Five

by Ursula P Archer

  Beatrice nodded to Florin. It was a silent request for him to take over the questioning. She hadn’t counted on such an extreme reaction, and although she felt sorry for Papenberg, his lack of control didn’t necessarily have to mean an end to the conversation if Florin took the right approach.

  Florin sat down next to the man on the sofa and spoke to him softly. Beatrice removed herself from his line of sight as much as possible, positioning herself over by the window in an attempt to let him forget she was there.

  It was clear that nothing had been cleaned or tidied in the apartment since their last visit. There was dust on the furniture, clothing scattered on the floor, newspapers, unemptied ashtrays – all evidence of how Konrad Papenberg’s life had been turned completely upside down.

  ‘Of course your wife was a victim,’ Beatrice heard Florin say. ‘We’re just trying to understand what happened. I’d like to show you photos of two men, perhaps you might know one of them. Would that be okay?’

  Papenberg didn’t answer. Beatrice could hear the sound of papers being shuffled, so presumably he had nodded.

  ‘No, I’ve never seen them before. Which of them is Nora supposed to have murdered, according to your colleague?’

  ‘This man here, Herbert Liebscher.’

  ‘I don’t know him. I swear to you – if I did, I’d tell you.’

  Beatrice looked around and saw that the photos were shaking in Papenberg’s hands. His face was wet. ‘No one wants the murderer to be found more than I do. I want to help you, but when you say things like that about Nora …’ He fumbled around in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue and blew his nose. ‘She was the most gentle person I’ve ever known. She could barely hurt a fly, and felt bad about the silliest of things. Sometimes she would burst into tears when bad news came on the TV, and then would be inconsolable for hours. About car crashes, for example, even if she didn’t know the people. She was so compassionate, you know?’ He scrunched the tissue up in his hand. ‘She could never have been an accomplice to murder.’

  Beatrice turned around from the window. ‘Was she always that way?’ she asked. Her question was one of genuine interest.

  ‘Ever since I’ve known her, yes. She did a lot of charity work, like for Children’s Village, Médecins Sans Frontières and organisations for disabled people. Not just donations, I mean personal stuff too. She always said that when she … died, she wanted to feel like she had made a difference.’

  A woman with a social conscience, empathy and a dedication to giving something back. But perhaps there was a darker side to Nora Papenberg, even if her husband had her up on a pedestal.

  Beatrice tried to fight the feeling of frustration welling up inside her. She was familiar with this phase from previous cases. The aimless stumbling around in the darkness; being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It required the utmost patience, something she struggled with even in normal circumstances. But the fact that someone’s life depended on her work this time made it almost unbearable.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ said Florin as they got back in the car. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat, sit on a park bench and have a quick break.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Bea, it’s quite clear that you’ve already pushed yourself to the limit.’

  A sharp retort twitched on her tongue, but she controlled herself. Usually she liked it when Florin looked out for her, but not when she was under as much pressure as today. ‘It’d make me feel sick, can’t you understand that? I won’t be able to stomach more than a coffee and a few biscuits, and we have all of that back at the office.’

  Florin started the engine without saying another word. She looked at him from the side, feeling guilty for her harsh tone, but then fixed her gaze on the road. She knew she was taking this case more personally than any other. By mentioning Evelyn’s name, the Owner had stirred up an old guilt within her.

  She knew she would do it; the only question was when. Since Florin had dropped her back at home, Beatrice had pulled her phone from her bag again and again, her fingers hovering indecisively over the buttons, trying to formulate a message in her mind. Something clever that would interest the Owner, that’s what Kossar had said.

  Shortly before eight, she drove to Mooserhof to see the children. She felt a fleeting moment of relief that they were both happy and didn’t seem to be missing her too much. Mina hugged Beatrice for longer than usual, reporting that she’d got a good mark for her dictation. She also seemed to know exactly how many mistakes each and every child in the class had made.

  Jakob had renewed his friendship with the neighbours’ son, and was spending most of his time on their farm with the chickens. He presented Beatrice with an egg he had personally collected from one of the hutches.

  ‘I got a present yesterday too,’ he said proudly. ‘A little world that lights up when you press a button.’

  ‘A globe, you mean?’

  ‘A globe, that’s what I said. And Mina got a really pretty mirror with sparkly flowers around the edges.’

  From Achim of course. ‘Was Papa here for a while then?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t come.’

  ‘So who’s giving you such lovely presents? Oma?’

  ‘No, not Oma!’ He sounded almost outraged. ‘But the guests are all so nice to us, a few of them give us euros if we bring them their food. And sometimes we get stuff too. The man with the globe had all kinds of toys with him, a whole sack full, and he was going to sell it all at the flea market.’

  ‘And he just gave you some as a present?’

  Sensing the hidden accusation, Jakob reacted with lightning speed. ‘I asked Oma if I was allowed to take it and she said yes. And today a woman gave me a pen, with penguins on it! Look!’

  Beatrice admired Jakob’s new acquisition enthusiastically. He tapped his index finger on the tip of the egg which he had put on the table. ‘Make yourself a scrambled egg from it, okay?’ he said, rubbing his nose against her cheek.

  Later, as she drove from her mother’s restaurant back to the office, she was almost expecting someone to be following her again, but the street behind her was practically empty. The egg lay on the passenger seat, and Beatrice made an effort to brake carefully at every crossing. She felt strangely protected, somehow, by the mere presence of Jakob’s fragile gift.

  ‘I want him to give me Sigart,’ declared Beatrice. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her ear and shoulder, had taken off her shoes and was sitting on the revolving chair with her legs tucked beneath her. By night, all was peaceful in the murder investigation department. There was no one else there except Florin, who sat wearily in front of his computer, an enlarged version of the photo of Sigart’s mutilated hand on the screen.

  From the other end of the line, Beatrice could only hear heavy breathing. Had Kossar fallen asleep already? ‘What can I send to the Owner as bait? What can I offer him?’

  Kossar cleared his throat. She could picture him setting his glasses straight. ‘That’s risky, my dear,’ he said. ‘We don’t yet know enough about him and his motives, and we don’t want to provoke him.’

  My dear? Beatrice mouthed the words silently. ‘Listen, I have a chance here. I can’t just throw it away. We’ve been waiting for your input for days now, and time is running away from us. So, what would you do?’

  She looked up, saw Florin’s surprised expression and shrugged her shoulders. She needed some expert advice. And if Kossar was the only one available, she had no choice but to turn to him.

  ‘Well,’ said the psychologist slowly, ‘the Owner has made a personal connection with you by referring to your deceased friend. Try to answer in an equally personal way. It’s not necessarily without danger, but it’s probably the only possibility of establishing some common ground with him. And that would be an immeasurable win. Show that you’re curious about what he’s doing. Be a good audience.’ She heard him chuckle softly. ‘Just don’t applaud too loudly.’

  He tried to open
his eyes, but the blindfold was so tightly wrapped around his head that his eyelids remained firmly shut despite all his efforts.

  He was shaking from the cold, and from fear. With every cramped, trembling movement of his body, the ties cut deeper into his wrists. ‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Is anyone there?’

  No answer.

  He swallowed down the panic surging within him and tried to get his bearings.

  It was in vain. He could have been here for an hour or even twelve; losing consciousness had taken away any sense of time.

  But it hadn’t taken away the pain. His pulse was racing, a rhythm beating against the inside of his skull with the merciless sharpness of a pickaxe. His wrists were burning, but he couldn’t feel his hands. They were completely numb. He tried to move his fingers, but couldn’t work out whether they were responding.

  ‘Hello?’

  He waited, trying not to breathe, trying to sense the presence of another person, but everything around him was quiet, empty.

  He only had himself to blame. He had been warned and hadn’t taken one single word of it seriously. And now …

  The fear swelled, breaking through the thin layer of control that had been holding it in. Even though his head felt close to bursting, he yelled, screamed with panic.

  But no one came, and after a while he quietened down again, waiting silently. He tried to think about his family, but that just made everything worse. Behind the tight blindfold, tears began to well up. The mucous membrane in his nose was becoming swollen.

  ‘I see we’re ready now,’ he heard someone say behind him. He reacted instinctively, trying to turn around, but the ties just burrowed deeper into his flesh.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he croaked.

  ‘Answers.’

  He swallowed a sob, not voicing the question in his mind – Answers to what? ‘If I tell you what you want to know, will you let me live?’

  The silence was as complete as before, as if the man behind him wasn’t even breathing. Then he felt a hand on his head.

  ‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. First, you’ll lie. Then you’ll tell the truth. Then, at the end, you will die.’

  The clock on her computer said 01.26. Little by little, the space around Beatrice was losing its sharp contours. She had planned to drop by the office only briefly after visiting the children, to pick up a few files, but she had discovered two new reports. They had drawn her into some research, and now four hours had passed. She resolved to go home as soon as she had sent the text message. Let us help you, she typed into her mobile, only to delete it again. It was roughly her twentieth attempt at formulating a message which would provoke the Owner into conversing with her. But she couldn’t find the right tone. The messages she came up with either sounded ridiculous or overbearing. The last one topped them all, as it implied he was crazy.

  ‘Although he is, of course,’ mumbled Beatrice.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry, Florin, I was just talking to myself.’ She tried to smile, but it felt like a pathetic attempt. ‘Shall I make us some coffee?’

  He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. ‘Suicide by caffeine, eh? I could actually do with one too, though. Stay where you are, I’ll do it.’ The espresso machine rumbled back to life. ‘You’re still battling with the text message, right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘We should come up with one together.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ She looked out of the window into the darkness, but her own pale reflection in the glass obstructed her view of the night. ‘Kossar advised me to be authentic and honest. And personal too, but I don’t want to mess around – this is about saving Sigart’s life.’ She tossed her mobile onto the table. ‘Maybe there are some magic words, some code that will unsettle the Owner so much it stops him from committing another murder.’

  The steam pipe made hissing, spitting noises, transforming the milk into a cloudy froth.

  ‘I think the Owner’s going to see through the message no matter what you write. He’ll know what you’re trying to achieve, so you might as well spell it out.’ He placed a cup in front of her. ‘But forget Kossar – don’t go in for anything personal, Bea. Don’t give him any incentive to get to know you better.’

  She let his words go in one ear and out the other, then pulled the mobile back towards her. That’s what I want, she thought, one to one.

  I’d like to speak to you and understand why you’re doing what you’re doing.

  Now add something personal.

  21 May, 08.41 a.m.

  She drank the cup of coffee down in three long gulps and sent the message off before she had the chance to change her mind. He wouldn’t know what to make of the date; a little puzzle for the Owner, for a change. Yawning, she stretched her arms. ‘I’m going to head off, Florin. And yes, I will let you know when I get there.’

  The memories filled her mind as she got in the car, summoning up images that Beatrice hadn’t pictured this vividly in a very long time.

  She turned the car radio on and allowed the music to chase the ghosts from her head at eighty decibels.

  The answer came at 5.43 a.m., as the gleaming red display of the radio alarm clock betrayed when Beatrice opened her eyes. The text message tone had haunted her dreams, so she didn’t realise at first that her phone really was making a noise.

  Her hand fumbled around, grasping the mobile and nearly knocking it off the bedside table. She managed to get a grip on it just in time, then held it up in front of her face.

  If you want to talk, then you come to me, said the Owner’s message. You’d be able to if you drew the right conclusions. An interesting date – a shame that you omitted to mention the year, but I think I recognise it all the same.

  From one second to the next, Beatrice was wide awake. She read the text again and again. The right conclusions, sure. If they had already reached them, then any conversation between them would be taking place in the interrogation room. But at least the Owner had responded to her message, and with an answer that referred back to what she had written. They had entered into a dialogue.

  Feeling slightly dizzy, she got out of bed and padded into the kitchen. She filled a glass with cold water and drank it down in long gulps.

  He liked taking things literally. And he wasn’t willing to admit that he didn’t know what the date referred to. If he had even an inkling of what significance it held for Beatrice then his message would have read differently, she was sure of that.

  In the hope of being able to get back to sleep, she lay down in bed and closed her eyes. She had set the alarm for seven. But sleep had now escaped her, and unfortunately without taking the tiredness along with it. Beatrice stayed in bed regardless, mentally scanning every single word in the Owner’s message.

  What would he say if she asked him about Sigart, whether he was still alive? Or if she asked him for another clue for Stage Four?

  He would continue to be cryptic, just the same as always. You come to me – how original.

  With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned onto her side. Her instinct was urging her to forget the search for Stage Four temporarily, to leave Liebscher’s remaining body parts to their vacuum-packed fate. Because if there was any conceivable pattern at all, it was that the Owner waited until the police made a find before he pounced. In all likelihood, the best thing they could do to protect the people he had chosen was to play dumb.

  ‘I have a used-car salesman, a sales coach and a calendar salesman, each of whom have two sons including one called Felix.’ Stefan beamed as he held some papers under her nose. ‘Now, is that good work or what?’

  ‘It’s –’ Beatrice glanced quickly through the pages – ‘wonderful, Stefan.’

  ‘I carried on researching from home until I found them. Who do you think we should start with? Look, here are the addresses, so if we visit the calendar guy first—’

  She held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘Not today. We’ll discuss it with the team, but I thin
k we should hold off with Stage Four for now.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  His obvious disappointment made him look even younger than he did already. She patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘We need to be cautious. It didn’t turn out too well for Beil and Sigart after we spoke to them.’

  ‘You think—?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But it seems like the Owner just wants to shove people under our noses before ultimately killing them. So we’re not going to play that game any more.’

  Stefan mumbled something that sounded both dejected and acquiescent at the same time.

  ‘Come to the office for a bit.’ She pulled him gently along the corridor. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

  Kossar agreed with her entirely. Their new approach was not giving the Owner what he wanted, but instead luring him out of his hiding place. The psychologist was wearing different glasses today: blue frames with a dark red pattern. They clashed intensely with his green eyes.

  ‘This is the most personal message he’s sent you yet, Beatrice. He’s spurring you on, reacting to the date you gave and inviting you to come and find him. That goes far beyond merely transmitting information.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t believe I can coax him into giving up Sigart, no matter what I write, and that’s really—’ She saw Stefan and Kossar exchange a brief glance. ‘I see. You both think he’s already dead.’ The memory of that April night twelve years ago fought its way back into Beatrice’s mind. The memory of Evelyn’s face – first alive, then dead. She pushed the image away, forcing herself to think of Sigart, his pale expression, devoid of all hope. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll repeat myself as often as I have to – so long as we haven’t found a body, I won’t give up on him.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ she heard Florin say as he entered the room. ‘If he was alive yesterday, then the chances aren’t bad that he’s still alive today.’

  The only problem was that they didn’t have the faintest idea where to look for him. Further questioning of his neighbours hadn’t brought any results. But how was that possible? Had the noise really not startled anyone, had no one even looked through the peephole in their front door?