Five (25 page)

We were too slow
, thought Beatrice, feeling the hate well up inside her, a feeling that had no place in her work. She balled her hands into fists and burrowed her fingernails into her palms; normally that helped.

‘Wenninger? Kaspary?’ Drasche’s muffled voice echoed out of Sigart’s flat. ‘Come here, but be careful!’

When they got there, he was kneeling next to the upturned table and pool of blood. With his gloved hand, he pointed at something light and oblong amidst the red. ‘The killer left us some body parts again.’

‘What is it?’ They leant forwards towards Drasche.

‘Except this time he didn’t package them up for us. Do you see?’ He turned the oblong shapes around carefully.

Fingers. Beatrice went cold as she thought of Sigart’s screams.
Stop it
, he had yelled, his voice racked with pain and fear.

‘The little finger and ring finger of the left hand,’ Drasche clarified. ‘They must have been cut off at the same time, possibly hacked off, because the wound is sharp and the bone was severed too, I think.’ He put the fingers into one of his evidence bags and held it out towards Beatrice.

She took it, noticing a detail that turned her suspicion into certainty. ‘They’re Sigart’s fingers, for sure.’

Drasche’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline. ‘And you know that how?’

‘I recognise the burn scars.’

They closed off the street, called the inhabitants out of the surrounding houses and questioned them about a stranger who had entered building number 33 between eight and half-past that evening. Maybe a little earlier. But no one had seen anything.

Perhaps a parcel carrier, a policeman, a pizza delivery boy?

No.

They worked until long after midnight, receiving a steady supply of updates on Drasche’s discoveries: the footprints in the stairwell were a size 45, while Sigart was a size 43. The blood in the flat couldn’t just stem from the severed fingers, as the fan-shaped patterns on the walls suggested injury to a large blood vessel. ‘At a height of around one hundred and sixty centimetres from the floor, it was probably Sigart’s carotid artery. Or the other man’s, but if that were the case he wouldn’t have been able to get away.’ It was clear from Drasche’s expression that he hadn’t seriously considered that possibility, but wanted to state it nonetheless. ‘I’ll be able to tell you relatively soon whether the blood comes from two different people or just one.’

Finally, in a dark corner next to the cellar exit, Ebner found Sigart’s mobile, smeared with blood. He had clearly been trying to cling onto the connection with Beatrice. That night, the thought haunted her into her sleep.

It happened the next morning, just after she had brushed her teeth, and without any warning. Beatrice huddled on the floor and tried not to lose consciousness, opening and closing her fingers to bring the feeling back, forcing away the image of Sigart’s severed fingers as she did so. That would only make it all worse.

She hadn’t had a panic attack this bad in years, and even though she knew what was happening to her, the thought remained that – this time – it could be something serious.

A heart attack, cardiac arrest, sudden death. She gasped for air, trying to bring her pulse back under control with the strength of willpower alone. She followed the leapfrogging of her heartbeat with a mixture of amusement and despair.

Breathe. Breathe. Think about something else
.

Back then, the psychologist had advised her to accept the fear, to greet it and let it go again.

Hello, fear
.

It was there, pounding inside her chest, her temples, her neck, her stomach, but it didn’t respond to Beatrice’s greeting. Didn’t reveal where it had come from so suddenly.

But Beatrice knew what had awoken it. She lay flat out on her back, closed her eyes and tried to stay perfectly still. It felt as though her lungs had withered to hard, walnut-sized clumps.

She pictured Evelyn’s face, her green eyes, her deep-red curly hair. That throaty voice. Everyone had always turned to look at her whenever she laughed.

I’m so sorry. So very sorry
.

The cool tiles of the bathroom floor were pressing hard against her shoulder blades. The image of the living Evelyn faded, the disfigured features of the dead Evelyn engulfing it with all its horrific force. Beatrice tore her eyes open, concentrating on the bathroom ceiling, the dusty milk-glass lamp directly above her head.

She had to get up; there was so much to do. They had to find Sigart.

His corpse, you mean
.

She managed to silence the inner voice by humming ‘I’m Walking on Sunshine’, a song that left no room for panic.
Ten to fifteen minutes
, she thought. It had never lasted any longer than that.
You’ll make it. Of course you will
.

‘Could you please tell me what on earth is wrong with you?’ They could probably hear Hoffmann’s voice even on the floor above, word for word. ‘Did you go shopping, get a manicure? Do you realise we have a case here that’s more important than your fingernails?’

Beatrice waited until she was sure she could keep her voice steady. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but—’

‘No buts!’ yelled Hoffmann. ‘Four dead bodies in one single week! Nothing else is important right now – you don’t have a private life!’

Four? Had Sigart’s body already been found?

‘And then on top of all that you go and disobey my orders. There’ll be consequences, Kaspary, you mark my words!’

There was no doubt what he was referring to. She looked Hoffmann in the eyes, those silt-coloured, murky-puddle eyes, and waited to see if there was more. When he just shook his head silently, she left him standing there and walked past him to the office, where Florin appeared at the door with a vexed expression.

‘There are three bodies, not four.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said softly. ‘Just forget it.’

‘I can’t. Sorry.’ Florin pressed past her. She hung her bag over the back of the chair and turned the computer on. His voice filtered in from the hallway, pointedly calm, but as sharp as splintered glass.

‘It’s not very helpful when you demotivate us for an entire day because of a twenty-minute late start. We’re all pushing ourselves to the limit here, so I would be very grateful if you could recognise that and not put on additional pressure.’

‘Well, what kind of pressure do you think I’ll be under if we can’t show any results? You must realise that, Florin.’ Hoffmann’s voice now had the chummy, conspiratorial undertone that irked Beatrice so much. Not that he had ever used it with her – heaven forbid.

‘I know you’re fond of Kaspary,’ Hoffmann continued, now considerably quieter. ‘But recently she’s seemed very jittery and distracted, and that’s just not acceptable in a case like this. Kossar thinks she made contact with the killer without waiting for his advice.’ Hoffmann raised his voice again. ‘She’s blatantly disregarding my orders, and if she thinks she’s going to get away with it—’

‘She discussed making contact with the Owner with me. We had to act, and Kossar takes too long with things. If we’ve overstepped the mark, then you’ll have to hold both of us responsible.’

Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to suppress the protest that was trying to force its way out of her.

‘Is that so?’ The rage had drained away from Hoffmann’s voice. ‘Then you should have told me that before, Florin.’

‘You’re right. But I can assure you it was a clever move on Kaspary’s part. The Owner has already responded. You won’t find an investigator better than her, I can promise you that.’

‘Oh, come on. She has her qualities, no question of that, and she’s been successful on a couple of cases, but … I’m wondering whether I should partner you with someone else, someone without acute personal problems, because they seem to be consuming all her energies right now.’

Beatrice stared at the login screen on her computer. It was only once her jaw began to ache that she realised she was grinding her teeth. If Hoffmann thought he could sideline her he was mistaken, but she should have realised he would try.

‘No, absolutely not,’ she heard Florin say with a certainty that left no room for politeness. ‘That would be a big mistake. I don’t have the time or the energy to explain the case to another colleague, and besides—’

‘Oh, come on. Not the same old story about her oh-so-wonderful powers of deduction.’

‘You know full well I’m right.’ Florin had lowered his voice again. ‘Think back to the brewery murder. Or the two dead women on the train tracks. She was always the first one to put the pieces together.’

A dismissive click of the tongue, quite clearly from Hoffmann. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little.’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Fine, have it your way. But I want to start seeing results, not just a steadily growing number of murder victims. I’m serious, Wenninger.’

‘You know full well that no one can force these things. Neither you, nor I, nor Beatrice Kaspary.’

Hoffmann snorted. ‘Does the girl know how much you stick up for her? People will start getting ideas, you know.’

‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get back to work now.’

‘Right then, good luck.’ Was that an ironic undertone in his voice?

Footsteps in the corridor betrayed Florin’s return. Beatrice hastily typed her password and didn’t look up from the screen even when he stormed into the room and sank down into his chair.

She could feel him looking at her.

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that,’ he said.

She looked up, tried to smile and failed when she saw his serious expression. ‘Thank you. You know it makes me uncomfortable when you stick your neck out for me like that, right?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s the same way I feel when you send text messages to serial killers behind my back. But you were right about the time pressure. Waiting won’t get us anywhere.’

She rested her head in her hands. ‘I’m just worried that Hoffmann won’t buy the thing about my powers of deduction … or perhaps I should say former powers. I mean, not even I do.’

‘Well, you should. I wasn’t making it up, Bea, you’ve always been the one to have the flash of inspiration in the end.’

‘That’s teamwork. I was the first one to see it, that’s all. You might have had the same thought two hours later.’

‘Or two weeks later. You know, any other boss would be happy to have you.’ He shook his head. ‘Do me a favour and don’t let Hoffmann wind you up. Or bring you down. I’ll try to keep him away from you.’

She nodded silently, wondering how she was going to manage to concentrate on her work – she would have to ignore not just Hoffmann, but also Achim, her memories of Evelyn, this morning’s panic attack and her bad conscience regarding the children.

Hoffmann may be a bastard, but he’s right: I’ve got no end of personal problems. They’re like a millstone around my neck
.

She pulled the files in front of her. On the top lay a note from Stefan, who had worked until four in the morning.
I’ll be back in the office by ten. Goodnight
, he had written.

There was also a preliminary written assessment from Drasche, who described the loss of blood indicated by the traces in the flat as potentially life-threatening, adding that, in all probability, Sigart was already dead.

That was very bad news. But in spite of it, for the first time that day Beatrice felt as though she had solid ground beneath her feet again. She worked well with facts, even if they were unwelcome ones.

A canine unit had been called out the previous evening and had searched the area surrounding the building in Theodebertstrasse, but they hadn’t been able to pick up any scent beyond the spot where the trail of blood stopped.

The times between the victims’ disappearances and their deaths varied. Why?

With Nora Papenberg, it had been just over four days. With Herbert Liebscher, at least a week, if they assumed he was already in the grip of his kidnapper the first time he didn’t turn up to class. Christoph Beil had lived just another three days.

If Sigart hadn’t already bled to death or had his throat cut by the Owner, how much time did they have left to find him?

Realising that she was chewing on her pen, she pulled it from her mouth. The Owner had done things differently this time: instead of luring his victim away with a phone call, he had made a personal visit. Why? Had Sigart not answered the phone?

And why such brute force at the scene? Beatrice leant back and closed her eyes, trying to visualise the situation.

The Owner rings the doorbell, perhaps disguised as a deliveryman. Or Sigart knows him, and opens up. Do they talk to one another? Maybe the killer tries to drag his victim away immediately, but Sigart manages to make the phone call. That’s why the Owner attacks there and then, severely injuring him, and drags him out of the house.

‘Florin?’

‘Yes?’

‘We have to speak to Sigart’s therapist.’

Dr Anja Maly gave up her lunch break to speak to them. She had sounded genuinely aghast on the phone when Beatrice informed her that Bernd Sigart had gone missing.

‘I’m very concerned,’ she said, closing the door of the consultation room behind her. ‘I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Herr Sigart may be a danger to himself.’

‘That’s the least of our worries right now,’ replied Florin. ‘It looks like he’s become the victim of a crime, and that’s why we need to ask you if he mentioned anyone during his sessions – any friends or acquaintances.’

‘The last time we saw him he was planning to release you from your confidentiality clause,’ Beatrice added. ‘There’s a chance that he’s still alive, and we’re using all the means we can to find him, but we need some leads to go on. Can you give us any?’

They could see from Anja Maly’s face that she was deep in thought. ‘He told me about your visit and said it was connected to investigations for a murder case.’ She pointed towards a sand-coloured sofa and waited for them to take a seat before she herself sat down. ‘My God, the poor man. I presume you know his history? He comes to me once or twice a week, and we’re trying to work on what happened, to find a way for him to accept it as part of his life – but I have to admit we’re making very slow progress.’ She clasped her hands around her knees and shook her head. ‘And now he’s a victim again. It’s unbelievably tragic.’