Five

by Ursula P Archer

  She had to get up; there was so much to do. They had to find Sigart.

  His corpse, you mean.

  She managed to silence the inner voice by humming ‘I’m Walking on Sunshine’, a song that left no room for panic. Ten to fifteen minutes, she thought. It had never lasted any longer than that. You’ll make it. Of course you will.

  ‘Could you please tell me what on earth is wrong with you?’ They could probably hear Hoffmann’s voice even on the floor above, word for word. ‘Did you go shopping, get a manicure? Do you realise we have a case here that’s more important than your fingernails?’

  Beatrice waited until she was sure she could keep her voice steady. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but—’

  ‘No buts!’ yelled Hoffmann. ‘Four dead bodies in one single week! Nothing else is important right now – you don’t have a private life!’

  Four? Had Sigart’s body already been found?

  ‘And then on top of all that you go and disobey my orders. There’ll be consequences, Kaspary, you mark my words!’

  There was no doubt what he was referring to. She looked Hoffmann in the eyes, those silt-coloured, murky-puddle eyes, and waited to see if there was more. When he just shook his head silently, she left him standing there and walked past him to the office, where Florin appeared at the door with a vexed expression.

  ‘There are three bodies, not four.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said softly. ‘Just forget it.’

  ‘I can’t. Sorry.’ Florin pressed past her. She hung her bag over the back of the chair and turned the computer on. His voice filtered in from the hallway, pointedly calm, but as sharp as splintered glass.

  ‘It’s not very helpful when you demotivate us for an entire day because of a twenty-minute late start. We’re all pushing ourselves to the limit here, so I would be very grateful if you could recognise that and not put on additional pressure.’

  ‘Well, what kind of pressure do you think I’ll be under if we can’t show any results? You must realise that, Florin.’ Hoffmann’s voice now had the chummy, conspiratorial undertone that irked Beatrice so much. Not that he had ever used it with her – heaven forbid.

  ‘I know you’re fond of Kaspary,’ Hoffmann continued, now considerably quieter. ‘But recently she’s seemed very jittery and distracted, and that’s just not acceptable in a case like this. Kossar thinks she made contact with the killer without waiting for his advice.’ Hoffmann raised his voice again. ‘She’s blatantly disregarding my orders, and if she thinks she’s going to get away with it—’

  ‘She discussed making contact with the Owner with me. We had to act, and Kossar takes too long with things. If we’ve overstepped the mark, then you’ll have to hold both of us responsible.’

  Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to suppress the protest that was trying to force its way out of her.

  ‘Is that so?’ The rage had drained away from Hoffmann’s voice. ‘Then you should have told me that before, Florin.’

  ‘You’re right. But I can assure you it was a clever move on Kaspary’s part. The Owner has already responded. You won’t find an investigator better than her, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Oh, come on. She has her qualities, no question of that, and she’s been successful on a couple of cases, but … I’m wondering whether I should partner you with someone else, someone without acute personal problems, because they seem to be consuming all her energies right now.’

  Beatrice stared at the login screen on her computer. It was only once her jaw began to ache that she realised she was grinding her teeth. If Hoffmann thought he could sideline her he was mistaken, but she should have realised he would try.

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ she heard Florin say with a certainty that left no room for politeness. ‘That would be a big mistake. I don’t have the time or the energy to explain the case to another colleague, and besides—’

  ‘Oh, come on. Not the same old story about her oh-so-wonderful powers of deduction.’

  ‘You know full well I’m right.’ Florin had lowered his voice again. ‘Think back to the brewery murder. Or the two dead women on the train tracks. She was always the first one to put the pieces together.’

  A dismissive click of the tongue, quite clearly from Hoffmann. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little.’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘Fine, have it your way. But I want to start seeing results, not just a steadily growing number of murder victims. I’m serious, Wenninger.’

  ‘You know full well that no one can force these things. Neither you, nor I, nor Beatrice Kaspary.’

  Hoffmann snorted. ‘Does the girl know how much you stick up for her? People will start getting ideas, you know.’

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get back to work now.’

  ‘Right then, good luck.’ Was that an ironic undertone in his voice?

  Footsteps in the corridor betrayed Florin’s return. Beatrice hastily typed her password and didn’t look up from the screen even when he stormed into the room and sank down into his chair.

  She could feel him looking at her.

  ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that,’ he said.

  She looked up, tried to smile and failed when she saw his serious expression. ‘Thank you. You know it makes me uncomfortable when you stick your neck out for me like that, right?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s the same way I feel when you send text messages to serial killers behind my back. But you were right about the time pressure. Waiting won’t get us anywhere.’

  She rested her head in her hands. ‘I’m just worried that Hoffmann won’t buy the thing about my powers of deduction … or perhaps I should say former powers. I mean, not even I do.’

  ‘Well, you should. I wasn’t making it up, Bea, you’ve always been the one to have the flash of inspiration in the end.’

  ‘That’s teamwork. I was the first one to see it, that’s all. You might have had the same thought two hours later.’

  ‘Or two weeks later. You know, any other boss would be happy to have you.’ He shook his head. ‘Do me a favour and don’t let Hoffmann wind you up. Or bring you down. I’ll try to keep him away from you.’

  She nodded silently, wondering how she was going to manage to concentrate on her work – she would have to ignore not just Hoffmann, but also Achim, her memories of Evelyn, this morning’s panic attack and her bad conscience regarding the children.

  Hoffmann may be a bastard, but he’s right: I’ve got no end of personal problems. They’re like a millstone around my neck.

  She pulled the files in front of her. On the top lay a note from Stefan, who had worked until four in the morning. I’ll be back in the office by ten. Goodnight, he had written.

  There was also a preliminary written assessment from Drasche, who described the loss of blood indicated by the traces in the flat as potentially life-threatening, adding that, in all probability, Sigart was already dead.

  That was very bad news. But in spite of it, for the first time that day Beatrice felt as though she had solid ground beneath her feet again. She worked well with facts, even if they were unwelcome ones.

  A canine unit had been called out the previous evening and had searched the area surrounding the building in Theodebertstrasse, but they hadn’t been able to pick up any scent beyond the spot where the trail of blood stopped.

  The times between the victims’ disappearances and their deaths varied. Why?

  With Nora Papenberg, it had been just over four days. With Herbert Liebscher, at least a week, if they assumed he was already in the grip of his kidnapper the first time he didn’t turn up to class. Christoph Beil had lived just another three days.

  If Sigart hadn’t already bled to death or had his throat cut by the Owner, how much time did they have left to find him?

  Realising that she was chewing on her pen, she pulled it from her mouth. The Owner had done thin
gs differently this time: instead of luring his victim away with a phone call, he had made a personal visit. Why? Had Sigart not answered the phone?

  And why such brute force at the scene? Beatrice leant back and closed her eyes, trying to visualise the situation.

  The Owner rings the doorbell, perhaps disguised as a deliveryman. Or Sigart knows him, and opens up. Do they talk to one another? Maybe the killer tries to drag his victim away immediately, but Sigart manages to make the phone call. That’s why the Owner attacks there and then, severely injuring him, and drags him out of the house.

  ‘Florin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have to speak to Sigart’s therapist.’

  Dr Anja Maly gave up her lunch break to speak to them. She had sounded genuinely aghast on the phone when Beatrice informed her that Bernd Sigart had gone missing.

  ‘I’m very concerned,’ she said, closing the door of the consultation room behind her. ‘I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Herr Sigart may be a danger to himself.’

  ‘That’s the least of our worries right now,’ replied Florin. ‘It looks like he’s become the victim of a crime, and that’s why we need to ask you if he mentioned anyone during his sessions – any friends or acquaintances.’

  ‘The last time we saw him he was planning to release you from your confidentiality clause,’ Beatrice added. ‘There’s a chance that he’s still alive, and we’re using all the means we can to find him, but we need some leads to go on. Can you give us any?’

  They could see from Anja Maly’s face that she was deep in thought. ‘He told me about your visit and said it was connected to investigations for a murder case.’ She pointed towards a sand-coloured sofa and waited for them to take a seat before she herself sat down. ‘My God, the poor man. I presume you know his history? He comes to me once or twice a week, and we’re trying to work on what happened, to find a way for him to accept it as part of his life – but I have to admit we’re making very slow progress.’ She clasped her hands around her knees and shook her head. ‘And now he’s a victim again. It’s unbelievably tragic.’

  Let’s look for a victim echoed in Beatrice’s mind. She had been convinced that the Owner was alluding to Evelyn, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe he had meant Sigart, and had been announcing what he was about to do. A loser, a victim – the two were closely linked.

  ‘We have reason to believe that he knew the suspect and opened the door to him,’ said Florin. ‘Sigart mentioned to us that he almost never leaves the house and doesn’t have contact with anyone. Are there any exceptions?’ He smiled at the therapist. Even though Maly barely moved a muscle in her face, Beatrice could tell that the smile was having the desired effect.

  ‘Wait a moment, I’ll just get my notes.’

  She pulled a thick blue ring binder out of a lockable cupboard and opened it towards the end. ‘The last few times he was here we mainly spoke about his sleeping problems and the fact that he was going to try to leave the house more often.’ She flicked forwards. ‘He was having nightmares a lot, and increasingly suicidal thoughts. But he never mentioned any acquaintances. I don’t think he even knew his neighbours by name.’ She looked at the next page, read some more, then shook her head. ‘It’s very sad. He was living in complete isolation.’ She stopped for a moment, laying her index finger on the page she had in front of her. ‘Wait, this could be of interest to you. In his last session he told me he’d felt like someone was following him on one of his walks. When I tried to find out more, he just shrugged it off and said it was probably his guilty conscience.’ She looked up. ‘His feelings of guilt were always a major topic in our sessions. He was convinced he was responsible for his family’s deaths, and resisted all attempts to relativise it.’

  Beatrice leant forwards. ‘You said he thought he was being followed?’

  ‘Yes. But not threatened, it seems. He didn’t think it was worthy of anything more than a brief mention, and also said he didn’t see or recognise anyone. I think he thought it was just his imagination.’

  Like I did the other day, thought Beatrice. The blinding lights in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Did he mention any phone calls? Was there someone who might have got in touch out of the blue, a new or old acquaintance perhaps?’

  Maly shook her head emphatically. ‘No. From time to time the vet who took over his surgery would call, whenever she had questions. Sigart’s parents aren’t around any more, and he completely broke off contact with his former friends. He didn’t want—’

  She was interrupted by Beatrice’s phone beeping.

  Beatrice quickly pressed the red button in order to stop the message tone. ‘Excuse me for a moment, please.’ She turned away, recognising the Owner’s number, and felt her face start to burn up.

  This time it was a picture message. The text said NM. Just those two letters, nothing more. The attached picture took around three seconds to load, but even once it appeared Beatrice wasn’t sure at first what she was looking at. She rotated the phone a little, then suddenly everything became clear. She suppressed the noise that was trying to force its way out of her, something between a curse and a groan.

  ‘Something urgent?’ asked Florin.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid we’re going to have to excuse ourselves, Dr Maly. Thank you very much indeed for your help.’

  The therapist accompanied them to the door. ‘Could you let me know when you find out where he is?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you again.’ Beatrice practically pulled Florin out of the practice, down the steps and over to the car, where she leaned against the driver’s door.

  He stood next to her. ‘I take it that was from the Owner.’

  ‘It certainly was.’ She opened the picture and handed Florin her mobile. ‘You tell me whether that’s good or bad news.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He looked closely at the picture, then gave her the phone back. ‘It looks terrible.’

  The image was sharp, and in spite of the small display, new details jumped out at Beatrice every time she looked. The pale arm with the dirty sleeves, pushed up to the elbow. The pile of bloody gauze bandages, crumpled on the brown tabletop. And the hand. Three fingers and a gruesome wound where the little and ring finger had once been. Dark red, almost black in places.

  ‘Let’s drive back to the office and enlarge the photo as much as we can,’ said Beatrice. ‘Some of the background is visible, so maybe it will give us some clues.’

  ‘NM.’ Frowning in concentration, Florin pointed at the message attached to the photo. ‘Could it be initials this time? Is he giving us clues to his name, or perhaps the next victim’s?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If I remember rightly, it’s another geocaching abbreviation and means “needs maintenance”.’

  ‘This guy has a pretty sick sense of humour,’ muttered Florin. He flung open the car door and sat down behind the wheel. ‘Let’s go. We need some extra people on the case to question the neighbours again, shine a light on the other victims’ social circles and search through the geocaching sites. We have to find Sigart before the Owner kills him.’

  The photo was easy to enlarge and revealed further chilling details. They had summoned Vogt from the pathologist’s office, and he was now sitting in front of Beatrice’s computer, his hands folded into a steeple in front of his mouth.

  ‘I can’t be completely certain, but I suspect the fingers were severed with one single blow. Have a look for an axe or a sharp kitchen knife as possible weapons.’

  Florin pointed at the image. ‘The man is likely to also have a neck wound and has lost a lot of blood. I know you can only see the arm in the picture – but do you think he’s still alive?’

  Vogt zoomed in further on the section showing the hand and moved his face so close to the screen that his nose was almost touching it. ‘Well, he at least lived for some time after the fingers were severed, because the edges of the wound seem slightly inflamed, and you can see the first stages of the healing process.’ He pushed his g
lasses right up to the top of his nose. ‘It also looks as though the hand muscles are tensed. So it’s likely that he was still alive when the photo was taken. I can’t give you any guarantees though.’

  Guarantees weren’t necessary. For Beatrice, Sigart was alive until proved otherwise. ‘We’ll speak to Konrad Papenberg again,’ she said after Vogt had left. ‘This whole thing started with his wife – her handwriting is on the cache notes and Liebscher’s blood on her clothing. In one way or another, she must be the key to this case.’

  ‘But she’s not the key figure, at least not according to the Owner,’ Florin interjected. His fingers were drumming out a speedy rhythm on the surface of the desk. ‘He hasn’t yet given us any false information in his messages, have you noticed that? He doesn’t lie to us, so if he says someone is the key figure, then we should identify that person as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Yes, except that might take for ever,’ answered Beatrice. ‘I think Sigart is our priority, and the path to him is via the other victims.’

  Konrad Papenberg’s face had turned a deep red and was just ten centimetres at most from Beatrice’s. ‘Get out of my house right this second! I won’t allow you to slander my dead wife under my roof!’ A drop of spit landed next to Beatrice’s right eye. She didn’t wipe it off. Instead of backing away from Papenberg, she took a tiny step towards him. It had exactly the desired effect: he stepped back, putting more distance between them.

  ‘I understand that you’re upset,’ she said in a decidedly calm voice. ‘Nothing has been proven, of course. But there was someone else’s blood on your wife’s hands and clothing, and we’ve since been able to match that blood to another victim. I hope you can understand that we have to investigate this.’

  ‘Perhaps she was trying to help him!’ roared Papenberg. ‘Had you thought of that? No, you’d rather believe that Nora is a murderer, my Nora, my …’ His voice failed him and he sank down onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.