Five (35 page)

‘Can I speak to Herr Lienhart?’

‘Yes, he’s right here.’

The waiter sounded very young, but on the ball. ‘There was this really tall man with a beard, and he never took his coat off even though it’s really well heated here. He ordered coffee and drank it really quickly, each time at the table next to the computer. Then he paid right away and left much more of a tip than most guests do.’ The boy fell silent for a moment, perhaps thinking about his unexpected financial windfall from the stranger. ‘Then he sat down at the computer and went to great lengths to spread himself out as much as he could, if you see what I mean. I thought right away that he’d kept his coat on for that reason, so it would be easier for him to keep the screen hidden.’

‘You didn’t happen to catch a glimpse of it regardless, by any chance?’

‘We’re told to be discreet.’

Beatrice could almost picture the young waiter in front of her, including his grin. ‘But you did it anyway, in keeping with the need for discretion, of course?’

Georg Lienhart hesitated. ‘No. Although I was of course curious about what all the secrecy was for. That’s why, after the man came back the second time, I opened up the browser history and had a look.’

Fantastic. ‘And?’

‘I couldn’t find anything, unfortunately. The whole session was erased.’

Beatrice ran her hand through her hair and tried to suppress the irritation welling up inside her. But it didn’t matter. It spoke volumes that the man had erased everything which could provide clues as to what he was doing.

‘You’ve been a great help. Now I just need to ask you for a description of the guest, as precise as you can be. Any detail you remember could be very important.’

The young man gathered his thoughts. ‘The coat he had on was dark blue, and his shoes were black. I noticed that because they didn’t match, although the items looked very expensive. He had pale gloves on, and a pale scarf.’

‘Can you remember his hair colour?’

‘He was bald. Completely, as if he was ill. But his beard was brown with a bit of grey. He had a full beard, a really thick one.’

If only all our witnesses had such good memories
. ‘You’re doing a great job, really. Is there anything else that stood out? Birthmarks, warts, tattoos?’

He thought again before giving his answer. ‘No. All I really saw was his head and face, so if he had a tattoo on his arm, I don’t …’

‘Of course.’

‘He said something strange though. Probably that’s why I remember him so well … and because it fits in with what’s happening now. At the time I thought he was crazy.’

Beatrice leant back. ‘Yes?’

‘He said: “It’s possible that they might ask about me. If they do, tell them they could be making life much easier for themselves. And tell them:
Thanks for the hunt
.”’

The sky above him was blue, and the swallows were soaring high. The weather was good, and would probably hold for another two or three days.

Days of waiting. His thoughts wandered to the policewoman, as they often had recently. It couldn’t last much longer now, if she had followed his clues, if she had finally understood them.

Looking up at the sky made him dizzy, almost making him stumble.
Take it easy, be careful
, he reminded himself. The thought wasn’t without a comic element. It was a shame he couldn’t share it with anyone.

Except the woman, perhaps. Everything was ready. He was throwing the fingerless man out as bait. His predators would fall into the trap; they had no other option.

He waited until his senses were obeying him again, then looked upwards. Directly above him, an aeroplane was sketching its white line in the perfect blue, a long minus sign which frayed out at the end, dissolving, dissipating. Five minus two was three, minus one …

It couldn’t be avoided. With a shrug of his shoulders, he let the sky be sky and turned his attention to more earthly matters. Severity. Blood. Pain.

The past weeks had been filled with those things. The most surprising realisation he had drawn from his experiences was just how much reality could differ from imagination.

Not when it came to the plan itself. That had gone perfectly. But in practice, the action felt so different from any fantasy.

He looked around one more time before he went back into the darkness, smiling into the strengthening breeze.
So beautiful
.

Someone sighed, and it took him the duration of a heartbeat to realise it had been him. A man who had to go back to his work. Brutal, harsh, gruesome, painful. Not willingly, never willingly – how could he? But it was the safest way. Everything was ready; there was no reason to wait any longer.

After he had done what was necessary, just two hours had passed by. He was getting better at it. It wasn’t even that difficult any more.

He cleaned up, using three buckets full of water to dispose of the blood.
Good
. Now just the message. The picture had turned out well, even though the sight of it almost winded him. He gasped for air and waited until he felt better, then put the mobile in one pocket and the battery in the other. Looked for and found the car keys. There was no rush. He could take his time. Ten or fifteen kilometres would be enough. Then back. And sleep, at last.

Jakob kissed and hugged her before he disappeared back to the neighbours’ farm, but Mina was querulous. She reminded Beatrice of herself at that age, almost thirty years ago now. Or even just thirty minutes ago.
She’s a smaller version of me. Maybe that’s why we clash
, she thought.

‘If you don’t have any time for us, you can give us to Papa. He likes having us there, he told us.’

‘I thought you liked being with Oma?’

‘I do. But …’ She panted for air, and for the words. ‘You always say it’s just for a few days, and then it’s always much longer, every time.’

If this was Mina’s way of telling her mother she missed her, then she was doing her best at hiding it. Everything she said came out as an accusation.

‘You’re right,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s already taken far too long. But now we’re nearly there, I’m sure of it. And this weekend Papa will come and get you, and you might be going sailing if the weather’s nice.’

The idea seemed to appeal to Mina, as she summoned up a nod and a half-smile. ‘That might be nice. So when are we going to do something together?’

‘Once the case is over I’ll take some time off and you guys can pick what we do. Is that a deal?’

‘Anything we want? And we can do it?’

‘If I can afford it and it’s not illegal, then yes.’ She pulled Mina close to her, feeling resistance at first, then little arms around her waist.

‘I don’t think it is,’ mumbled her daughter from down by her stomach.

Richard, in a gracious mood today, found some reassuring words once Mina was out of earshot. ‘She’s perfectly happy here, don’t worry. And if you were to come more often in the evening, instead of just phoning, then that would be—’

He broke off as her mobile beeped loudly.

‘Shit.’ Beatrice rummaged around in her handbag, found the phone and muted the sound. A picture message. At first, all she saw was the number –
the
number – then the picture appeared. Beatrice heard herself gasp for air.

‘What is it?’ Quickly, too quickly, Richard was beside her, catching a glimpse of the screen. ‘Oh, God, Bea, what
is
that? A person? Or … yes, look, that’s an arm! Horrific. It looks like something in an abattoir.’

She freed herself from his grasp on her wrist as he tried to get a closer look at the photo.

An abattoir
.

‘I have to go.’ She grabbed her bag and rushed out to the car without saying goodbye. She turned the engine on, the phone slipping from her fingers. She picked it up and dialled Florin’s number. ‘Are you still in the office?’

‘No, I just got home, why? Should I—’

‘I’ll come to your place, see you in fifteen minutes.’

A severed middle finger, swimming in blood, next to the mutilated hand. A fresh wound, a bloody stump. The amputation cuts on the ring and little fingers seemed to be inflamed rather than healing. The thumb and index finger, the only ones still attached, were crooked towards each other like the two halves of a pair of crab scissors. Or the tips of a croissant. Beatrice took a deep breath, in and out.

Enlarged on Florin’s laptop, the picture showed details that hadn’t been visible on the small screen of her mobile phone. There was a newspaper, partially saturated with red, and when they zoomed in today’s date was visible on it.

‘Sigart’s still alive.’ It was hard to tell whether Florin saw that as good news or bad. Without tearing his gaze away from the photo, he scrolled from the top to the bottom and from left to right. ‘It’s a wooden table, and the background is quite dark. The photo was taken with flash.’ He pointed at a light reflection in the pool of blood. ‘The killer put something underneath, it looks like a white plastic tablecloth. He’s doing everything he can to maximise the impact of the picture.’

Although it could have been even more horrific if Sigart’s face had been in the shot. But, like last time, the picture ended at his shoulder.

Was that because Sigart had actually long since died of blood loss? ‘Can you zoom in on the wound?’

On closer inspection, Beatrice’s theory didn’t stand: the flesh where the fingers had been severed was pink, not sallow. The hand was pale, but not grey. And it was definitely Sigart’s hand, unless another of the Owner’s victims also had severe burn scars.

Florin reached for his phone and instructed Stefan to find out where the mobile was at the time the message was sent. He forwarded the photo, and then sent it to Vogt and Drasche. All the usual actions that had so far brought them zero results.

‘Why isn’t he showing us Sigart’s face?’ murmured Beatrice.

‘I’d prefer to know why he’s sending us these pictures at all. No, I’ll be more specific – why is he sending them to
you
?’

‘Because it’s possible he thinks we have something in common.’ The thought felt like ice on the back of her neck. ‘Because he thinks I’m a perpetrator too, in some ways.’

Until now, she had kept quiet about the text the Owner had sent to accompany the picture, as if she were concealing a flaw she didn’t want Florin to see. She pulled her phone back out of her bag and read the words to herself once more, silently, before uttering them out loud.

‘“Omission to do what is necessary, Seals a commission to a blank of danger.”’

Now her own wound was almost laid bare. But Florin didn’t yet catch on.

‘He sent that with the picture? Is it Goethe again?’

‘No. Shakespeare. It doesn’t matter anyway. The important thing is what the Owner means by it. And he means me.’

Florin turned to face her, took her hand in his and held it tight. ‘He means you and Evelyn?’

‘I don’t know who else he could mean.’

She hasn’t noticed that dark has fallen outside. David is still lying on top of her, his mouth buried in the curve of her neck. He’s humming or murmuring; she can feel the vibration on her skin. A moment of complete and utter contentment.
Thank you
, she mouths silently, feeling as though she’s about to laugh. Or cry.

‘Beabeabea,’ whispers David, rolling off her and pulling her with him, holding her head close to his shoulder. ‘Let’s stay here for ever. Just the two of us. We can shut the world out and make our own.’

She lays an arm across his chest, breathing in his scent, never having smelt anything better. ‘For ever isn’t long enough.’

‘You’re right. Beautiful, clever Bea.’ David’s kisses on her closed eyelids are so gentle, just a whisper, not enough. She seeks his lips with her own, sinking into them.

‘I’d fetch us something to drink, but for that I’d have to let you go,’ he says when they surface again.

‘Dying of thirst isn’t a good idea,’ answers Bea, nudging his shoulder affectionately. She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he stands up and crosses the room, naked and beautiful, much too beautiful for her. She’s always thought that, keeping to friendly kisses on the cheek whenever they met and said goodbye, only wondering occasionally in her daydreams what it would be like. What it
could
be like. With him.

Until last night. When his hand had suddenly rested on hers. She had spread out her fingers, and his plunged into the space between, tearing the blue-and-white checked paper tablecloth at the pizzeria.

‘He’s been crazy about you for months, sweetie.’ Evelyn had followed her to the bathroom, of course, pulling silly faces as she touched up her mascara. ‘Was I right or was I right?’

‘Okay, okay!’ Something inside Beatrice had jumped around in excitement, and if she wasn’t careful she would join in, like a little kid who had just been given a lolly. ‘And you really think … I mean, you reckon it’s not just a whim?’

‘This is David we’re talking about, not me,’ Evelyn had grinned, ruffling Beatrice’s hair and then pulling a hairbrush out of her bag. ‘He’s just a tad too respectable to be my type, otherwise you’d have competition.’ She plucked out a few long, deep red hairs that were entangled in the brush.

‘Here you go, sweetheart, make yourself pretty for him. And don’t feel like you’re lucky to be with him, okay? If anything it’s the other way around. You’re gold, don’t forget that.’

Beatrice hums the Spandau Ballet hit to herself as David walks back from the kitchen. He has a tea towel over his arm like a waiter, and he’s carrying a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and two mismatched water tumblers.

‘Not very stylish, I’m afraid,’ he says, pressing the prettier of the two glasses into her hand. ‘But I hope you can see the charm in it.’

She can. Paradise is now a badly ventilated bachelors’ pad with unwashed dishes in the sink and piles of dirty washing in the bedroom. But she doesn’t care about any of that.

For a while, the cork is reluctant to leave the bottle. They struggle with it, giggling, and once they’re finally victorious a good third of the contents shoot out. But they don’t care about that either, snuggling up to one another, drinking from the old glasses and each other’s mouths, kissing each other’s bodies.