Ursula Archer - Five

‘You’re right,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s already taken far too long. But now we’re nearly there, I’m sure of it. And this weekend Papa will come and get you, and you might be going sailing if the weather’s nice.’

The idea seemed to appeal to Mina, as she summoned up a nod and a half-smile. ‘That might be nice. So when are we going to do something together?’

‘Once the case is over I’ll take some time off and you guys can pick what we do. Is that a deal?’

‘Anything we want? And we can do it?’

‘If I can afford it and it’s not illegal, then yes.’ She pulled Mina close to her, feeling resistance at first, then little arms around her waist.

‘I don’t think it is,’ mumbled her daughter from down by her stomach.

Richard, in a gracious mood today, found some reassuring words once Mina was out of earshot. ‘She’s perfectly happy here, don’t worry. And if you were to come more often in the evening, instead of just phoning, then that would be—’

He broke off as her mobile beeped loudly.

‘Shit.’ Beatrice rummaged around in her handbag, found the phone and muted the sound. A picture message. At first, all she saw was the number – the number – then the picture appeared. Beatrice heard herself gasp for air.

‘What is it?’ Quickly, too quickly, Richard was beside her, catching a glimpse of the screen. ‘Oh, God, Bea, what is that? A person? Or… yes, look, that’s an arm! Horrific. It looks like something in an abattoir.’

She freed herself from his grasp on her wrist as he tried to get a closer look at the photo.

An abattoir .

‘I have to go.’ She grabbed her bag and rushed out to the car without saying goodbye. She turned the engine on, the phone slipping from her fingers. She picked it up and dialled Florin’s number. ‘Are you still in the office?’

‘No, I just got home, why? Should I—’

‘I’ll come to your place, see you in fifteen minutes.’

A severed middle finger, swimming in blood, next to the mutilated hand. A fresh wound, a bloody stump. The amputation cuts on the ring and little fingers seemed to be inflamed rather than healing. The thumb and index finger, the only ones still attached, were crooked towards each other like the two halves of a pair of crab scissors. Or the tips of a croissant. Beatrice took a deep breath, in and out.

Enlarged on Florin’s laptop, the picture showed details that hadn’t been visible on the small screen of her mobile phone. There was a newspaper, partially saturated with red, and when they zoomed in today’s date was visible on it.

‘Sigart’s still alive.’ It was hard to tell whether Florin saw that as good news or bad. Without tearing his gaze away from the photo, he scrolled from the top to the bottom and from left to right. ‘It’s a wooden table, and the background is quite dark. The photo was taken with flash.’ He pointed at a light reflection in the pool of blood. ‘The killer put something underneath, it looks like a white plastic tablecloth. He’s doing everything he can to maximise the impact of the picture.’

Although it could have been even more horrific if Sigart’s face had been in the shot. But, like last time, the picture ended at his shoulder.

Was that because Sigart had actually long since died of blood loss? ‘Can you zoom in on the wound?’

On closer inspection, Beatrice’s theory didn’t stand: the flesh where the fingers had been severed was pink, not sallow. The hand was pale, but not grey. And it was definitely Sigart’s hand, unless another of the Owner’s victims also had severe burn scars.

Florin reached for his phone and instructed Stefan to find out where the mobile was at the time the message was sent. He forwarded the photo, and then sent it to Vogt and Drasche. All the usual actions that had so far brought them zero results.

‘Why isn’t he showing us Sigart’s face?’ murmured Beatrice.

‘I’d prefer to know why he’s sending us these pictures at all. No, I’ll be more specific – why is he sending them to you ?’

‘Because it’s possible he thinks we have something in common.’ The thought felt like ice on the back of her neck. ‘Because he thinks I’m a perpetrator too, in some ways.’

Until now, she had kept quiet about the text the Owner had sent to accompany the picture, as if she were concealing a flaw she didn’t want Florin to see. She pulled her phone back out of her bag and read the words to herself once more, silently, before uttering them out loud.

‘“Omission to do what is necessary, Seals a commission to a blank of danger.”’

Now her own wound was almost laid bare. But Florin didn’t yet catch on.

‘He sent that with the picture? Is it Goethe again?’

‘No. Shakespeare. It doesn’t matter anyway. The important thing is what the Owner means by it. And he means me.’

Florin turned to face her, took her hand in his and held it tight. ‘He means you and Evelyn?’

‘I don’t know who else he could mean.’

She hasn’t noticed that dark has fallen outside. David is still lying on top of her, his mouth buried in the curve of her neck. He’s humming or murmuring; she can feel the vibration on her skin. A moment of complete and utter contentment. Thank you , she mouths silently, feeling as though she’s about to laugh. Or cry.

‘Beabeabea,’ whispers David, rolling off her and pulling her with him, holding her head close to his shoulder. ‘Let’s stay here for ever. Just the two of us. We can shut the world out and make our own.’

She lays an arm across his chest, breathing in his scent, never having smelt anything better. ‘For ever isn’t long enough.’

‘You’re right. Beautiful, clever Bea.’ David’s kisses on her closed eyelids are so gentle, just a whisper, not enough. She seeks his lips with her own, sinking into them.

‘I’d fetch us something to drink, but for that I’d have to let you go,’ he says when they surface again.

‘Dying of thirst isn’t a good idea,’ answers Bea, nudging his shoulder affectionately. She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he stands up and crosses the room, naked and beautiful, much too beautiful for her. She’s always thought that, keeping to friendly kisses on the cheek whenever they met and said goodbye, only wondering occasionally in her daydreams what it would be like. What it could be like. With him.

Until last night. When his hand had suddenly rested on hers. She had spread out her fingers, and his plunged into the space between, tearing the blue-and-white checked paper tablecloth at the pizzeria.

‘He’s been crazy about you for months, sweetie.’ Evelyn had followed her to the bathroom, of course, pulling silly faces as she touched up her mascara. ‘Was I right or was I right?’

‘Okay, okay!’ Something inside Beatrice had jumped around in excitement, and if she wasn’t careful she would join in, like a little kid who had just been given a lolly. ‘And you really think… I mean, you reckon it’s not just a whim?’

‘This is David we’re talking about, not me,’ Evelyn had grinned, ruffling Beatrice’s hair and then pulling a hairbrush out of her bag. ‘He’s just a tad too respectable to be my type, otherwise you’d have competition.’ She plucked out a few long, deep red hairs that were entangled in the brush.

‘Here you go, sweetheart, make yourself pretty for him. And don’t feel like you’re lucky to be with him, okay? If anything it’s the other way around. You’re gold, don’t forget that.’

Beatrice hums the Spandau Ballet hit to herself as David walks back from the kitchen. He has a tea towel over his arm like a waiter, and he’s carrying a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and two mismatched water tumblers.