Five (34 page)

But something was different this time. She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket. Her heart skipped a beat. There it was, his next text, his next move in the game – but then she saw the number and sighed, rejecting the call.

It had only been a matter of time until her ex-husband got back in touch. But now wasn’t the time for an argument.

The clouds were chased across the sky by the wind, blocking the sun again. Beatrice put her mobile back in her jacket pocket with the same guilty feeling she always had when she ignored a call. Maybe it had been important. An emergency.

Evelyn jumped into her mind. But she couldn’t allow her mind to be clouded by what had happened back then. She had to focus. To concentrate. This was a different story, and it would have a different ending.

The dogs didn’t find anything. ‘Liebscher’s body parts are old enough by now and the temperatures high enough for the plastic film to inflate and eventually burst,’ Drasche had prophesied. ‘And even if they haven’t – the dogs would smell the caches anyway. We did some tests.’

‘But what would the Owner be hiding now?’ Beatrice interrupted the despondent silence that had so far dominated the drive back to headquarters.

Florin turned his head slowly in her direction without taking his eyes off the road. ‘What do you mean? We’re far from having found all of Liebscher. There are still the feet, the limbs, the torso – if the Owner wants to he still has enough for another twenty or thirty caches.’

‘But we already have the head. So there’s no more suspense. It’s more essential than any other part of the body and clearly answers the question of his identity. Would you play the feet or even inner organs after you’ve already done the head? It would be like taking a step back.’

‘Play?’

‘Yes.’ She hadn’t intentionally chosen the word, but it hit the nail on the head. He plays a hand, they play a hand. And given that he didn’t have to play by the rules, he was always at an advantage. It was costing them one round after the next.

She thought about the puzzle spread out on her desk. She would make the next move alone.

‘My daughter is being driven home by your colleagues. I get the impression she doesn’t feel entirely comfortable about it, but I tried to explain to her that it’s important.’ Carolin Dalamasso was a pretty woman, not much older than fifty. She had willingly agreed to Beatrice’s request to stop by, and had clearly used the time to bake a cake. The sweet aroma filled the apartment.

Beatrice tried to smile through her guilty conscience. Strictly speaking, the visit to the Dalamassos wasn’t necessary – Florin had asked all the important questions and compiled the information into his report. But he hadn’t spoken to Melanie, hadn’t even caught a glimpse of her. That wasn’t enough for Beatrice. She wanted to – no, not wanted,
had to
– get some impression of the young woman. A torn woman. Could you sense it just from standing opposite her?

‘Would you like some coffee? I have decaf too.’

She had neither the desire nor the need for her fifth coffee of the day, but she had to play for time. If necessary, she would make small talk until the daughter arrived home. ‘I’d love one. With plenty of milk and a little sugar, if that’s okay.’

The woman nodded and smiled. There was a watchfulness in her eyes, which Beatrice suspected wasn’t new, but rather stemmed from constantly looking out for her psychologically ill daughter.

It was 4.40 p.m. Melanie could arrive home any moment now, depending on how busy the traffic was.

‘What can I tell you that I haven’t already told your colleague with the lovely dark eyes?’ With swift energetic movements, Carolin Dalamasso cut three slices of cake and put the cups on the table. Then she sat down.

‘I’d like to know how Melanie was doing before her breakdown. Were there any events that, in hindsight, could be interpreted as warning signs?’

The woman’s smile was suddenly streaked with pain. ‘Of course. You always know better afterwards. Carlo and I have thought of dozens of situations in which, looking back, we should have sought medical assistance for Melanie. But back then we thought she was just a little sensitive because she was in love for the first time. She had a boyfriend, you see? Unfortunately we never met him, and my theory is …’ She sighed and looked out of the window, where a blackbird had settled on the balcony railing. It looked around jerkily, then flew away again. ‘I think he broke up with Melanie. She was still living in the flat share back then, and one evening she called us, but we couldn’t make out a single word. She was sobbing, almost howling. We drove over there right away of course, but she was in her room and didn’t want to talk to us. Her flatmates were just as clueless as we were. They were relieved in the end, I think, when she was admitted to the clinic. That was five days later.’

‘And there was never any clue as to what might have caused it?’

‘No. But I’ve already told your colleague all of that.’ The vigilance in her eyes increased in direct proportion with the narrowing of her smile.

‘Did you give him the names of Melanie’s flatmates?’

‘Of course.’ She took a sip of her coffee.

Beatrice decided to push further. ‘The case we’re working on is exceptionally challenging. I hope you understand. For that reason, communication between the investigators is not as thorough as we’d ideally like it to be.’ Was that the sound of a car stopping in front of the house? Hopefully. ‘I do know, however, that Florin Wenninger showed you these photographs.’ She pulled the photographs of the Owner’s victims out of her bag. ‘I also know that you don’t believe you know any of these people. But sometimes a day’s distance can help, and maybe something might occur to you, even if it’s about only one of the faces.’ She laid the photos in front of Carolin Dalamasso on the table. The unsolvable puzzle.

‘We’re convinced that these people had some connection to your daughter, but we just don’t know what kind. So far no one has been able to help us with this. That’s why I simply have to ask you once again. I hope you don’t mind.’

With a helpless shrug, Carolin leant forwards to look at the photos. ‘And these people have all been murdered?’

‘Four of them, definitely. One of them could still have a chance.’

‘My God.’ She picked up the photo of Nora Papenberg and stared at it intently. Then she shook her head and put it back down on the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re protecting Melanie,’ she said softly. ‘I just can’t understand why anyone would want to harm her. Her, of all people.’

‘We’re doing everything we can to find out. Absolutely everything.’

Beil’s photo, Sigart’s photo. Always the same shake of the head.

‘Does Melanie still play the flute, by the way?’ asked Beatrice.

‘Yes. But not like she used to. The sounds she produces now are a long way from being music, they—’ The woman paused and listened. Beatrice heard it too, a muffled whirr, then a metallic, rushing sound. The lift.

‘I think that’s them now.’ Carolin stood up. ‘You can’t question Melanie, you know that, right? She’s stable right now and the doctors are hopeful that her condition will improve. It was much worse, you see, far worse, and—’

The doorbell rang. The woman went into the hallway and opened the door. Beatrice gathered the photos up. Her guilty conscience was making her feel sick, but she had to do what she had come to do.

She heard the police officer’s affable voice. ‘Everything’s fine, no incidents. Have a nice evening!’

Beatrice knew the two policemen would now take up their position in their car in front of the building, nourish themselves on hot dogs and Red Bull, and wait for the night shift to come and relieve them. They were the good guys, and Beatrice envied them.

A girl with a chubby face appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as she saw Beatrice. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her eyes spoke of confusion, an impression that her lopsided glasses only intensified.

‘We have a visitor, Melanie.’ Carolin Dalamasso grasped her daughter gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards her. ‘This is Frau Kaspary.’

Beatrice pulled her bag over her shoulder and stood up, the photos in her left hand. The girl’s gaze flitted over to her, away, then back again.
Although she’s not really a girl
, thought Beatrice,
in a few years she’ll be thirty
. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.’ She stretched her right hand out, but Melanie didn’t take it. She didn’t say a word.

‘I think I’d better go then, but it’s possible that I might come by …’
Now
. Beatrice unclasped the fingers of her left hand. Felt the photos slip away from her, heard the soft clatter as they fell to the floor.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

She bent over. The photos of Papenberg, Estermann and Beil were lying face up. The others had turned rear-side up as they fell. Beatrice acted as though she was trying to collect them together, but Carolin Dalamasso must have realised by now that she was taking too much time over it, that she was hoping—

A gasp. Beatrice looked up, directly into Melanie’s face, which was distorted into a grimace. She stared at the pictures and let out a howl, a long-drawn-out noise, like an animal. Her glasses fell to the floor.

‘Get out!’ hissed her mother furiously.

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Out!’

Melanie’s howl transformed into something more high-pitched, something more shrill. She covered her face with both hands, and her mother had to stop her from banging her head against the door frame.

‘I’ll be making a complaint about you!’

Beatrice closed her eyes and nodded wearily. ‘Contact Walter Hoffmann. He’ll welcome you with open arms, believe me.’

She practically ran from the apartment, the building, down the street, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea.

There was no doubt that Melanie had recognised someone, and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

But there was nothing Beatrice could do with this information. She sat in her car, the photos still in her hand, the taste of bile forcing its way upwards into her mouth. She had no idea which of the photos had unleashed Melanie’s reaction. Had it been one of them, several of them, all of them? One thing had become completely clear: the Owner wasn’t killing his victims at random. The connection between them, however, was still enshrouded in darkness. And there was little hope that Melanie would be able to offer any explanations.

‘I might well have done the same thing.’ Florin was trying to comfort her, but she knew him better than that. From the very start he had only wanted to protect Melanie, not question her. His work had never resulted in a screaming girl. Or the threat of suspension.

‘Shinigami,’ she said, without responding to his words. ‘When is Stefan planning to come with the information?’

‘Any moment now. The site’s admin team is being very cooperative, he said. They’re sending us the email address the Owner used for his registration, as well as the IP addresses he logged on with. If it takes a while then that’s because the last login was over three months ago. The geocaching website gets a huge amount of traffic.’

Perhaps
, thought Beatrice,
this is a trace the Owner forgot to erase. We’re due a bit of luck
.

Stefan indeed appeared just five minutes later, beaming contentedly: ‘The email address is [email protected]. I found a Gerold Wiesner registered in Salzburg – he’s fifty-eight years old and works on the national Bundesbahn railways. Looks like we’ve hit the bull’s eye, people!’

They were tentatively hopeful, but even that was short-lived. Beatrice knew only too well how simple it was to open an account with Geocaching.com. And creating a fake email address wasn’t exactly tricky either. They went through the police records and soon found the information they needed: whoever had concealed himself behind the nickname ‘Shinigami’, it certainly wasn’t Bundesbahn employee Gerold Wiesner. On 25 February this year, he had fallen onto a power line while carrying out maintenance work at the central train station, just a few months before his retirement was due to begin. He was survived by a wife and two grown-up daughters.

25 February. Shinigami had registered on Geocaching.com on the 26th. He must have been sitting in front of the computer, the newspaper open next to him, and seen the report. He hadn’t even needed to make up a fake name. So simple. So unremarkable.

Her hope now rested on the IP address, but the Owner hadn’t shown any weakness there either: the computer he had used was in an upmarket Salzburg hotel, available for guests to use around the clock without having to pay.

‘Of course, people who visit the hotel café could theoretically use it too,’ explained the hotel manager. ‘It’s part of our service, you see?’

‘And if I were to ask you who used the computer on the twenty-sixth of February at 15.42, would you be able to tell me?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ If the manager’s regret wasn’t genuine, he at least acted it well.

‘I understand. The man we’re looking for must have also used the computer on the ninth, fourteenth and twentieth of March, and then a final time on the third of April. So it’s possible that someone may have noticed him.’

‘That’s true. I’ll check right away who was on duty in the café on those dates, then give you a call back.’

They were clutching at straws, nothing more than that.

And to the rest of you: TFTH
. The Owner had known three months ago that he would kill Liebscher at the very least. He had thanked his pursuers for the hunt before they had even begun.

To Beatrice’s surprise, the hotel manager called back twenty minutes later. When the telephone rang she was talking to Bechner, asking him to check whether there might be another Gerold Wiesner who could be a suspect – she seemed to automatically assign all the menial tasks to him.

‘On two of the days you mentioned, Georg Lienhart was on duty,’ explained the manager. ‘He said he did notice someone. The dates may match up.’

‘Excellent!’ Beatrice signalled to Bechner, who was trying to use the opportunity to head back to his own office, that they weren’t yet finished. He sighed demonstratively; she beamed at him equally demonstratively.