Ursula Archer - Five

‘Did you give him the names of Melanie’s flatmates?’

‘Of course.’ She took a sip of her coffee.

Beatrice decided to push further. ‘The case we’re working on is exceptionally challenging. I hope you understand. For that reason, communication between the investigators is not as thorough as we’d ideally like it to be.’ Was that the sound of a car stopping in front of the house? Hopefully. ‘I do know, however, that Florin Wenninger showed you these photographs.’ She pulled the photographs of the Owner’s victims out of her bag. ‘I also know that you don’t believe you know any of these people. But sometimes a day’s distance can help, and maybe something might occur to you, even if it’s about only one of the faces.’ She laid the photos in front of Carolin Dalamasso on the table. The unsolvable puzzle.

‘We’re convinced that these people had some connection to your daughter, but we just don’t know what kind. So far no one has been able to help us with this. That’s why I simply have to ask you once again. I hope you don’t mind.’

With a helpless shrug, Carolin leant forwards to look at the photos. ‘And these people have all been murdered?’

‘Four of them, definitely. One of them could still have a chance.’

‘My God.’ She picked up the photo of Nora Papenberg and stared at it intently. Then she shook her head and put it back down on the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re protecting Melanie,’ she said softly. ‘I just can’t understand why anyone would want to harm her. Her, of all people.’

‘We’re doing everything we can to find out. Absolutely everything.’

Beil’s photo, Sigart’s photo. Always the same shake of the head.

‘Does Melanie still play the flute, by the way?’ asked Beatrice.

‘Yes. But not like she used to. The sounds she produces now are a long way from being music, they—’ The woman paused and listened. Beatrice heard it too, a muffled whirr, then a metallic, rushing sound. The lift.

‘I think that’s them now.’ Carolin stood up. ‘You can’t question Melanie, you know that, right? She’s stable right now and the doctors are hopeful that her condition will improve. It was much worse, you see, far worse, and—’

The doorbell rang. The woman went into the hallway and opened the door. Beatrice gathered the photos up. Her guilty conscience was making her feel sick, but she had to do what she had come to do.

She heard the police officer’s affable voice. ‘Everything’s fine, no incidents. Have a nice evening!’

Beatrice knew the two policemen would now take up their position in their car in front of the building, nourish themselves on hot dogs and Red Bull, and wait for the night shift to come and relieve them. They were the good guys, and Beatrice envied them.

A girl with a chubby face appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as she saw Beatrice. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her eyes spoke of confusion, an impression that her lopsided glasses only intensified.

‘We have a visitor, Melanie.’ Carolin Dalamasso grasped her daughter gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards her. ‘This is Frau Kaspary.’

Beatrice pulled her bag over her shoulder and stood up, the photos in her left hand. The girl’s gaze flitted over to her, away, then back again. Although she’s not really a girl , thought Beatrice, in a few years she’ll be thirty . ‘It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.’ She stretched her right hand out, but Melanie didn’t take it. She didn’t say a word.

‘I think I’d better go then, but it’s possible that I might come by…’ Now . Beatrice unclasped the fingers of her left hand. Felt the photos slip away from her, heard the soft clatter as they fell to the floor.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

She bent over. The photos of Papenberg, Estermann and Beil were lying face up. The others had turned rear-side up as they fell. Beatrice acted as though she was trying to collect them together, but Carolin Dalamasso must have realised by now that she was taking too much time over it, that she was hoping—

A gasp. Beatrice looked up, directly into Melanie’s face, which was distorted into a grimace. She stared at the pictures and let out a howl, a long-drawn-out noise, like an animal. Her glasses fell to the floor.

‘Get out!’ hissed her mother furiously.

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Out!’

Melanie’s howl transformed into something more high-pitched, something more shrill. She covered her face with both hands, and her mother had to stop her from banging her head against the door frame.

‘I’ll be making a complaint about you!’

Beatrice closed her eyes and nodded wearily. ‘Contact Walter Hoffmann. He’ll welcome you with open arms, believe me.’

She practically ran from the apartment, the building, down the street, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea.

There was no doubt that Melanie had recognised someone, and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

But there was nothing Beatrice could do with this information. She sat in her car, the photos still in her hand, the taste of bile forcing its way upwards into her mouth. She had no idea which of the photos had unleashed Melanie’s reaction. Had it been one of them, several of them, all of them? One thing had become completely clear: the Owner wasn’t killing his victims at random. The connection between them, however, was still enshrouded in darkness. And there was little hope that Melanie would be able to offer any explanations.

‘I might well have done the same thing.’ Florin was trying to comfort her, but she knew him better than that. From the very start he had only wanted to protect Melanie, not question her. His work had never resulted in a screaming girl. Or the threat of suspension.

‘Shinigami,’ she said, without responding to his words. ‘When is Stefan planning to come with the information?’

‘Any moment now. The site’s admin team is being very cooperative, he said. They’re sending us the email address the Owner used for his registration, as well as the IP addresses he logged on with. If it takes a while then that’s because the last login was over three months ago. The geocaching website gets a huge amount of traffic.’

Perhaps , thought Beatrice, this is a trace the Owner forgot to erase. We’re due a bit of luck .

Stefan indeed appeared just five minutes later, beaming contentedly: ‘The email address is gerold.wiesner@gmx.net. I found a Gerold Wiesner registered in Salzburg – he’s fifty-eight years old and works on the national Bundesbahn railways. Looks like we’ve hit the bull’s eye, people!’

They were tentatively hopeful, but even that was short-lived. Beatrice knew only too well how simple it was to open an account with Geocaching.com. And creating a fake email address wasn’t exactly tricky either. They went through the police records and soon found the information they needed: whoever had concealed himself behind the nickname ‘Shinigami’, it certainly wasn’t Bundesbahn employee Gerold Wiesner. On 25 February this year, he had fallen onto a power line while carrying out maintenance work at the central train station, just a few months before his retirement was due to begin. He was survived by a wife and two grown-up daughters.

25 February. Shinigami had registered on Geocaching.com on the 26th. He must have been sitting in front of the computer, the newspaper open next to him, and seen the report. He hadn’t even needed to make up a fake name. So simple. So unremarkable.

Her hope now rested on the IP address, but the Owner hadn’t shown any weakness there either: the computer he had used was in an upmarket Salzburg hotel, available for guests to use around the clock without having to pay.