When he finally spoke, it was in such a quiet voice that it was almost drowned out by the whisper of the trees. ‘Four years,’ he said. ‘That’s how long I asked myself whether I could have locked the cabin myself. By accident, because my thoughts were already with the pregnant mare. The fact that I wasn’t here at the decisive moment to tackle Estermann, that will haunt me as long as I live.’ He looked at Beatrice thoughtfully. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to ask yourself, for four long years, whether you set the trap that your wife and children burnt to death in with your own hands? Every single day, I tried to remember each movement I made from the moment I left the house to when I got into the car. Do you know what it’s like to never come to a clear conclusion? Sometimes the cabin door was open in my memory, other times it was closed, the keys were in my hand – or were they in my bag after all? Every day, endlessly. I could have spared myself all that if the police had just been more thorough in their investigations.’
Behind her, Sigart took a step closer. Beatrice expected to feel the barrel of the gun at her head or against her neck, but all she could feel was his breath. ‘I found the cache in the well. So why didn’t your colleagues? I questioned the suspects, uncovered the circumstances leading to the deaths of my wife and children – I did everything that should have been the police’s job.’
She couldn’t help but retort, even though she wasn’t sure if it was wise. ‘But by using methods that we would never employ.’
‘You have other ones, better ones. A whole infrastructure of technicians and labs, with all the equipment that money can buy.’ He placed his mutilated, bandaged hand on her shoulder, making her jump.
‘But I didn’t work on that case,’ she said, suddenly enraged with the injustice of the situation. ‘I had nothing to do with it!’
‘Correct. But there was a time when you felt just the same as me,’ whispered Sigart. ‘Your brother said you were so angry with the police that you swore at them down the phone and then eventually decided to take matters into your own hands. That’s why we’re here today. Because you can understand me.’
What did he want? Did he need an ally? A kindred spirit? She had to concentrate, had to make sense of what he had just said. ‘You’re right. I can understand that you want to speak to someone who lost a loved one in an equally brutal manner, and I’d be happy to talk to you about it.’
He laughed softly. ‘No, Beatrice, we’ve talked enough. Now we’re going to do something different.’
The barrel of the gun bored hard into her spine. Instinct was threatening to overpower her common sense; she needed all her willpower just to stop herself from running away. He would shoot her in the back just as he had warned, and she would have lost her chance. In despair, she looked over at the top of the hill; maybe Florin wasn’t coming with squad cars, but on foot, stealthily, just with Stefan, or two or three others?
But there were no shadows, no footsteps, and still no engine sounds.
‘It’s like a bet, you see? You’re relying on the skill of your colleagues, and I’m betting against them. I’m intrigued to see who will win.’ He pushed her, just a light shove with the gun, and she took a step forwards.
‘The police didn’t find the tin in the well – but fair enough, it was small and inconspicuous. You, on the other hand, Beatrice, are not.’
A further shove made it clear to her that she had understood the significance of his words correctly. ‘You want to—’
‘Hide a cache, that’s right. A big one in place of a small one. One that should be more worth your colleagues’ efforts than an old tin can with a key in it. Unfortunately though, this cache is a little less robust. So let’s hope the police are more resourceful this time.’
He directed her towards the shed, the light of the torch flickering over the planks. My coffin, thought Beatrice. When would someone next pass by here? Forensics had done their work; there were still a few yellow partition tapes here and there, fluttering in the night breeze. Would anyone think of looking for Sigart here? It was unlikely. Why would he go back to the place where his life had been destroyed for ever – his prison, the hiding place the Owner had clearly relinquished?
Beatrice had stopped in her tracks. The path was becoming steeper now, and she felt as though she couldn’t take another step. ‘How deep is it?’
‘About four metres to the water’s surface. There’s an old iron ladder fixed to the wall, and after that I’m afraid you’ll have to jump.’
She would stand in the water. But that would be the best-case scenario, she told herself. In the worst case it would be too deep and she would have to swim on the spot. ‘Please. Don’t do this. You have your certainty now, and you’ve had your revenge. Let me go, I’ll—’
‘You’ll make sure I get help,’ he interrupted her, ‘and a fair judge. The exceptional circumstances of my situation will be taken into account, my disturbed state due to the severe loss I suffered – that’s what you wanted to say, right?’
Yes. That, and that she had children who were waiting for her to pick them up tomorrow. No, today. It must be well past midnight now. You can forget about telling him that. He knows you have children.
She took another step upwards. Another and another, then her foot got caught and she stumbled. She held tightly onto the torch with her right hand and managed to break her fall with the left. Something sharp bored into the ball of her thumb.
‘Have you injured yourself?’ Sigart sounded genuinely concerned, which almost made Beatrice burst into hysterical laughter.
‘A little.’ The desire to laugh vanished as she assessed her bleeding hand in the torchlight. ‘It must have been a stone.’
‘Yes, there’s certainly enough of them around here.’ With a brief jerk of the gun, Sigart ordered her to keep climbing.
Beatrice struggled to her feet. There were just another few steps to their destination. This was her last chance – if she fell over again, on purpose, and dragged Sigart with her, if she could get to the gun.
He must have sensed her intentions. ‘The gun is pointing right at your back,’ he said abruptly. ‘If you turn around now, I’ll shoot you. It’s not an empty threat, Beatrice. I’ll see this through to the end.’
His serious tone made her abandon her plan. Another step, then another. The wooden shed was directly in front of her now, and she could smell the musty air. Four more steps, and she felt the rough wood. Thinking quickly, she pressed her bleeding hand against it. It was a quick, sweeping movement, all she could manage. Hoping that she had managed to leave a mark, she avoided shining the torch nearby, trying not to draw Sigart’s attention to it.
In order to go into the shed, she had to duck. The cover was already lifted up; the well came up to knee height. ‘Climb down the first two rungs,’ ordered Sigart, ‘then give me the torch.’ The mouth of the gun was now pointed directly at her face.
She did what he said, pushing away her fear and trying to heighten her senses. If she memorised every detail inside the well, every spot she could get a grip on, then it should be possible to climb back up again. If she could make it up to the iron rungs, then she would be able to get out.
Holding tightly onto the edge, Beatrice stepped onto the first rung. It was rusty and crooked. Then the second. She handed Sigart the torch. ‘Are you going to light my way?’
‘Of course.’
The third iron rung. The fourth. Now her head was below the edge of the well. The smell of cellars and mould engulfed her. Half an arm’s length to the left, Beatrice discovered a stone protruding out of the wall which she would be able to grip onto. Good.
The next rung and the next. Then the last. Even though Sigart was still shining the torch, it had become difficult to make out the details of her surroundings. Her own shadow was darkening the shaft of the well.
‘You’ll have to jump from there.’ Sigart was now just a silhouette behind the beam of the torch.
She had known what was awaiting her, but it was completely differ
ent from how she had imagined it. Beneath her lay a dark, narrow abyss, which could just as easily be bottomless as two metres deep. She hesitated.
‘It’s only water. You won’t hurt yourself.’
He must have been a good vet once, thought Beatrice vaguely. He has the kind of voice that makes it easy to trust him.
But she didn’t jump, instead grasping the last iron rung with both hands and lowering herself down carefully. Yes, there was water all right; her ankles were immersed in it.
‘You have to let go.’ Sigart’s voice echoed through the well shaft, followed by an unmistakable click. He had released the safety catch on the gun.
Beatrice loosened her grip and dropped. The icy water pressed the air from her lungs, completely enveloping her.
There! There was ground under her feet; she pushed against it, reached the surface again, gasped noisily for breath.
‘Take care, Beatrice.’ A drawn-out scraping sound from above. Sigart closed the lid of the well. No light any more, nothing. Just the sound of her own breathing and the gurgling of the water in absolute darkness
N47º 28.275 E013º 10.296
For a moment, Beatrice was tempted to weep, to mourn for everything she would never see again – the sun, the sky, her children’s faces. But crying took too much energy and clouded the mind.
‘Save that for later,’ she told herself. Her voice echoed dully against the well shaft, sounding comforting and sensible. That was exactly what she needed right now, all of her wits and senses.
The water was too deep to be able to stand up in. If she stretched and immersed herself up to her nose, she could just about feel the ground beneath her feet, but it was slimy and soft. She would have to try to swim on the spot, with sparing movements, which would keep her warm at the same time. Or at least ensure that her temperature dropped less quickly.
Underwater, she pulled the shoes and socks from her feet. Good. Now feel around the wall, systematically, the way a blind person would.
There were little protrusions here and there, but none of them big enough to grip onto. The walls were slippery with moss. Even when Beatrice managed to find a stone that was sticking a little further out than the others, her fingers slipped when she tried to pull herself up on it.
But she didn’t give up. The well’s diameter wasn’t that big; if she stretched both arms out to the side, the palms of her hands easily reached the opposite sides of the shaft.
She would be able to lie down diagonally and support herself with her back and feet if she needed to rest. And she would need to. Soon. If she didn’t manage to climb up—
All of a sudden, she realised she no longer knew which part of the cylindrical well shaft the iron rungs were on. She had turned around several times and lost her orientation in the darkness.
But even if I did know, she thought, even if I did – they’re much too high up. I couldn’t jump up to them. The only way up is to climb, and the walls are too slippery for that.
She tried regardless. Tried to imitate the way free climbers negotiate chimneys, their hands and feet propped to the left and right, but she couldn’t get a grip. After four attempts she was exhausted, paddling in the water and wheezing. A fast pulse was throbbing in the wound on her left hand.
She had no choice but to wait, ration her energy and hope that Sigart was underestimating the police.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Beatrice counted her breaths. If the time was passing down here, it would be up there too, up where the darkness was endless.
But it couldn’t possibly be as slow as down here. She counted on, counted and wished she had a watch so she could see how long she had already managed to hold out.
The worst thing was the cold. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and her fingers and toes had long since gone numb, which meant that any more attempts at climbing would be futile. She had already tried, again and again.
I’m so tired.
But going to sleep meant death. Not moving meant death. Despite that, Beatrice turned over onto her back in the water and propped herself against the shaft with her shoulders and knees, still paddling her hands to keep herself awake. She looked up and wondered if she would be able to tell when the sun rose. Whether a beam of light would push its way through the seams of the well cover.
That would give her some hope.
She paddled on half-heartedly. Once the world woke up again, someone would miss her. Florin would wonder why she hadn’t come into the office. He would probably call her at around nine or half-past. So late.
Unless there was news. Then he might get in touch sooner, maybe even around eight.
She flexed her fingers. Open, shut, open, shut. Were they even responding? She couldn’t feel a thing.
She tried to float. It didn’t work; it was much too narrow here. But her arms hurt so much.
Suddenly her mouth was full of water; she spluttered, gasped, spluttered again. Had she drifted off? The cold was paralysing her body and her thoughts; she had to keep herself awake somehow.
Beatrice began to sing. The first song that came into her mind was ‘Lemon Tree’ by Fool’s Garden. Her voice was loud, louder than she had expected, presumably because of the well shaft.
If someone was out there – maybe they would hear her?
She sang whatever songs she could think of, holding her breath now and then so as not to miss any sounds that might make their way down from above.
No. There was only silence, and the endless gurgling of her movements in the water. The world was a long way away and had no idea she was down here.
Beatrice only stopped singing when she realised it was using a dangerous amount of energy. But she could hum at least … the first English song that Jakob had learnt at school came into her mind.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky …
He had sung it to her in the kitchen, hopping around with a beaming smile, and when he got to the words ‘diamond in the sky’ his eyes had got so big and round and …
Was she crying now after all? Her eyes were burning, and her nose felt swollen. The hum stuck in her throat like a cold, half-chewed lump of food.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
One. Two …
Mina doing a cartwheel on the living-room carpet. ‘Look at me, look at me!’
Jakob pulls three squashed dandelion flowers out from behind his back. ‘I picked them for you.’
‘Chin up, sweetheart,’ laughs Evelyn, and Achim says, ‘None of them look as beautiful as you in your uniform.’
Five. Six.
A croissant without jam. Crooked fingers. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ calls Evelyn cheerily. ‘Hold your head high, my girl. Even if your neck’s dirty.’
Head. High. Chin. Up. Cold, completely cold.
A cup with steaming coffee, the milk foam frothing. Florin places his hand on hers, a dark strand of hair falls forwards onto his forehead, uniting with the arc of his brow. ‘Beatrice.’
‘Yes.’ She says. She thinks. Has he heard her?
Jakob flings his arms around her neck. ‘Frau Sieber gave me a gold star.’
That’s true, Beatrice can see it shining. Twinkle, twinkle.
Now something falls. So loud.
Evelyn is singing Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’. She has such a beautiful voice.
‘Bea. Look at me.’
David is here too. What does he want? He’s pulling and tugging at her, it hurts. If she could speak, she would say she doesn’t want to see him any more. That she can’t.
He pulls at her, and she can fly.
‘We’ve got her!’
‘Bea!’
Don’t disturb me, not now.
‘We have to wake her up. Bea!’
Shaking. Pressure on her fac
e. Light.
‘She’s opened her eyes. Thank God. Everything’s okay. Can you hear me, Bea?’
Yes. No. Slow.
Then things come back, the shapes, the names. Florin.
The cold.
Beatrice felt firm ground beneath her feet. Headlights cut through the dark grey of an early morning. People were walking close to her, many people. ‘Wha-w-w-’ Her mouth wouldn’t obey her.
Someone lifted her upper body and peeled off her shirt. ‘Where are the blankets? Why is it taking so long? Stefan, give me your jacket.’
The scent of chewing gum.
Florin was kneeling next to her, dripping wet. Bechner handed him a woollen blanket, and he put it around her shoulders, wrapping it so tightly that she couldn’t move her arms. Then he pulled off his own wet shirt.
‘The ambulance is on its way. It shouldn’t be too long now.’ Florin pulled her close to him, holding her tight against his chest. ‘We have to keep you awake, do you hear me? You’re hypothermic.’
‘H-h-how di—’
He held her tighter. ‘Your text message sounded strange. I brooded over it for five minutes and then called you, but your phone was turned off. You didn’t answer the landline, but I know that Achim—’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘We had to look for Sigart, of course, and I had an uneasy feeling. Who could have kidnapped him from the hospital, completely undisturbed, without anyone noticing? So I spoke to his doctor on the phone and asked him what his condition was. ‘Not bad at all,’ the doctor said. He said he had recovered quickly, that the amputation wounds had been operated on, and that he could be released in two to three days if he didn’t get any infections. I asked about the blood loss and he said it wasn’t that bad. And the wound on his neck? He said it wasn’t that deep, and that no major arteries had been affected.’ Beatrice could feel him shaking his head. ‘Then things started to drop into place in my mind. I got in the car and drove round to Sigart’s flat, but there was no one there. Then I went to your place. I’m not sure exactly why.’
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