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'll bet you'd love to stay a bit longer by the coast if you had the   chance, wouldn't you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \". . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Another week, perhaps? Hello?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'd be grateful if you would come to the point, sir,\" said Van Veeteren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The chief of police seemed to have a coughing fit, and Van Veeteren sighed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, well, a little something has turned up in Kaalbringen. That's   only about twenty or thirty miles away from the cottage you're   staying in; I don't know if you're familiar with the place. We've   been asked to help out, in any case.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What's it all about?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Murder. Two of them. Some madman running around and cutting people's   heads off with an ax or something. It's all in the papers today, but   maybe you haven't--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I haven't seen a paper for three weeks,\" said Van Veeteren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The latest one--the second, that is--happened yesterday, or rather,   the day before. Anyway, we have to send them some reinforcements, and   I thought that as you were in the area already, well . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Thank you very much.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'll leave it up to you for the time being. I'll send up Munster or   Reinhart next week. Assuming you haven't solved it by then, of   course.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Who's chief of police? In Kaalbringen, I mean.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Hiller coughed again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"His name's Bausen. I don't think you know him. Anyway, he only has   another month to go before he retires, and he doesn't seem all that   thrilled to have been handed this on his plate just now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How very odd,\" said Van Veeteren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You'll go straight there tomorrow, I take it?\" Hiller was starting   to wind up the conversation. \"That will mean you don't have to double   the journey unnecessarily. Is the water still warm enough for   swimming, by the way?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I spend all of every day splashing around.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Really . . . really. Well, I'll phone them and say you'll be turning   up tomorrow afternoon. OK?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I want Munster,\" said Van Veeteren.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'll see what I can do,\" said Hiller.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Van Veeteren put down the receiver and stood for a while staring at   the telephone before pulling out the plug.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300563374309,"sku":"NP9781400030323","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400030323.jpg?v=1767722959","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/borkmanns-point-isbn-9781400030323","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}