Five

by Ursula P Archer

  ‘We heard the struggle ourselves on the phone, and know that at least one of the witnesses in the building heard it too, even though he misinterpreted it.’ Florin was propping up his chin with one hand while doodling in a squared notepad with the other, drawing snake-like lines that ended in crooked fingers. ‘Okay, Sigart lives on the first floor, so the route to the cellar isn’t far, but the Owner must still have been incredibly quick.’

  Beatrice’s eyes followed the intertwining lines and picked up on his thoughts. ‘He grabbed him by the arms and pulled him down the stairs. The bloody shoe print –’ she pulled the corresponding photo towards her – ‘was pointing up the stairs. So either the Owner went down the stairs backwards, or he went back up again.’

  ‘Backwards,’ Florin surmised. ‘He was pulling Sigart down behind him.’

  The telephone rang. Bea’s contact in the mobile provider’s technical department reported that the text message earlier that morning had been sent from a location near Golling, around twenty kilometres south of Salzburg.

  ‘It wasn’t even 6 a.m.’ Beatrice tapped her pen agitatedly on her notepad. ‘The Owner must have to sleep at some point too; after all, he’s got a hell of a workload. If he gets too tired he’ll make mistakes, which he won’t want to risk, so it’s very likely he lives near Golling. Or that he’s at least staying there temporarily.’

  ‘Unless,’ Stefan interjected, ‘he’s not alone. I mean, you agree that Nora Papenberg may have been his accomplice. It’s possible that there are more.’

  They had discussed this idea a number of times, with differing results. Kossar rejected the theory every time, and today was no exception. ‘The person composing these puzzles is clearly conceited. The Owner wants to prove he’s better than us, but his success will only be fully satisfactory if he, and only he, can take all the credit. I’m absolutely convinced that we’re looking for a lone perpetrator.’

  ‘So then how do we explain Nora Papenberg’s role?’

  Kossar only needed a few seconds to answer. ‘It’s possible that he needed help at the start. But at soon as things were going to plan, he—’

  A knock at the door interrupted his flow. One of the secretaries came in – Jutta, Jette, Jasmin? Beatrice cursed her appalling memory for names – bearing a bunch of flowers wrapped up in paper, their scent mingling with the aroma of the coffee.

  ‘These were delivered for you, Frau Kaspary.’ She winked, laid the flowers on the desk and headed off.

  ‘Just a moment!’ Beatrice called after her, but the woman had already pulled the door shut behind her. Kossar was grinning as if the bunch had been sent by him personally.

  ‘Come on then, show us!’

  Beatrice slowly pulled the cellophane off the paper. For a brief moment, the thought occurred to her that Florin might have sent them. But why would he send flowers? A quick glance revealed that he seemed as confused as she was.

  She dispatched the first layer of cellophane into the wastepaper bin, admitting to herself that she was just trying to buy time with all the fumbling, then ripped the packaging open.

  White calla and violet lilies. Three spruce twigs. Baby’s breath. All tied together with a white-and-gold ribbon.

  Her body reacted more quickly than her mind. She rushed out of the office and got to the bathroom just in time. She threw up her breakfast and the coffee she had only just drunk, still retching even after her stomach had nothing left to give. But not even the smell of vomit was enough to drown out the scent of the flowers, still clinging mercilessly in her nose. It had been a mistake to believe that 21 May would be a date just like any other to the Owner. He knew what role the day played in Beatrice’s life, and that clearly wasn’t all he knew.

  She straightened up, waited until the black spots in her vision had disappeared, and then flushed the toilet. Her shock and disgust had now been joined by shame. Losing the plot like that at the sight of a few flowers didn’t exactly make her look very professional; how was she going to explain it to the others?

  A few sips of water chased the acrid taste from her mouth. She opened the door leading back out into the corridor, bracing herself for questions from her colleagues – and ran straight into Hoffmann.

  ‘On a break, Kaspary?’

  Her first instinct was to dodge around him without a word, to run away like a child, but she had already exhibited enough weakness today.

  ‘Why would you ask that? You can see exactly where I’ve been.’ The words came out quiet and forced; the hollow feeling in her stomach had returned.

  Hoffmann came a step closer and sniffed the air. ‘Have you just been sick?’

  It took all the control Beatrice had to stand still and not break eye contact. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you pregnant or something? For heaven’s sake, what next?’

  She couldn’t hold back her laughter. ‘No, most certainly not.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘I see. Well, that doesn’t make it much better, but—’

  ‘If you say so,’ Beatrice interrupted him. ‘I don’t really think that concerns you though. I’m feeling much better now, by the way, thank you for asking.’ Without waiting for a response, she left him standing there.

  Kossar and Stefan were still in the office when she walked back in, and so was Florin. ‘Are you feeling better?’ He stood up and came over to her. ‘You’re really pale. If you don’t feel well, you should go home, okay? It’s not going to help anyone if you collapse, Bea.’

  The bouquet of flowers was still on her desk. Someone had freed them from the rest of the paper.

  ‘I’m not ill. Sorry that my reaction was so extreme – it’s just … these flowers.’

  ‘So I gathered.’ Florin held up an envelope, white with a black edging, like a death notice in a newspaper. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

  She shook her head and swallowed down the stomach acid rising up in her throat again. A death announcement, what else could it be? Sigart was dead, and the Owner had found his own unique way of telling her. She sat down, pushing the flowers far away from her, and steeled herself for the sight of more horrific pictures. She opened the envelope.

  A white card without any adornment. Beatrice read it through, and tried to make sense of it but failed.

  Everything that is entirely probable is probably false.

  N47º 26.195; E013º 12.523

  You know everything, and yet you find nothing.

  Speechless, Beatrice handed the card to Florin.

  ‘We’ve already phoned the flower delivery company while you – while you were outside,’ explained Stefan. ‘They said the order came from a young woman who spoke very poor German.’

  ‘We need a more detailed description.’ She averted her gaze from the flowers, staring into the distance. ‘Stefan, could you—’

  ‘Drive over there? Of course.’ On the way to the door, he waved his phone in the air. ‘Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.’

  Beatrice looked back at the card. New coordinates. Was this Stage Four? A little extra help from the Owner so the game didn’t grind to a halt?

  Florin pushed a glass of water over towards her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘White calla and violet lilies,’ she said softly, ‘were the flowers on the wreath I bought twelve years ago for my friend’s funeral, the one who was murdered. The Owner keeps making references to Evelyn.’ She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. ‘Even the colour of the ribbon is the same.’

  ‘I wonder why he picked you, out of all of us.’ Florin’s gaze was full of sympathy, and Beatrice couldn’t handle that right now.

  ‘No idea.’ She gestured towards Kossar, who was standing at the window with a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Why don’t you ask the expert? And while you’re at it, ask him how the Owner knows the inscription on her gravestone.’

  Spirit of Man,

  How like water you are.

  Fate of Man,

  How like the wind

  The qu
ote had been chosen by Evelyn’s mother, a pretty, friendly woman who had collapsed during the funeral and had to be taken away in an ambulance. Beatrice had only seen her twice after that, and she had looked smaller and greyer each time. Not just her hair but her skin and eyes, too, seemed to lose their colour. She had been as friendly as ever, but the friendliness had become absent-minded. Even though Beatrice had fully intended to, she had never managed to tell Evelyn’s mother about what had happened back then. About how easily Beatrice could have prevented it.

  No one from her new life knew about it. Or so she had thought.

  ‘Right then,’ said Kossar, interrupting her thoughts, ‘what seems evident is that the Owner wants to establish a strong link with Frau Kaspary. She’s the only one receiving his text messages, and now flowers, and he put a note under her windscreen wiper too – a little like lovers might do, don’t you think?’

  Beatrice looked away. If Kossar carried on like this she would have to run off to the toilet again.

  ‘Was the man who killed your friend ever caught?’

  She shook her head, convinced she knew what Kossar really wanted to ask.

  ‘There’s no way it’s the same killer! The behavioural patterns are completely different. For a start, the Owner doesn’t commit any sexual offences.’ She gestured towards the photos of the severed hands and ears that lay in front of Florin. ‘The dismemberments aren’t in any way com parable, and nor are the weapons, as far as we know. Besides, the Owner has predominantly killed men, so there aren’t any parallels there either.’ She raised her chin, staring defiantly at Kossar. Hold your head high, even if your neck’s dirty had been one of Evelyn’s favourite sayings. When Beatrice continued to speak, her voice was quieter than before, but also fiercer. ‘I would have thought you knew that. No serial killers change their pattern just like that.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ responded Kossar gently. ‘And I can’t remember having suggested that. I only asked whether your friend’s murderer was ever caught because I think it would have helped you considerably in dealing with the trauma.’

  His response felt like a blow to the stomach. He was right; she had simply pushed her own interpretation onto him. She would have to apologise for questioning his competence. But right now she was too angry to be fair. ‘More important than my so-called “trauma”,’ she snapped, ‘are these coordinates. Let’s not fool ourselves – we know what we’re going to find there.’ Sigart’s blood-covered mobile came into her mind. The prospect that his painful life had now come to an end wasn’t comforting, not even in the slightest.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Florin pointed his pen at the computer monitor in front of him. ‘The quote the Owner sent you this time is by René Descartes, and he was a mathematician.’

  ‘Like Liebscher!’

  ‘Precisely. So it’s possible that the Owner hasn’t sent us the location of Sigart’s body, but the coordinates to Stage Four, as a gift of sorts. Leading us to another one of Liebscher’s body parts. It’s as if he knew we were planning to stop playing his game.’

  The location was directly at the intersection of two busy roads near Bischofshofen, where a bridge stretched over the Salzach. Water and scenic spots – the Owner clearly had a weakness for them.

  They made their approach with a backup team: three dog handlers, and four squad cars to immediately block off the street if they found something. Drasche and Ebner had been called away to a break-in at a jewellery store, but two colleagues had been sent in their place.

  The coordinates directed Beatrice and Florin right towards the bridge, the arches of which were accessible on foot – stone steps beneath the road led from one arch to the next. The three officers with their dogs were already down there, while four others were searching the surrounding area within a radius of thirty metres, so far without any success.

  Down below, the river rushed northwards towards the city. Beatrice stood at the edge of the bridge, leaning over the stone wall and trying to ignore the pungent stink of urine rising up towards her. If the Owner hadn’t been careful, the river might already be carrying what they were looking for off towards the border. It was damp within the arches of the bridge; a plastic box could easily be dislodged by a strong gust of wind and fall into the water.

  And it seemed that Beatrice’s fears were to be confirmed, for three hours later they still hadn’t found anything. The dogs had dug up a perished squirrel, but that was all. No body, no cache. At around two in the afternoon, they gave up the search.

  ‘He’s making fools of us,’ said Beatrice bitterly. ‘He tosses us a few coordinates and we run off and do exactly what he wants.’ She sat down in the grass near the roadside and watched the dog handlers working their way through the arches of the bridge one more time.

  What if it was a mini-cache? An eye, vacuum-packed in an old photo film cartridge, hidden away in one of the numerous niches in the wall. Would the dogs be able to sniff it out?

  Probably. But so far the Owner had hidden his containers in such a way that, with a little patience, they could always be found.

  ‘I wish I knew why we’re here.’ A cool wind had started up, prompting Florin to pull his jacket closed across his chest.

  ‘Me too. Why is he luring us out here? Maybe it’s to get us out of the way. If all the attention is focused on Point A, it leaves him in peace to do whatever he wants at Point B.’

  You know everything, and yet you find nothing.

  What did the Owner mean exactly? That they knew everything, knew the coordinates, and still weren’t finding anything? Or were his words meant to be read figuratively?

  For the duration of the journey back to the office, Beatrice went over the messages she had received from him again and again in her mind. A text message and a card today alone – he was astonishingly eager to communicate. Which gave her reason to fear they were moving towards the culmination of his bloody production.

  Achim was waiting in the car park next to the entrance of the office building. Judging by his posture, he had already been standing there a long time. For a few moments, Beatrice felt yet again as though her lungs were refusing to take in any oxygen.

  It’s fine, she reassured herself. If he were to get loud and offensive then she wouldn’t hesitate to call for help this time. After all, there were enough law enforcers on hand.

  Florin had noticed Achim too, and groaned with irritation. ‘That man’s got perfect timing. I can get rid of him for you if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll deal with it.’ She took her time getting out of the car and waited until the others had disappeared into the building. Achim looked at her. A few strands of blond hair stood up from his head, windswept.

  ‘Hello, Beatrice.’

  She stopped silently in front of him, her arms folded. He tried to smile, but it was a less than convincing attempt. Seemingly aware of that, he looked down at the ground.

  He wants something from me, thought Beatrice, feeling the muscles in her shoulders start to relax. Otherwise he would just come straight out with it.

  ‘You’ve got a lot on at the moment, haven’t you?’ An understanding tone. It sounded almost genuine.

  ‘Yes. We’re under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘I understand. Well, this is the thing … I know the children like being at your mother’s, and that she likes having them around, but …’ He was clearly finding it difficult to maintain a calm tone; Beatrice was very familiar with the slight redness creeping up his neck.

  ‘But I see them so rarely. And I’d love to have them with me if you don’t have time. Even at short notice. It would help us both.’

  At this moment, here and now, Achim really meant it; there was no question of that. But she still couldn’t let him off that lightly. ‘For you that would be like a double jackpot, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’d get more time with the children, and each time it happened you’d get the opportunity to use my job against me.’

  He raised his hands. ‘This
isn’t about us and our issues – it’s about Mina and Jakob. I know they’d like to spend more time with me.’

  She felt a sharp stabbing sensation in her gut. ‘Did they say that?’

  ‘Mina did. Does that bother you so much? That they miss their father?’

  Yes. No. Of course not. ‘Of course not. What bothers me is that you speak badly of me to them. It was only the other day that the expression “offloading them” came up when I took them to Mooserhof.’ Realising that her tone had become sharper, she tried to calm herself down. ‘Mina certainly didn’t learn the expression from me, at least not in this context.’

  It was clear that a retort was on Achim’s tongue, but with some effort he managed to suppress it. He pulled an open pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket, but on looking at her he seemed to think twice and put it back. ‘It’s possible that I blurted it out once, but that’s only because I haven’t yet got used to everything being … different. And I didn’t want things to be like this. I still don’t.’

  Sure. So everything’s my fault then, thought Beatrice. ‘It’s an adjustment for all of us. Listen, I have to get back to work – but you’re right. The next time I need some help, I’ll call you first.’

  He smiled, with genuine happiness this time. Beatrice would have smiled back had there not been a glimmer of triumph in his eyes.

  ‘Have a good day, Achim.’ She held her hand out, which clearly surprised him, but he grasped it nonetheless.

  ‘I mean it, Beatrice, I want us to get on better again.’

  ‘Okay.’ She pulled her hand back. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘The woman who ordered the flowers was brunette and slightly overweight. She paid in cash.’ Stefan was reading from his notepad. ‘The saleswoman couldn’t place her accent. Turkish or Hungarian, she said.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised, they’re practically the same,’ remarked Florin sarcastically, leaning back in his chair. For the first time since they’d started working on the case, he seemed anxious.