Ursula Archer - Five

Without holding out any great hope, Beatrice fetched the pictures of Nora Papenberg from her bag. But Nora’s face was completely unknown to Romana Liebscher.

A sombre mood dominated the car journey to Herbert Liebscher’s apartment, even though Florin was constantly searching the radio for a station playing upbeat tunes. It was already getting dark outside. Beatrice looked at her watch; it was after eight. They would have a quick look around the apartment and search for contact details of any friends or acquaintances. Take the computer with them, if there was one. Speak to the neighbours.

The apartment was on the second floor, and there was no lift. As they opened the door, they were met by the smell of kitchen waste in urgent need of disposal.

‘I’ll go in first, if that’s okay with you,’ said Florin. A quick glance through the few rooms was enough to clarify that they were alone.

Liebscher had clearly been content with a modest amount of space. A living room, a bedroom, a kitchen with a small table, and a compact bathroom. On the kitchen table stood a full ashtray and the crockery from Liebscher’s last breakfast – the half-eaten marmalade on toast had developed mould, while the remains of his coffee had dried up in the mug to form a congealed black layer. Beatrice was overcome by the same sadness she had felt at the sight of Nora Papenberg’s unfinished bar of chocolate. She turned away, gave the stinking bin a wide berth and went into the bedroom.

An unmade bed. Wide enough to fit one person com fortably, but too narrow for two. A neat and tidy computer workstation, on which, alongside the keyboard and mouse, there were three piles of books. A bookcase, predominantly stocked with biographies, but with a few travel books and novels too – all the usual bestsellers. Amongst them, Beatrice spotted a small wooden box, like a mini treasure chest. With her gloved fingers, she picked it up off the shelf and opened the lid.

Coins. They were all in transparent plastic coating and displayed a variety of motifs – a ship, a wolf’s head, a logo—

‘Florin!’ Beatrice held one of the coins up into the light to make sure, but there was no doubt – there was the logo, and it was on the plastic coating too. ‘He was a cacher. Liebscher went geocaching!’

Geocoinclub: TFTC was inscribed on the copper-coloured coin, with a little stick man, hiking, depicted beneath in white enamel. Engraved on the edge, Beatrice found a combination of letters and numbers, a kind of code. On the other side, the stick man again, followed by another inscription: Track at Geocaching.com .

‘This is great.’ Squinting, Florin looked at the coin and then placed it back in the treasure chest. ‘Now we might finally be able to make some progress.’

Hopefully they would, as Stefan’s online research still hadn’t borne any fruit. He was reading through the geocaching forums on a daily basis and had made contact with a number of their members, but so far without success. There were no clues about anyone having left abnormal objects – like dead animals or excrement, perhaps – behind in caches before. No one had heard of any incidents like that. ‘The geocaching scene is incredibly clean and environ mentally aware,’ Stefan had declared, not without a certain degree of pride.

Beatrice searched through the desk, then went into the living room where there was another bookcase. There was also a sofa suite with a garish brown–green pattern, and in front of it a glass coffee table from which no one had wiped away the water rings. Opposite it was a dusty old-fashioned tube TV left on standby mode.

She didn’t see it right away, but her eyes were drawn back to the spot almost involuntarily. She stopped and stared.

TFTH

Someone had written the four letters on the TV screen, swirled through the dust.

‘Florin? Look at this!’ Beatrice pulled her camera out of her bag and shot five pictures in close-up, then another six from different distances and angles, before grabbing her phone and calling Drasche on his home number.

She heard the TV on in the background as he answered.

‘We’re in Liebscher’s apartment and we’ve got the computer, but you should come here too. It seems like the Owner has been here.’

After a short conversation with Drasche (‘Don’t touch anything else and get the hell out of there!’) Beatrice retreated to a quiet corner of the apartment and leant on the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom.

Maybe she was about to make a huge mistake. Or maybe it was exactly the right move. But she would only know afterwards. Hoffmann himself had said that she should exhaust all the possibilities, and Kossar hadn’t made a single suggestion. She was fed up of waiting. The Owner’s messages had been sent to her personally, so it was time to react personally.

She opened the last text he had sent her – Cold, completely cold – and pressed ‘Reply’. Debating for a moment exactly what to say, she realised that, given where they were, there was only one possibility.

Herbert Liebscher

It looked like the beginning of a sentence, of a newspaper report, as if she were about to write: ‘Herbert Liebscher was murdered in early May; it was a week before anyone noticed he was missing.’ Or perhaps: ‘Herbert Liebscher: You cut off his hands and ears. We may be slow, but we’re getting closer.’

But she didn’t write that. She left it at first name and surname, not even adding a full stop, and pressed ‘Send’.

The neighbours didn’t know anything. Most of them were elderly people who hadn’t had any contact with Liebscher, and all they could say about him was that he lived a quiet life. Which was synonymous with: he was a pleasant enough neighbour. Female visitors? No. Friends, colleagues? Very rarely.

By the time they got back to the car it was half-past eleven. Beatrice tried to look discreetly at the display on her mobile. The Owner hadn’t replied yet. But believing he would have done was pretty laughable given that he only switched his mobile on for a few minutes at a time. He would get her message when he wanted to send another of his own.

‘Any news from the children?’

So Florin had noticed after all. She quickly shoved her mobile back in her bag. ‘No. But that’s good. If I don’t hear anything it means all’s well.’

He glanced at her searchingly. ‘Why are you so edgy?’

‘Am I?’

‘You seem to be.’ The next traffic light was red. He released the clutch and turned around to face her. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

Food. Now that Florin mentioned it she felt an empty tug in her stomach. ‘No, not yet. But it’s fine, I’ve got some bread and ham at home. That’ll do me.’

‘I disagree.’ The light turned green. ‘We need to look after ourselves too, you know.’ He drove on slowly, his eyes fixed on the road again, but with an expression alternating between thoughtfulness and concern. ‘I notice that every time: whenever we’re working on a difficult case, you reduce your needs to a minimum. Eating, drinking, sleeping – it’s as though none of it matters to you any more.’

‘It’s good for the figure,’ she murmured. But her retort sounded a little pathetic and certainly wasn’t an appropriate response for Florin’s earnest words. She found herself wishing she could take it back.

‘I’m not joking, Bea.’ He indicated and veered off into Alpenstrasse. ‘Let’s take the computer to Stefan’s office, then go and get something to eat. A nice relaxed dinner, without discussing the case. Or even better – we can go to my place. I have roast beef at home, loads of leftover chicken salad, and if you want something hot there’s some delicious chilli con carne.’

The suggestion awoke something else besides hunger in Beatrice, something she didn’t want to examine more closely, not under any circumstances.