Ursula Archer - Five

‘Neither will I,’ she heard Florin say as he entered the room. ‘If he was alive yesterday, then the chances aren’t bad that he’s still alive today.’

The only problem was that they didn’t have the faintest idea where to look for him. Further questioning of his neighbours hadn’t brought any results. But how was that possible? Had the noise really not startled anyone, had no one even looked through the peephole in their front door?

‘We heard the struggle ourselves on the phone, and know that at least one of the witnesses in the building heard it too, even though he misinterpreted it.’ Florin was propping up his chin with one hand while doodling in a squared notepad with the other, drawing snake-like lines that ended in crooked fingers. ‘Okay, Sigart lives on the first floor, so the route to the cellar isn’t far, but the Owner must still have been incredibly quick.’

Beatrice’s eyes followed the intertwining lines and picked up on his thoughts. ‘He grabbed him by the arms and pulled him down the stairs. The bloody shoe print –’ she pulled the corresponding photo towards her – ‘was pointing up the stairs. So either the Owner went down the stairs backwards, or he went back up again.’

‘Backwards,’ Florin surmised. ‘He was pulling Sigart down behind him.’

The telephone rang. Bea’s contact in the mobile provider’s technical department reported that the text message earlier that morning had been sent from a location near Golling, around twenty kilometres south of Salzburg.

‘It wasn’t even 6 a.m.’ Beatrice tapped her pen agitatedly on her notepad. ‘The Owner must have to sleep at some point too; after all, he’s got a hell of a workload. If he gets too tired he’ll make mistakes, which he won’t want to risk, so it’s very likely he lives near Golling. Or that he’s at least staying there temporarily.’

‘Unless,’ Stefan interjected, ‘he’s not alone. I mean, you agree that Nora Papenberg may have been his accomplice. It’s possible that there are more.’

They had discussed this idea a number of times, with differing results. Kossar rejected the theory every time, and today was no exception. ‘The person composing these puzzles is clearly conceited. The Owner wants to prove he’s better than us, but his success will only be fully satisfactory if he, and only he, can take all the credit. I’m absolutely convinced that we’re looking for a lone perpetrator.’

‘So then how do we explain Nora Papenberg’s role?’

Kossar only needed a few seconds to answer. ‘It’s possible that he needed help at the start. But at soon as things were going to plan, he—’

A knock at the door interrupted his flow. One of the secretaries came in – Jutta, Jette, Jasmin? Beatrice cursed her appalling memory for names – bearing a bunch of flowers wrapped up in paper, their scent mingling with the aroma of the coffee.

‘These were delivered for you, Frau Kaspary.’ She winked, laid the flowers on the desk and headed off.

‘Just a moment!’ Beatrice called after her, but the woman had already pulled the door shut behind her. Kossar was grinning as if the bunch had been sent by him personally.

‘Come on then, show us!’

Beatrice slowly pulled the cellophane off the paper. For a brief moment, the thought occurred to her that Florin might have sent them. But why would he send flowers? A quick glance revealed that he seemed as confused as she was.

She dispatched the first layer of cellophane into the wastepaper bin, admitting to herself that she was just trying to buy time with all the fumbling, then ripped the packaging open.

White calla and violet lilies. Three spruce twigs. Baby’s breath. All tied together with a white-and-gold ribbon.

Her body reacted more quickly than her mind. She rushed out of the office and got to the bathroom just in time. She threw up her breakfast and the coffee she had only just drunk, still retching even after her stomach had nothing left to give. But not even the smell of vomit was enough to drown out the scent of the flowers, still clinging mercilessly in her nose. It had been a mistake to believe that 21 May would be a date just like any other to the Owner. He knew what role the day played in Beatrice’s life, and that clearly wasn’t all he knew.

She straightened up, waited until the black spots in her vision had disappeared, and then flushed the toilet. Her shock and disgust had now been joined by shame. Losing the plot like that at the sight of a few flowers didn’t exactly make her look very professional; how was she going to explain it to the others?

A few sips of water chased the acrid taste from her mouth. She opened the door leading back out into the corridor, bracing herself for questions from her colleagues – and ran straight into Hoffmann.

‘On a break, Kaspary?’

Her first instinct was to dodge around him without a word, to run away like a child, but she had already exhibited enough weakness today.

‘Why would you ask that? You can see exactly where I’ve been.’ The words came out quiet and forced; the hollow feeling in her stomach had returned.

Hoffmann came a step closer and sniffed the air. ‘Have you just been sick?’

It took all the control Beatrice had to stand still and not break eye contact. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you pregnant or something? For heaven’s sake, what next?’

She couldn’t hold back her laughter. ‘No, most certainly not.’

He looked her up and down. ‘I see. Well, that doesn’t make it much better, but—’

‘If you say so,’ Beatrice interrupted him. ‘I don’t really think that concerns you though. I’m feeling much better now, by the way, thank you for asking.’ Without waiting for a response, she left him standing there.

Kossar and Stefan were still in the office when she walked back in, and so was Florin. ‘Are you feeling better?’ He stood up and came over to her. ‘You’re really pale. If you don’t feel well, you should go home, okay? It’s not going to help anyone if you collapse, Bea.’

The bouquet of flowers was still on her desk. Someone had freed them from the rest of the paper.

‘I’m not ill. Sorry that my reaction was so extreme – it’s just… these flowers.’

‘So I gathered.’ Florin held up an envelope, white with a black edging, like a death notice in a newspaper. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

She shook her head and swallowed down the stomach acid rising up in her throat again. A death announcement, what else could it be? Sigart was dead, and the Owner had found his own unique way of telling her. She sat down, pushing the flowers far away from her, and steeled herself for the sight of more horrific pictures. She opened the envelope.

A white card without any adornment. Beatrice read it through, and tried to make sense of it but failed.

Everything that is entirely probable is probably false .

N47º 26.195; E013º 12.523

You know everything, and yet you find nothing .

Speechless, Beatrice handed the card to Florin.

‘We’ve already phoned the flower delivery company while you – while you were outside,’ explained Stefan. ‘They said the order came from a young woman who spoke very poor German.’

‘We need a more detailed description.’ She averted her gaze from the flowers, staring into the distance. ‘Stefan, could you—’

‘Drive over there? Of course.’ On the way to the door, he waved his phone in the air. ‘Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.’

Beatrice looked back at the card. New coordinates. Was this Stage Four? A little extra help from the Owner so the game didn’t grind to a halt?

Florin pushed a glass of water over towards her. ‘Are you feeling better?’