Five

by Ursula P Archer

  Kossar lifted a finger. For a moment, he resembled a pompous old headmaster giving a lecture. ‘But unlike most perpetrators who act like that, this one is making a connection between the victims. He leads us from one to the next: Nora Papenberg was the signpost to Herbert Liebscher’s body parts. Those, in turn, led us to Christoph Beil and on to Bernd Sigart. Now Beil has disappeared, and you—’ he looked at Beatrice – ‘have a feeling that he knew Nora Papenberg but kept quiet about it.’

  ‘Yes. And the longer I think about it, the more sure I am.’

  ‘That’s very interesting.’ He propped his chin in his hand, his forehead furrowed, gaze averted to the side.

  Good God, what a show he puts on, thought Beatrice. ‘And what do you conclude from that?’ she asked, in a tone that left no doubt of her low expectations. But Kossar wouldn’t be distracted.

  ‘There was a case in the USA some years ago; a twenty-nine-year-old man who killed people who had a particular breed of dog. They didn’t know each other, but they all had this one thing in common. Maybe we’ll find something like that with Herbert Liebscher and Nora Papenberg too.’

  It was an idea they couldn’t immediately dismiss, in any case. ‘The best lead so far,’ Beatrice summed up, ‘is this desire for attention that the Owner clearly has. What would happen if we took that away from him?’

  For a moment, Kossar’s lopsided smile made him look almost endearing. ‘Presumably he would try to force it.’

  ‘Then I think it’s time to change the rules of play on our side,’ she said. ‘If what you’re saying about him is true, and he really does want to be a fly on the wall here, then I’m sure he’s following the news and buying the papers to find out as much as he can about how the investigations are coming along. If nothing is being mentioned all of a sudden – then I’m sure he wouldn’t like it in the slightest.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right.’ The smile on Kossar’s face deepened. ‘It’s a shame that you never finished your studies.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Beatrice made no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice. ‘Anyway, let’s make use of these insights.’

  Within two hours, following Hoffmann’s intervention, the Department of Public Prosecutions had imposed a gagging order on the press, preventing them from publishing details about the case.

  The bus rumbled along the uneven road. Bernd Sigart’s forehead banged lightly on the pane of glass he was leaning against, which fogged up every time he exhaled. Observing his breathing calmed him down. Every intake and exhalation of breath was one less to contend with. The number was endless.

  He closed his eyes. Perhaps, this time, he would just stay seated when his stop came. Keep riding the same route on the bus over and over again, until someone threw him off.

  No, he warned himself. Tiredness cannot be permitted as an excuse to let yourself fall, no more than despair and weariness of life could. The appointment would take place, just like every week. And just like every week, it wouldn’t help.

  As he got off the bus, a woman with a limping Alsatian crossed his path, but it was only when he rang the bell to the practice that he realised he hadn’t immediately made a flash diagnosis out of habit.

  Another goodbye. He was no longer a father or a husband – and now he was gradually ceasing to be a vet.

  Dr Anja Maly’s therapy practice was decorated in cream tones which were intended to encourage relaxation, the only real fleck of colour coming from a dense blue meditation picture hanging over the desk. Everything here was designed to promote calm, not least Maly herself. Moving majestically like a tall ship, she came slowly over from the window to greet him, squeezing his hand and gesturing for him to take a seat on the armchair.

  Sigart sat down.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ She asked him that every time, even though he had never once said yes. This time, too, he shook his head. ‘How have you been this week?’

  He looked her in the eyes, without smiling. ‘I didn’t kill myself.’ It was the same answer he always gave.

  ‘I’m glad to see that.’ The doctor flicked through her files. ‘Tell me what’s happened over the last few days. We agreed that you should go for a walk for half an hour each day. How did that go?’

  He hesitated. ‘I didn’t manage to go every day. But I went three times.’

  She smiled as if he had really made her happy. ‘That’s a wonderful improvement. How did you feel afterwards?’

  He looked to the side, thinking for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Strange. Once I felt like someone was following me, but it was probably just the thing that’s always following me. My conscience.’

  Maly made a note in her file. ‘Did you turn around and see if there was really anyone there?’

  ‘No. Well, not properly, I mean. It was more of a blur, like someone had just ducked into a doorway or disappeared behind a delivery van. Do you know what I mean?’ The long sentence had exhausted him. A glance at the clock told him that he had only been here for five minutes, and now he wished he really had stayed on the bus.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Maly’s pen scurried across the page. ‘Let’s come back to the subject of your conscience again.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘What’s the point? I know I didn’t set the forest on fire. But the fact is and remains that I didn’t see the signs. Miriam asked me not to drive off and she was really upset with me that I was doing it regardless. She was …’ He put a hand over his eyes.

  Then go to hell, Bernd, if you can’t even make time for us on holiday.

  And that’s exactly what he had done. He had taken the most direct and harrowing route to hell imaginable.

  When he looked up, Anja Maly’s gaze was resting on him, patient and empathetic. He pulled himself together. ‘I wasn’t there, that’s what it comes down to. There’s no way that therapy can erase that knowledge from my mind. If I hadn’t driven to the stud farm, if I’d sent a colleague instead, my family would still be alive. There’s not a shadow of a doubt about that. I could have made sure that everyone got out of the house.’ He took a deep breath, but it was as though none of it was making its way into his lungs. ‘If you knew how often I dream about it. I smell the smoke and see the flames in the forest, but I don’t panic, I just open the door, then I get Miriam and wake the children quickly – Lukas and Hanna run out, and I carry Oskar. We even have enough time to take our most important possessions with us. By the time we’re sat in the car the fire is getting closer, but the route down to the valley is clear, and it only takes us ten minutes to get down there. Miriam has phoned the emergency services on her mobile, and they pass us on the road, two big fire engines, their sirens turned on. I park by the church and know that everything’s fine. I turn around and see the children on the back seat, and I’m almost exploding with happiness, because I did things right this time, I turned back the clock. Miriam puts her hand on my shoulder, and Lukas says: “Do you think there’ll be another fire engine, Papa?” And then I wake up.’

  He could feel the tears running down his face, but didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t have the strength to lift his hand. ‘Every time I think – this time it will kill me, that moment when I realise they’re all gone, for ever. Do you know what I do then?’

  Anja Maly shook her head, looking moved. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I make it worse. In my head, I go back to the moment when I saw what the fire did to my children. Charred, distorted … things. So tiny. Did you know that the heat can make limbs explode?’

  His words were clearly getting to her. She had children herself, her assistant had told him that, and he could see in her eyes that she was trying to stop the picture he was so vividly describing from seeping into her mind.

  ‘Every single time I think the pain is going to kill me, because it really feels like that. Physical cramps, choking fits. But it never happens.’ He sank his gaze down to the parquet floor. ‘Other people die so easily. They have heart attacks, or cancer. My body just keeps living �
� unless I destroy it with my own hands.’

  Maly cleared her throat. ‘You’re punishing yourself for something that isn’t your responsibility. I can understand that you make a connection between your absence and the death of your family, but it wasn’t in your power to predict such a fateful event—’

  He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. ‘Let’s leave it. There was something unusual that happened last week, as it happens. It might be of interest to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The police paid me a visit.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘It was about some woman who was murdered. It was really strange actually – the police wanted to know if I knew her. But I didn’t.’

  ‘So then why is the event significant to you?’

  Good question. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because it was the first time in a long while that I’ve spoken to the police. A woman and a man, they were both very considerate.’ He stopped, trying to formulate a thought, and wondered how Maly would interpret it. ‘It was almost a good feeling, somehow, speaking about a murder case that didn’t affect me.’

  His quota is over 2,000. He never concedes defeat – or so he claims – he has a loud voice and he refuses to tolerate any contradiction.

  Beatrice read through the description of the ‘key figure’ for what must have been the tenth time in a row. The word she kept lingering over was ‘quota’. What kind of quota could be over 2,000? A hit ratio? Was the man connected with weapons in some way?

  She rubbed her forehead. Weren’t quotas usually given in percentages? But 2,000 per cent was mathematical nonsense. What was plausible, though, was 2,000 geocaches. In this context, it could be a highly active cacher, a real professional. Someone like that should be easy enough to track down online.

  His eyes may be green or blue, but you’ll have to find that out for yourself. He makes a living by selling things which, as he himself says, no one needs. He’s good at it, too.

  So he works in sales of some kind. Perhaps the quota was in reference to that? Wasn’t there something like in-house sales statistics in a lot of companies?

  It was infuriating: nothing, nothing at all in this clue could be used. Especially not the last sentence of the description.

  He has two sons, one of whom is called Felix.

  Felix could just as easily be three as twenty-three, and the number of boys named Felix in the surrounding area was probably in the thousands. Exasperated, Beatrice struggled to think clearly. ‘The other two clues were child’s play compared to this—’

  At that moment, her phone vibrated.

  Beatrice jumped up and grabbed for her phone, feeling her heart pound throughout her entire body.

  It wasn’t a message from the Owner, but Achim, who must have somehow found out that the children were at Mooserhof.

  You should have custody taken away from you. You’re always offloading the kids, and have been for years. You’re not fit to be a mother.

  Feeling raw inside, Beatrice erased the message. Her gaze met Florin’s. He was clearly waiting for her to say something.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just another message from my ex.’

  She put her mobile away again, aware of him watching her. ‘You were expecting something else, right?’ he asked.

  All she could manage was a shrug. ‘Well, it could have been the Owner.’ For a few moments, Beatrice was tempted to tell Florin about the lone hand she had played. If you could call it that, but the description seemed to hit the nail on the head. Hoffmann would go mad if he found out she had taken it upon herself to respond to the killer without consulting the others first.

  Well, then he would finally have something worth going mad about.

  She changed the subject. ‘If we’re not making any progress on the next stage, then how about with Herbert Liebscher? Has anyone questioned his colleagues at the school yet?’

  ‘Stefan went there with two of our guys. But nothing useful came of it. Three of Liebscher’s colleagues knew that he was a geocacher, so Stefan spoke to them for a good while, but unfortunately he didn’t find out anything we don’t already know.’

  Beatrice drew circles on her notepad, lost in thought. ‘Liebscher went geocaching, we can take that as a given. But Papenberg didn’t, unless her husband was lying to us, which would pose the question of why. And we didn’t question Beil about it.’ Beatrice didn’t say it out loud, but she doubted they would ever get the opportunity to remedy that.

  Beil’s wife phoned their office for what must have been the fifth time that day – she had been out of her mind with worry ever since hearing that her husband’s car had been found. Luckily for Beatrice, Florin took the call, repeating with seemingly limitless patience the same thing he had already said the last few times. That they were doing everything they could to find Christoph Beil. That they would be in touch as soon as they had any news. Then he paused. ‘Actually, it’s possible you might be able to help us with something. Do you happen to know whether your husband ever went geocaching?’ He turned the phone onto loudspeaker so Beatrice could listen in.

  ‘That’s … the thing with the navigation devices, right?’ The woman’s tear-choked voice resounded out from the speaker. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He had so many hobbies. If he did do it, then he never told me about it.’

  ‘Don’t you spend your free time together?’

  A hiccoughing sob. ‘Not always. He’s much more sporty than I am, and I don’t mind when he does things with friends without me. He always says a little distance keeps things fresh.’

  ‘So that means you don’t know exactly what he’s doing when he’s not at home?’

  ‘Well, most of the time he tells me. But it’s the same the other way around. I have my hobbies too.’

  Beatrice, who had just brought up the geocaching website on her screen, was struck by an idea. ‘Ask her if her husband had a nickname,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps one that his friends gave him at school, or one that she used for him. Something along those lines.’

  Florin nodded, but his question was initially met with incomprehension.

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ asked the woman. ‘What does that have to do with the blood in his car, and the fact that he’s missing?’

  Beatrice pointed to her screen, and Florin caught on. ‘It’s possible that your husband registered on Internet forums with a nickname of some kind. If you can help us a little we can narrow down our search and possibly find some clues. Does your husband have a PC at home?’

  The sound of her breathing came through the loudspeaker. ‘He has a laptop. And I always call him my Grizzly Bear.’

  There was a ‘GrizzlyBear’ on Geocaching.com, as well as a ‘GrizzleBear’, but neither of them were Christoph Beil. The first had only registered one found cache, which was back in 2009, in Berlin. The second had registered only five months ago, already logging over 500 finds. ‘But all of them in Baden-Württemberg,’ Beatrice declared.

  Two hours later they had Beil’s laptop in their possession – his wife had handed it over without hesitation. Stefan took charge of searching for clues, opening the Web browser and looking through the bookmarks. Geocaching.com wasn’t there, not even in the history, which covered the last three months.

  ‘I’ll check the emails now,’ he declared. ‘He has an inbox stretching back four years. If he was sent messages via his geocaching account during that time, then we might find them here, which would give us his username too.’

  But not even rummaging through his email folders brought anything to light. The disappointment was written all over Stefan’s face, even though he tried to hide it. ‘It looks like Beil wasn’t a geocacher then. With your agreement, I’d like to go through all the emails from the last few weeks with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe I’ll find something useful. Then I’ll send the laptop to the IT lab so they can bring any deleted data back from the dead on the hard drive.’

  Every single path they pursued seemed to lead t
o a dead end. The investigation of Sigart’s patient files hadn’t unearthed anything either: it seemed neither Nora Papenberg nor Christoph Beil had taken their pets to him for treatment. Another idea smothered in the cradle. But there was no time to brood over it: one of Liebscher’s colleagues had emailed through some photos taken at a bowling night, including a few close-ups of Liebscher. He was laughing, exposing crooked teeth. Beatrice’s attention was drawn to his ears, her hand instinctively lifting to touch her own left ear as she thought about the cache.

  ‘Do you want to come and get a coffee with me?’ Kossar had popped up out of nowhere. His question was clearly directed solely at Beatrice.

  ‘Sorry. I’m busy.’ The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. Whenever colleagues tried to approach her about anything other than work, she always felt the acute impulse to run away. She turned her concentration back to Liebscher’s photos. Pale blue eyes. They would fit in a very small container. A micro-cache.

  Kossar seemed to have noticed her irritation. ‘I don’t mean to impose.’ His tone was significantly more businesslike than before. ‘But a chat over coffee might spark off some more ideas about the case. I’m happy to come back later if you—’

  Her mobile beeped, announcing the arrival of a message.

  With one quick lunge, she grabbed it from her bag and pressed ‘Read’.

  Just one word. She stared at it, the context slowly dawning on her. But maybe she was wrong. Hopefully.

  ‘Bad news?’

  She had to get rid of Kossar. Showing him the message right now would just bring on another of his gusts of hot air. She would tell him about it later. Once she had worked out her own thoughts on it.

  ‘It’s a family matter. With all due respect, I really must ask you to let me get on with my work.’

  He stared at her for a moment. ‘Family, I understand. Yes, Hoffmann mentioned that you had a messy divorce behind you. If you’d like—’