Ursula Archer - Five

All of a sudden, the thought of driving home, bunging on a DVD and putting her feet up was far less appealing than it had been five minutes ago.

What about living a bit for a change? she asked herself, looking through the contact list on her mobile. A coffee in town, an hour or two chatting to a girlfriend… Lisa or Kathrin perhaps?

Fat chance. Both of them had families – children and a husband – so there was no room for spontaneous activities on the weekends any more. But perhaps Gina, who didn’t have kids and was recently separated? Without hesitating a moment longer, Beatrice pressed the dial button.

After three rings, Gina picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, it’s me. Bea. Do you fancy going for coffee in the Bazaar? In half an hour perhaps?’

‘What? Oh, sorry, I’m in Rome right now. You wouldn’t believe how gorgeous the weather is! Next week, okay? I’ll bring you back a bottle of grappa.’

Beatrice swallowed down her disappointment. It was her own fault; she had let the friendship slip, hadn’t responded to emails or invitations for a while now.

You’re still afraid, aren’t you? Bea, you coward .

Her mobile was returned to her bag. She unlocked her car – no notes under the windscreen wiper this time – and wound down the windows.

There was nothing stopping her going for a coffee by herself, buying a magazine, enjoying the spring sunshine. She drove through the quiet Saturday afternoon traffic towards the old town, crossed the bridge over the Salzach and found a parking space on Rudolfskai.

Walking over to Residenzplatz, Beatrice noticed how the jet of water shooting up from the baroque fountain had been transformed by the sun into a golden fog, completely enveloping the four marble horses which sprang forth from its basin. The tourist season was already in full swing. A living statue in a Mozart costume, painted in glittering silver from head to toe, bowed in front of a Japanese tour group who seemed to have mistaken themselves for paparazzi. Beatrice paused for a moment to take in the scene. Three English students walked past, chattering and laughing, each with a beaker of ice cream in hand.

Ice cream, yes, that was a good plan.

There was a fantastic ice cream parlour a few streets away, with plenty of galleries and boutiques lining the route. Beatrice looked at the fancy clothing in the window displays, but without feeling any urge to shop. There was no point; the opportunity to wear things like that didn’t really come up in her life. Evading another group of tourists, she joined the queue for ice cream.

Hazelnut, caramel and pumpkin brittle in a large beaker, with chocolate sauce. The perfect remedy for her frustration.

Enjoying the explosion of flavours in her mouth, she allowed the first genuine smile of the day to tiptoe across her face.

It didn’t even last five minutes. On her way to the cathedral square, where she was hoping to find a peaceful and sunny bench, she saw Florin. From behind, but there was no doubt it was him. His arm was draped around the waist of a tall, slim woman with blonde shoulder-length hair. As they walked, he leant over and said something that made her burst out laughing. A laugh that was much throatier than Beatrice would have attributed to the Anneke in her imagination.

They were crossing Residenzplatz and veering off into the narrow, cobbled Goldgasse. Amongst the crowds, Beatrice kept seeing Anneke’s fair hair gleam in the sunlight. Without giving any thought to what she was doing, she followed them, taking care not to get too close. She had completely forgotten her ice cream by now, and only remembered it as the sticky mess began to drip onto her fingers.

‘Shit.’ She threw the beaker into the nearest bin and tried to pull a tissue from her bag without making everything dirty in the process. In front of her, Florin and Anneke turned in to a lane on the right. Beatrice watched as Anneke put some coins into a beggar’s bowl, watched as she stopped with Florin in front of a window display full of shoes, as he brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear and—

Had she lost her mind? What was she doing? Was she seriously stalking her colleague?

She abruptly turned on her heel and ran back down the cobbled street in the opposite direction, as quickly as she could, before Florin had a chance to spot her.

Why, Beatrice? What is it? Why does the sight of two loved-up people torment you so much?

She couldn’t answer her own question. It wasn’t jealousy, not really; she didn’t begrudge them one single minute of happiness. Longing, perhaps… that was more to the point. But she couldn’t allow herself to lose her composure like this.

She paced hastily all the way back to her car, then took the fastest route home. Browsing her bookshelves, she found a historical novel she had bought two years ago but never opened since. She took it to the sofa with her – that and a glass of Chardonnay. Sleep stalked her with its silent steps; within an hour, it had laid the book down on her chest and pressed her eyelids shut.

The next morning, shortly before eleven, Beatrice and Stefan’s search led them to Christoph Beil, a brawny man in his mid-forties who sang Beethoven’s Mass in C major with his choir in the Maria Plain basilica. They only noticed the birthmark on his hand after closer inspection – or, to be more precise, the scar from where a birthmark had once been.

‘I did used to have one, yes, a naevus, as the doctors called it. It was really dark and looked horrible, so I’m really glad my wife convinced me to have it removed.’

Only an uneven, violet-coloured fleck remained. ‘How long ago was that?’ Beatrice enquired.

‘About two and a half years,’ the man explained. He answered cautiously, visibly unsettled by their questioning and the fact that he didn’t know what it was about.

Beatrice glanced at Stefan. ‘We’d like to speak with you privately, Herr Beil. Don’t worry, you’re not under suspicion of having committed a crime, but you may be able to help us with a current case.’

Beil hesitated. ‘Could you not at least give me some idea of what it’s about?’

‘Later,’ replied Beatrice. ‘In private.’

Something resembling protest flickered in the man’s eyes, but only briefly. Then he tilted his head to the side and smiled. ‘Of course, when would be good for you?’

‘This afternoon, around four?’ Stefan suggested. ‘Florin could be there then too,’ he said, speaking more softly as he turned to address Beatrice.

‘That’s fine. Do you want to come to my house? My wife has been baking, and we could sit out in the garden.’

‘You call Florin,’ said Beatrice, once they were sitting back in the car.

Stefan raised his eyebrows in surprise, but did what she had asked.

‘Four is fine,’ he said after hanging up. ‘He’s dropping his girlfriend off at the airport now, so he can come round to us at half-three.’ Lost in thought, Stefan played with the car keys. ‘Why didn’t you just come out and ask him right away?’

‘About what?’

‘The year of his birth, of course! I mean, that’s what this is all about. Then we could have started working out the coordinates already and might even find what we’re looking for!’

‘I want to see some form of ID with his birth date on it, preferably his birth certificate, and in general get a better idea of who Christoph Beil is. Or do you think it’s just a coincidence that he’s part of all this?’

Stefan shook his head, still a little reluctant. ‘I know. It’s just that our progress feels so slow.’

Slow . The word was haunting her.

‘I’m as keen to get the coordinates as you are, but I want to do things properly. Cover as many bases as possible. I don’t want to be kicking myself later for stupid mistakes.’ Or have Hoffmann rub her nose in them.