Ursula Archer - Five

Another ‘if’. She couldn’t bear to hear any more.

‘Liebscher was still talking to Estermann, using all his usual teacher’s tricks, but he was just running up against a brick wall. While he was talking, he lit a cigarette. He told me later at least a hundred times how much he regretted that afterwards. He was concentrating only on Estermann, he said. Beil, on the other hand, realised at once how dry the forest and surrounding area were. He tore the cigarette from Liebscher’s hand and threw it on the ground to stamp it out.’

Beatrice guessed what had happened. ‘On the spot where Miriam had emptied out the schnapps?’

‘According to what they all said, yes. When I held the glass of acid to his lips, Estermann cried out that he was completely innocent. After all, Liebscher was the one who had lit the cigarette, and Beil had caused the fire. Until the very end, he was convinced I was doing him an injustice.’

Because he hadn’t meant for that to happen, at least. Beatrice felt sick, from Sigart’s story, from her own fear, and from the images of charred and corroded corpses she was picturing in her mind. ‘My colleagues’ reports made no mention of fire accelerants. But alcohol is one.’

Sigart shrugged. ‘And that surprises you? It must be obvious to you by now that the police weren’t exactly thorough in their investigations.’

Something threatening flashed up between his words, something that applied directly to Beatrice. ‘So did none of them try to put out the fire?’ she asked hastily, trying to change the subject.

‘The well wasn’t in use any more. There wasn’t a bucket they could have drawn up. They tried to put out the flames with their jackets, but that just wasted valuable time. It must have got very hot very quickly, and the flames were so close to the well that no one dared to go after the key. Apparently Melanie tried, but Beil pulled her away with him.’

The torchlight was now dancing over the wooden shed surrounding the well again, which someone must have rebuilt after the fire. Presumably Sigart himself. She looked into his face; it was wet with sweat and tears, but showed relief at the same time.

‘Why didn’t you content yourself with just killing Estermann?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He waited, only continuing when she shook her head. ‘After all, you read the file. The call to the emergency services was made by one of the two farmers whose farms burnt down that night. Before and after that – nothing.’

For a moment, it seemed as though Sigart was about to break down; he lost control of his facial muscles, but then gathered his composure again after a shaky breath. ‘They knew who had been trapped up there amidst the flames. But not a single one of the group reported the fire. Not even anonymously. Not a single one.’

There was nothing that could be said in response to that. Silently, she wondered what would have happened if Nora had informed the police as she had promised, if Liebscher had been less worried about his job, if Beil had been less worried about his marriage. If…

‘But Melanie,’ she said. ‘Why did she keep quiet? Was she so sure that Nora would get help? I mean, Nora didn’t even know about the fire.’

She thought back to the moment when she had let the photos fall, remembering Melanie’s horror.

‘She struggled out of Beil’s grip again because she couldn’t bear the screams from the cabin. She wanted to go back and warn the neighbours, but Beil and Estermann wouldn’t let her. That’s how Liebscher told it. Melanie was screaming like crazy, he said, and Estermann slapped her; then Beil was trying to persuade her to leave and practically carried her down the hill.’ With his bandaged hand, Sigart stroked the barrel of the gun. ‘I don’t know exactly what they did with her then. Presumably Beil told her they could never see each other again if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. And Estermann’s threats would have been a lot less subtle than that. But those are only my presumptions.’

Melanie, torn between her love for Beil and her con science. It was entirely possible that Estermann had turned up at that rehearsal for the Mozarteum summer concert, thought Beatrice.

‘Why did you cut Liebscher up into pieces?’ she whispered. ‘Surely not just because it was his cigarette?’

A brief laugh. ‘No. But you see – the others at least felt guilty enough to feel incapable of going caching any more. Or let’s call it a fear of being discovered. Either way, none of the others were still active when I compared the entries from the logbook with the profiles on the website. But Liebscher was. So because those cursed little containers were clearly so important to him, I thought it was only logical that he ended up in them.’

The arm with which Beatrice was holding the torch was slowly going numb. ‘And what about the parts that didn’t fit in the caches? Legs, arms, torso?’

Sigart’s lips were parted by something which was almost a smile. ‘Burnt,’ he murmured.

Of course. Every one of Sigart’s actions told the story they were rooted in; not a single decision had been made at random.

The torch in Beatrice’s hand trembled, painting loops of light in the forest. If he was finished telling his story, then it was now time for what he had referred to as ‘the end’. Straining her ears, she listened into the night. No engine sounds, no sirens. It seemed that the text message Sigart had sent from her phone hadn’t aroused Florin’s suspicions.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound confident. ‘I think I can just about follow the steps you took. But I don’t fit into the pattern. I wasn’t there that day, I had nothing to do with the case.’ Let me go were the unspoken words hanging in the air.

His silence gave her hope, but at the same time haunted her with fear. Was he contemplating sparing her? Before, in the cellar, he had told her she had a small chance of surviving. At least that means he’s not going to shoot me point blank in the head . Beatrice tried to drag her gaze away from the gun and look at Sigart instead.

When he finally spoke, it was in such a quiet voice that it was almost drowned out by the whisper of the trees. ‘Four years,’ he said. ‘That’s how long I asked myself whether I could have locked the cabin myself. By accident, because my thoughts were already with the pregnant mare. The fact that I wasn’t here at the decisive moment to tackle Estermann, that will haunt me as long as I live.’ He looked at Beatrice thoughtfully. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to ask yourself, for four long years, whether you set the trap that your wife and children burnt to death in with your own hands? Every single day, I tried to remember each movement I made from the moment I left the house to when I got into the car. Do you know what it’s like to never come to a clear conclusion? Sometimes the cabin door was open in my memory, other times it was closed, the keys were in my hand – or were they in my bag after all? Every day, endlessly. I could have spared myself all that if the police had just been more thorough in their investigations.’

Behind her, Sigart took a step closer. Beatrice expected to feel the barrel of the gun at her head or against her neck, but all she could feel was his breath. ‘I found the cache in the well. So why didn’t your colleagues? I questioned the suspects, uncovered the circumstances leading to the deaths of my wife and children – I did everything that should have been the police’s job.’

She couldn’t help but retort, even though she wasn’t sure if it was wise. ‘But by using methods that we would never employ.’

‘You have other ones, better ones. A whole infrastructure of technicians and labs, with all the equipment that money can buy.’ He placed his mutilated, bandaged hand on her shoulder, making her jump.