She wanted to tell Florin the latest developments right away, but could see he was in the process of questioning the farmer.
‘I came out at half-six to bring the cows in for milking, and that’s when I saw her. I could tell right away that she had to be dead.’
‘Were the cows in the meadow overnight?’
‘Yes. I bring them out after the evening milking and back in again in the morning. My farm’s only a few hundred metres away, so it’s an easy job.’
So the animals had been stomping around in the meadow all night long. That meant forensics were unlikely to get any usable footprints from the perpetrator. If there had ever been any, that is. She positioned herself next to Florin and held her hand out to the farmer.
‘Kaspary.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Raininger.’ He gripped her hand tightly, not letting it go. ‘Are you with the police too?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Because you’re much too pretty for nasty work like this. Don’t you think?’
The last sentence was directed at Florin.
‘I can assure you, Frau Kommissarin Kaspary is not only very pretty, but above all exceptionally intelligent. Which happens to be the deciding factor for our “nasty” work.’ His tone had become just a fraction cooler, but Raininger didn’t seem to notice. He carried on beaming at Beatrice, even after she had forcefully freed her hand from his grip.
‘I’d like to continue, if you don’t mind.’ Florin’s voice was like bourbon on ice: cold, crisp and as smooth as velvet. ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary yesterday evening?’
‘No. Everything was just the same as always.’
‘I see. And did you happen to hear anything during the night? Any voices, screams?’
‘No, nothing. So did the woman fall down from the crag? Or did someone attack her? There was an awful lot of blood on her head.’ He sounded eager to know more. No wonder really; next time he met the other farmers for a beer they would be desperate to hear his story, so he had to know the details.
‘We don’t know yet. So is the crag accessible by road then?’
The farmer thought for a moment. ‘Yes. It’s easy to get to from the other side. There’s a dirt track that goes almost right to the top.’
Beatrice saw Florin write in his notebook: Tyre tracks. All she had written in hers so far were the coordinates. Underneath, she scribbled in shorthand the information Raininger had given them.
‘Does the woman look familiar to you?’ she asked. ‘Have you see her here before at all?’
The farmer shook his head vehemently. ‘Never. And I’ve got a good memory for faces. I’m sure I would have remembered hers. Especially with that beautiful blonde hair. Is it natural?’ He grinned broadly, revealing a toothless gap in the top left-hand side of his mouth.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Beatrice in a gentle but firm tone, ‘we’re the ones asking the questions.’
But the farmer didn’t have any useful information left to offer. He set off reluctantly back to the farm, his cows in tow, glancing back over his shoulder after every few steps. Beatrice waited until he was out of earshot.
‘The victim’s feet,’ she said.
‘What about them?’
‘They were tattooed. On the soles.’
He caught on right away. ‘So you think the murderer left her some kind of memento?’
‘Possibly. But I think it might be a message.’ She showed him the two sets of numbers.
‘These were tattooed on her feet?’
‘Yes. The northern coordinate on the left foot, and eastern on the right.’
Florin immediately strode off across the meadow back towards the crime scene, completely disregarding the potential damage an encounter with a cowpat could inflict on his bespoke shoes. He stopped at the pasture fence and stared over towards the body, his head cocked to the side.
Beatrice had almost caught up with him when her phone started to vibrate in her jacket pocket.
‘Kaspary.’
‘I’m not going to let you mess me around any more.’ Every last word was dripping with contempt.
‘Achim. Now’s not the time.’
‘Of course not. It’s never a convenient time for you, is it?’ He was on the brink of shouting. ‘Even when it’s about the children, or—’
‘The children are fine, and I’m hanging up now.’
‘Don’t you dare, you—’
She ended the call and put her mobile back in her bag.
Take a deep breath, she told herself. Focus on the job at hand. But her hands were shaking, she couldn’t think clearly like this. Shit! Crossing her arms and tucking her hands out of sight, she walked over to join Florin.
‘I’d like to know where her shoes are,’ he pondered. ‘If she lost them in the fall then they should be around here somewhere.’ He paused and looked at Beatrice. ‘Are you going to tell me why you look so agitated?’
She didn’t answer, and Florin lowered his head knowingly. ‘Achim, right?’
She pulled her shoulders back and straightened up. ‘You were saying something about her shoes?’ She tried to pick up on his train of thought, keen to deflect the attention from herself. ‘I’m sure forensics will cover the crag too. If she really did fall, then we might find the shoes up there.’
But he was still staring at her intently. ‘I’m such an idiot!’ he exclaimed.
‘Why? We can’t be sure about the shoes. Who knows whether we’re going to find—’
‘Not about that. You still haven’t eaten anything, have you? You must be on the verge of fainting.’
‘Oh.’ Tuning into her body for a moment, she registered a searing sensation in her stomach – which might have been hunger – but not the slightest hint of an appetite. ‘No, there’s no rush. Crime scene work always turns my stomach anyway.’
She left it at that, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion. A light wind picked up, making the thin plastic bag around the dead woman’s hands rustle as if she was kneading it from the inside.
The pathologist’s vehicle bumped along the country lane towards them. After it had come to a standstill, a stretcher and body bag were lifted out. Drasche nodded, giving the green light for the woman to be taken away. They lifted her up and the wind caught her hair one last time. Beatrice turned away.
Before the vehicle set off on its way to the pathologist, Florin leant over to the passenger-side window. ‘Tell Dr Vogt I’d like the preliminary results today if at all possible.’
Beatrice’s mobile began to vibrate in her jacket pocket. It was sure to be Achim again. This time though, she wouldn’t pick up. But she took the phone from her pocket just to check, then sighed loudly. The call was from the school.
‘He emptied the entire contents of his milk carton into the pot plants! It’s just not acceptable, do you understand? The plants belong to the whole class, and if they die you’ll have to replace them.’
‘Of course. Just let me know if that turns out to be necessary.’
‘He’s not an easy child, you know.’ The teacher at the other end of the line sighed. ‘Please speak to him again. It’s high time he learnt that rules apply to everyone, including him!’
‘Of course. Out of interest, did he say why he did it?’
The teacher snorted. ‘Yes, he said that water is too thin and he wanted the flowers to have a proper drink.’
Oh, Jakob, my sweet little Jakob.
‘I see. Well, then at least he didn’t mean any harm.’
‘I guess. But he’s seven, for heaven’s sake. At some point he simply has to learn to do what he’s told.’
Beatrice suppressed the desire to shout down the phone at the woman.
‘I understand. I’ll speak to him.’
‘Thank you. Let’s hope it does some good.’ The teacher hung up. Feeling overwhelmed with hopelessness, Beatrice tucked her phone back in her bag.
At Florin’s insistence, they stopped off
at Ginzkey’s instead of driving straight back to the office. ‘Vegetable curry helps to restore inner balance,’ he informed her, ordering two portions. By now, Beatrice was starting to feel as if her stomach had been sewn shut. It was only once the aromatic plate of food was put down in front of her, and she had shovelled in the first mouthful, that her appetite finally kicked back in. She devoured the entire curry, then ordered some cake and hot chocolate.
‘Sugar therapy,’ she explained. ‘It generates temporary feelings of happiness. By the time I feel sick I’ll have forgotten about everything else.’ She was relieved to see Florin grinning.
‘Will it spoil your appetite if we talk about the case?’ he asked.
‘Not in the slightest. Once we get back to the office we can go through the missing persons reports. Our investigations are just a stab in the dark until we know who the woman was.’
‘Well, that’s not strictly true. Thanks to your discovery.’
‘Do you really think the coordinates are connected to her death? The tattoos could be old. We should wait for the pathologist’s report first.’
‘Definitely.’ He drank his espresso down in one gulp. ‘But I’m still going to put the numbers into my GPS all the same. You never know, we might find something useful.’
Outside, the skies were clouding over. They hurried back to the office, where they were greeted by a message from Hoffmann asking to be updated on the new case. While Florin went off to look for their boss, Beatrice turned her computer on and loaded the page with the missing persons announcements.
A fifty-five-year-old woman with short grey hair who had gone missing from the local psychiatric unit. No. An unemployed twenty-two-year-old who had made suicide threats. Another no.
The third entry unleashed that subtle but familiar tug inside her, like a divining rod quivering and latching onto its target.
Thirty-nine-year-old female, blonde, green eyes, 170 centimetres, slim. A dark brown birthmark above the right-hand corner of her mouth. Special features: none. So no tattoos then.
Name: Nora Papenberg
Place of residence: Salzburg, Nesselthaler Strasse.
The woman had been reported missing four days ago by her husband. Beatrice only turned her attention to the photograph after reading the statement through in full. It was a snapshot, and not really suitable as a missing persons photo, because the Nora Papenberg in the picture had been captured whilst laughing gleefully. Her eyes were half shut, and she was holding a champagne glass in her right hand.
Mouth open, eyes shut. Exactly the same as in the meadow, and yet so completely different.
Beatrice made a mental note of the corresponding features: the rounded chin, the snub nose and the birthmark at the corner of the mouth. Their corpse had a name.
She told Florin as soon as he came back from talking to Hoffmann. ‘Nora Papenberg. I’ve already googled her. She was a copywriter in a small ad agency. There are some photos of her online, so we can be pretty certain it’s her.’ She passed a pile of printouts over to Florin’s side of the desk.
‘Right, let’s get cracking then.’ The vigour in his voice sounded false, and Beatrice knew why. Now came the hardest part of the job: informing the next of kin. Disbelief, tears, devastation. That’s not possible, it’s not my husband, my wife, my child. There must be some mistake. There has to be.
They got stuck in traffic even before they reached the Karolinen bridge. Stealing a glance at her watch, Beatrice realised she would never make it on time now. She pulled her phone from her bag and quickly dialled a number.
‘Mama?’
‘Bea! It’s so lovely to hear from you. Are you already done for the day?’
‘No, unfortunately that’s why I’m calling. We’ve got a new murder case, and …’
Her mother’s sigh echoed down the line. ‘And you want me to pick the children up from the childminder?’
‘Yes. Please. I’ll be as quick as I can, and you won’t need to cook anything, I’ll see to it when I get back.’
‘Frozen pizza, I know.’
Beatrice closed her eyes. As if her guilty conscience needed any more ammunition.
‘No. In actual fact I was planning to make a broccoli bake. That’s quick too.’
If broccoli bake didn’t win her mother around then nothing would.
‘Fine then. I’ll pick them up, but it would be nice if you could give me more notice next time. I do have other things to do, you know.’
‘Yes. I know. Thank you.’
They turned off into Aigner Strasse, where the traffic finally eased up. ‘You don’t have to tell him.’ Florin stared fixedly at the Audi in front of them. ‘I’ll handle that, okay? You just make notes. Unless I overlook something important, then speak up.’
She could have hugged him. He was voluntarily drawing the losing card. The way she sometimes did with the children, just for the pleasure of seeing them hop around giggling, overjoyed to have beaten her.
Did Nora Papenberg have children? As Florin parked the car opposite the house, Beatrice scanned the garden for telltale signs. No sandpit, no children’s bikes, no trampoline. Just one of those Japanese Zen gardens with patterns raked in the sand.
‘We’re too early. He won’t even be home yet,’ said Florin as he turned the engine off.
They got out and rang the bell anyway. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a man wearing jeans and a checked jacket over a dark green polo shirt.
‘Are you Konrad Papenberg?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re from the police.’
Beatrice saw the man flinch, saw how he searched their faces in vain for the trace of a smile, for a sign of the all-clear. Then she saw the realisation dawn.
‘My wife?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid we have bad news, Herr Papenberg.’
‘Come in, please.’ He held the door open for them, turning his ashen face to the side. Most people looked away at that moment, when nothing of finality had yet been said. It was about maintaining that state for as long as possible, drawing out these last seconds of merciful ignorance. He gestured for them to sit down on the sofa, then jumped up again and brought them water from the kitchen, unbidden. The glasses shook so violently in his hands that he spilt half of their contents.
Florin waited until he had sat down and was looking at them. ‘We have every reason to believe that we’ve found your wife. She was discovered this morning in a field near Abtenau.’
‘What do you mean, every reason to believe?’ His voice was surprisingly steady.
‘It means that we’ve identified her based on the missing persons photo. She didn’t have any ID with her.’
‘But she always has it on her … in her handbag.’ The man swallowed, kneading the fingers of his left hand.
Beatrice made a note: Bag missing.
‘You will of course have the opportunity to identify her personally if you feel able to,’ Florin continued gently. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Papenberg didn’t reply. He fixed his gaze on a spot on the coffee table, moving his lips wordlessly, shaking his head in brief, abrupt motions.
In ninety per cent of cases, the husbands are the murderers. That was Hoffmann’s rule – and it was fairly accurate. But this man’s reaction was so faint. He didn’t yet believe it.
‘What – I mean, how … how did she …’
‘At the moment we have to assume that she was murdered.’
He breathed in shakily. ‘No.’ Tears filled the man’s eyes and he covered his face with his hands. They paused to give him time. Beatrice handed him a tissue, which he noticed only after a few seconds and took hesitantly.
‘You last saw your wife on Friday, is that right?’ asked Florin.
Papenberg nodded. ‘She went to a work dinner in the evening, by car. She arrived without any problems, but left early, at half-ten. I spoke to her colleagues; they said she told them she was coming home, that she had a headache.’
He glanced at Beatric
e, looking strangely hopeful, as if she could create some equation from her notes, something that would give everything some sense. ‘Her colleague Rosa said that she received a call shortly before she left.’
That was important. ‘We’ll certainly be speaking to your wife’s colleagues,’ said Beatrice. ‘We didn’t find a mobile on her though. Do you know which model she had?’
‘A Nokia N8. I gave it to her … for her birthday.’ His voice broke. His upper body doubled over, shaking with suppressed sobs.
They waited patiently for him to gather his composure.
‘Could you please give me your wife’s mobile number? We’ll check to see who she spoke to.’
Konrad Papenberg nodded weakly and pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. He opened his contacts and let Beatrice write the number down. ‘I phoned her at least thirty times that night.’ His words were hard to make out, his voice bloated with grief. ‘But she must have turned it off, it just kept going straight to answerphone.’
‘When you reported your wife missing, you said she had her car with her. Is that correct?’
He nodded without looking up, scrunching the tissue in his hand.
‘A red Honda Civic?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s one more thing we need to know, Herr Papenberg.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did – does your wife have any distinguishing features?’
He looked up. ‘Like what?’
‘Scars, any obvious birthmarks, tattoos?’
His trembling hand moved up to his face and pointed to the right-hand side, just above his mouth. ‘She has a birthmark here. It’s her beauty mark.’
‘Okay.’ Florin cleared his throat. ‘Nothing else? No tattoos?’
‘No. She always thought they were tasteless.’ A spark of hope smouldered in his eyes. ‘Maybe it isn’t Nora after all?’
Beatrice and Florin exchanged a glance.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t any doubt,’ said Beatrice softly. ‘And not just because of the birthmark.’
That was enough for now. ‘We won’t disturb you any further. Can we call anyone for you so you’re not alone? If you like we can arrange for someone from the counselling team to come and see you.’
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