Five

by Ursula P Archer

  Stage Two

  You’re looking for a singer, a man by the name of Christoph, who has blue eyes and a birthmark on the back of his left hand. Some time ago – it may be five years or even six – he was a member of a Salzburg choir, in which he very proudly sang Schubert’s Mass in A flat. The last two numbers of his birth year are A. Now square A, add 37 and add the resulting sum to your northern coordinates.

  Take the sum of A and multiply by 10, then multiply A with this number. Subtract 229 and then subtract the resulting sum from your eastern coordinates. Welcome to Stage Two. We’ll see each other there.

  For a long moment, the birdsong around them was the only sound to be heard. Beatrice read the text a second and a third time. A man called Christoph? Schubert’s Mass in A flat?

  No, don’t think just yet. Just register first impressions. A woman’s handwriting. She herself wrote very similarly – more evenly and a little less elaborately, but with a comparable flourish. She turned around to face Florin.

  ‘Do you understand any of this?’

  ‘Not even a little.’ He shook his head without taking his eyes off the note for a second. ‘The box was at the spot corresponding to the coordinates on the corpse.’ He squinted, as though any beam of light would distract him from making sense of it all. ‘We find a clue, with which we can then draw up some new coordinates. And we also find an amputated hand. But why? What’s the point of this? Why is he so brazenly shoving his victims right under our noses instead of hiding them?’

  ‘Because he thinks we’re stupid. That’s what he wrote, after all. Or she.’

  ‘But why? Does he want to get caught? Or does he think he’s so superior that there’s no chance of that?’

  Beatrice placed the lens cap carefully back onto her camera. ‘Who knows? Maybe he wants to send us off on the wrong track.’

  ‘With body parts?’

  She looked at the dead hand. It was a left hand. There was an indentation on the ring finger, about three millimetres wide.

  ‘Well, by using body parts,’ she said slowly, ‘he can be sure that we really will follow the trail.’

  Drasche appeared within the hour, wearing the same sour expression he always had when someone else had been the first to get their hands on a piece of evidence.

  ‘We were careful,’ Beatrice assured him. ‘Is there any news on Nora Papenberg?’

  ‘There was no sign of rape, nor any foreign tissue under her fingernails. We found some tyre tracks near the scene and on the way to the crag, but the results aren’t back yet. No footprints that could belong to the perpetrator, unfortunately. We’ll keep you posted. Where exactly did you find the container?’

  Beatrice showed him the hollow in the rock. ‘We took photos while we were there.’

  ‘That’s better than nothing, I suppose,’ grumbled Drasche, pulling his gloves on. ‘At least he did me the favour of vacuum-packing the amputated body part. Conserved evidence – you don’t get that very often.’

  Back at the office, Beatrice connected the camera to her computer. A few moments later, the pictures appeared on the screen, one after the other. The severed hand in its airtight container. While Beatrice clicked through the photos, Florin called Stefan Gerlach.

  ‘Even Hoffmann will have to realise that you don’t have time to type up reports right now,’ he explained, rolling his chair over to her side of the desk.

  ‘The box is a well-known brand, and mass produced.’ Beatrice pointed her pen at the website she had just called up. ‘This one here must be the same model as the one we found. The lid with the blue edge, you see? And the double lock on the longer sides. One hundred per cent air- and watertight, it says in the description. “Can easily transport liquids and store intense-smelling foods like fish or cheese without any unwelcome smells.”’

  ‘Perfect for body parts then. But our perpetrator took it one step further and vacuum-packed the hand just to be on the safe side.’

  Beatrice looked back at the photos of the opened plastic container. ‘He didn’t want anyone to find it by accident,’ she pondered. ‘Not even a dog. And given that he doesn’t seem to rate the intelligence of the police very highly, he assumed it would take us a while.’

  There was a knock at the door. Stefan poked his head in. ‘I hear there’s some boring typing work for me? Bring it on!’

  ‘You’re a star.’ Beatrice gathered the files up into a more or less orderly pile to hand over to her younger colleague, but his attention was now entirely absorbed by the photos on the screen.

  ‘Oh. That looks nasty. What is it?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know.’

  ‘A hand? Was it just lying around like that, packed up like it came from the freezer cabinet? Bizarre.’

  Bizarre pretty much hit the nail on the head. ‘No, it was in a plastic container. There on the right in the photo, you see?’ Beatrice gave him a friendly nudge with her elbow. ‘And now scoot, my dear. This isn’t your problem. Be thankful for that.’

  But Stefan couldn’t tear his gaze away from the screen. ‘That seems incredibly strange. Doesn’t it remind you of something?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  Stefan leant over and pointed his finger at the rock hollow in which they had found the box. ‘Was it in there?’

  ‘Correct.’

  He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Then that’s the most perverse trade I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘The most perverse what?’

  ‘A trade. You take something out of the box and put something else back in. That’s how it works.’

  Beatrice saw from Florin’s confused expression that he had understood just as little of Stefan’s observation as she had.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. You’ve never been geocaching, I guess?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Stefan looked from her to Florin and pulled up a chair. ‘It’s a kind of treasure hunt. Someone hides something, and others try to find it. The thing that’s hidden is called a cache, and this plastic container in the photo looks like a typical cache container. May I?’

  Beatrice surrendered the mouse to him and shifted to the side so he could position his chair between her and Florin.

  ‘What did you call it again – a cash?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. C-a-c-h-e, pronounced cash. People put all kinds of things in them.’

  ‘A treasure hunt,’ she declared. ‘Sounds promising. Do people use GPS for it?’

  ‘Oh, so you already know what I’m talking about then!’ said Stefan, disappointed.

  ‘No, not in the least. It was just a good guess. Carry on.’

  ‘Okay. So, first you sign up to the internet site, it’s called Geocaching.com. All the caches all over the world are recorded on it.’

  ‘Well I never,’ said Florin. ‘And lots of people do this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ explained Stefan enthusiastically. ‘Millions of people, particularly in the US, but it’s getting more and more popular here in Austria. So, you register, under a nickname – mine is “Undercover Cookie”, for example.’

  Beatrice couldn’t help grinning. ‘Lovely. I’m afraid that name might stick from now on.’

  But Stefan wouldn’t be distracted. ‘Then you select a cache in the area you want to go to, save the coordinates in a specially designed GPS device and set off. Usually the destination will reveal a tin or a box, something watertight, and in it will be a logbook so you can make an entry. The bigger caches often contain objects that you can take with you if you replace them with something else. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a “trade”.’

  Coordinates and watertight containers. It all seemed to fit. Beatrice clicked on the photo of the first message and zoomed in so they could read the text. ‘Are messages like this the norm too?’

  ‘Yes. That’s a cache note.’ He beamed first at Beatrice, then Florin, clearly proud of himself. ‘You find an explanation like this in practically every cache. It’s intended for people who haven’t ye
t heard of geocaching and stumble on a hiding place by chance. See, the owner mentions that here.’

  ‘Stop – use layman’s terms. The owner is the person who hides it?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Stefan gave Beatrice an apologetic look. ‘Abbreviations and specialist terminology are used quite frequently in geocaching.’ The mouse icon hovered over the photo of the cache note. ‘So, when he says this about the fingerprints – in one sense at least, you definitely won’t find any – he means the only ones will be those on the hand itself, right?’ he speculated.

  ‘It seems so.’ Beatrice had reached automatically for her notepad and was starting to jot down Stefan’s explanations. ‘He or she clearly has a sense of humour that takes some getting used to.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Stefan pointed a pencil at the four letters the note was signed off with: TFTH.

  ‘What does that stand for? Are they elaborate initials of some kind?’ asked Florin. ‘Theodor Friedrich Thomas Heinrich? No, wait, I get it, it must be another puzzle.’

  ‘Not this time, it’s just the usual abbreviation. He’s thanking you. “TFTH” stands for “Thanks for the hunt”. You’re right, he does have an odd sense of humour.’

  ‘Or she.’ Beatrice clicked on one of the other photos: the note, written in what seemed to be a woman’s handwriting, sending them off on another hunt. ‘Does that mean anything to you? Stage two – what does that mean? The second level?’

  ‘It’s the next stage of the treasure hunt.’ Stefan reached for the mouse and enlarged the picture. ‘What we have here seems to be a multi-cache. That means there are several stages. You find Stage One, which gives you the clues for Stage Two, which in turn provides the clues for Stage Three, and so on and so forth, until you get to the final destination. Normally you find the container only at the very end.’

  ‘We can probably say goodbye to any concept of “normal” in this case,’ remarked Florin. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’

  ‘It’s not just a multi-cache,’ said Stefan, after thinking for a moment. ‘For that you would only need to count something – steps, trees, gravestones – in order to get the next coordinates. But here you have to solve a puzzle too. That makes it a mystery cache.’

  Beatrice made a note: Mystery cache. ‘Thank you, Stefan. You’ve helped us a great deal. TFTH. Thanks for the help.’

  But Stefan didn’t want to go just yet. ‘Can you tell me more about the case? How did you find the container? Oh, hang on, it’s connected with the woman from yesterday, right? The corpse in the cattle pasture?’ He gave Beatrice and Florin an earnest look. ‘Couldn’t you make use of an extra pair of hands for the investigation?’

  ‘I’ll speak with Hoffmann. If he agrees to give us more people, you’ll certainly be our first choice.’

  Stefan seemed content with that. He set off back to his office, the pile of papers tucked under his arm.

  Beatrice snapped the lid off a neon yellow highlighter and began to structure her notes.

  ‘Stop me if I’m talking nonsense, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to look for someone from the caching scene? It’s quite obvious that our man – or woman – knows their stuff here. Or would it be better to solve the coordinates for Stage Two first? If Stefan is right, it sounds like – after Stage Eight or Thirty-three or Ninety-two – it’ll eventually lead us to what we’re looking for.’

  ‘The murderer, you mean?’ Florin scratched himself behind the ear. ‘Do you really think he’ll offer himself up as the prize for us so enthusiastically and eagerly solving the puzzle?’

  Beatrice looked at the photo of the hand again. ‘It’s probably just wishful thinking,’ she said. ‘But the way he’s been acting so far, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched an idea.’

  The forensic test results from their find came back the next morning, even before Nora Papenberg’s autopsy report.

  ‘Say goodbye to any hopes about the amputation having been done in a hospital,’ said Florin, his expression grim as he scanned through the report. ‘The hand was cut off with a wood saw, post-mortem thankfully, and must have been shrink-wrapped straight afterwards. Traces of wood shavings were found in the wound.’ He put the report down and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is pretty messed up, don’t you think? Particularly considering no mutilated corpse has turned up anywhere.’

  Not yet. But it soon would, and then they’d have not one murder case to contend with, but two. Unless the perpetrator had hacked up someone who had met their end through natural causes.

  The perpetrator. The Owner.

  ‘Let’s start the search for the next stage then,’ she said.

  Two copies of the photographed handwritten note were just gliding out of the printer when Hoffmann came storming into the office – without knocking, as usual.

  ‘Kaspary, what an unfamiliar sight. You’re actually at your desk during office hours!’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Beatrice. ‘I missed you too, sir.’

  ‘So what’s happening with those reports? I’ve been told you offloaded them onto young Gerlach without discussing it with me.’

  ‘I did indeed. You weren’t around to consult, unfortunately. Stefan very helpfully offered to take on the typing for me.’

  The corners of Hoffmann’s mouth, which were droopy even at the best of times, sank even further down his face. ‘Well, you always were good at delegating unwanted tasks, weren’t you, Kaspary?’

  Beatrice decided not to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she stood up and fetched the pages from the printer. The photo quality wasn’t great on normal printer paper, but it would have to do for now.

  ‘The press are breathing down my neck about the murder, as I’m sure you can imagine. So I hope you’re going to have some results for me soon. I’m relying on you, Florian!’ He ran his hand through his thinning, dirty-yellow hair and trudged out of the room.

  ‘Just wait, soon you’ll be on first-name terms,’ said Beatrice with a smirk. ‘He seems to have a real soft spot for you.’

  ‘I can’t believe he called me Florian!’

  ‘Well, the boss is too busy for minor details like that. It’s only an extra “a”. Don’t be such a girl, Wenninger!’

  Don’t be such a girl was one of Hoffmann’s favourite catchphrases. Beatrice secretly suspected that his aversion to her was based on precisely that: that she was a girl, and what’s more – making it even worse – one who spoke her mind.

  She handed Florin one of the printouts. On her copy, she underlined Christoph, birthmark, Salzburg choir and Mass in A flat with her yellow marker.

  ‘That’s all we have to go on, right?’

  ‘Well, it’s something at least. Although practically every choir sings Schubert’s Mass in A flat.’ A few clicks of the mouse, and he was on YouTube. Operatic tones resounded out from the computer’s tinny-sounding loudspeakers.

  ‘Good grief. Yep, that’s clearly a hit,’ sighed Beatrice.

  Half an hour later, Florin slumped back in his chair and sighed. ‘From the looks of it, pretty much every Salzburg resident is in a choir,’ he said. ‘There are more choirs than there are churches. I reckon we’ll easily find fifteen Christophs, and for every one of those we’ll need to inspect the back of his left hand and check his year of birth.’ He pressed a tablet out of the blister pack that lay next to his desk lamp, swallowing it down with a gulp of orange juice. ‘These are the kind of things that make being a policeman so much fun.’

  ‘Headache?’

  ‘A little. It must have been Hoffmann’s voice – I can’t cope with the frequency.’

  ‘Either that or you’ve been hunched over your desk again.’ She stood up, went over to him and started to massage his neck muscles. She felt his surprise as he tensed up for a few seconds, but then he relaxed.

  ‘We’ll have to speak to the choirmasters, one after the other,’ she murmured. ‘By phone.’

  ‘The Owner wrote that this Christoph guy was in the choir more than five years ago. I wou
ld take that to mean he isn’t there any more. A bit to the left, please – yes, right there, that’s perfect. Thanks.’ He sighed.

  Smiling, Beatrice pressed the balls of her thumbs into the knots between his neck and shoulders. ‘So we’ll ask them about former Christophs, too. And about a Schubert Mass that was rehearsed over five years ago.’

  It was taking for ever. After two hours on the phone, Beatrice had got through just half of her part of the list, and had already found six Christophs – four active choir members, two inactive. Florin had five, including one where the choirmaster couldn’t really remember whether he might in fact have been a Christian instead.

  He was just noting down the details from his last call when the telephone rang.

  ‘Yes? Oh, hi. Is there any news?’

  Beatrice saw him raise his eyebrows. As he listened, he silently mouthed the word ‘pathologist’.

  ‘Yes, I’d definitely like to know the details. Can you tell me anything about the tattoo yet?’ He nodded, jotted something down, then took a deep breath. ‘Okay. And the other thing?’

  He started to write again, but then stopped short and looked up, visibly perplexed.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Beatrice, but Florin just shook his head.

  ‘And there’s no chance you could be mistaken? No? Okay. Yes. Thanks, I’ll try to make some sense of it. Send us the full report as soon as it’s ready. Yes, you have a good day too.’ He hung up.

  ‘What is it?’ pressed Beatrice. ‘What did they find out from the autopsy?’

  Deep in thought, Florin stared at his notes. ‘We were right about the tattoos being recent,’ he said, speaking slowly. ‘They were done while she was still alive, about eight to nine hours before she died.’

  Beatrice’s toes curled up involuntarily inside her shoes. ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Yes. That’s one thing. The other is that traces of blood were found on her clothes, and it wasn’t hers.’ He smoothed his notes out flat, as if that would somehow help the words make more sense. ‘But …’ he continued hesitantly, ‘it did match the samples from the amputated hand.’