Ursula Archer - Five

‘Good. And remember, if anything unusual happens—’

‘I’m a police officer, Florin. I know how to look after myself.’ The words sounded convincing, even to her. For the first time since arriving at her apartment, she started to relax.

The night passed unbelievably quickly. Her head had barely touched the pillow before her alarm clock went off again. She had slept deeply, as if drugged, and her mobile had stayed silent.

‘Make sure a squad car goes round to check on Sigart. They just need to briefly make sure that all’s well.’ Beatrice leant on Stefan’s desk, pointing at the address on the note she had just given him. ‘And then could you try to make some sense of Stage Four? I can’t make head nor tail of it, so it would be good to have a second pair of eyes take a fresh look.’

Stefan ran a hand through his red hair, looking mildly offended. ‘Do you seriously think I haven’t been going over it already? I’ve requested a list from the records office on all residents in the state of Salzburg named Felix who are under the age of forty.’

That’s exactly what Beatrice would have done a few years ago. But she had learnt through experience that lists like that only helped if you at least had some vague idea of what you were searching for. Still, it wouldn’t hurt.

Seeing Kossar approaching out of the corner of her eye, she sighed. ‘See you later, Stefan.’

Kossar waited in the doorway to her office, glancing longingly over at the coffee machine, but she didn’t want to offer him anything that might lengthen his stay unnecessarily. It was bad enough that she would have to talk to him about her past. ‘The Owner sent me a new message yesterday. Here it is.’ She had typed up the message and printed it out.

Kossar scanned the words, nodded, sat down and read it through once more. ‘Can you tell me who Evelyn was?’

‘A friend. We lived together.’ For some inexplicable reason, it felt easier to tell Kossar about it than Florin. It felt less personal, at least as long as she was just talking about the bare facts.

‘So my assumption would be that she didn’t die of natural causes. Am I right?’

He was pretty good at his job when it came to direct conversation, at least. Which meant all she needed to do was nod, not explain anything.

‘I understand. The fact that the Owner knows about it is one thing, the fact that he’s shoving his knowledge right under your nose is another entirely. That supports our theory that he wants to demonstrate his superiority. And – correct me if I’m wrong –’ he looked at Beatrice as if he was searching her face for something – ‘but it seems like he’s hit a raw nerve. Am I right?’

She hesitated, then nodded.

‘He wants to show he can hurt you. He’d probably also like to see how you react, so don’t rule out the possibility that he might try to get close to you.’

Beatrice was pleased Florin was out of the office and not around to hear Kossar’s words. He was already on the brink of putting her under the personal protection Sigart had refused. ‘Okay. So, a tentative prognosis then – what will he do next?’ she asked.

‘Well.’ Kossar took his glasses off with a sweeping flourish. ‘He will continue to pursue his plan – unfortunately, at this point, no one can say what that plan consists of. To me, it looks like an opus, a production, a kind of psychopathic work of art. There were a few cases in the US that showed similar patterns. I’ve spent the last two days looking for possible parallels.’ Looking pleased with himself, Kossar leant back in his chair and put his glasses on again. ‘By the way, that means you’re not in danger. You’re the audience – it would be counterproductive to kill you.’

That’s good to know . Beatrice forced a smile. ‘Thank you for your comments. So what do you suggest I write back to him in response?’

Kossar took a long time before he answered, even for him. ‘Only reply if you have something clever to say, something that will interest him. Something on a level with the surprise he dealt you yesterday.’

Even though she wasn’t hungry, Beatrice went to the canteen for lunch and picked up a sandwich. On the way back, she ran into Stefan.

‘Some of the guys checked on Sigart, everything’s okay. They said he looks ill and seemed absent-minded, but apart from that he was fine.’

It sounded as though he was a step closer to ending things. They had to initiate the process for institutionalisation.

‘I’ve also been pondering what the comments about the key figure’s career could refer to. Selling things that no one needs – he might be an insurance salesman.’

She burst out laughing, and was suddenly unable to remember the last time she had done so. ‘Stefan! That’s a serious career path you’re calling into disrepute.’

‘If you say so. But that’s what came to mind – knocking on people’s doors, cold calling – see what I mean? Or maybe he sells something completely different – like stain removal products or newspaper subscriptions, or maybe just hot air…’

Hot air – in other words, mere rhetoric. Maybe he was in the advertising industry. If that was the case, there could be a connection between him and Nora Papenberg.

‘That’s not a bad idea. Keep at it, Stefan.’

He beamed and disappeared into his office. Beatrice went off to hers and found Florin there with his eyes closed and the telephone held to his ear. Within just a few moments, Beatrice worked out he was talking to Vera Beil. She had identified her husband yesterday, and had collapsed right there on the spot. Severe shock and circulatory failure, the doctors had said when she had been taken to hospital. Presumably she was phoning from there; she had already called twice today, but only ever wanted to speak to Florin.

‘Anything,’ he was saying. ‘Try to think back, Frau Beil. What did your husband say as he left the house? Or before that, on Sunday evening?’

Beatrice turned her attentions to her computer. The mobile provider had emailed saying that the last connection via the prepaid card had been made at 22.34 yesterday, at which time the mobile was located in Salzburg’s historic quarter. She was relieved: no one had been following her; she could rely on her instincts after all. Unfortunately, though, it seemed she could also rely on the Owner’s caution: he hadn’t yet connected to the same cellular network twice.

The afternoon crept up slowly and doggedly, leading to a gloomy evening and, shortly after 8 p.m., an equally gloomy evening meeting. No one in the team had any great flashes of inspiration to offer; no one was in the position to lay new ideas on the table.

‘We’re stuck,’ said Florin. ‘Stage Four is a hard nut to crack – neither Beil’s wife nor Papenberg’s husband know anyone who meets the criteria of the key figure. So we’re going to have to do the painstaking work and translate the two clues.’

Beatrice’s phone interrupted him. It wasn’t the melody announcing a text message, but the one for incoming calls.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pulling the phone from her bag and heading towards the door. She didn’t know the number on the display, which was a good thing, implying it would be quick to resolve.

‘Kaspary.’

A wail, followed by a whimper. Crashing in the background. She gripped her phone tightly. ‘Who is it?’

‘Help me!’ The man’s words were hoarse and faltering, squeezed out between sobs, but Beatrice was sure she could recognise Bernd Sigart’s voice.

‘Herr Sigart, is that you?’ Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Florin gesticulated frantically with his thumb, as though he was pressing something. She understood and switched to speakerphone.