Ursula Archer - Five

‘Thanks, but I’m really tired, and tomorrow we both have to get up early and… well, maybe Anneke wouldn’t like it.’

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Why would she have anything against it?’

Why indeed? It’s not like I’m a woman or anything , Beatrice was about to blurt out, but she didn’t say anything, laughing instead and hoping it sounded light-hearted and not as awkward as she felt.

Florin parked the car alongside the others in the car pool, turned the ignition off and brushed one of the unruly strands of dark hair off his forehead. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you suspected me of having other intentions than getting you to eat a decent meal.’ He smiled, his teeth the only bright thing inside the darkness of the car.

‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t think that for a second. It’s just that—’

‘It’s important to spend at least a few minutes a day enjoying life. Otherwise we’ll end up burning out. Come on – some good food, a glass of wine, music and talking about something other than murder for half an hour.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

Florin’s apartment was close to the old town and most definitely not that of your average policeman. When Beatrice had come here for the first time around six months ago, she had asked him if he was taking backhanders to be able to afford digs like this. He had denied it, but the truth was clearly just as embarrassing to him: a rich family and a deceased grandmother who had left him not only money, but this penthouse too.

Walking in, she was met by the scent of acrylic paints. Florin went off to open the windows and terrace doors while Beatrice chose a place to sit from the immense landscape of seating options.

Everything was upholstered in white. Imagining Jakob running around here with his chocolate-smeared fingers, and Mina with her felt-tip pens, Beatrice couldn’t help but laugh. No, Florin didn’t have any such intentions when it came to her, most definitely not.

She looked at the walls, the ledge over the open fire, the antique bookcases – there was no photo of Anneke to be seen. They were probably in the bedroom, where they belonged. Beatrice stretched out.

‘Fancy a splash of champagne?’ called Florin. He was standing in the open-plan kitchen, holding up a bottle. ‘We’re off duty now, so we’re allowed.’

‘But I still have to drive. Half a glass at the most.’

‘Okay.’

He came over to her with two delicate champagne flutes in his hand and passed the half-full one to her. ‘It’ll kick in quickly on an empty stomach. Do you already know what you’d like to eat?’

‘Yes. Roast beef. Please.’

‘And salad with avocado and lime dressing?’

She should have realised that Florin wouldn’t just serve up the average snack. ‘Sure sounds delicious.’

While he busied himself in the kitchen, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. But she was fine with that right now.

‘Do you have any paintings on the go at the moment?’ she called.

‘Yes. Two. But neither is going well. There’s not a flicker of life in them.’ The clatter of plates. ‘Do you want to see? Go on up if you’d like.’

His studio consisted of a chaotic corner one floor up, with an overhead light, two easels, a paint-spattered wooden table and a collection of blank canvases of varying sizes. It smelt of paint and solvents.

‘How about some music?’ Florin’s voice resonated up from below.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Any special requests?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘Whatever’s in the player right now.’

Whatever you put on when you’re here alone, painting, reading, thinking about Anneke .

‘Okay.’

It was no longer the Erik Satie album she’d heard down the phone the last time. It was Schubert’s String Quintet in C major, the second movement. The kind of music that made Beatrice feel as if just one misguided thought would be enough to make her burst into tears.

She drank her champagne down in one gulp and positioned herself in front of the first easel.

Red, bright in the middle, dark around the edges. Silver streaks across the left corner, as though something had splintered. The sight unleashed something within her that she didn’t want to face up to right now. She stepped aside and looked at the second easel.

A square canvas, which at first sight depicted an eternity of blue. Towards the middle, the colour darkened until it was almost black, with metallic specks flying through the darkness as if someone had stomped into a puddle of molten copper. The picture was like this evening: a spark of light amidst the darkness.

‘Not that great, right?’ she heard Florin ask.

‘No, they are. Sorry, but I…’ I love this one , she wanted to say, but bit back the words at the last moment. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Strong – and unfathomable, with a glimmer of hope.’

Florin had come up the stairs and was now standing next to Beatrice, his head cocked to the side. ‘Really? Hmm. I think I’ll need to take a fresh look at it. But not tonight.’ He rotated the canvas ninety degrees. ‘It might work like that though. Come on, dinner’s ready.’ Beatrice felt his arm around her shoulders, the light pressure as he pulled her towards the stairs. ‘I’m starving.’

It was a long time since she had been able to enjoy a meal without having to stare at her computer or tame her children at the same time. The roast beef was tender, cut at just the right thickness, and Florin had warmed up a baguette to go with it. Because Beatrice didn’t have the slightest desire to let her enjoyment of it be diminished, she drank another glass of champagne, noticing how light-headed it was making her.

‘Why are you doing this?’ The question slipped out before she could stop it.

‘What exactly am I doing?’

‘Inviting me round after the working day’s over. I would have thought you’d be relieved not to have me under your feet any more.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I like having you under my feet, as you so nicely put it. And besides—’ He stopped, shook his head and topped up both their glasses.

‘Carry on.’

‘No. It might come out the wrong way. It’s the kind of comment which could lead to a misunderstanding.’

She tried to formulate a question in her mind that would encourage him to be more specific, but he shook his head with a smile before she could come up with one. ‘Wrong day, wrong time, wrong mood.’

Beatrice put her glass down on the table, suddenly aware of how tired she felt. ‘Which door is the bathroom?’

‘The second on the right.’

It was spacious, tiled in elegant grey and far too well lit. The mirror confronted Beatrice with her pale face, tired eyes, and the dark rings beneath them. For a moment, she thought about reapplying her lipstick, but immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous.

Instead, she splashed a little water on her face and looked at the clock. It was already half-past one in the morning.

‘I have to get going,’ she said as she walked back into the living area.

‘Or you could sleep here.’ He held his hands up reassuringly before she could respond. ‘I have a spare room with lots of space, and no, you wouldn’t be imposing.’ He pointed towards a door behind him. ‘I really would prefer it if you did. After all, we drank more than one glass.’

Beatrice gave in. It was less the thought of the ten-minute drive, and more that of her empty apartment with the nocturnally active telephone.

When Christoph Beil awoke, the world around him consisted of intense darkness. For a few moments, boundless gratitude streamed through him.

He had dreamt it all.

But the very next moment, the pain came back. His sore wrists were burning and throbbing behind his back, and every time he swallowed it felt as if nails were tearing into his larynx. It was all real. He hadn’t survived anything.