Five (16 page)

‘Time, possibly.’ Florin honked the horn at the driver in front for braking too abruptly at a red light, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green again. ‘I think there are two possibilities. One – there’s a connection between Papenberg, Beil and Sigart that we’re not seeing. Or two – he’s keeping us busy by sending us to find people who have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. But because he’s hiding body parts all over the place for us, we’re forced to follow his damn blood trail.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead and sighed. ‘I just can’t stop thinking that the Owner is making fools of us, Bea. He’s murdering and dismembering people left, right and centre and leaving clues that no one can decipher.’ Florin turned to look at Beatrice. She had never seen his face look this hard. ‘I know it’s wrong, but I’m starting to take this case personally. If he wants to prove how incapable the police are, I’d rather he didn’t use me as a prop.’

Beatrice was just about to put a hand on his shoulder, but then thought of Anneke and stopped herself. ‘It’s just a question of time until the end of the case is in sight, and the rest will fall into place from there.’ It wouldn’t do her any harm to be the one to strengthen the team morale for a change. ‘It’s almost always like that.’

The lights switched back to green and the engine roared as Florin stepped on the accelerator. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But there’s something about this case that doesn’t feel right. Those threads you always talk about have been woven into a pattern that’s completely alien to me.’

It was as though Beatrice had brought the sensation of heat and smoke home with her along with the reports on the fatal fire. Even though both of the lounge windows were open, she was finding it harder than usual to breathe.

The children had gone to bed half an hour ago. Everything was quiet in the apartment, everything except the water tap in the kitchen, which had been dripping for three weeks now. She opened the file and began to read. The fire had been reported shortly before ten in the evening, by a farmer whose property was a few hundred metres uphill. He had noticed the glow of the blaze; there hadn’t been any smoke fumes as the wind was blowing in the other direction.

Beatrice flicked forwards to the photographs. The burnt-down wood. Remains of tree trunks protruded out of the ground like blackened teeth, with charred wood lying around them. In the background, you could just make out the part of the forest which had been untouched by the blaze.

The investigators had been unable to ascertain the cause of the fire. It was July at the time, and it hadn’t rained for three weeks. The most likely theory was that the reflection of a shard of glass or mirror during the day had created a smouldering fire, which was then transformed into a raging blaze by the evening breeze. A discarded cigarette couldn’t be ruled out, either.

When Beatrice got to the photos of the cabin, she instinctively held her breath. The walls had disappeared; only the thickest wooden beams had withstood the inferno, along with two sections of wall made out of stone.

She lingered longer than necessary over the pictures of the ravaged house, knowing what would come next.

Deep breath. Turn the page. A close-up of the remains of the cracked front door. Turn the page. There.

Four shapeless clumps, as black as their surroundings. Shrunk to a fraction of their body size, no longer recognisable as human beings. Beatrice looked away, then back again. She found details she didn’t want to see. A flash of bright teeth behind charred lips. A burst skull. She clapped the file shut and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

Had Sigart identified his family back then? She searched for the record of his interview. He had returned when the wood was already ablaze, had tried to run into the fire and was forcibly held back by three firemen. He had been taken off to hospital with severe burns; his conversation with the authorities – which was recorded and later transcribed – had not taken place until nine days after the fire.

Every one of Sigart’s sentence fragments conveyed utter despair. According to the report, the interview had to be interrupted again and again because he began to scream and the doctors had to be called.

But one thing was abundantly clear from the document: he blamed himself for his family’s deaths. He had taken the car on an emergency call-out to a complicated birth at a stud farm, thirty kilometres away. As he drove off, his thoughts were already with the mother animal, which he had been taking care of for four years by then. He considered it possible that he had locked the cabin on autopilot, thereby transforming it into a deadly trap for his family. The investigation had concluded that the door had indeed been locked.

Sigart had initiated legal proceedings against himself, saying that he alone bore the responsibility for his family’s deaths, and had refused a lawyer. But of course – given the tragic circumstances – he couldn’t be held responsible for what had happened. The psychological report, a summary of which was included in the file, spoke of severe post-traumatic stress disorder, and of a high suicide risk. He was given access to therapy sessions, the ones which he was clearly still making use of today.

Beatrice tucked the files away in her bag and went out onto the balcony. Breathe. The sky was starry and clear, the air cool. Goose pimples pricked her arms.

Why had the Owner led her to Bernd Sigart? What was he trying to show her? Was it possible that …?

She sat down and held her face in her hands, trying to think clearly. Was it possible that the Owner wanted to rub one of his own crimes under her nose? Look what I did, and you lot didn’t catch me!

But the fire hadn’t been an arson attack. It was just very bad luck; fires often broke out in the hot summer months. Was he trying to claim ownership of it regardless? Begging for attention, perhaps? Or, as Florin suspected, was he just doing this to confuse the police?

Perhaps they would know more tomorrow. The name of the street Sigart lived in had given them the new coordinates.

Beatrice unplugged the landline, but left her mobile on. She took it with her into the bedroom and put it on the bedside table. The night passed without interruptions. But in her dreams, she was running through a burning forest to the strains of the Stabat Mater.

N47º 48.022 E013º 10.910

The waterfall crashed down a good twenty metres into the depths, colliding with a shallow pebbled basin and resuming its path as a peaceful, level stream. At its highest point, next to one of the many old mills in the area, Florin, Beatrice and Stefan were leaning over the GPS device.

The task of translating ‘Theodebert’ into new coordinates had taken a matter of minutes. Finding the cache, however, would be more difficult, for the navigation device was pointing them towards the rocks around the waterfall.

‘It could be hidden inside the mill, but that would mean the results are very imprecise,’ pondered Stefan. They agreed to clamber down the path to the stream. Drasche stayed close to their heels, lugging along his forensic case and making no effort to conceal his bad mood. He regarded the fact that he was unable to drive his car right up to the location as a personal affront.

They were completely alone here in the forest. At the weekends, the mills and waterfall were popular day-trip destinations, but today they shared the surroundings only with the birds and insects.

The tumbling cascades of water looked even more impressive from below. Beatrice felt a deep sense of foreboding, sensing that the beautiful view was about to be drowned out by something else entirely.

‘A little bit further to the right.’ Stefan pointed to the crag. A steep little mound, around four metres in height, was huddled up against it, sparsely vegetated with shrubbery. ‘One of us should climb up. I reckon that’s the spot.’

Drasche peered upwards. ‘There’s only room for one of us up there, and that’s me. Give me the GPS.’ Ebner helped him clamber up, handed the navigation device and camera to him and waited for further instructions.

Once again, a rushing sound was providing the soundtrack to their search; even though it didn’t come from the autobahn this time, it was still equally pervasive. Beatrice wondered if there was some kind of pattern behind the Owner’s choices of location.

‘I’ve got it,’ she heard Drasche call. ‘It’s smaller than the others though.’ The cache was hidden in a crevice in the rock, concealed by hard-stemmed plants with nodular blooms. Drasche took some photos in situ and then made his slippery descent, holding the plastic box in his gloved hands.

This time, the container was barely bigger than a cigarette packet, its contents – pressed against the transparent lid and clearly defined – only just squeezed in. It was unmistakable: an ear, possibly two if they were laid on top of one another. ‘Fuck,’ exclaimed Drasche. ‘More body parts. Let’s just hope they’re not from a different victim. If only the genetic tests could be quicker—’

Beatrice’s mobile rang, interrupting Drasche mid-sentence. She pulled it out of her bag, surprised that she even had reception out here. The number was unknown. It wasn’t the school, in any case. Nor Achim.

‘Kaspary.’

‘I … I found your card. Your business card.’ It was a woman’s voice. Her words were rushing into one another; she sounded breathless.

‘Who is this?’

‘Beil. Vera Beil. You were in our garden on Sunday.’

‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Frau Beil?’

A trembling intake of breath. ‘Christoph has disappeared. Yesterday evening. He said he was just popping out, but he didn’t come back all night and … I can’t reach him on his mobile either.’

‘Right, I see.’

‘I’m really scared something’s happened to him.’ Her voice almost cracked. ‘He’s so reliable – he always lets me know if he’s going to be late.’

The connection was cutting out. ‘I’ll come over to see you, Frau Beil, okay?’ Beatrice hurried to speak. ‘It may take an hour or even a little bit more, but I’ll set off right now. Are you at home?’

‘Yes. Thank you …’

Beatrice hung up. ‘Beil’s disappeared. That was his wife. I’m heading over there now.’

‘I’ll come too,’ said Florin immediately. ‘Gerd, please investigate the container as quickly as you can. We need photos of the letters as soon as possible – I’m sure there’ll be some in there again.’

They didn’t speak much on the steep climb up to the mill. Beatrice kept thinking of the moment when she had showed Christoph Beil the photo. Her memory of the jolt that went through his body refused to go away.

If I had only kept pushing. If I had pinned him down right away. If …

She gave herself a mental rap on the fingers.
The old what-if game won’t help; it just drives you crazy. The clock can’t be turned back. You can’t correct the past
.

And if I could, I wouldn’t be where I am today
, she thought.

‘He was acting strangely the whole of Sunday evening.’ The tablecloth beneath Vera Beil’s clasped hands was made of plastic. Brown and yellow flowers struggled against each other for dominance, smothering the dingy white background beneath.

‘When did that start? Only after we left?’

‘Yes. I asked him what was wrong, what he talked to you both about, but he said it was nothing important. He said you just had him mixed up with some witness.’ The woman’s gaze darkened. ‘I sensed that he wasn’t telling me the truth. Even though he never normally lies.’

‘I understand,’ said Florin. He had taken over the soothing, sympathetic role and was leaving it to Beatrice to ask the questions. ‘So our visit clearly unsettled him.’

‘Yes, you could put it like that.’

‘What did your husband do for the rest of Sunday? Did he meet anyone? Speak on the phone?’

Vera Beil thought for a moment, running her right index finger along the stem of one of the brown flowers. ‘No, he spent most of it in the bedroom, even though he had actually been planning to watch some crime film. Maybe he did speak to someone on the phone, I don’t know. But I do know that he slept badly – he got up at least four times in the night.’

‘And how was he yesterday? How long exactly has he been missing, did you say?’

‘Well, first he went to work, just like always, but he was back home again by one – he said he was feeling unwell. He lay down and slept a bit, but then at around half-six in the evening, he received a phone call and rushed off. Yes, I think that’s the best way of describing it. He literally ran to the car. He called out to me that he wouldn’t be long – but that was all he said.’

A phone call. Florin and Beatrice exchanged a quick glance, then she pulled the Papenberg photos out of her bag.

‘We’ll do whatever we can to find your husband quickly,’ she said. ‘For now, could you please look at these pictures for us and tell us whether you recognise the woman in them?’

Vera Beil took the tissue that Florin handed to her and wiped her eyes before turning her attention to the photos. ‘No. I don’t know her.’ She said it almost guiltily, as if she felt bad about not being able to be more helpful.

‘Are you completely sure?’

‘Yes. Please, find Christoph.’

It might have been easier if he hadn’t lied to us on Sunday, thought Beatrice grimly. But she kept quiet and was relieved when Florin spoke up.

‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he said. ‘And we’ll keep you posted, of course.’

Beatrice decided to have Beil’s phone calls looked into right away, to find out where the call which had upset him so much the previous evening had come from. It wasn’t improbable that it had come from a phone box in Maxglan. Or from a certain mobile phone with a prepaid card.

Until the response from the phone company came back, she hoped to be able to immerse herself in Drasche’s findings, assuming that he had already sent the pictures of the new messages. Another puzzle, Stage Four.

But Beatrice didn’t manage to find out, because there was someone waiting for her in front of the office. A tall, lanky man with curly hair and glasses that were a little too fashionable to be tasteful. When he saw her and Florin approaching, he jumped up from his chair and stretched his hand out.