Five

by Ursula P Archer

  ‘What can I tell you that I haven’t already told your colleague with the lovely dark eyes?’ With swift energetic movements, Carolin Dalamasso cut three slices of cake and put the cups on the table. Then she sat down.

  ‘I’d like to know how Melanie was doing before her breakdown. Were there any events that, in hindsight, could be interpreted as warning signs?’

  The woman’s smile was suddenly streaked with pain. ‘Of course. You always know better afterwards. Carlo and I have thought of dozens of situations in which, looking back, we should have sought medical assistance for Melanie. But back then we thought she was just a little sensitive because she was in love for the first time. She had a boyfriend, you see? Unfortunately we never met him, and my theory is …’ She sighed and looked out of the window, where a blackbird had settled on the balcony railing. It looked around jerkily, then flew away again. ‘I think he broke up with Melanie. She was still living in the flat share back then, and one evening she called us, but we couldn’t make out a single word. She was sobbing, almost howling. We drove over there right away of course, but she was in her room and didn’t want to talk to us. Her flatmates were just as clueless as we were. They were relieved in the end, I think, when she was admitted to the clinic. That was five days later.’

  ‘And there was never any clue as to what might have caused it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve already told your colleague all of that.’ The vigilance in her eyes increased in direct proportion with the narrowing of her smile.

  ‘Did you give him the names of Melanie’s flatmates?’

  ‘Of course.’ She took a sip of her coffee.

  Beatrice decided to push further. ‘The case we’re working on is exceptionally challenging. I hope you understand. For that reason, communication between the investigators is not as thorough as we’d ideally like it to be.’ Was that the sound of a car stopping in front of the house? Hopefully. ‘I do know, however, that Florin Wenninger showed you these photographs.’ She pulled the photographs of the Owner’s victims out of her bag. ‘I also know that you don’t believe you know any of these people. But sometimes a day’s distance can help, and maybe something might occur to you, even if it’s about only one of the faces.’ She laid the photos in front of Carolin Dalamasso on the table. The unsolvable puzzle.

  ‘We’re convinced that these people had some connection to your daughter, but we just don’t know what kind. So far no one has been able to help us with this. That’s why I simply have to ask you once again. I hope you don’t mind.’

  With a helpless shrug, Carolin leant forwards to look at the photos. ‘And these people have all been murdered?’

  ‘Four of them, definitely. One of them could still have a chance.’

  ‘My God.’ She picked up the photo of Nora Papenberg and stared at it intently. Then she shook her head and put it back down on the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re protecting Melanie,’ she said softly. ‘I just can’t understand why anyone would want to harm her. Her, of all people.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to find out. Absolutely everything.’

  Beil’s photo, Sigart’s photo. Always the same shake of the head.

  ‘Does Melanie still play the flute, by the way?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘Yes. But not like she used to. The sounds she produces now are a long way from being music, they—’ The woman paused and listened. Beatrice heard it too, a muffled whirr, then a metallic, rushing sound. The lift.

  ‘I think that’s them now.’ Carolin stood up. ‘You can’t question Melanie, you know that, right? She’s stable right now and the doctors are hopeful that her condition will improve. It was much worse, you see, far worse, and—’

  The doorbell rang. The woman went into the hallway and opened the door. Beatrice gathered the photos up. Her guilty conscience was making her feel sick, but she had to do what she had come to do.

  She heard the police officer’s affable voice. ‘Everything’s fine, no incidents. Have a nice evening!’

  Beatrice knew the two policemen would now take up their position in their car in front of the building, nourish themselves on hot dogs and Red Bull, and wait for the night shift to come and relieve them. They were the good guys, and Beatrice envied them.

  A girl with a chubby face appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as she saw Beatrice. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her eyes spoke of confusion, an impression that her lopsided glasses only intensified.

  ‘We have a visitor, Melanie.’ Carolin Dalamasso grasped her daughter gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards her. ‘This is Frau Kaspary.’

  Beatrice pulled her bag over her shoulder and stood up, the photos in her left hand. The girl’s gaze flitted over to her, away, then back again. Although she’s not really a girl, thought Beatrice, in a few years she’ll be thirty. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.’ She stretched her right hand out, but Melanie didn’t take it. She didn’t say a word.

  ‘I think I’d better go then, but it’s possible that I might come by …’ Now. Beatrice unclasped the fingers of her left hand. Felt the photos slip away from her, heard the soft clatter as they fell to the floor.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  She bent over. The photos of Papenberg, Estermann and Beil were lying face up. The others had turned rear-side up as they fell. Beatrice acted as though she was trying to collect them together, but Carolin Dalamasso must have realised by now that she was taking too much time over it, that she was hoping—

  A gasp. Beatrice looked up, directly into Melanie’s face, which was distorted into a grimace. She stared at the pictures and let out a howl, a long-drawn-out noise, like an animal. Her glasses fell to the floor.

  ‘Get out!’ hissed her mother furiously.

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Out!’

  Melanie’s howl transformed into something more high-pitched, something more shrill. She covered her face with both hands, and her mother had to stop her from banging her head against the door frame.

  ‘I’ll be making a complaint about you!’

  Beatrice closed her eyes and nodded wearily. ‘Contact Walter Hoffmann. He’ll welcome you with open arms, believe me.’

  She practically ran from the apartment, the building, down the street, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea.

  There was no doubt that Melanie had recognised someone, and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

  But there was nothing Beatrice could do with this information. She sat in her car, the photos still in her hand, the taste of bile forcing its way upwards into her mouth. She had no idea which of the photos had unleashed Melanie’s reaction. Had it been one of them, several of them, all of them? One thing had become completely clear: the Owner wasn’t killing his victims at random. The connection between them, however, was still enshrouded in darkness. And there was little hope that Melanie would be able to offer any explanations.

  ‘I might well have done the same thing.’ Florin was trying to comfort her, but she knew him better than that. From the very start he had only wanted to protect Melanie, not question her. His work had never resulted in a screaming girl. Or the threat of suspension.

  ‘Shinigami,’ she said, without responding to his words. ‘When is Stefan planning to come with the information?’

  ‘Any moment now. The site’s admin team is being very cooperative, he said. They’re sending us the email address the Owner used for his registration, as well as the IP addresses he logged on with. If it takes a while then that’s because the last login was over three months ago. The geocaching website gets a huge amount of traffic.’

  Perhaps, thought Beatrice, this is a trace the Owner forgot to erase. We’re due a bit of luck.

  Stefan indeed appeared just five minutes later, beaming contentedly: ‘The email address is gerold.wiesner@gmx.net. I found a Gerold Wiesner registered in Salzburg – he’s fifty-eight years old and works on the national Bundesbahn railways. Looks like we’ve hit the
bull’s eye, people!’

  They were tentatively hopeful, but even that was short-lived. Beatrice knew only too well how simple it was to open an account with Geocaching.com. And creating a fake email address wasn’t exactly tricky either. They went through the police records and soon found the information they needed: whoever had concealed himself behind the nickname ‘Shinigami’, it certainly wasn’t Bundesbahn employee Gerold Wiesner. On 25 February this year, he had fallen onto a power line while carrying out maintenance work at the central train station, just a few months before his retirement was due to begin. He was survived by a wife and two grown-up daughters.

  25 February. Shinigami had registered on Geocaching.com on the 26th. He must have been sitting in front of the computer, the newspaper open next to him, and seen the report. He hadn’t even needed to make up a fake name. So simple. So unremarkable.

  Her hope now rested on the IP address, but the Owner hadn’t shown any weakness there either: the computer he had used was in an upmarket Salzburg hotel, available for guests to use around the clock without having to pay.

  ‘Of course, people who visit the hotel café could theoretically use it too,’ explained the hotel manager. ‘It’s part of our service, you see?’

  ‘And if I were to ask you who used the computer on the twenty-sixth of February at 15.42, would you be able to tell me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ If the manager’s regret wasn’t genuine, he at least acted it well.

  ‘I understand. The man we’re looking for must have also used the computer on the ninth, fourteenth and twentieth of March, and then a final time on the third of April. So it’s possible that someone may have noticed him.’

  ‘That’s true. I’ll check right away who was on duty in the café on those dates, then give you a call back.’

  They were clutching at straws, nothing more than that.

  And to the rest of you: TFTH. The Owner had known three months ago that he would kill Liebscher at the very least. He had thanked his pursuers for the hunt before they had even begun.

  To Beatrice’s surprise, the hotel manager called back twenty minutes later. When the telephone rang she was talking to Bechner, asking him to check whether there might be another Gerold Wiesner who could be a suspect – she seemed to automatically assign all the menial tasks to him.

  ‘On two of the days you mentioned, Georg Lienhart was on duty,’ explained the manager. ‘He said he did notice someone. The dates may match up.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Beatrice signalled to Bechner, who was trying to use the opportunity to head back to his own office, that they weren’t yet finished. He sighed demonstratively; she beamed at him equally demonstratively.

  ‘Can I speak to Herr Lienhart?’

  ‘Yes, he’s right here.’

  The waiter sounded very young, but on the ball. ‘There was this really tall man with a beard, and he never took his coat off even though it’s really well heated here. He ordered coffee and drank it really quickly, each time at the table next to the computer. Then he paid right away and left much more of a tip than most guests do.’ The boy fell silent for a moment, perhaps thinking about his unexpected financial windfall from the stranger. ‘Then he sat down at the computer and went to great lengths to spread himself out as much as he could, if you see what I mean. I thought right away that he’d kept his coat on for that reason, so it would be easier for him to keep the screen hidden.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to catch a glimpse of it regardless, by any chance?’

  ‘We’re told to be discreet.’

  Beatrice could almost picture the young waiter in front of her, including his grin. ‘But you did it anyway, in keeping with the need for discretion, of course?’

  Georg Lienhart hesitated. ‘No. Although I was of course curious about what all the secrecy was for. That’s why, after the man came back the second time, I opened up the browser history and had a look.’

  Fantastic. ‘And?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything, unfortunately. The whole session was erased.’

  Beatrice ran her hand through her hair and tried to suppress the irritation welling up inside her. But it didn’t matter. It spoke volumes that the man had erased everything which could provide clues as to what he was doing.

  ‘You’ve been a great help. Now I just need to ask you for a description of the guest, as precise as you can be. Any detail you remember could be very important.’

  The young man gathered his thoughts. ‘The coat he had on was dark blue, and his shoes were black. I noticed that because they didn’t match, although the items looked very expensive. He had pale gloves on, and a pale scarf.’

  ‘Can you remember his hair colour?’

  ‘He was bald. Completely, as if he was ill. But his beard was brown with a bit of grey. He had a full beard, a really thick one.’

  If only all our witnesses had such good memories. ‘You’re doing a great job, really. Is there anything else that stood out? Birthmarks, warts, tattoos?’

  He thought again before giving his answer. ‘No. All I really saw was his head and face, so if he had a tattoo on his arm, I don’t …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He said something strange though. Probably that’s why I remember him so well … and because it fits in with what’s happening now. At the time I thought he was crazy.’

  Beatrice leant back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said: “It’s possible that they might ask about me. If they do, tell them they could be making life much easier for themselves. And tell them: Thanks for the hunt.”’

  The sky above him was blue, and the swallows were soaring high. The weather was good, and would probably hold for another two or three days.

  Days of waiting. His thoughts wandered to the policewoman, as they often had recently. It couldn’t last much longer now, if she had followed his clues, if she had finally understood them.

  Looking up at the sky made him dizzy, almost making him stumble. Take it easy, be careful, he reminded himself. The thought wasn’t without a comic element. It was a shame he couldn’t share it with anyone.

  Except the woman, perhaps. Everything was ready. He was throwing the fingerless man out as bait. His predators would fall into the trap; they had no other option.

  He waited until his senses were obeying him again, then looked upwards. Directly above him, an aeroplane was sketching its white line in the perfect blue, a long minus sign which frayed out at the end, dissolving, dissipating. Five minus two was three, minus one …

  It couldn’t be avoided. With a shrug of his shoulders, he let the sky be sky and turned his attention to more earthly matters. Severity. Blood. Pain.

  The past weeks had been filled with those things. The most surprising realisation he had drawn from his experiences was just how much reality could differ from imagination.

  Not when it came to the plan itself. That had gone perfectly. But in practice, the action felt so different from any fantasy.

  He looked around one more time before he went back into the darkness, smiling into the strengthening breeze. So beautiful.

  Someone sighed, and it took him the duration of a heartbeat to realise it had been him. A man who had to go back to his work. Brutal, harsh, gruesome, painful. Not willingly, never willingly – how could he? But it was the safest way. Everything was ready; there was no reason to wait any longer.

  After he had done what was necessary, just two hours had passed by. He was getting better at it. It wasn’t even that difficult any more.

  He cleaned up, using three buckets full of water to dispose of the blood. Good. Now just the message. The picture had turned out well, even though the sight of it almost winded him. He gasped for air and waited until he felt better, then put the mobile in one pocket and the battery in the other. Looked for and found the car keys. There was no rush. He could take his time. Ten or fifteen kilometres would be enough. Then back. And sleep, at last.

  Jakob kissed and hugged her before he disappeared back to th
e neighbours’ farm, but Mina was querulous. She reminded Beatrice of herself at that age, almost thirty years ago now. Or even just thirty minutes ago. She’s a smaller version of me. Maybe that’s why we clash, she thought.

  ‘If you don’t have any time for us, you can give us to Papa. He likes having us there, he told us.’

  ‘I thought you liked being with Oma?’

  ‘I do. But …’ She panted for air, and for the words. ‘You always say it’s just for a few days, and then it’s always much longer, every time.’

  If this was Mina’s way of telling her mother she missed her, then she was doing her best at hiding it. Everything she said came out as an accusation.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s already taken far too long. But now we’re nearly there, I’m sure of it. And this weekend Papa will come and get you, and you might be going sailing if the weather’s nice.’

  The idea seemed to appeal to Mina, as she summoned up a nod and a half-smile. ‘That might be nice. So when are we going to do something together?’

  ‘Once the case is over I’ll take some time off and you guys can pick what we do. Is that a deal?’

  ‘Anything we want? And we can do it?’

  ‘If I can afford it and it’s not illegal, then yes.’ She pulled Mina close to her, feeling resistance at first, then little arms around her waist.

  ‘I don’t think it is,’ mumbled her daughter from down by her stomach.

  Richard, in a gracious mood today, found some reassuring words once Mina was out of earshot. ‘She’s perfectly happy here, don’t worry. And if you were to come more often in the evening, instead of just phoning, then that would be—’

  He broke off as her mobile beeped loudly.

  ‘Shit.’ Beatrice rummaged around in her handbag, found the phone and muted the sound. A picture message. At first, all she saw was the number – the number – then the picture appeared. Beatrice heard herself gasp for air.

  ‘What is it?’ Quickly, too quickly, Richard was beside her, catching a glimpse of the screen. ‘Oh, God, Bea, what is that? A person? Or … yes, look, that’s an arm! Horrific. It looks like something in an abattoir.’