Five

by Ursula P Archer

  The scar which had enabled them to find him. The Owner had led them to Beil with his clues, waited until they had spoken to him, then attacked almost as soon as their backs were turned.

  But why not sooner? Was it all about provoking the police, was that really part of his motive? It felt as though they were just running around haplessly, dashing to wherever he wanted them to go. Yet the Owner was always there in front of them.

  A thought that had occurred to her when she arrived at the scene earlier that day reared its head again with renewed force: if that was the killer’s trick, then they would have to keep an eye on Sigart.

  The autopsy lasted two and a half hours. It seemed Beil had died as the result of a stab to the heart. A sharp object, presumably a knife blade, had penetrated the front wall of the thorax and the pericardium, as well as the anterior and posterior walls of the heart. He had died of internal bleeding.

  ‘What about the strangulation marks?’ Beatrice pointed at the blue marks which ran around Beil’s neck in ring formations.

  ‘There are two choke marks which suggest he was hanged, but not fatally,’ Vogt explained.

  ‘Aha. And what do you make of that?’

  ‘Either he tried to hang himself and failed, or his murderer couldn’t decide which method to use. Are you familiar with Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio? “First beheaded, then hanged, then impaled on hot stakes …”’ He sang with an astonishingly full and deep voice.

  Beatrice knew a few pathologists and was familiar with their unique sense of humour, but the sight of Vogt singing in front of the corpse while the liver was being weighed by the assistant pathologist was almost enough to make her flee the room.

  ‘Two choking marks, you say?’

  Vogt interrupted his performance. ‘Yes. So either the rope slipped or someone tried to hang him twice.’ He shrugged, looking at Beatrice with his head tilted to the side. ‘I’ll leave it to you to make sense of that one.’

  It was just before five in the afternoon when they rang Sigart’s doorbell, and it took him a long time to answer.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I was sleeping.’ He was shockingly pale, and a deep red crease stretched diagonally across the right side of his face, clearly the imprint of a pillow. ‘Come in.’

  He sat down on the edge of the couch, awkwardly pulling on a pair of socks.

  ‘Sorry that we woke you,’ said Florin.

  ‘Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll be able to get a few hours’ sleep tonight now.’ He looked up. ‘It’s the pills, you know? My doctor prescribed me new ones which make me very tired, but unfortunately only during the day.’ He gestured towards the folding chairs, which, it seemed, were still at the table from their last visit.

  ‘Herr Sigart, we’d like to know whether you’ve noticed anything unusual in the last few days,’ Florin began. ‘Anything unsettling?’

  Sigart looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean by unsettling?’

  ‘Well, have you received any strange phone calls? Were there perhaps anonymous messages in your letter box? On your mobile?’

  Sigart’s expression indicated that he found Florin’s questions strange, but he was clearly still dazed with sleep. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I’d like to ask you to contact us right away if something of that sort happens. Only open the door to people you know and trust. Inform us if anything seems even the slightest bit suspicious.’

  Sigart was fully awake now. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  It had been obvious that this question would come, and they had already agreed during the drive over to cause him as little worry as possible. Beatrice took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s possible that the person who murdered Nora Papenberg takes a perverse pleasure in the act of killing, so it’s important to us that all people who are connected to the case exercise caution.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘As I already said, there are signs that the man could continue to be dangerous.’

  Sigart seemed interested, but not excessively so. ‘What kind of signs?’

  ‘That’s not relevant, but the important thing is that …’

  ‘Earlier on, on the news –’ he interrupted her, pointing the scarred index finger of his left hand to an old portable radio – ‘they said that a body was found in the Salzach lake. This morning. Is that what you mean by “signs”?’

  The latest murder had of course been reported in the media, albeit without any reference to the Papenberg case. But Sigart wasn’t stupid. Reading the answer etched on their faces, he nodded. ‘That’s quite a clear sign. And now you’re worried that he’ll come after me next?’

  ‘That could tie in with his weird logic, yes,’ answered Florin. ‘We don’t know enough about him and his motives, but he – how do I put this? – led us to you, just like the man we found today. That’s why we’d like to put you under police protection.’

  ‘Me?’ He seemed genuinely amazed. ‘I can’t think of one single reason why anyone would kill me,’ he said. ‘After all, I hardly even exist any more. Whether I’m sitting here in this hole of a flat or lying in a coffin under the earth doesn’t make a difference to anyone. Not even me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that you feel that way,’ said Beatrice. ‘But that won’t protect you if the killer’s mind works the way we suspect it does. Please think for a moment. Is there someone who might stand to profit from your death?’

  ‘Only the funeral director. I’ve stipulated in my will that any remaining funds are to go to the Association for Psychological Crisis Intervention.’ Something almost resembling a smile crept across his features.

  ‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a material motive. Is it possible that you know something that could hurt someone else?’ She held his gaze. ‘It seems like that may have been the case with the most recent murder. Is there anyone you could prove to be dangerous for if you were to divulge some information?’

  His eyes were already rejecting the notion even before he shook his head. ‘If you like, I can tell you the names of people who feed their dogs chocolate because they think of them as children. Or others that keep their parrots in criminally small cages. But I don’t have any information more damaging than that. What do you want from me? Do you want me to make something up just so I have something to tell?’

  Florin laid the portrait from Christoph Beil’s missing persons report out on the table. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  A resigned sigh. Sigart looked at Beatrice as if he wanted to ask for her help, but then shrugged his shoulders and leant over towards the photo. He looked at it for a long while – so long that they started to get hopeful.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The face doesn’t ring any bells. And I really tried to recognise him, believe me.’

  ‘And what about this man?’ Florin pulled out another photo, this time of Liebscher. ‘Do you perhaps know him?’

  ‘Why? Does he belong to the circle of potential victims too? Or is he already dead?’ He pushed the photos away. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what you want from me. I have nothing to do with your case. I don’t know the people who were murdered, and I don’t feel threatened. And even if I did, my life ended when my family died. Leave me in peace.’

  Sympathy and irritation fought for the upper hand within Beatrice. It just wasn’t possible that every single one of their attempts to make progress led to a dead end. There had to be some connection between the victims.

  She held her breath. Was that really true? Was it not equally plausible that the murderer was picking names out of the phone book at random and finding out about them, just to look on gleefully as the police desperately tried to establish a connection between them? The thought paralysed her. If that were the case, then the hunt could last a very long time.

  She looked at Sigart, who was hunched over on his chair, staring out of the window at the grey concrete wall opposite. Over time, most heavily traumatised people either found a way to deal with their lot,
or they committed suicide.

  ‘You know,’ he said, with a barely perceptible smile, ‘it would save me the effort. A murderer, I never thought of that. Stepping in front of a bus, a scalpel, injecting myself with an overdose – sure.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve put lots of animals to sleep, and I’d like to die like they do. Calmly. At peace.’

  There was no doubt about the sincerity of his suicide wish, but they weren’t making any progress here. ‘As my colleague has already mentioned, we’d like to put you under police protection, but we need your approval for that.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern.’ His comment sounded genuine, at least. ‘But I don’t want that. I want my peace and quiet and I don’t want policemen at the door.’

  She had feared that kind of response. ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

  He looked at her, confused. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll give you my mobile number, and my colleague’s too. If you feel under threat or even suspect someone is watching you, call us. It’s better to call us than the emergency line, because we’ll know what it’s about.’

  Sigart blinked as though he had something in his eye, then turned his head to the side. ‘Thank you. But I can’t promise I’ll take you up on your offer.’

  He saved the number in his phone regardless. Beatrice tried to discreetly sneak a glance into his existing contacts, but without success.

  ‘We’ll send a squad car over to check on you now and then,’ said Florin, getting up from his chair. ‘But please do us a favour and watch out for yourself.’

  Sigart’s shoulders twitched. It was futile; he would do as he pleased. They were almost out through the door when something occurred to Beatrice. The idea was an unusual one, and she was intrigued to see how he would react. ‘If you’re in agreement, I’d like to speak to your therapist. I need your permission though.’

  He hesitated. So there were some things he still cared about.

  ‘What do you hope to achieve from doing that?’

  ‘I’m grasping at any straw I can think of, you know? You’re connected to this case in some way, and I want to understand how.’

  With his scarred left hand, he kneaded the unscathed fingers on the other.

  ‘You’re ambitious, aren’t you?’

  The question startled Beatrice for a moment. ‘I would say I’m more … persistent, I think.’

  Again, that crippled version of a smile. ‘Good for you. I can remember how that used to feel.’ He swept his pale tongue slowly over his lips. ‘You can speak to my therapist if you really want to – her name is Anja Maly and her practice is in Auerspergstrasse. I’ll tell her to expect you.’

  ‘You were very quiet towards the end,’ said Beatrice as they went back to the car.

  ‘I know. I was concentrating on Sigart. He was different to our last visit and I was trying to work out exactly how.’

  ‘And?’

  Florin hesitated. ‘I’ve never studied psychology, but he reminded me of someone today. An uncle who’s been dead for a long time now.’

  Beatrice opened the passenger door, but didn’t get in. Instead, she glanced back at the small balcony belonging to Sigart’s flat. ‘Your uncle committed suicide, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. By the end he was so calm, giving all his things away. He just let go of everything. I think Sigart is almost at that point. Shouldn’t we have him sectioned?’

  It was a tempting thought – Sigart would get help, and at the same time no longer be accessible to the killer. A tempting thought indeed.

  Back at the office, they worked late into the night. The photos of the three puzzles lay spread out on the desk in front of Beatrice, each one the Owner had given them so far. A singer. A loser. A key figure. She looked for parallels, differences, hidden messages. By half-ten, her eyes were stinging. ‘I’m going to head off home. I’m—’

  —dead tired, she had been about to say, but Sting interrupted her; sending his SOS out. The phone was in her bag and Beatrice’s attempt at opening it resulted in knocking it from the table and spilling half the contents across the floor. The message tone continued.

  Hopefully everything was okay with the children, and hopefully the Owner hadn’t—

  She read the message and froze. But some kind of noise must have escaped her, for through the thick, dirty haze veiling her mind, she sensed Florin’s sudden attentiveness, his concern.

  ‘Bea?’

  She didn’t respond. She had to get her thoughts straight first. By now, she could recognise the number at first glance; it was the prepaid card in Nora Papenberg’s mobile. Then she realised: this was the response to the last text she had sent.

  Spirit of Man,

  How like water you are.

  Fate of Man,

  How like the wind.

  Let’s look for a victim.

  Evelyn R.

  R.I.P.

  The ball had been returned. It was as if he was saying, You know something? Then look at this – so do I!

  She resisted the impulse to delete the message. Let’s look for a victim, my God.

  ‘Bea? What’s wrong?’

  Speechless, she handed him her mobile. She watched as he immediately recognised the sender’s number, then scanned the message with a frown.

  ‘Goethe.’

  ‘Yes. “The Song of the Spirits over the Waters”.’ She rested her forehead in her hands. How had the Owner found out?

  ‘Who’s Evelyn R.?’

  She’s the end of innocence. The caesura. The volte-face.

  ‘She’s dead.’ It didn’t answer his question, but it was all she could manage right at that moment. How could the Owner know about Evelyn?

  She thought about the car that had followed her, the one with the headlights turned up too brightly. Suddenly, the thought of spending the night at home alone was yet another threatening shadow in her world.

  Forbidding herself from thinking longingly of Florin’s spare room, she started to pack up her things. ‘Could you give me my phone, please?’

  ‘Bea!’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. ‘Explain to me what this is about. This isn’t caching slang – it’s to do with you personally, right?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘So it seems?’ He pushed his hair back from his brow, clearly exasperated. ‘Look, of course you’re under no obligation to tell me everything about your life, but this is about a case we’re working on together. It would be really helpful if I was also able to interpret the messages the suspect is sending us.’

  She had to collect her thoughts. Everything was rushing, colliding inside her. She needed to be alone. ‘I sent the Owner a message, and it seems this is his answer.’

  Florin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You did what?’

  ‘Yes. I know. I played a lone hand, without discussing it first. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, when we were in Liebscher’s apartment and found the writing in the dust. I made it clear to him that we knew the identity of the man whose body parts he was putting in the caches. “Herbert Liebscher”, that’s all I wrote. I wanted him to know we’re getting closer, that we’re open to a dialogue. The more often he gets in touch, the higher the probability that he’ll slip up and make a mistake.’

  She searched Florin’s face for understanding, but it was expressionless and – despite the tiredness in his eyes – harder than usual. ‘You do realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that by doing that you’re playing his game, not yours. Let’s forget for a moment that you didn’t inform anyone else in the team – you accepted his invitation by sending that message, Bea. Now you’re his official opponent. And I don’t like that one bit.’ He held her mobile out towards her. ‘You can see how personal he makes things. He swotted up, and clearly knows more about you than the people who see you every day.’

  That was one way of looking at it. His official opponent. Her eyes were burning; she closed them and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. ‘Evelyn was one of my friends at university,’ she said, watch
ing the dots and streaks that appeared in the darkness of her self-imposed blindness. ‘We shared an apartment. Then she died.’ Beatrice opened her eyes again and looked directly at Florin. ‘She was doing German philology, and I was studying psychology. Neither of us graduated.’

  The question he wanted to ask her was clearly written on his face, but he didn’t voice it. ‘Under the circumstances I think it would be better if you don’t stay by yourself until we’ve caught the Owner,’ he said instead. ‘My apartment is big enough, so why don’t you—’

  ‘No.’

  He blinked, then turned away. ‘Fine. But do me a favour and call me once you’re home and you’ve locked up. Leave your mobile next to the bed. Have you got the emergency number on speed dial?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘You should head home soon too. It’s been a long day.’

  On her way out to the car park, Beatrice turned to look back several times, but there was no one behind her. Nor was there during the drive home, throughout which she spent more time looking in the rear-view mirror than at the road.

  She did as Florin had asked: double-locking the door behind her and even sliding across the bolt she had never used the whole time she had lived here. It would be completely useless if someone was really intent on getting in, but it still felt reassuring to limit the possibilities. She checked that the windows were locked and pulled the curtains. Then she kicked her shoes off, sank down onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

  Evelyn. Anyone could read about it in the newspaper archives if they made the effort, but establishing the connection to Beatrice was a lot more difficult. Her surname had been different back then, and she hadn’t spoken to a single journalist. And yet the Owner had still managed to draw the correct conclusions.

  She felt her eyes start to close, then opened them wide. Was that a noise?

  No. She was being silly. Nonetheless, she still felt better after doing a round of the rooms, not finding anything apart from the usual blend of order and chaos. Only then did she call Florin.