Why had the Owner led her to Bernd Sigart? What was he trying to show her? Was it possible that …?
She sat down and held her face in her hands, trying to think clearly. Was it possible that the Owner wanted to rub one of his own crimes under her nose? Look what I did, and you lot didn’t catch me!
But the fire hadn’t been an arson attack. It was just very bad luck; fires often broke out in the hot summer months. Was he trying to claim ownership of it regardless? Begging for attention, perhaps? Or, as Florin suspected, was he just doing this to confuse the police?
Perhaps they would know more tomorrow. The name of the street Sigart lived in had given them the new coordinates.
Beatrice unplugged the landline, but left her mobile on. She took it with her into the bedroom and put it on the bedside table. The night passed without interruptions. But in her dreams, she was running through a burning forest to the strains of the Stabat Mater.
N47º 48.022 E013º 10.910
The waterfall crashed down a good twenty metres into the depths, colliding with a shallow pebbled basin and resuming its path as a peaceful, level stream. At its highest point, next to one of the many old mills in the area, Florin, Beatrice and Stefan were leaning over the GPS device.
The task of translating ‘Theodebert’ into new coordinates had taken a matter of minutes. Finding the cache, however, would be more difficult, for the navigation device was pointing them towards the rocks around the waterfall.
‘It could be hidden inside the mill, but that would mean the results are very imprecise,’ pondered Stefan. They agreed to clamber down the path to the stream. Drasche stayed close to their heels, lugging along his forensic case and making no effort to conceal his bad mood. He regarded the fact that he was unable to drive his car right up to the location as a personal affront.
They were completely alone here in the forest. At the weekends, the mills and waterfall were popular day-trip destinations, but today they shared the surroundings only with the birds and insects.
The tumbling cascades of water looked even more impressive from below. Beatrice felt a deep sense of foreboding, sensing that the beautiful view was about to be drowned out by something else entirely.
‘A little bit further to the right.’ Stefan pointed to the crag. A steep little mound, around four metres in height, was huddled up against it, sparsely vegetated with shrubbery. ‘One of us should climb up. I reckon that’s the spot.’
Drasche peered upwards. ‘There’s only room for one of us up there, and that’s me. Give me the GPS.’ Ebner helped him clamber up, handed the navigation device and camera to him and waited for further instructions.
Once again, a rushing sound was providing the soundtrack to their search; even though it didn’t come from the autobahn this time, it was still equally pervasive. Beatrice wondered if there was some kind of pattern behind the Owner’s choices of location.
‘I’ve got it,’ she heard Drasche call. ‘It’s smaller than the others though.’ The cache was hidden in a crevice in the rock, concealed by hard-stemmed plants with nodular blooms. Drasche took some photos in situ and then made his slippery descent, holding the plastic box in his gloved hands.
This time, the container was barely bigger than a cigarette packet, its contents – pressed against the transparent lid and clearly defined – only just squeezed in. It was unmistakable: an ear, possibly two if they were laid on top of one another. ‘Fuck,’ exclaimed Drasche. ‘More body parts. Let’s just hope they’re not from a different victim. If only the genetic tests could be quicker—’
Beatrice’s mobile rang, interrupting Drasche mid-sentence. She pulled it out of her bag, surprised that she even had reception out here. The number was unknown. It wasn’t the school, in any case. Nor Achim.
‘Kaspary.’
‘I … I found your card. Your business card.’ It was a woman’s voice. Her words were rushing into one another; she sounded breathless.
‘Who is this?’
‘Beil. Vera Beil. You were in our garden on Sunday.’
‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Frau Beil?’
A trembling intake of breath. ‘Christoph has disappeared. Yesterday evening. He said he was just popping out, but he didn’t come back all night and … I can’t reach him on his mobile either.’
‘Right, I see.’
‘I’m really scared something’s happened to him.’ Her voice almost cracked. ‘He’s so reliable – he always lets me know if he’s going to be late.’
The connection was cutting out. ‘I’ll come over to see you, Frau Beil, okay?’ Beatrice hurried to speak. ‘It may take an hour or even a little bit more, but I’ll set off right now. Are you at home?’
‘Yes. Thank you …’
Beatrice hung up. ‘Beil’s disappeared. That was his wife. I’m heading over there now.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said Florin immediately. ‘Gerd, please investigate the container as quickly as you can. We need photos of the letters as soon as possible – I’m sure there’ll be some in there again.’
They didn’t speak much on the steep climb up to the mill. Beatrice kept thinking of the moment when she had showed Christoph Beil the photo. Her memory of the jolt that went through his body refused to go away.
If I had only kept pushing. If I had pinned him down right away. If …
She gave herself a mental rap on the fingers. The old what-if game won’t help; it just drives you crazy. The clock can’t be turned back. You can’t correct the past.
And if I could, I wouldn’t be where I am today, she thought.
‘He was acting strangely the whole of Sunday evening.’ The tablecloth beneath Vera Beil’s clasped hands was made of plastic. Brown and yellow flowers struggled against each other for dominance, smothering the dingy white background beneath.
‘When did that start? Only after we left?’
‘Yes. I asked him what was wrong, what he talked to you both about, but he said it was nothing important. He said you just had him mixed up with some witness.’ The woman’s gaze darkened. ‘I sensed that he wasn’t telling me the truth. Even though he never normally lies.’
‘I understand,’ said Florin. He had taken over the soothing, sympathetic role and was leaving it to Beatrice to ask the questions. ‘So our visit clearly unsettled him.’
‘Yes, you could put it like that.’
‘What did your husband do for the rest of Sunday? Did he meet anyone? Speak on the phone?’
Vera Beil thought for a moment, running her right index finger along the stem of one of the brown flowers. ‘No, he spent most of it in the bedroom, even though he had actually been planning to watch some crime film. Maybe he did speak to someone on the phone, I don’t know. But I do know that he slept badly – he got up at least four times in the night.’
‘And how was he yesterday? How long exactly has he been missing, did you say?’
‘Well, first he went to work, just like always, but he was back home again by one – he said he was feeling unwell. He lay down and slept a bit, but then at around half-six in the evening, he received a phone call and rushed off. Yes, I think that’s the best way of describing it. He literally ran to the car. He called out to me that he wouldn’t be long – but that was all he said.’
A phone call. Florin and Beatrice exchanged a quick glance, then she pulled the Papenberg photos out of her bag.
‘We’ll do whatever we can to find your husband quickly,’ she said. ‘For now, could you please look at these pictures for us and tell us whether you recognise the woman in them?’
Vera Beil took the tissue that Florin handed to her and wiped her eyes before turning her attention to the photos. ‘No. I don’t know her.’ She said it almost guiltily, as if she felt bad about not being able to be more helpful.
‘Are you completely sure?’
‘Yes. Please, find Christoph.’
It might have been easier if he hadn’t lied to us on Sunday, thought Beatrice grimly. But she
kept quiet and was relieved when Florin spoke up.
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he said. ‘And we’ll keep you posted, of course.’
Beatrice decided to have Beil’s phone calls looked into right away, to find out where the call which had upset him so much the previous evening had come from. It wasn’t improbable that it had come from a phone box in Maxglan. Or from a certain mobile phone with a prepaid card.
Until the response from the phone company came back, she hoped to be able to immerse herself in Drasche’s findings, assuming that he had already sent the pictures of the new messages. Another puzzle, Stage Four.
But Beatrice didn’t manage to find out, because there was someone waiting for her in front of the office. A tall, lanky man with curly hair and glasses that were a little too fashionable to be tasteful. When he saw her and Florin approaching, he jumped up from his chair and stretched his hand out.
‘Dr Peter Kossar, pleased to meet you. You must be Florin Wenninger, hello. And Beatrice Kaspary, am I right? I’ve heard about you – a quasi-colleague, one might say?’
Confused, she returned the firm pressure of his handshake. He didn’t break eye contact, and she noticed he had pronounced Peter the English way. ‘How do you mean, quasi?’ she asked.
‘Well, I heard you studied psychology.’
The penny dropped. ‘Are you the forensic psychologist we requested?’
It was as if the man considered blinking to be a weakness of some kind – Beatrice found the intensity with which he was gazing at her physically unpleasant.
‘Exactly. Your boss has filled me in on the key details of the case, and the fact that the perpetrator has made contact with you. That’s a highly important detail. I’ve already studied the text messages thoroughly, and I’ll soon be able to tell you how to respond to them.’
He walked into the office ahead of Beatrice. At last, his gaze had left her, fixing instead on the photos she had pinned up over her desk.
‘We will of course make copies of all the relevant files for you,’ said Florin. It was quite clear, at least to Beatrice, that he wanted to get rid of the guy as soon as possible.
‘Excellent.’
‘What happened to Dr Reichenau?’ enquired Beatrice. ‘Up until now we’ve always collaborated with him on occasions such as these, and – please don’t take this the wrong way – it always worked excellently.’
If Kossar was offended by her question, he didn’t let on. ‘My colleague is in the process of applying to be the head of an institute and is very busy right now. But I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that you spoke so highly of him.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Beatrice. ‘My method of working is different to Dr Reichenau’s. He gleans his knowledge predominantly from the written material available, whereas I find that the more closely intertwined I am with the investigations, the better I can assess the perpetrator.’
Just what they needed. Beatrice avoided making eye contact with Florin, but hoped he would say something before she blurted out the words that were poised on her tongue. You’re getting in the way.
‘That sounds very interesting.’ She knew Florin well enough to be able to detect the coldness behind his polite words. ‘But I’m sure you’ll want to catch up on the details of the case first.’ He reached for the telephone and pressed a button. ‘Stefan? Could you please put together all the important info on our Owner for Dr Kossar? Yes, a copy of the file. No, he’s a forensic psychologist, and I’ll send him over to you right now. Exactly. Thank you!’
‘Well,’ said Kossar, ignoring the subtle request for him to leave, ‘perhaps I should just tell you a little about myself so that you can get an idea of my qualifications.’ He straightened his glasses.
Translated, what he really meant was: So that you are appropriately impressed. Beatrice had studied long enough to be able to spot the traits of a narcissistic personality at first glance, and Kossar had them in abundance. While the psychologist pontificated about his additional qualifications and the fact that he had acquired them in the USA, Beatrice’s thoughts wandered back to Christoph Beil.
‘Impressive,’ she murmured, dialling the number of the mobile network provider the Owner was using. ‘Excuse me, I have to get back to work now,’ she explained to a visibly irritated Kossar, watching out of the corner of her eye as he finally got up and allowed himself to be escorted to the door by Florin.
The technical support assistant she got through to was the same one as the day before.
‘You’ve got a match,’ he explained. ‘The same prepaid card, registered to a network in Parsch. The number dialled was the exact one you mentioned, and the call lasted around three and a half minutes. From six twenty-four to six twenty-eight. After that, the mobile immediately went offline again.’
‘Thank you.’
Florin, who had been trying to reach Drasche while she was on the phone, looked at her with his eyes narrowed. ‘He phoned Beil, right?’
‘Yes. It’s the first time he’s made a call on Nora Papenberg’s mobile. We need a bugging authorisation.’
Lost in thought, she drew a circle around the notes she had made. Three and a half minutes. She would have given so much to know what was discussed in this short time period. And, even more importantly …
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about Christoph Beil,’ she said.
Florin frowned. ‘Me too. We’ll write up a missing persons report – perhaps we’ll get lucky.’
She rested her forehead in her hands. ‘The worst-case scenario is that the Owner has silenced him.’ And, to make matters worse, after dangling him under our noses like bait, like the promise of a solution to all the puzzles.
She sent a description of Beil to all stations in the area, along with the instruction to keep an eye out for his car. Florin carried out the necessary calls with a dark expression on his face. He didn’t say anything, but Beatrice was convinced he was harbouring the same fear she was: that they would see Beil again sooner than expected. Vacuum-packed in small portions.
That afternoon, they received news from the pathologist’s office that the two hands were a genetic match; they came from the same body. Whether the DNA matched that of Liebscher, the missing teacher, would only become clear in the next day or two, but the colleague whom Beatrice had managed to insult – Bechner, his name was Bechner, she had it fixed in her memory now – had managed to find a comb in Herbert Liebscher’s pigeonhole at the school, next to a tube of cough sweets and numerous packets of antacids.
Florin scanned through Bechner’s report. ‘It looks like Liebscher was … or is known amongst his colleagues as being friendly and conscientious. Not very sociable, but reliable. Although somewhat lacking when it comes to a sense of humour apparently. He teaches maths and physics.’
‘And there’s nothing about any recent changes in behaviour?’
‘No, nothing of the sort. He was planning a two-day trip with his class which was supposed to take place next week. The director said the last time he saw Liebscher he was annoyed about the fact that not everyone had paid yet, which meant he couldn’t book the bus.’ Florin lowered the piece of paper with a shrug.
‘Maybe he’s not our guy after all.’ Beatrice stretched her hand over the desk and Florin handed her the files, including three photos, one of which was a typical class picture. Twenty-six children aged around fourteen, Liebscher standing alongside them with a strained smile. A thin man with thinning hair. Another picture was a portrait shot, and a third had been taken while he was teaching. He was facing the class, a piece of chalk in his right hand, and with the left he was pointing at a functional equation on the blackboard.
Beatrice rummaged around in her desk drawer for a magnifying glass and looked at Liebscher’s hands. Was it possible to ascertain whether they were the same ones that had been found in the caches, tinged with blue?
She scanned the picture at the highest resolution and zoomed in on the section showing his hands, comparing what she saw with the
photos of the shrink-wrapped dismembered ones. It was certainly possible that they were the same, but she couldn’t be sure. The hands in the picture were as unremarkable as the man they belonged to. She suppressed a sigh and tried to get through to Drasche again. This time, he picked up.
‘You’ll have your written report soon,’ he boomed, without a word of greeting. ‘It took longer because I had to use every damn method that’s ever been invented, but we still only have Papenberg’s fingerprints.’
‘On a note?’
‘Yep. Do you want to know about the ears? It might interest you.’ That was probably the closest Drasche would get to a friendly tone in this lifetime.
‘Are they from the same victim?’
‘They’re a matching pair, if that’s what you mean. We’ll need to wait on the genetic analysis to find out whether they were cut off from the same guy as the hands though.’ He inserted one of his typical pauses, indicating that he wanted to be asked for further details.
‘Okay.’ She decided to humour him. ‘Is there anything else of interest?’
‘Yes.’ Drasche cleared his throat and coughed. ‘They weren’t cut off with a saw, but a tool with two opposing blades.’ He stopped, giving the information time to seep deeply enough into Beatrice’s imagination to create a vague image. ‘My guess would be a pair of garden shears,’ he added.
All of a sudden, the image was crystal clear. Beatrice swallowed. ‘I see.’
‘That’s only half of the story. The ears weren’t vacuum-packed together, but individually. The pathologist will have to confirm it, of course, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t cut off at the same time. The left one looks much more decomposed than the right.’
Beatrice took a sharp intake of breath through her teeth.
‘You’ve guessed it, right? I think the right ear was cut off while the victim was still alive. One or two days before the left one, in any case.’
‘How wonderful. Okay, please send everything over. The photos, particularly the ones of the letters, and the others too.’
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