Ursula Archer - Five

‘You were very quiet towards the end,’ said Beatrice as they went back to the car.

‘I know. I was concentrating on Sigart. He was different to our last visit and I was trying to work out exactly how.’

‘And?’

Florin hesitated. ‘I’ve never studied psychology, but he reminded me of someone today. An uncle who’s been dead for a long time now.’

Beatrice opened the passenger door, but didn’t get in. Instead, she glanced back at the small balcony belonging to Sigart’s flat. ‘Your uncle committed suicide, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. By the end he was so calm, giving all his things away. He just let go of everything. I think Sigart is almost at that point. Shouldn’t we have him sectioned?’

It was a tempting thought – Sigart would get help, and at the same time no longer be accessible to the killer. A tempting thought indeed.

Back at the office, they worked late into the night. The photos of the three puzzles lay spread out on the desk in front of Beatrice, each one the Owner had given them so far. A singer. A loser. A key figure. She looked for parallels, differences, hidden messages. By half-ten, her eyes were stinging. ‘I’m going to head off home. I’m—’

— dead tired , she had been about to say, but Sting interrupted her; sending his SOS out. The phone was in her bag and Beatrice’s attempt at opening it resulted in knocking it from the table and spilling half the contents across the floor. The message tone continued.

Hopefully everything was okay with the children, and hopefully the Owner hadn’t—

She read the message and froze. But some kind of noise must have escaped her, for through the thick, dirty haze veiling her mind, she sensed Florin’s sudden attentiveness, his concern.

‘Bea?’

She didn’t respond. She had to get her thoughts straight first. By now, she could recognise the number at first glance; it was the prepaid card in Nora Papenberg’s mobile. Then she realised: this was the response to the last text she had sent.

Spirit of Man,

How like water you are.

Fate of Man,

How like the wind.

Let’s look for a victim.

Evelyn R.

R.I.P.

The ball had been returned. It was as if he was saying, You know something? Then look at this – so do I!

She resisted the impulse to delete the message. Let’s look for a victim , my God.

‘Bea? What’s wrong?’

Speechless, she handed him her mobile. She watched as he immediately recognised the sender’s number, then scanned the message with a frown.

‘Goethe.’

‘Yes. “The Song of the Spirits over the Waters”.’ She rested her forehead in her hands. How had the Owner found out?

‘Who’s Evelyn R.?’

She’s the end of innocence. The caesura. The volte-face .

‘She’s dead.’ It didn’t answer his question, but it was all she could manage right at that moment. How could the Owner know about Evelyn?

She thought about the car that had followed her, the one with the headlights turned up too brightly. Suddenly, the thought of spending the night at home alone was yet another threatening shadow in her world.

Forbidding herself from thinking longingly of Florin’s spare room, she started to pack up her things. ‘Could you give me my phone, please?’

‘Bea!’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. ‘Explain to me what this is about. This isn’t caching slang – it’s to do with you personally, right?’

‘So it seems.’

‘So it seems?’ He pushed his hair back from his brow, clearly exasperated. ‘Look, of course you’re under no obligation to tell me everything about your life, but this is about a case we’re working on together. It would be really helpful if I was also able to interpret the messages the suspect is sending us.’

She had to collect her thoughts. Everything was rushing, colliding inside her. She needed to be alone. ‘I sent the Owner a message, and it seems this is his answer.’

Florin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You did what?’

‘Yes. I know. I played a lone hand, without discussing it first. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, when we were in Liebscher’s apartment and found the writing in the dust. I made it clear to him that we knew the identity of the man whose body parts he was putting in the caches. “ Herbert Liebscher ”, that’s all I wrote. I wanted him to know we’re getting closer, that we’re open to a dialogue. The more often he gets in touch, the higher the probability that he’ll slip up and make a mistake.’

She searched Florin’s face for understanding, but it was expressionless and – despite the tiredness in his eyes – harder than usual. ‘You do realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that by doing that you’re playing his game, not yours. Let’s forget for a moment that you didn’t inform anyone else in the team – you accepted his invitation by sending that message, Bea. Now you’re his official opponent. And I don’t like that one bit.’ He held her mobile out towards her. ‘You can see how personal he makes things. He swotted up, and clearly knows more about you than the people who see you every day.’

That was one way of looking at it. His official opponent. Her eyes were burning; she closed them and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. ‘Evelyn was one of my friends at university,’ she said, watching the dots and streaks that appeared in the darkness of her self-imposed blindness. ‘We shared an apartment. Then she died.’ Beatrice opened her eyes again and looked directly at Florin. ‘She was doing German philology, and I was studying psychology. Neither of us graduated.’

The question he wanted to ask her was clearly written on his face, but he didn’t voice it. ‘Under the circumstances I think it would be better if you don’t stay by yourself until we’ve caught the Owner,’ he said instead. ‘My apartment is big enough, so why don’t you—’

‘No.’

He blinked, then turned away. ‘Fine. But do me a favour and call me once you’re home and you’ve locked up. Leave your mobile next to the bed. Have you got the emergency number on speed dial?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘You should head home soon too. It’s been a long day.’

On her way out to the car park, Beatrice turned to look back several times, but there was no one behind her. Nor was there during the drive home, throughout which she spent more time looking in the rear-view mirror than at the road.

She did as Florin had asked: double-locking the door behind her and even sliding across the bolt she had never used the whole time she had lived here. It would be completely useless if someone was really intent on getting in, but it still felt reassuring to limit the possibilities. She checked that the windows were locked and pulled the curtains. Then she kicked her shoes off, sank down onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

Evelyn. Anyone could read about it in the newspaper archives if they made the effort, but establishing the connection to Beatrice was a lot more difficult. Her surname had been different back then, and she hadn’t spoken to a single journalist. And yet the Owner had still managed to draw the correct conclusions.

She felt her eyes start to close, then opened them wide. Was that a noise?

No. She was being silly. Nonetheless, she still felt better after doing a round of the rooms, not finding anything apart from the usual blend of order and chaos. Only then did she call Florin.

‘Did you get home safely?’ He was still at the office; she could hear the clatter of the keyboard in the background.

‘Yes. No one followed me, and there was no one lying in wait when I got here. Everything’s fine.’