Ursula Archer - Five

‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get back to work now.’

‘Right then, good luck.’ Was that an ironic undertone in his voice?

Footsteps in the corridor betrayed Florin’s return. Beatrice hastily typed her password and didn’t look up from the screen even when he stormed into the room and sank down into his chair.

She could feel him looking at her.

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that,’ he said.

She looked up, tried to smile and failed when she saw his serious expression. ‘Thank you. You know it makes me uncomfortable when you stick your neck out for me like that, right?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s the same way I feel when you send text messages to serial killers behind my back. But you were right about the time pressure. Waiting won’t get us anywhere.’

She rested her head in her hands. ‘I’m just worried that Hoffmann won’t buy the thing about my powers of deduction… or perhaps I should say former powers. I mean, not even I do.’

‘Well, you should. I wasn’t making it up, Bea, you’ve always been the one to have the flash of inspiration in the end.’

‘That’s teamwork. I was the first one to see it, that’s all. You might have had the same thought two hours later.’

‘Or two weeks later. You know, any other boss would be happy to have you.’ He shook his head. ‘Do me a favour and don’t let Hoffmann wind you up. Or bring you down. I’ll try to keep him away from you.’

She nodded silently, wondering how she was going to manage to concentrate on her work – she would have to ignore not just Hoffmann, but also Achim, her memories of Evelyn, this morning’s panic attack and her bad conscience regarding the children.

Hoffmann may be a bastard, but he’s right: I’ve got no end of personal problems. They’re like a millstone around my neck .

She pulled the files in front of her. On the top lay a note from Stefan, who had worked until four in the morning. I’ll be back in the office by ten. Goodnight , he had written.

There was also a preliminary written assessment from Drasche, who described the loss of blood indicated by the traces in the flat as potentially life-threatening, adding that, in all probability, Sigart was already dead.

That was very bad news. But in spite of it, for the first time that day Beatrice felt as though she had solid ground beneath her feet again. She worked well with facts, even if they were unwelcome ones.

A canine unit had been called out the previous evening and had searched the area surrounding the building in Theodebertstrasse, but they hadn’t been able to pick up any scent beyond the spot where the trail of blood stopped.

The times between the victims’ disappearances and their deaths varied. Why?

With Nora Papenberg, it had been just over four days. With Herbert Liebscher, at least a week, if they assumed he was already in the grip of his kidnapper the first time he didn’t turn up to class. Christoph Beil had lived just another three days.

If Sigart hadn’t already bled to death or had his throat cut by the Owner, how much time did they have left to find him?

Realising that she was chewing on her pen, she pulled it from her mouth. The Owner had done things differently this time: instead of luring his victim away with a phone call, he had made a personal visit. Why? Had Sigart not answered the phone?

And why such brute force at the scene? Beatrice leant back and closed her eyes, trying to visualise the situation.

The Owner rings the doorbell, perhaps disguised as a deliveryman. Or Sigart knows him, and opens up. Do they talk to one another? Maybe the killer tries to drag his victim away immediately, but Sigart manages to make the phone call. That’s why the Owner attacks there and then, severely injuring him, and drags him out of the house.

‘Florin?’

‘Yes?’

‘We have to speak to Sigart’s therapist.’

Dr Anja Maly gave up her lunch break to speak to them. She had sounded genuinely aghast on the phone when Beatrice informed her that Bernd Sigart had gone missing.

‘I’m very concerned,’ she said, closing the door of the consultation room behind her. ‘I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Herr Sigart may be a danger to himself.’

‘That’s the least of our worries right now,’ replied Florin. ‘It looks like he’s become the victim of a crime, and that’s why we need to ask you if he mentioned anyone during his sessions – any friends or acquaintances.’

‘The last time we saw him he was planning to release you from your confidentiality clause,’ Beatrice added. ‘There’s a chance that he’s still alive, and we’re using all the means we can to find him, but we need some leads to go on. Can you give us any?’

They could see from Anja Maly’s face that she was deep in thought. ‘He told me about your visit and said it was connected to investigations for a murder case.’ She pointed towards a sand-coloured sofa and waited for them to take a seat before she herself sat down. ‘My God, the poor man. I presume you know his history? He comes to me once or twice a week, and we’re trying to work on what happened, to find a way for him to accept it as part of his life – but I have to admit we’re making very slow progress.’ She clasped her hands around her knees and shook her head. ‘And now he’s a victim again. It’s unbelievably tragic.’

Let’s look for a victim echoed in Beatrice’s mind. She had been convinced that the Owner was alluding to Evelyn, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe he had meant Sigart, and had been announcing what he was about to do. A loser, a victim – the two were closely linked.

‘We have reason to believe that he knew the suspect and opened the door to him,’ said Florin. ‘Sigart mentioned to us that he almost never leaves the house and doesn’t have contact with anyone. Are there any exceptions?’ He smiled at the therapist. Even though Maly barely moved a muscle in her face, Beatrice could tell that the smile was having the desired effect.

‘Wait a moment, I’ll just get my notes.’

She pulled a thick blue ring binder out of a lockable cupboard and opened it towards the end. ‘The last few times he was here we mainly spoke about his sleeping problems and the fact that he was going to try to leave the house more often.’ She flicked forwards. ‘He was having nightmares a lot, and increasingly suicidal thoughts. But he never mentioned any acquaintances. I don’t think he even knew his neighbours by name.’ She looked at the next page, read some more, then shook her head. ‘It’s very sad. He was living in complete isolation.’ She stopped for a moment, laying her index finger on the page she had in front of her. ‘Wait, this could be of interest to you. In his last session he told me he’d felt like someone was following him on one of his walks. When I tried to find out more, he just shrugged it off and said it was probably his guilty conscience.’ She looked up. ‘His feelings of guilt were always a major topic in our sessions. He was convinced he was responsible for his family’s deaths, and resisted all attempts to relativise it.’

Beatrice leant forwards. ‘You said he thought he was being followed?’

‘Yes. But not threatened, it seems. He didn’t think it was worthy of anything more than a brief mention, and also said he didn’t see or recognise anyone. I think he thought it was just his imagination.’

Like I did the other day , thought Beatrice. The blinding lights in the rear-view mirror.

‘Did he mention any phone calls? Was there someone who might have got in touch out of the blue, a new or old acquaintance perhaps?’

Maly shook her head emphatically. ‘No. From time to time the vet who took over his surgery would call, whenever she had questions. Sigart’s parents aren’t around any more, and he completely broke off contact with his former friends. He didn’t want—’