Ursula Archer - Five

‘Did you try to call him?’

‘Of course. But he had already turned the mobile off again. I’m sure he knows they can be used to locate people. The network he was connected to the second time was about fifteen kilometres away from the one the provider said he used the first time. He’s not dumb enough to use the same location twice.’

Hoffmann wrung out a thin smile. ‘I see. But nonetheless, you’re clearly the one he wanted to make contact with. So I expect you to exhaust all the possibilities that arise from that. Lure him into a trap, provoke him, force him to expose a weakness.’ He turned to Florin again. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, right? And you’ll soon have a forensic psychologist helping you too, and then it’ll be child’s play. The killer has given us the fishing rod – now we just have to put the right bait on the hook.’

Drasche was up next, presenting his findings: the fingerprints on the second handwritten document belonged, yet again, to Nora Papenberg. But Beatrice was only half-listening as he explained the details. Hoffmann’s last sentence was echoing in her mind. She doubted that a few well-chosen words would be enough to lure the killer out of his hiding place. She would have to give him something he really wanted.

The vehicle registration office had responded swiftly. By the time they got back to their desk from the meeting, Florin’s inbox yielded a list of cars, including their owners, for which the last three digits of the number plate and model type matched the clues from the cache. It wasn’t a long list: two VW Golfs, one of which was blue – a 2005 model, registered to Dr Bernd Sigart.

‘If this is him, then it was pretty easy this time,’ said Beatrice. She typed the name into Google, scanned through the first few entries and felt her pulse quicken. One more link and she found what she was looking for. There was no question they had found the right guy: someone who had lost everything. With scars inside and out.

‘We’ve cracked Stage Three,’ she said.

‘So why do you sound so depressed?’ Florin had just stood up to turn on the espresso machine, which came back to life with a gurgle.

‘Because when we read the note earlier, I had a different conception of what he meant by a loser.’ She cleared her throat and began to read the newspaper article she had found online.

‘“Three children and a woman lost their lives last night in a fire near Scharten im Pongau. The blaze, which may have been caused by work in the surrounding forest, broke out around 10 p.m. The now-deceased family were staying in a wooden cabin they had rented as a holiday home, and may have been killed in their sleep by the fire. The husband and father Dr Bernd S., a vet, had been called out on an emergency visit and returned only after the forest and cabin were already engulfed by the blaze. His attempt to push his way through into the burning building left him with smoke intoxication and burns of an unknown degree. He is currently in the emergency unit of Salzburg hospital and, according to the doctors, is out of danger. The firemen were on site until the early hours of the morning.”’

She remembered the story. The case had kept the investigators busy for months; it hadn’t been possible to unequivocally determine the cause of the fire, but they had managed to rule out arson.

‘What a tragedy,’ she heard Florin say softly behind her. ‘How long ago was that?’

‘Almost five years.’

He sat back down at his computer. ‘And here we have the next piece of the puzzle,’ he announced. ‘Sigart’s registered address: Theodebertstrasse thirty-three. The street contains a name, just like Nora Papenberg’s note said it would.’

They headed over to the address half an hour later, the story about the fire lying heavy as a stone in Beatrice’s stomach. She resolved to approach their conversation with Sigart with a great deal of sensitivity. The street name alone was enough to find the cache, so they didn’t need to visit him especially for that. But if he had known Nora Papenberg, they urgently needed to hear what he had to say.

Number thirty-three was a multi-storey building with small balconies, just a few degrees away from looking run-down. It seemed a very modest home for a vet. Beatrice rang the bell, and moments later a deep but soft voice came through the intercom.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s the police. We’re from the Salzburg Landeskriminalamt and need to speak to you briefly.’

No answer, nor the buzz of the door release.

‘Hello?’ she persevered.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘It’s about a current case – we have a few questions. It won’t last long.’

‘Okay. First floor.’

The stairwell smelt of rubber and fried garlic; a baby was screaming behind one of the doors on the ground floor. Sigart was waiting for them at the door of his flat, a haggard man whose jogging bottoms were hanging off him loosely. According to his file, he must have been in his mid-forties, but the deep lines in his face made him look a good ten years older. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and it was only when he uncrossed them to stretch out a hand in greeting that Beatrice saw the burn scars. Raised, reddish tissue covering his left forearm from the elbow to the fingers, as well as on his neck, stretching up to just under his chin. She took Sigart’s hand and returned his firm pressure. ‘Beatrice Kaspary, Landeskriminalamt. This is my colleague, Florin Wenninger. We’re investigating a murder case and have a few questions we hope you might be able to answer for us.’

The flat was tiny. One room with a kitchenette and a small bathroom. Not a single picture on the walls, no mirror. In the corner, an old portable TV was perched on a stool. Next to it was a wobbly-looking table with just one chair, which Sigart now pointed to. ‘Have a seat,’ he said to Beatrice.

‘Thanks, but…’ Not wanting to be the only one sitting down, she accepted only when he fetched two folding chairs from the balcony and placed them around the table.

‘You may have heard on the news about the body that was found in a cattle pasture near Abtenau,’ Florin began. ‘It’s about that case. There’s a detail that led us to you.’

Sigart’s gaze wandered across the room. ‘A detail?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that. You’re not under suspicion – we’d just like to know whether the name Nora Papenberg means anything to you.’

Unlike Beil the day before, Sigart thought for a moment before he replied. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But it’s hard to answer your question properly.’ He spoke slowly, as if he had to check each word was correct before he was able to release it into the room. ‘I met so many people every day at the practice that it’s entirely possible Frau Papenberg was one of them.’ He paused. ‘If you like, I can look back through the files. Dr Amelie Schuster took over my practice and all its patients, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.’

That wasn’t a bad idea. Beatrice noted the vet’s name, then pulled the photos out of her bag. ‘This is Nora Papenberg. Perhaps you might recognise her face.’

She watched him closely as he studied the photos. But the tiny twitch, the barely discernible jolt that had passed through Beil yesterday, was absent in Sigart. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I’m sorry.’

Beatrice tried not to let her disappointment show. ‘It’s very likely that there’s a connection between you and this woman. Maybe there’s something that might come back to you?’

He shook his head. ‘I hardly ever see people now. I’m sure you researched my background before you came here – in which case you must know—’ He stopped abruptly. Then he took a deep breath and continued: ‘I don’t work, I’ve sold everything and I’m living off the proceeds.’ He stroked his left hand over the scars, as if wanting to explore their heights and depths. ‘I only leave this flat when I need to buy food, or to go to my therapy sessions.’