Five

by Ursula P Archer

  ‘Did you get home safely?’ He was still at the office; she could hear the clatter of the keyboard in the background.

  ‘Yes. No one followed me, and there was no one lying in wait when I got here. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good. And remember, if anything unusual happens—’

  ‘I’m a police officer, Florin. I know how to look after myself.’ The words sounded convincing, even to her. For the first time since arriving at her apartment, she started to relax.

  The night passed unbelievably quickly. Her head had barely touched the pillow before her alarm clock went off again. She had slept deeply, as if drugged, and her mobile had stayed silent.

  ‘Make sure a squad car goes round to check on Sigart. They just need to briefly make sure that all’s well.’ Beatrice leant on Stefan’s desk, pointing at the address on the note she had just given him. ‘And then could you try to make some sense of Stage Four? I can’t make head nor tail of it, so it would be good to have a second pair of eyes take a fresh look.’

  Stefan ran a hand through his red hair, looking mildly offended. ‘Do you seriously think I haven’t been going over it already? I’ve requested a list from the records office on all residents in the state of Salzburg named Felix who are under the age of forty.’

  That’s exactly what Beatrice would have done a few years ago. But she had learnt through experience that lists like that only helped if you at least had some vague idea of what you were searching for. Still, it wouldn’t hurt.

  Seeing Kossar approaching out of the corner of her eye, she sighed. ‘See you later, Stefan.’

  Kossar waited in the doorway to her office, glancing longingly over at the coffee machine, but she didn’t want to offer him anything that might lengthen his stay unnecessarily. It was bad enough that she would have to talk to him about her past. ‘The Owner sent me a new message yesterday. Here it is.’ She had typed up the message and printed it out.

  Kossar scanned the words, nodded, sat down and read it through once more. ‘Can you tell me who Evelyn was?’

  ‘A friend. We lived together.’ For some inexplicable reason, it felt easier to tell Kossar about it than Florin. It felt less personal, at least as long as she was just talking about the bare facts.

  ‘So my assumption would be that she didn’t die of natural causes. Am I right?’

  He was pretty good at his job when it came to direct conversation, at least. Which meant all she needed to do was nod, not explain anything.

  ‘I understand. The fact that the Owner knows about it is one thing, the fact that he’s shoving his knowledge right under your nose is another entirely. That supports our theory that he wants to demonstrate his superiority. And – correct me if I’m wrong –’ he looked at Beatrice as if he was searching her face for something – ‘but it seems like he’s hit a raw nerve. Am I right?’

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘He wants to show he can hurt you. He’d probably also like to see how you react, so don’t rule out the possibility that he might try to get close to you.’

  Beatrice was pleased Florin was out of the office and not around to hear Kossar’s words. He was already on the brink of putting her under the personal protection Sigart had refused. ‘Okay. So, a tentative prognosis then – what will he do next?’ she asked.

  ‘Well.’ Kossar took his glasses off with a sweeping flourish. ‘He will continue to pursue his plan – unfortunately, at this point, no one can say what that plan consists of. To me, it looks like an opus, a production, a kind of psychopathic work of art. There were a few cases in the US that showed similar patterns. I’ve spent the last two days looking for possible parallels.’ Looking pleased with himself, Kossar leant back in his chair and put his glasses on again. ‘By the way, that means you’re not in danger. You’re the audience – it would be counterproductive to kill you.’

  That’s good to know. Beatrice forced a smile. ‘Thank you for your comments. So what do you suggest I write back to him in response?’

  Kossar took a long time before he answered, even for him. ‘Only reply if you have something clever to say, something that will interest him. Something on a level with the surprise he dealt you yesterday.’

  Even though she wasn’t hungry, Beatrice went to the canteen for lunch and picked up a sandwich. On the way back, she ran into Stefan.

  ‘Some of the guys checked on Sigart, everything’s okay. They said he looks ill and seemed absent-minded, but apart from that he was fine.’

  It sounded as though he was a step closer to ending things. They had to initiate the process for institutionalisation.

  ‘I’ve also been pondering what the comments about the key figure’s career could refer to. Selling things that no one needs – he might be an insurance salesman.’

  She burst out laughing, and was suddenly unable to remember the last time she had done so. ‘Stefan! That’s a serious career path you’re calling into disrepute.’

  ‘If you say so. But that’s what came to mind – knocking on people’s doors, cold calling – see what I mean? Or maybe he sells something completely different – like stain removal products or newspaper subscriptions, or maybe just hot air …’

  Hot air – in other words, mere rhetoric. Maybe he was in the advertising industry. If that was the case, there could be a connection between him and Nora Papenberg.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. Keep at it, Stefan.’

  He beamed and disappeared into his office. Beatrice went off to hers and found Florin there with his eyes closed and the telephone held to his ear. Within just a few moments, Beatrice worked out he was talking to Vera Beil. She had identified her husband yesterday, and had collapsed right there on the spot. Severe shock and circulatory failure, the doctors had said when she had been taken to hospital. Presumably she was phoning from there; she had already called twice today, but only ever wanted to speak to Florin.

  ‘Anything,’ he was saying. ‘Try to think back, Frau Beil. What did your husband say as he left the house? Or before that, on Sunday evening?’

  Beatrice turned her attentions to her computer. The mobile provider had emailed saying that the last connection via the prepaid card had been made at 22.34 yesterday, at which time the mobile was located in Salzburg’s historic quarter. She was relieved: no one had been following her; she could rely on her instincts after all. Unfortunately, though, it seemed she could also rely on the Owner’s caution: he hadn’t yet connected to the same cellular network twice.

  The afternoon crept up slowly and doggedly, leading to a gloomy evening and, shortly after 8 p.m., an equally gloomy evening meeting. No one in the team had any great flashes of inspiration to offer; no one was in the position to lay new ideas on the table.

  ‘We’re stuck,’ said Florin. ‘Stage Four is a hard nut to crack – neither Beil’s wife nor Papenberg’s husband know anyone who meets the criteria of the key figure. So we’re going to have to do the painstaking work and translate the two clues.’

  Beatrice’s phone interrupted him. It wasn’t the melody announcing a text message, but the one for incoming calls.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pulling the phone from her bag and heading towards the door. She didn’t know the number on the display, which was a good thing, implying it would be quick to resolve.

  ‘Kaspary.’

  A wail, followed by a whimper. Crashing in the background. She gripped her phone tightly. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Help me!’ The man’s words were hoarse and faltering, squeezed out between sobs, but Beatrice was sure she could recognise Bernd Sigart’s voice.

  ‘Herr Sigart, is that you?’ Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Florin gesticulated frantically with his thumb, as though he was pressing something. She understood and switched to speakerphone.

  ‘Help me!’ Sigart was sobbing. ‘He’s trying to—’ The word culminated in a scream, followed by a crash which sounded like a bookcase falling over. Another crash, then the whimpering was muffled; someone m
ust have put their hand over the microphone. It crackled, rustled, then the sound became clear again, and Sigart’s cries cut shrilly through the air in the meeting room. ‘Stop! Please! No!’

  ‘Where are you?’ shouted Beatrice.

  There was no answer, just a dull thud, more pain-racked screams, then the connection was abruptly broken.

  ‘Shit! Florin, Stefan, we need to drive to Sigart’s flat right now!’ She clapped Bechner on the shoulder. ‘Tell all available squad cars in the area to get over there, Theodebertstrasse thirty-three. Quickly!’

  She estimated the driving time in her mind: they would need at least fifteen minutes, twenty more realistically, even if they went through the red lights. Florin jumped behind the wheel, stepping on the accelerator even before all the doors were shut. His lips were pressed into a thin line, all his concentration directed on the road. Meanwhile, from the back seat, Stefan offered his analysis of the call.

  ‘Sigart said “he”, which means it’s just one guy. So now we at least know that the Owner is a man—’

  ‘We don’t even know for sure if it was the Owner,’ Beatrice interrupted him. Her throat felt dry with nerves. Sigart does value his life after all, she thought. We all do, as soon as someone wants to take it from us, as soon as things get serious.

  Hopefully became her mantra for the next ten minutes. Hopefully we won’t get there too late. Hopefully.

  The walls of the building in Theodebertstrasse were reflecting the blue lights of the two squad cars that had arrived before them. The street was narrow, so one single car up at the crossing was enough to block access to traffic.

  Four male and one female uniformed officers were standing at the front door, talking into walkie-talkies. Seeing Beatrice and Florin arrive, the policewoman came running over to them.

  ‘We’ve already been in,’ she called breathlessly. ‘It looks pretty bad in there.’

  Florin voiced Beatrice’s thoughts before she managed to. ‘Is Sigart dead?’

  The policewoman shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s hard to say.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ The entrance lay in front of them, and even though dusk was already turning to darkness and the street lamps were only giving off sparse light, the dark smears and flecks in the hallway were unmistakable. Bloodstains ran down the stairs, as if something heavy had been dragged along the floor. They led down to the cellar.

  ‘It certainly seems like whoever did this got a look at the house beforehand and worked out the best escape route,’ explained the policeman holding the walkie-talkie. ‘The cellar leads to a rear exit, and the suspect must have had a car parked there, because the traces of blood stop abruptly.’

  ‘But what about Sigart?’ asked Beatrice impatiently.

  ‘We haven’t found him.’

  They ran up the stairs, taking care not to disturb the bloodstains. Beatrice noticed a large shoe print in one of the smears and hoped fervently that the Owner had finally made a mistake. The story told by the bloodstains was a clear one. They had come too late.

  ‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’

  ‘No.’

  Now she saw for herself: the door was open, but undamaged. He must have let the killer in.

  The inside of the flat looked like a slaughterhouse. Most of the blood was on the floor, on the wall next to the couch and by the table, which had been knocked over. The bookcase lay diagonally across the room and had buried a folding chair beneath it; the legs jutted out from under the heavy load like those of a squashed insect.

  As expected, there was no sign of Sigart, but they still called out for him, checking the bathroom and finding nothing but blood and more blood. The patterns on the wall suggested an intensely spurting wound. Sigart must have been badly injured, unconscious or even dead before the killer dragged him through the building out to his car.

  ‘He acted pretty damn fast.’ Florin’s gaze had stopped at the pool of blood next to the table. ‘The patrol team said they arrived seven minutes after the emergency call, and both Sigart and the killer were already gone.’

  That at least increased the probability that, in his haste, the Owner had made a mistake. The bloody shoe print on the stairs, for example. Tiptoeing cautiously, Beatrice crossed the small living area and glanced into the kitchen. Compared to the rest of the flat, it was quite clean. ‘But we warned him. Why would Sigart just open the door like that?’

  ‘The Owner isn’t stupid. Maybe he disguised himself as a policeman, a handyman, or a postman. Or maybe …’

  Beatrice nodded, fighting against the sense of helpless frustration rising inside her. ‘Or maybe they knew each other.’

  It was a mild evening, and most of the neighbours hadn’t been home at the time the crime was committed. While Drasche and Ebner inspected the flat and stairwell, the others tried to find someone who might have seen the Owner.

  An old woman living in one of the ground-floor flats reported that she had heard a dull thud: ‘As though someone had dropped something heavy.’

  ‘That was it? No screams?’ Florin probed.

  ‘Yes, but I thought they were coming from the TV.’ The neighbours who lived next to Sigart were only arriving home now, and were clearly horrified. By 10 p.m., the residents from the other flat downstairs still hadn’t come back.

  ‘It must have been very loud. There was a struggle – we heard part of it on the phone,’ Beatrice explained to the tenants in the flat above Sigart. ‘Did you not hear anything?’

  The man lowered his gaze. ‘We did. He was screaming and banging against the walls, but, the thing is – that was nothing new. In the last few years I’ve rung his bell again and again whenever he had those … incidents, but he never opened up, and I knew, you see … I mean, the thing with his family.’ He looked back up. ‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance. He always made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any contact or help.’

  We were too slow, thought Beatrice, feeling the hate well up inside her, a feeling that had no place in her work. She balled her hands into fists and burrowed her fingernails into her palms; normally that helped.

  ‘Wenninger? Kaspary?’ Drasche’s muffled voice echoed out of Sigart’s flat. ‘Come here, but be careful!’

  When they got there, he was kneeling next to the upturned table and pool of blood. With his gloved hand, he pointed at something light and oblong amidst the red. ‘The killer left us some body parts again.’

  ‘What is it?’ They leant forwards towards Drasche.

  ‘Except this time he didn’t package them up for us. Do you see?’ He turned the oblong shapes around carefully.

  Fingers. Beatrice went cold as she thought of Sigart’s screams. Stop it, he had yelled, his voice racked with pain and fear.

  ‘The little finger and ring finger of the left hand,’ Drasche clarified. ‘They must have been cut off at the same time, possibly hacked off, because the wound is sharp and the bone was severed too, I think.’ He put the fingers into one of his evidence bags and held it out towards Beatrice.

  She took it, noticing a detail that turned her suspicion into certainty. ‘They’re Sigart’s fingers, for sure.’

  Drasche’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline. ‘And you know that how?’

  ‘I recognise the burn scars.’

  They closed off the street, called the inhabitants out of the surrounding houses and questioned them about a stranger who had entered building number 33 between eight and half-past that evening. Maybe a little earlier. But no one had seen anything.

  Perhaps a parcel carrier, a policeman, a pizza delivery boy?

  No.

  They worked until long after midnight, receiving a steady supply of updates on Drasche’s discoveries: the footprints in the stairwell were a size 45, while Sigart was a size 43. The blood in the flat couldn’t just stem from the severed fingers, as the fan-shaped patterns on the walls suggested injury to a large blood vessel. ‘At a height of around one hundred and sixty centimetres from the floor, it was probably Sig
art’s carotid artery. Or the other man’s, but if that were the case he wouldn’t have been able to get away.’ It was clear from Drasche’s expression that he hadn’t seriously considered that possibility, but wanted to state it nonetheless. ‘I’ll be able to tell you relatively soon whether the blood comes from two different people or just one.’

  Finally, in a dark corner next to the cellar exit, Ebner found Sigart’s mobile, smeared with blood. He had clearly been trying to cling onto the connection with Beatrice. That night, the thought haunted her into her sleep.

  It happened the next morning, just after she had brushed her teeth, and without any warning. Beatrice huddled on the floor and tried not to lose consciousness, opening and closing her fingers to bring the feeling back, forcing away the image of Sigart’s severed fingers as she did so. That would only make it all worse.

  She hadn’t had a panic attack this bad in years, and even though she knew what was happening to her, the thought remained that – this time – it could be something serious.

  A heart attack, cardiac arrest, sudden death. She gasped for air, trying to bring her pulse back under control with the strength of willpower alone. She followed the leapfrogging of her heartbeat with a mixture of amusement and despair.

  Breathe. Breathe. Think about something else.

  Back then, the psychologist had advised her to accept the fear, to greet it and let it go again.

  Hello, fear.

  It was there, pounding inside her chest, her temples, her neck, her stomach, but it didn’t respond to Beatrice’s greeting. Didn’t reveal where it had come from so suddenly.

  But Beatrice knew what had awoken it. She lay flat out on her back, closed her eyes and tried to stay perfectly still. It felt as though her lungs had withered to hard, walnut-sized clumps.

  She pictured Evelyn’s face, her green eyes, her deep-red curly hair. That throaty voice. Everyone had always turned to look at her whenever she laughed.

  I’m so sorry. So very sorry.

  The cool tiles of the bathroom floor were pressing hard against her shoulder blades. The image of the living Evelyn faded, the disfigured features of the dead Evelyn engulfing it with all its horrific force. Beatrice tore her eyes open, concentrating on the bathroom ceiling, the dusty milk-glass lamp directly above her head.