Ursula Archer - Five

‘Ever since I’ve known her, yes. She did a lot of charity work, like for Children’s Village, Médecins Sans Frontières and organisations for disabled people. Not just donations, I mean personal stuff too. She always said that when she… died, she wanted to feel like she had made a difference.’

A woman with a social conscience, empathy and a dedication to giving something back. But perhaps there was a darker side to Nora Papenberg, even if her husband had her up on a pedestal.

Beatrice tried to fight the feeling of frustration welling up inside her. She was familiar with this phase from previous cases. The aimless stumbling around in the darkness; being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It required the utmost patience, something she struggled with even in normal circumstances. But the fact that someone’s life depended on her work this time made it almost unbearable.

‘You look exhausted,’ said Florin as they got back in the car. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat, sit on a park bench and have a quick break.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Bea, it’s quite clear that you’ve already pushed yourself to the limit.’

A sharp retort twitched on her tongue, but she controlled herself. Usually she liked it when Florin looked out for her, but not when she was under as much pressure as today. ‘It’d make me feel sick, can’t you understand that? I won’t be able to stomach more than a coffee and a few biscuits, and we have all of that back at the office.’

Florin started the engine without saying another word. She looked at him from the side, feeling guilty for her harsh tone, but then fixed her gaze on the road. She knew she was taking this case more personally than any other. By mentioning Evelyn’s name, the Owner had stirred up an old guilt within her.

She knew she would do it; the only question was when. Since Florin had dropped her back at home, Beatrice had pulled her phone from her bag again and again, her fingers hovering indecisively over the buttons, trying to formulate a message in her mind. Something clever that would interest the Owner, that’s what Kossar had said.

Shortly before eight, she drove to Mooserhof to see the children. She felt a fleeting moment of relief that they were both happy and didn’t seem to be missing her too much. Mina hugged Beatrice for longer than usual, reporting that she’d got a good mark for her dictation. She also seemed to know exactly how many mistakes each and every child in the class had made.

Jakob had renewed his friendship with the neighbours’ son, and was spending most of his time on their farm with the chickens. He presented Beatrice with an egg he had personally collected from one of the hutches.

‘I got a present yesterday too,’ he said proudly. ‘A little world that lights up when you press a button.’

‘A globe, you mean?’

‘A globe, that’s what I said. And Mina got a really pretty mirror with sparkly flowers around the edges.’

From Achim of course. ‘Was Papa here for a while then?’

‘No, he hasn’t come.’

‘So who’s giving you such lovely presents? Oma?’

‘No, not Oma!’ He sounded almost outraged. ‘But the guests are all so nice to us, a few of them give us euros if we bring them their food. And sometimes we get stuff too. The man with the globe had all kinds of toys with him, a whole sack full, and he was going to sell it all at the flea market.’

‘And he just gave you some as a present?’

Sensing the hidden accusation, Jakob reacted with lightning speed. ‘I asked Oma if I was allowed to take it and she said yes. And today a woman gave me a pen, with penguins on it! Look!’

Beatrice admired Jakob’s new acquisition enthusiastically. He tapped his index finger on the tip of the egg which he had put on the table. ‘Make yourself a scrambled egg from it, okay?’ he said, rubbing his nose against her cheek.

Later, as she drove from her mother’s restaurant back to the office, she was almost expecting someone to be following her again, but the street behind her was practically empty. The egg lay on the passenger seat, and Beatrice made an effort to brake carefully at every crossing. She felt strangely protected, somehow, by the mere presence of Jakob’s fragile gift.

‘I want him to give me Sigart,’ declared Beatrice. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her ear and shoulder, had taken off her shoes and was sitting on the revolving chair with her legs tucked beneath her. By night, all was peaceful in the murder investigation department. There was no one else there except Florin, who sat wearily in front of his computer, an enlarged version of the photo of Sigart’s mutilated hand on the screen.

From the other end of the line, Beatrice could only hear heavy breathing. Had Kossar fallen asleep already? ‘What can I send to the Owner as bait? What can I offer him?’

Kossar cleared his throat. She could picture him setting his glasses straight. ‘That’s risky, my dear,’ he said. ‘We don’t yet know enough about him and his motives, and we don’t want to provoke him.’

My dear? Beatrice mouthed the words silently. ‘Listen, I have a chance here. I can’t just throw it away. We’ve been waiting for your input for days now, and time is running away from us. So, what would you do?’

She looked up, saw Florin’s surprised expression and shrugged her shoulders. She needed some expert advice. And if Kossar was the only one available, she had no choice but to turn to him.

‘Well,’ said the psychologist slowly, ‘the Owner has made a personal connection with you by referring to your deceased friend. Try to answer in an equally personal way. It’s not necessarily without danger, but it’s probably the only possibility of establishing some common ground with him. And that would be an immeasurable win. Show that you’re curious about what he’s doing. Be a good audience.’ She heard him chuckle softly. ‘Just don’t applaud too loudly.’

He tried to open his eyes, but the blindfold was so tightly wrapped around his head that his eyelids remained firmly shut despite all his efforts.

He was shaking from the cold, and from fear. With every cramped, trembling movement of his body, the ties cut deeper into his wrists. ‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Is anyone there?’

No answer.

He swallowed down the panic surging within him and tried to get his bearings.

It was in vain. He could have been here for an hour or even twelve; losing consciousness had taken away any sense of time.

But it hadn’t taken away the pain. His pulse was racing, a rhythm beating against the inside of his skull with the merciless sharpness of a pickaxe. His wrists were burning, but he couldn’t feel his hands. They were completely numb. He tried to move his fingers, but couldn’t work out whether they were responding.

‘Hello?’

He waited, trying not to breathe, trying to sense the presence of another person, but everything around him was quiet, empty.

He only had himself to blame. He had been warned and hadn’t taken one single word of it seriously. And now…

The fear swelled, breaking through the thin layer of control that had been holding it in. Even though his head felt close to bursting, he yelled, screamed with panic.

But no one came, and after a while he quietened down again, waiting silently. He tried to think about his family, but that just made everything worse. Behind the tight blindfold, tears began to well up. The mucous membrane in his nose was becoming swollen.

‘I see we’re ready now,’ he heard someone say behind him. He reacted instinctively, trying to turn around, but the ties just burrowed deeper into his flesh.

‘What do you want from me?’ he croaked.

‘Answers.’