Five

by Ursula P Archer

  She opened the last text he had sent her – Cold, completely cold – and pressed ‘Reply’. Debating for a moment exactly what to say, she realised that, given where they were, there was only one possibility.

  Herbert Liebscher

  It looked like the beginning of a sentence, of a newspaper report, as if she were about to write: ‘Herbert Liebscher was murdered in early May; it was a week before anyone noticed he was missing.’ Or perhaps: ‘Herbert Liebscher: You cut off his hands and ears. We may be slow, but we’re getting closer.’

  But she didn’t write that. She left it at first name and surname, not even adding a full stop, and pressed ‘Send’.

  The neighbours didn’t know anything. Most of them were elderly people who hadn’t had any contact with Liebscher, and all they could say about him was that he lived a quiet life. Which was synonymous with: he was a pleasant enough neighbour. Female visitors? No. Friends, colleagues? Very rarely.

  By the time they got back to the car it was half-past eleven. Beatrice tried to look discreetly at the display on her mobile. The Owner hadn’t replied yet. But believing he would have done was pretty laughable given that he only switched his mobile on for a few minutes at a time. He would get her message when he wanted to send another of his own.

  ‘Any news from the children?’

  So Florin had noticed after all. She quickly shoved her mobile back in her bag. ‘No. But that’s good. If I don’t hear anything it means all’s well.’

  He glanced at her searchingly. ‘Why are you so edgy?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You seem to be.’ The next traffic light was red. He released the clutch and turned around to face her. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

  Food. Now that Florin mentioned it she felt an empty tug in her stomach. ‘No, not yet. But it’s fine, I’ve got some bread and ham at home. That’ll do me.’

  ‘I disagree.’ The light turned green. ‘We need to look after ourselves too, you know.’ He drove on slowly, his eyes fixed on the road again, but with an expression alternating between thoughtfulness and concern. ‘I notice that every time: whenever we’re working on a difficult case, you reduce your needs to a minimum. Eating, drinking, sleeping – it’s as though none of it matters to you any more.’

  ‘It’s good for the figure,’ she murmured. But her retort sounded a little pathetic and certainly wasn’t an appropriate response for Florin’s earnest words. She found herself wishing she could take it back.

  ‘I’m not joking, Bea.’ He indicated and veered off into Alpenstrasse. ‘Let’s take the computer to Stefan’s office, then go and get something to eat. A nice relaxed dinner, without discussing the case. Or even better – we can go to my place. I have roast beef at home, loads of leftover chicken salad, and if you want something hot there’s some delicious chilli con carne.’

  The suggestion awoke something else besides hunger in Beatrice, something she didn’t want to examine more closely, not under any circumstances.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m really tired, and tomorrow we both have to get up early and … well, maybe Anneke wouldn’t like it.’

  He gave her a bemused look. ‘Why would she have anything against it?’

  Why indeed? It’s not like I’m a woman or anything, Beatrice was about to blurt out, but she didn’t say anything, laughing instead and hoping it sounded light-hearted and not as awkward as she felt.

  Florin parked the car alongside the others in the car pool, turned the ignition off and brushed one of the unruly strands of dark hair off his forehead. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you suspected me of having other intentions than getting you to eat a decent meal.’ He smiled, his teeth the only bright thing inside the darkness of the car.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t think that for a second. It’s just that—’

  ‘It’s important to spend at least a few minutes a day enjoying life. Otherwise we’ll end up burning out. Come on – some good food, a glass of wine, music and talking about something other than murder for half an hour.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

  Florin’s apartment was close to the old town and most definitely not that of your average policeman. When Beatrice had come here for the first time around six months ago, she had asked him if he was taking backhanders to be able to afford digs like this. He had denied it, but the truth was clearly just as embarrassing to him: a rich family and a deceased grandmother who had left him not only money, but this penthouse too.

  Walking in, she was met by the scent of acrylic paints. Florin went off to open the windows and terrace doors while Beatrice chose a place to sit from the immense landscape of seating options.

  Everything was upholstered in white. Imagining Jakob running around here with his chocolate-smeared fingers, and Mina with her felt-tip pens, Beatrice couldn’t help but laugh. No, Florin didn’t have any such intentions when it came to her, most definitely not.

  She looked at the walls, the ledge over the open fire, the antique bookcases – there was no photo of Anneke to be seen. They were probably in the bedroom, where they belonged. Beatrice stretched out.

  ‘Fancy a splash of champagne?’ called Florin. He was standing in the open-plan kitchen, holding up a bottle. ‘We’re off duty now, so we’re allowed.’

  ‘But I still have to drive. Half a glass at the most.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He came over to her with two delicate champagne flutes in his hand and passed the half-full one to her. ‘It’ll kick in quickly on an empty stomach. Do you already know what you’d like to eat?’

  ‘Yes. Roast beef. Please.’

  ‘And salad with avocado and lime dressing?’

  She should have realised that Florin wouldn’t just serve up the average snack. ‘Sure sounds delicious.’

  While he busied himself in the kitchen, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. But she was fine with that right now.

  ‘Do you have any paintings on the go at the moment?’ she called.

  ‘Yes. Two. But neither is going well. There’s not a flicker of life in them.’ The clatter of plates. ‘Do you want to see? Go on up if you’d like.’

  His studio consisted of a chaotic corner one floor up, with an overhead light, two easels, a paint-spattered wooden table and a collection of blank canvases of varying sizes. It smelt of paint and solvents.

  ‘How about some music?’ Florin’s voice resonated up from below.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘Any special requests?’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘Whatever’s in the player right now.’

  Whatever you put on when you’re here alone, painting, reading, thinking about Anneke.

  ‘Okay.’

  It was no longer the Erik Satie album she’d heard down the phone the last time. It was Schubert’s String Quintet in C major, the second movement. The kind of music that made Beatrice feel as if just one misguided thought would be enough to make her burst into tears.

  She drank her champagne down in one gulp and positioned herself in front of the first easel.

  Red, bright in the middle, dark around the edges. Silver streaks across the left corner, as though something had splintered. The sight unleashed something within her that she didn’t want to face up to right now. She stepped aside and looked at the second easel.

  A square canvas, which at first sight depicted an eternity of blue. Towards the middle, the colour darkened until it was almost black, with metallic specks flying through the darkness as if someone had stomped into a puddle of molten copper. The picture was like this evening: a spark of light amidst the darkness.

  ‘Not that great, right?’ she heard Florin ask.

  ‘No, they are. Sorry, but I …’ I love this one, she wanted to say, but bit back the words at the last moment. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Strong – and unfathomable, with a glimmer of hope.’

  Florin had come up the stairs and was now standing next to Beatrice, his head cocked to the side. ‘Really? Hmm. I
think I’ll need to take a fresh look at it. But not tonight.’ He rotated the canvas ninety degrees. ‘It might work like that though. Come on, dinner’s ready.’ Beatrice felt his arm around her shoulders, the light pressure as he pulled her towards the stairs. ‘I’m starving.’

  It was a long time since she had been able to enjoy a meal without having to stare at her computer or tame her children at the same time. The roast beef was tender, cut at just the right thickness, and Florin had warmed up a baguette to go with it. Because Beatrice didn’t have the slightest desire to let her enjoyment of it be diminished, she drank another glass of champagne, noticing how light-headed it was making her.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ The question slipped out before she could stop it.

  ‘What exactly am I doing?’

  ‘Inviting me round after the working day’s over. I would have thought you’d be relieved not to have me under your feet any more.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I like having you under my feet, as you so nicely put it. And besides—’ He stopped, shook his head and topped up both their glasses.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘No. It might come out the wrong way. It’s the kind of comment which could lead to a misunderstanding.’

  She tried to formulate a question in her mind that would encourage him to be more specific, but he shook his head with a smile before she could come up with one. ‘Wrong day, wrong time, wrong mood.’

  Beatrice put her glass down on the table, suddenly aware of how tired she felt. ‘Which door is the bathroom?’

  ‘The second on the right.’

  It was spacious, tiled in elegant grey and far too well lit. The mirror confronted Beatrice with her pale face, tired eyes, and the dark rings beneath them. For a moment, she thought about reapplying her lipstick, but immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous.

  Instead, she splashed a little water on her face and looked at the clock. It was already half-past one in the morning.

  ‘I have to get going,’ she said as she walked back into the living area.

  ‘Or you could sleep here.’ He held his hands up reassuringly before she could respond. ‘I have a spare room with lots of space, and no, you wouldn’t be imposing.’ He pointed towards a door behind him. ‘I really would prefer it if you did. After all, we drank more than one glass.’

  Beatrice gave in. It was less the thought of the ten-minute drive, and more that of her empty apartment with the nocturnally active telephone.

  When Christoph Beil awoke, the world around him consisted of intense darkness. For a few moments, boundless gratitude streamed through him.

  He had dreamt it all.

  But the very next moment, the pain came back. His sore wrists were burning and throbbing behind his back, and every time he swallowed it felt as if nails were tearing into his larynx. It was all real. He hadn’t survived anything.

  At least he seemed to be alone now. He held his breath, listening in case he could still hear breathing in the room. He heard something, but it might have been the wind. A gentle, quiet breeze between the leaves.

  Gradually, he began to realise that the darkness wasn’t necessarily synonymous with night. Something had been bound tightly around his head and eyes.

  The noose around his neck was gone, and he was sitting now, but the pain in his throat was still unbearable. He tried not to swallow, but that only made it more difficult. His salivary glands worked as though his very awareness of their existence was spurring them on to hyperactivity.

  It hurt so much.

  He whimpered involuntarily. Thought about the policewoman with the blonde hair who had given him a chance. Wished fervently, with all the energy he had left, that he could turn back time.

  There. A noise. He raised his head and struggled to suppress a sob. Tried to speak, but his voice was only a rasp and trembled so much that hardly a word he said was decipherable. At the third attempt, he managed to get a whole sentence out.

  ‘Will you … let me go?’

  He didn’t get an answer. Maybe he was mistaken; maybe he was alone after all and his mind was just playing tricks with him. That would be good. Better than the alternative.

  It was only when he heard the cough that he realised his senses were still functioning. He struggled against the ties that bound him. ‘Please, let me go, I’ve told you everything.’

  A hand on his head, almost a caress. And then the voice.

  ‘That doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t know enough.’

  The morning was sunny and bright, announcing its arrival through the broad slats of the half-shut Venetian blinds. Beatrice awoke gradually for a change, drifting slowly and languidly at the surface of her consciousness.

  The shirt she was wearing smelt of unfamiliar washing powder. Because … she wasn’t at home, but in Florin’s spare room. She sat up, feeling as though she had slept too late, but her watch said it was only half-past six. Her next glance was directed at her mobile, and even though she was sure an incoming message would have woken her, she still checked to be sure. Nothing.

  Tiptoeing on bare feet, she made her way out to the bathroom. Florin was standing at the hob frying eggs, his hair still wet. ‘I’ve put towels on the stool next to the shower, and you’ll find everything else by the sink,’ he called.

  While she was brushing her teeth, Beatrice wondered why she felt much fresher than she usually did at this time of the morning. And younger. It reminded her of her days as a student, of staying overnight in unfamiliar flatshares after long parties, of—

  Pushing the thoughts away, she rinsed out her mouth, got under the shower and started to plan the day ahead. Their main goal was to find the key figure.

  ‘We worked on it all night.’ Drasche shot Beatrice a look which implied that she was personally responsible for that fact. ‘The apartment wasn’t the scene of the crime, that much is clear.’

  ‘Did you find fingerprints? The letters on the TV screen were most likely left by the killer.’

  ‘Who wore gloves, yet again.’ He raised his coffee cup to his lips, took a slurp and pulled a face. ‘All of the prints we’ve evaluated so far are the victim’s. For which, as luck would have it, we have a variety of fingers at our disposal for comparison.’ He laughed. ‘The car hasn’t been much help either. There are some hairs, presumably belonging to Beil’s wife. Unless the perpetrator has long blonde hair – shit!’ In the process of gesticulating wildly to depict the hair length, Drasche had spilt coffee all over his shirt. ‘So, did you two at least manage to get home at a reasonable hour in the end?’

  Beatrice felt herself go red. Of course Drasche didn’t know anything about her sleepover – innocent sleepover – at Florin’s. Each of them had driven to work in their own cars. But she still felt as though she’d been caught in the act.

  ‘There’s no need to look so offended. I know you two work hard too.’

  Offended. Smiling, Beatrice shook her head. Drasche was in exactly the right job with the forensics. He wouldn’t have been suited as a psychologist.

  As soon as she was out of the room, the first person she saw – appropriately, given that last thought – was Kossar, waiting in front of the door to her office. She sighed and ushered him in.

  ‘I had a very interesting evening,’ he began. ‘Where’s Wenninger? I think this will interest him too. In fact, I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Florin’s with Hoffmann. I’m sure he’ll be here soon though, so let’s make a start. Do you want a coffee?’

  He did. While Beatrice busied herself with the machine, he sauntered around the room, inspecting everything closely as though he was thinking of buying it.

  It was only when she sat down that he too pulled up a chair. ‘I haven’t created a definitive perpetrator profile yet, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to study as many similar cases as I can from the files before I can make a substantiated testimony. But I have managed to establish some first impressions, and in my opinion they should stand up to in
spection.’ He looked at Beatrice expectantly.

  ‘And?’ she asked, a little confused. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Okay. We can assume that we’re dealing with a perpetrator who is planning his actions, rather than acting in an uncontrolled way. He’s not just killing his victims, but also satisfying other needs, one of which particularly jumps out at me: that he wants to be in contact with us. He sends his messages via the murdered victims – the tattooed coordinates with Nora Papenberg, the notes in the caches, and not least the body parts. He forces us to listen to him, and to engage with what he sends us.’

  That was nothing new. ‘So you think his main motive is a desire for attention?’

  ‘Without a doubt. He also wants to pit himself against us, to prove himself; that comes across very clearly in his messages.’

  ‘But it’s also very clear that he doesn’t take us seriously. Why would he want to pit himself against someone who he regards to be incapable?’

  Kossar straightened his glasses. ‘Well, have you ever been to a boxing match? Before it starts, the opponents often shout abuse at each other, provoking one another. By doing so, they motivate themselves and try to make the other man angry, because then he might make mistakes.’ He sipped at his coffee. ‘I suspect the perpetrator exhibits strong narcissistic tendencies. He enjoys picturing the police trying to fathom the pieces of the puzzle he’s throwing at their feet. I’m sure he’d love to be here in person, watching us come up with theories and pulling our hair out in frustration because none of it makes any sense.’

  Florin had arrived in the middle of the last sentence. ‘Is that what you think?’ he asked. ‘Does none of the information in the files make any sense to you?’

  ‘No, on the contrary. But at the moment the information we have mainly draws attention to individual aspects of the perpetrator’s psyche.’

  ‘Like what, for example?’

  Kossar stared thoughtfully at his hands. ‘Normally, when a person is acting like this I would assume he picks his victims at random, studies them for a while and then rips them from their lives. Like God, you see? He watches how his chosen ones contend with their daily lives, drive their cars, care for their families, knowing that he’s going to put an end to it all, at a time and in a way that suits him. Like a sadistic child watching an anthill and then plunging a burning match into it.’