Ursula Archer - Five

‘Hello, Beatrice.’

She stopped silently in front of him, her arms folded. He tried to smile, but it was a less than convincing attempt. Seemingly aware of that, he looked down at the ground.

He wants something from me , thought Beatrice, feeling the muscles in her shoulders start to relax. Otherwise he would just come straight out with it .

‘You’ve got a lot on at the moment, haven’t you?’ An understanding tone. It sounded almost genuine.

‘Yes. We’re under a lot of pressure.’

‘I understand. Well, this is the thing… I know the children like being at your mother’s, and that she likes having them around, but…’ He was clearly finding it difficult to maintain a calm tone; Beatrice was very familiar with the slight redness creeping up his neck.

‘But I see them so rarely. And I’d love to have them with me if you don’t have time. Even at short notice. It would help us both.’

At this moment, here and now, Achim really meant it; there was no question of that. But she still couldn’t let him off that lightly. ‘For you that would be like a double jackpot, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’d get more time with the children, and each time it happened you’d get the opportunity to use my job against me.’

He raised his hands. ‘This isn’t about us and our issues – it’s about Mina and Jakob. I know they’d like to spend more time with me.’

She felt a sharp stabbing sensation in her gut. ‘Did they say that?’

‘Mina did. Does that bother you so much? That they miss their father?’

Yes. No. Of course not . ‘Of course not. What bothers me is that you speak badly of me to them. It was only the other day that the expression “offloading them” came up when I took them to Mooserhof.’ Realising that her tone had become sharper, she tried to calm herself down. ‘Mina certainly didn’t learn the expression from me, at least not in this context.’

It was clear that a retort was on Achim’s tongue, but with some effort he managed to suppress it. He pulled an open pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket, but on looking at her he seemed to think twice and put it back. ‘It’s possible that I blurted it out once, but that’s only because I haven’t yet got used to everything being… different. And I didn’t want things to be like this. I still don’t.’

Sure. So everything’s my fault then , thought Beatrice. ‘It’s an adjustment for all of us. Listen, I have to get back to work – but you’re right. The next time I need some help, I’ll call you first.’

He smiled, with genuine happiness this time. Beatrice would have smiled back had there not been a glimmer of triumph in his eyes.

‘Have a good day, Achim.’ She held her hand out, which clearly surprised him, but he grasped it nonetheless.

‘I mean it, Beatrice, I want us to get on better again.’

‘Okay.’ She pulled her hand back. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘The woman who ordered the flowers was brunette and slightly overweight. She paid in cash.’ Stefan was reading from his notepad. ‘The saleswoman couldn’t place her accent. Turkish or Hungarian, she said.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised, they’re practically the same,’ remarked Florin sarcastically, leaning back in his chair. For the first time since they’d started working on the case, he seemed anxious.

Beatrice was only half-listening to the conversation. Her enquiry with the provider hadn’t revealed any new information. Since the text message that morning, the Owner had kept the mobile turned off.

Sensing that the ball was in her court again, Beatrice opened a new message on her mobile.

Thanks for the flowers, she typed. I’d like to compliment you on your attention to detail and ask you to answer just one simple question for me: How is Bernd Sigart?

Would the Owner think the message was ridiculous? Probably. But she wasn’t in the mood for playing it safe with subtle hints any more.

For a moment, she contemplated mentioning the coordinates and the bridge, but decided against it. She didn’t want to distract from the main thrust of the message.

She sent it and went off to fetch a bottle of iced tea from the vending machine. With the drink in her hand, she looked for a peaceful spot outside. The tea was unbearably sweet and so cold that pain shot to her temples with every sip.

She needed to take a break for half an hour, so she drank slowly. She wanted to give him time – if he hadn’t connected to the network so far, then he might do so soon. Then she could respond immediately. The exchange of messages pleased him; that was quite obvious. He enjoyed the innuendos, the surprises he gave her. He would want to see her reaction.

But it wasn’t until three the next morning that the strains of ‘Message in a Bottle’ announced the arrival of a new message. Wide awake from one second to the next, and with her heart pounding at a worrying speed, Beatrice sat bolt upright.

You want to know whether Sigart is alive? He is. So far. But he’s in a bad way. If you’re that fond of him, I’ll keep him for you until the end. I hope you’ll appreciate it.

Until the end . If ever a piece of information was a double-edged sword, then it was this. So there was still a chance of saving Sigart, but at the same time the Owner was saying he wasn’t yet done with the murders. Stage Four was still unsolved, of course, the puzzle they had refused help with. Stefan was continuing with the research, but even if he were to find something, and something quite definite, they wouldn’t question the key figure, but instead have him watched around the clock. If the Owner was lurking somewhere in the vicinity of his next potential victim, waiting for the police to show up, then they might have a chance of catching him.

Would there be a Stage Five?

She read through the message again.

The next thing to find its way into Beatrice’s consciousness was the peeping of the alarm clock. She had managed to go back to sleep after all, her mobile phone clasped tightly in her hand like a talisman.

Kossar didn’t agree with her theory. ‘Keeping him until the end could also mean keeping his corpse until the end. Don’t let him lull you into a false sense of security.’ The gaze behind the slender lenses was full of the psychologist sensitivity Beatrice had found so abhorrent in her lecturers at university. ‘Remember the state of the flat – he lost an awful amount of blood, and I’m sure he carried on bleeding after he was bundled into the car.’

He could spare her the know-it-all tone. Beatrice had no intention of arguing with him. She waited until she was alone with Florin in the office, then called Drasche.

‘Without medical care it would be unlikely he’d survive,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Maybe he didn’t die immediately, but I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.’

‘Was all of the blood his, then?’

‘Yes.’ The answer came without hesitation. ‘AB negative, and you don’t get much rarer than that. The finger and all the traces of blood originate from the same person. I compared my lab data with Sigart’s medical file, and all the parameters match. His finger, his blood. No traces of anyone else’s blood. The perpetrator clearly didn’t sustain any injuries.’

‘Thank you,’ said Beatrice quietly. The small amount of optimism that had visited her in the early hours of the morning had trickled away at Drasche’s words. For the rest of the day, she hoped for a message from the Owner, for another picture message showing that he had answered truthfully, that Sigart was alive. But her mobile remained silent.

According to her kitchen clock, it was just before midnight. When the phone rang, Beatrice was standing in front of the fridge in her bathrobe, her hair still wet.