Five

Chapter 3

N47º 48.022 E013º 10.910

The waterfall crashed down a good twenty metres into the depths, colliding with a shallow pebbled basin and resuming its path as a peaceful, level stream. At its highest point, next to one of the many old mills in the area, Florin, Beatrice and Stefan were leaning over the GPS device.

The task of translating ‘Theodebert’ into new coordinates had taken a matter of minutes. Finding the cache, however, would be more difficult, for the navigation device was pointing them towards the rocks around the waterfall.

‘It could be hidden inside the mill, but that would mean the results are very imprecise,’ pondered Stefan. They agreed to clamber down the path to the stream. Drasche stayed close to their heels, lugging along his forensic case and making no effort to conceal his bad mood. He regarded the fact that he was unable to drive his car right up to the location as a personal affront.

They were completely alone here in the forest. At the weekends, the mills and waterfall were popular day-trip destinations, but today they shared the surroundings only with the birds and insects.

The tumbling cascades of water looked even more impressive from below. Beatrice felt a deep sense of foreboding, sensing that the beautiful view was about to be drowned out by something else entirely.

‘A little bit further to the right.’ Stefan pointed to the crag. A steep little mound, around four metres in height, was huddled up against it, sparsely vegetated with shrubbery. ‘One of us should climb up. I reckon that’s the spot.’

Drasche peered upwards. ‘There’s only room for one of us up there, and that’s me. Give me the GPS.’ Ebner helped him clamber up, handed the navigation device and camera to him and waited for further instructions.

Once again, a rushing sound was providing the soundtrack to their search; even though it didn’t come from the autobahn this time, it was still equally pervasive. Beatrice wondered if there was some kind of pattern behind the Owner’s choices of location.

‘I’ve got it,’ she heard Drasche call. ‘It’s smaller than the others though.’ The cache was hidden in a crevice in the rock, concealed by hard-stemmed plants with nodular blooms. Drasche took some photos in situ and then made his slippery descent, holding the plastic box in his gloved hands.

This time, the container was barely bigger than a cigarette packet, its contents – pressed against the transparent lid and clearly defined – only just squeezed in. It was unmistakable: an ear, possibly two if they were laid on top of one another. ‘Fuck,’ exclaimed Drasche. ‘More body parts. Let’s just hope they’re not from a different victim. If only the genetic tests could be quicker—’

Beatrice’s mobile rang, interrupting Drasche mid-sentence. She pulled it out of her bag, surprised that she even had reception out here. The number was unknown. It wasn’t the school, in any case. Nor Achim.

‘Kaspary.’

‘I… I found your card. Your business card.’ It was a woman’s voice. Her words were rushing into one another; she sounded breathless.

‘Who is this?’

‘Beil. Vera Beil. You were in our garden on Sunday.’

‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Frau Beil?’

A trembling intake of breath. ‘Christoph has disappeared. Yesterday evening. He said he was just popping out, but he didn’t come back all night and… I can’t reach him on his mobile either.’

‘Right, I see.’

‘I’m really scared something’s happened to him.’ Her voice almost cracked. ‘He’s so reliable – he always lets me know if he’s going to be late.’

The connection was cutting out. ‘I’ll come over to see you, Frau Beil, okay?’ Beatrice hurried to speak. ‘It may take an hour or even a little bit more, but I’ll set off right now. Are you at home?’

‘Yes. Thank you…’

Beatrice hung up. ‘Beil’s disappeared. That was his wife. I’m heading over there now.’

‘I’ll come too,’ said Florin immediately. ‘Gerd, please investigate the container as quickly as you can. We need photos of the letters as soon as possible – I’m sure there’ll be some in there again.’

They didn’t speak much on the steep climb up to the mill. Beatrice kept thinking of the moment when she had showed Christoph Beil the photo. Her memory of the jolt that went through his body refused to go away.

If I had only kept pushing. If I had pinned him down right away. If…

She gave herself a mental rap on the fingers. The old what-if game won’t help; it just drives you crazy. The clock can’t be turned back. You can’t correct the past.

And if I could, I wouldn’t be where I am today, she thought.

‘He was acting strangely the whole of Sunday evening.’ The tablecloth beneath Vera Beil’s clasped hands was made of plastic. Brown and yellow flowers struggled against each other for dominance, smothering the dingy white background beneath.

‘When did that start? Only after we left?’

‘Yes. I asked him what was wrong, what he talked to you both about, but he said it was nothing important. He said you just had him mixed up with some witness.’ The woman’s gaze darkened. ‘I sensed that he wasn’t telling me the truth. Even though he never normally lies.’

‘I understand,’ said Florin. He had taken over the soothing, sympathetic role and was leaving it to Beatrice to ask the questions. ‘So our visit clearly unsettled him.’

‘Yes, you could put it like that.’

‘What did your husband do for the rest of Sunday? Did he meet anyone? Speak on the phone?’

Vera Beil thought for a moment, running her right index finger along the stem of one of the brown flowers. ‘No, he spent most of it in the bedroom, even though he had actually been planning to watch some crime film. Maybe he did speak to someone on the phone, I don’t know. But I do know that he slept badly – he got up at least four times in the night.’

‘And how was he yesterday? How long exactly has he been missing, did you say?’

‘Well, first he went to work, just like always, but he was back home again by one – he said he was feeling unwell. He lay down and slept a bit, but then at around half-six in the evening, he received a phone call and rushed off. Yes, I think that’s the best way of describing it. He literally ran to the car. He called out to me that he wouldn’t be long – but that was all he said.’

A phone call. Florin and Beatrice exchanged a quick glance, then she pulled the Papenberg photos out of her bag.

‘We’ll do whatever we can to find your husband quickly,’ she said. ‘For now, could you please look at these pictures for us and tell us whether you recognise the woman in them?’

Vera Beil took the tissue that Florin handed to her and wiped her eyes before turning her attention to the photos. ‘No. I don’t know her.’ She said it almost guiltily, as if she felt bad about not being able to be more helpful.

‘Are you completely sure?’

‘Yes. Please, find Christoph.’

It might have been easier if he hadn’t lied to us on Sunday, thought Beatrice grimly. But she kept quiet and was relieved when Florin spoke up.

‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he said. ‘And we’ll keep you posted, of course.’

Beatrice decided to have Beil’s phone calls looked into right away, to find out where the call which had upset him so much the previous evening had come from. It wasn’t improbable that it had come from a phone box in Maxglan. Or from a certain mobile phone with a prepaid card.

Until the response from the phone company came back, she hoped to be able to immerse herself in Drasche’s findings, assuming that he had already sent the pictures of the new messages. Another puzzle, Stage Four.

But Beatrice didn’t manage to find out, because there was someone waiting for her in front of the office. A tall, lanky man with curly hair and glasses that were a little too fashionable to be tasteful. When he saw her and Florin approaching, he jumped up from his chair and stretched his hand out.

‘Dr Peter Kossar, pleased to meet you. You must be Florin Wenninger, hello. And Beatrice Kaspary, am I right? I’ve heard about you – a quasi-colleague, one might say?’

Confused, she returned the firm pressure of his handshake. He didn’t break eye contact, and she noticed he had pronounced Peter the English way. ‘How do you mean, quasi?’ she asked.

‘Well, I heard you studied psychology.’

The penny dropped. ‘Are you the forensic psychologist we requested?’

It was as if the man considered blinking to be a weakness of some kind – Beatrice found the intensity with which he was gazing at her physically unpleasant.

‘Exactly. Your boss has filled me in on the key details of the case, and the fact that the perpetrator has made contact with you. That’s a highly important detail. I’ve already studied the text messages thoroughly, and I’ll soon be able to tell you how to respond to them.’

He walked into the office ahead of Beatrice. At last, his gaze had left her, fixing instead on the photos she had pinned up over her desk.

‘We will of course make copies of all the relevant files for you,’ said Florin. It was quite clear, at least to Beatrice, that he wanted to get rid of the guy as soon as possible.

‘Excellent.’

‘What happened to Dr Reichenau?’ enquired Beatrice. ‘Up until now we’ve always collaborated with him on occasions such as these, and – please don’t take this the wrong way – it always worked excellently.’

If Kossar was offended by her question, he didn’t let on. ‘My colleague is in the process of applying to be the head of an institute and is very busy right now. But I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that you spoke so highly of him.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Beatrice. ‘My method of working is different to Dr Reichenau’s. He gleans his knowledge predominantly from the written material available, whereas I find that the more closely intertwined I am with the investigations, the better I can assess the perpetrator.’

Just what they needed. Beatrice avoided making eye contact with Florin, but hoped he would say something before she blurted out the words that were poised on her tongue. You’re getting in the way.

‘That sounds very interesting.’ She knew Florin well enough to be able to detect the coldness behind his polite words. ‘But I’m sure you’ll want to catch up on the details of the case first.’ He reached for the telephone and pressed a button. ‘Stefan? Could you please put together all the important info on our Owner for Dr Kossar? Yes, a copy of the file. No, he’s a forensic psychologist, and I’ll send him over to you right now. Exactly. Thank you!’

‘Well,’ said Kossar, ignoring the subtle request for him to leave, ‘perhaps I should just tell you a little about myself so that you can get an idea of my qualifications.’ He straightened his glasses.

Translated, what he really meant was: So that you are appropriately impressed. Beatrice had studied long enough to be able to spot the traits of a narcissistic personality at first glance, and Kossar had them in abundance. While the psychologist pontificated about his additional qualifications and the fact that he had acquired them in the USA, Beatrice’s thoughts wandered back to Christoph Beil.

‘Impressive,’ she murmured, dialling the number of the mobile network provider the Owner was using. ‘Excuse me, I have to get back to work now,’ she explained to a visibly irritated Kossar, watching out of the corner of her eye as he finally got up and allowed himself to be escorted to the door by Florin.

The technical support assistant she got through to was the same one as the day before.

‘You’ve got a match,’ he explained. ‘The same prepaid card, registered to a network in Parsch. The number dialled was the exact one you mentioned, and the call lasted around three and a half minutes. From six twenty-four to six twenty-eight. After that, the mobile immediately went offline again.’

‘Thank you.’

Florin, who had been trying to reach Drasche while she was on the phone, looked at her with his eyes narrowed. ‘He phoned Beil, right?’

‘Yes. It’s the first time he’s made a call on Nora Papenberg’s mobile. We need a bugging authorisation.’

Lost in thought, she drew a circle around the notes she had made. Three and a half minutes. She would have given so much to know what was discussed in this short time period. And, even more importantly…

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about Christoph Beil,’ she said.

Florin frowned. ‘Me too. We’ll write up a missing persons report – perhaps we’ll get lucky.’

She rested her forehead in her hands. ‘The worst-case scenario is that the Owner has silenced him.’ And, to make matters worse, after dangling him under our noses like bait, like the promise of a solution to all the puzzles.

She sent a description of Beil to all stations in the area, along with the instruction to keep an eye out for his car. Florin carried out the necessary calls with a dark expression on his face. He didn’t say anything, but Beatrice was convinced he was harbouring the same fear she was: that they would see Beil again sooner than expected. Vacuum-packed in small portions.

That afternoon, they received news from the pathologist’s office that the two hands were a genetic match; they came from the same body. Whether the DNA matched that of Liebscher, the missing teacher, would only become clear in the next day or two, but the colleague whom Beatrice had managed to insult – Bechner, his name was Bechner, she had it fixed in her memory now – had managed to find a comb in Herbert Liebscher’s pigeonhole at the school, next to a tube of cough sweets and numerous packets of antacids.

Florin scanned through Bechner’s report. ‘It looks like Liebscher was… or is known amongst his colleagues as being friendly and conscientious. Not very sociable, but reliable. Although somewhat lacking when it comes to a sense of humour apparently. He teaches maths and physics.’

‘And there’s nothing about any recent changes in behaviour?’

‘No, nothing of the sort. He was planning a two-day trip with his class which was supposed to take place next week. The director said the last time he saw Liebscher he was annoyed about the fact that not everyone had paid yet, which meant he couldn’t book the bus.’ Florin lowered the piece of paper with a shrug.

‘Maybe he’s not our guy after all.’ Beatrice stretched her hand over the desk and Florin handed her the files, including three photos, one of which was a typical class picture. Twenty-six children aged around fourteen, Liebscher standing alongside them with a strained smile. A thin man with thinning hair. Another picture was a portrait shot, and a third had been taken while he was teaching. He was facing the class, a piece of chalk in his right hand, and with the left he was pointing at a functional equation on the blackboard.

Beatrice rummaged around in her desk drawer for a magnifying glass and looked at Liebscher’s hands. Was it possible to ascertain whether they were the same ones that had been found in the caches, tinged with blue?

She scanned the picture at the highest resolution and zoomed in on the section showing his hands, comparing what she saw with the photos of the shrink-wrapped dismembered ones. It was certainly possible that they were the same, but she couldn’t be sure. The hands in the picture were as unremarkable as the man they belonged to. She suppressed a sigh and tried to get through to Drasche again. This time, he picked up.

‘You’ll have your written report soon,’ he boomed, without a word of greeting. ‘It took longer because I had to use every damn method that’s ever been invented, but we still only have Papenberg’s fingerprints.’

‘On a note?’

‘Yep. Do you want to know about the ears? It might interest you.’ That was probably the closest Drasche would get to a friendly tone in this lifetime.

‘Are they from the same victim?’

‘They’re a matching pair, if that’s what you mean. We’ll need to wait on the genetic analysis to find out whether they were cut off from the same guy as the hands though.’ He inserted one of his typical pauses, indicating that he wanted to be asked for further details.

‘Okay.’ She decided to humour him. ‘Is there anything else of interest?’

‘Yes.’ Drasche cleared his throat and coughed. ‘They weren’t cut off with a saw, but a tool with two opposing blades.’ He stopped, giving the information time to seep deeply enough into Beatrice’s imagination to create a vague image. ‘My guess would be a pair of garden shears,’ he added.

All of a sudden, the image was crystal clear. Beatrice swallowed. ‘I see.’

‘That’s only half of the story. The ears weren’t vacuum-packed together, but individually. The pathologist will have to confirm it, of course, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t cut off at the same time. The left one looks much more decomposed than the right.’

Beatrice took a sharp intake of breath through her teeth.

‘You’ve guessed it, right? I think the right ear was cut off while the victim was still alive. One or two days before the left one, in any case.’

‘How wonderful. Okay, please send everything over. The photos, particularly the ones of the letters, and the others too.’

‘Will do.’ He hung up.

A pair of garden shears. Beatrice pictured the monstrosity with steel blades which Achim had always used to trim the boxwood hedge.

‘Are you not feeling well?’ The concern in Florin’s voice made her smile involuntarily.

‘I’m fine. It seems our Owner started to mutilate his victim while he was still alive. One of the ears was probably cut off before the man died.’

‘Shit,’ whispered Florin hoarsely.

‘Yep. Drasche is sending everything over now. Including the clues about the next stage.’ Realising that she had started to arrange the pens on her desk so they were all parallel and aligned, she gave them an impatient shove before standing up and switching on the espresso machine. Caffeine was a better option than indulging in OCD-like behaviour. ‘I wish we had Reichenau in the team instead of that narcissistic fool.’ Beatrice quickly tipped the rest of the coffee beans from the packet into the grinder, causing about a quarter of it to spill out and tumble down onto the floor. ‘Wow, I’m really on form today.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ said Florin. ‘And go easier on Kossar too. We barely know him – perhaps he really knows his stuff.’

‘Maybe.’ She cleared up the scattered beans and threw them in the bin. ‘I’ll do my best to be objective, okay? But don’t forget he was holding us up from doing our job earlier.’

The coffee eventually helped to reunite her with her concentration. She drank the cup quickly in the knowledge that she would no longer be able to enjoy it once Drasche’s photos arrived.

She went through the existing files one more time. Hands. And now ears. Was that purely arbitrary, or was there some symbolism behind it? Had the victim touched something forbidden? Heard something he wasn’t supposed to hear? She tried to stop her mind going off at a tangent. Getting to the bottom of questions like those was Kossar’s job, not hers.

A few minutes later, Drasche’s photos arrived in her inbox. The first data files showed the ears: blood-soaked lobes, one more advanced in the decomposition process than the other. Then the letters.

The first was word-processed, as the previous ones had been, and again started with the same words.

The noises from the street outside forced their way in through the closed window, while someone wearing high-heeled shoes could be heard walking along the corridor. Clackclackclack. Beatrice waited to see whether Florin would say anything, and when he didn’t she cleared her throat. ‘He’s trying to provoke us.’

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned he’s doing a very good job of it.’ He put his cup down a little too firmly; some of it lapped over the edge and formed a brown lake next to the telephone. ‘Come on, police,’ he whispered.

Just in time, Beatrice managed to save a pile of interrogation minutes from the spilled coffee. ‘He seems to have some personal battle with us. We should go back through all the old files and look for someone who might feel they’ve been mistreated by the police, someone who blames us for their life being ruined.’

Florin grimaced. ‘Well, there’ll be no shortage of candidates there.’

‘But, you know, sometimes it goes beyond the normal level.’

Suddenly Bechner rushed in without knocking, ignoring Beatrice and addressing Florin. ‘Do you have a minute to speak about the statements from the Papenberg relatives?’

‘No. Later.’

He waited until Bechner had pulled the door shut behind him, clearly affronted. ‘Do you think he’s doing this because of us? Torturing and killing people just to get material for his puzzles, to make life difficult for us?’

‘No, I don’t think that’s his motive. But humiliating us and boosting his own ego is clearly important to him. Why else would he write letters like this to us?’

Beatrice clicked on the print icon. With a whirring sound, two copies of the latest cache note peeled out of the printer. Then she opened the next data file from the attachment in Drasche’s email.

Once again, the puzzle was composed in Nora Papenberg’s handwriting. Erratic at first, almost illegible, but halfway through it looked as though the writer had got a hold of herself.

Even after the first read-through, Beatrice could tell it was going to be exceptionally difficult this time.

‘Good God! Someone who sells things no one needs – great. And to top it all off, every other kid in this city is called Felix.’ She was just about to reach for the printed copies when the phone rang.

‘Wenninger,’ Florin answered. ‘Really? Where?’ His lips mouthed the word ‘car’ at Beatrice. ‘I understand. Okay, thanks.’ He hung up.

‘They’ve found Beil’s car, on a forest track near Hallwang. There’s a lot of blood in it, but no sign of Beil himself. Drasche and Ebner are already on their way.’ Florin’s expression was unreadable, but Beatrice suspected he was thinking the same thing she was. The Owner had made it clear he wouldn’t stop at two victims.

‘Do you know what I think?’ she asked softly.

‘Hmm?’

‘If Beil had admitted on Sunday that he knew Nora Papenberg, if he had explained to us how he knew her, then he wouldn’t be missing now.’

‘There are too many “if”s there for my liking.’

Yes, thought Beatrice, unfortunately there were. But if she disregarded her suspicions and ignored her instincts, then the case just gaped in front of her like a black hole. A hiding place for which there were no coordinates.

‘When I read the last message through again,’ said Florin, ‘it sounds to me as though Stage Four is close to the final destination. For the first time, we’re searching for someone who the Owner admits is important – not a singer, not a loser, but a key figure.’

‘True.’ Assuming there was any kind of concept behind the puzzles.

There was no way around it; they wouldn’t get any further without Kossar’s help.

‘It’s fine with me, but have you asked the children whether they’d like to?’

‘Of course, Mama. They always love seeing you, you know that.’

They would hurtle around her mother’s restaurant like eager young pups, serving the odd salad here and there just like Beatrice had as a child. There was no reason to feel guilty.

Jakob was beaming with excitement; he had packed his apron and was rummaging around in the drawer for a wooden spoon, which he was adamant he wanted to take with him. There was excitement in Mina’s expression too, but something else besides. Beatrice sat down next to her on the bed. ‘Everything okay, sweetie?’

‘Sure. I don’t mind that you’re offloading us on Oma.’

‘That I’m – what?’

‘Offloading us. I like going to Oma’s – there’s always lots of people there, and they’re all nice to us.’

It wasn’t hard to work out where the new word had come from. Beatrice took a deep breath and tried to keep smiling. No hostile comments around the children; that was the agreement, and she would keep her word even if Achim clearly couldn’t. ‘Offloading you is something completely different,’ she explained. ‘I’m taking you to Oma’s because I have to work late for the next few days and I want you to be looked after.’

Mina shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s okay.’

Beatrice tucked away everything they might possibly need in their bags and tried to suppress the thought that all she ever seemed to do was pack her children’s things. Her mobile rang, making her worry that her mother had already changed her mind, but then she read Florin’s name on the display.

‘We’re making progress – the results of the DNA analysis are back. The body parts really do belong to Herbert Liebscher. I’m going to visit his ex-wife this evening – Stefan might come with me…’

‘If you can wait half an hour, I’ll come. I’ll hurry – I’m just taking the kids to my mother’s first.’

‘Good.’ His voice sounded flat. ‘Then I’ll have a brief break and walk around the block. Or have a bite to eat. See you in a bit.’

One last quick glance at the clock. Did they have everything?

‘Mina, Jakob, put your shoes on please. We’re going!’

Getting the children away from the apartment felt like the right thing to do. The air in Mooserhof was filled with the aroma of home-cooked food and, most importantly, was free from any thoughts of dismembered corpses.

They met at the car pool pick-up station. ‘I spoke to Liebscher’s ex-wife on the phone. We’re driving to her place first, then his apartment – we’ve got a search warrant from the Department of Public Prosecutions,’ explained Florin as he held the car door open for Beatrice. ‘Stefan managed to get hold of the spare key Liebscher kept at the school.’

‘Is Stefan not coming?’

‘He’s slept the least out of all of us these last few days. He’s about to drop, even though he won’t admit it. I sent him home.’

The woman who opened the door of the terraced house to them was pale and, although the evening was one of the warmest of the year so far, wrapped up in a cardigan.

‘Romana Liebscher,’ she introduced herself. ‘Please come in.’ Beatrice and Florin followed her into a small living room with pale yellow walls; a little run down, but neat and tidy. In front of the corner sofa was a coffee table from IKEA. They sat down.

‘I have no idea what to say… I didn’t even know that Herbert was missing. And now he’s—’ She exhaled noisily. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re not entirely sure yet, but we’re doing everything we can to find out.’ No one could give vague answers with as much conviction as Florin, thought Beatrice.

‘How often had you been in contact recently?’ Beatrice asked, in an attempt to delay questions which would inevitably lead to vacuum-packed body parts.

The woman’s hands wandered over to a tea-light holder shaped like a wooden boat and began to fiddle with it, turning it over and over. Right, left, right. ‘Hardly at all. I’ve been in a new relationship for years now. Herbert and Dietmar don’t exactly get on—’ She looked up, clearly struck by the sudden awareness that she could have just made her life partner a suspect. ‘But they never really argued,’ she added hastily.

‘I understand what you mean.’ Florin’s smile had the desired soothing effect, and Beatrice willingly left the remainder of the usual catalogue of questions to him: when had she last seen him, did he have any enemies, debts, shady acquaintances…?

The answers Liebscher’s ex-wife gave painted the picture of a nondescript life without any particular highlights. A teacher who enjoyed his job, sometimes doing extra tutoring to bring in some extra money, and who went hiking or mountain biking in his free time. He had no debts and was neither loved nor hated by his pupils.

‘Why did you decide to get divorced?’ asked Beatrice. The answer was no surprise: tedium, monotony. They had grown apart, and then Romana Liebscher had met another man.

‘We’ve been divorced for three years and have seen each other perhaps five times since, the last time was eight or nine months ago,’ she said. ‘It sounds terrible, but I can’t tell you anything about him. Not even whether he had a girlfriend.’ Now, and to her own relief it seemed, she burst into tears.

They gave her the time she needed to gather her composure.

‘Will I have to identify him?’ she whispered.

‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ Florin’s answer came a little too quickly and firmly. The woman looked up.

She’s not stupid, thought Beatrice. She’s realised it would be better not to ask for details.

‘It’s a complicated case, and we can’t allow the details to make their way into the public eye yet,’ explained Florin. ‘But I promise we’ll let you know when we find out who did this, and the circumstances.’

‘Could you not at least tell me how it happened? Was he shot… or beaten up? Did he go quickly?’

Beatrice thought about the ear. The garden shears.

‘I’m sorry.’ She filled those two words with genuine sympathy. ‘At the moment we don’t yet know. But you would be helping us very much with our investigations if you could look at these photos for us.’

Without holding out any great hope, Beatrice fetched the pictures of Nora Papenberg from her bag. But Nora’s face was completely unknown to Romana Liebscher.

A sombre mood dominated the car journey to Herbert Liebscher’s apartment, even though Florin was constantly searching the radio for a station playing upbeat tunes. It was already getting dark outside. Beatrice looked at her watch; it was after eight. They would have a quick look around the apartment and search for contact details of any friends or acquaintances. Take the computer with them, if there was one. Speak to the neighbours.

The apartment was on the second floor, and there was no lift. As they opened the door, they were met by the smell of kitchen waste in urgent need of disposal.

‘I’ll go in first, if that’s okay with you,’ said Florin. A quick glance through the few rooms was enough to clarify that they were alone.

Liebscher had clearly been content with a modest amount of space. A living room, a bedroom, a kitchen with a small table, and a compact bathroom. On the kitchen table stood a full ashtray and the crockery from Liebscher’s last breakfast – the half-eaten marmalade on toast had developed mould, while the remains of his coffee had dried up in the mug to form a congealed black layer. Beatrice was overcome by the same sadness she had felt at the sight of Nora Papenberg’s unfinished bar of chocolate. She turned away, gave the stinking bin a wide berth and went into the bedroom.

An unmade bed. Wide enough to fit one person com fortably, but too narrow for two. A neat and tidy computer workstation, on which, alongside the keyboard and mouse, there were three piles of books. A bookcase, predominantly stocked with biographies, but with a few travel books and novels too – all the usual bestsellers. Amongst them, Beatrice spotted a small wooden box, like a mini treasure chest. With her gloved fingers, she picked it up off the shelf and opened the lid.

Coins. They were all in transparent plastic coating and displayed a variety of motifs – a ship, a wolf’s head, a logo—

‘Florin!’ Beatrice held one of the coins up into the light to make sure, but there was no doubt – there was the logo, and it was on the plastic coating too. ‘He was a cacher. Liebscher went geocaching!’

Geocoinclub: TFTC was inscribed on the copper-coloured coin, with a little stick man, hiking, depicted beneath in white enamel. Engraved on the edge, Beatrice found a combination of letters and numbers, a kind of code. On the other side, the stick man again, followed by another inscription: Track at Geocaching.com.

‘This is great.’ Squinting, Florin looked at the coin and then placed it back in the treasure chest. ‘Now we might finally be able to make some progress.’

Hopefully they would, as Stefan’s online research still hadn’t borne any fruit. He was reading through the geocaching forums on a daily basis and had made contact with a number of their members, but so far without success. There were no clues about anyone having left abnormal objects – like dead animals or excrement, perhaps – behind in caches before. No one had heard of any incidents like that. ‘The geocaching scene is incredibly clean and environ mentally aware,’ Stefan had declared, not without a certain degree of pride.

Beatrice searched through the desk, then went into the living room where there was another bookcase. There was also a sofa suite with a garish brown–green pattern, and in front of it a glass coffee table from which no one had wiped away the water rings. Opposite it was a dusty old-fashioned tube TV left on standby mode.

She didn’t see it right away, but her eyes were drawn back to the spot almost involuntarily. She stopped and stared.

Someone had written the four letters on the TV screen, swirled through the dust.

‘Florin? Look at this!’ Beatrice pulled her camera out of her bag and shot five pictures in close-up, then another six from different distances and angles, before grabbing her phone and calling Drasche on his home number.

She heard the TV on in the background as he answered.

‘We’re in Liebscher’s apartment and we’ve got the computer, but you should come here too. It seems like the Owner has been here.’

After a short conversation with Drasche (‘Don’t touch anything else and get the hell out of there!’) Beatrice retreated to a quiet corner of the apartment and leant on the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom.

Maybe she was about to make a huge mistake. Or maybe it was exactly the right move. But she would only know afterwards. Hoffmann himself had said that she should exhaust all the possibilities, and Kossar hadn’t made a single suggestion. She was fed up of waiting. The Owner’s messages had been sent to her personally, so it was time to react personally.

She opened the last text he had sent her – Cold, completely cold – and pressed ‘Reply’. Debating for a moment exactly what to say, she realised that, given where they were, there was only one possibility.

It looked like the beginning of a sentence, of a newspaper report, as if she were about to write: ‘Herbert Liebscher was murdered in early May; it was a week before anyone noticed he was missing.’ Or perhaps: ‘Herbert Liebscher: You cut off his hands and ears. We may be slow, but we’re getting closer.’

But she didn’t write that. She left it at first name and surname, not even adding a full stop, and pressed ‘Send’.

The neighbours didn’t know anything. Most of them were elderly people who hadn’t had any contact with Liebscher, and all they could say about him was that he lived a quiet life. Which was synonymous with: he was a pleasant enough neighbour. Female visitors? No. Friends, colleagues? Very rarely.

By the time they got back to the car it was half-past eleven. Beatrice tried to look discreetly at the display on her mobile. The Owner hadn’t replied yet. But believing he would have done was pretty laughable given that he only switched his mobile on for a few minutes at a time. He would get her message when he wanted to send another of his own.

‘Any news from the children?’

So Florin had noticed after all. She quickly shoved her mobile back in her bag. ‘No. But that’s good. If I don’t hear anything it means all’s well.’

He glanced at her searchingly. ‘Why are you so edgy?’

‘Am I?’

‘You seem to be.’ The next traffic light was red. He released the clutch and turned around to face her. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

Food. Now that Florin mentioned it she felt an empty tug in her stomach. ‘No, not yet. But it’s fine, I’ve got some bread and ham at home. That’ll do me.’

‘I disagree.’ The light turned green. ‘We need to look after ourselves too, you know.’ He drove on slowly, his eyes fixed on the road again, but with an expression alternating between thoughtfulness and concern. ‘I notice that every time: whenever we’re working on a difficult case, you reduce your needs to a minimum. Eating, drinking, sleeping – it’s as though none of it matters to you any more.’

‘It’s good for the figure,’ she murmured. But her retort sounded a little pathetic and certainly wasn’t an appropriate response for Florin’s earnest words. She found herself wishing she could take it back.

‘I’m not joking, Bea.’ He indicated and veered off into Alpenstrasse. ‘Let’s take the computer to Stefan’s office, then go and get something to eat. A nice relaxed dinner, without discussing the case. Or even better – we can go to my place. I have roast beef at home, loads of leftover chicken salad, and if you want something hot there’s some delicious chilli con carne.’

The suggestion awoke something else besides hunger in Beatrice, something she didn’t want to examine more closely, not under any circumstances.

‘Thanks, but I’m really tired, and tomorrow we both have to get up early and… well, maybe Anneke wouldn’t like it.’

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Why would she have anything against it?’

Why indeed? It’s not like I’m a woman or anything, Beatrice was about to blurt out, but she didn’t say anything, laughing instead and hoping it sounded light-hearted and not as awkward as she felt.

Florin parked the car alongside the others in the car pool, turned the ignition off and brushed one of the unruly strands of dark hair off his forehead. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you suspected me of having other intentions than getting you to eat a decent meal.’ He smiled, his teeth the only bright thing inside the darkness of the car.

‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t think that for a second. It’s just that—’

‘It’s important to spend at least a few minutes a day enjoying life. Otherwise we’ll end up burning out. Come on – some good food, a glass of wine, music and talking about something other than murder for half an hour.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

Florin’s apartment was close to the old town and most definitely not that of your average policeman. When Beatrice had come here for the first time around six months ago, she had asked him if he was taking backhanders to be able to afford digs like this. He had denied it, but the truth was clearly just as embarrassing to him: a rich family and a deceased grandmother who had left him not only money, but this penthouse too.

Walking in, she was met by the scent of acrylic paints. Florin went off to open the windows and terrace doors while Beatrice chose a place to sit from the immense landscape of seating options.

Everything was upholstered in white. Imagining Jakob running around here with his chocolate-smeared fingers, and Mina with her felt-tip pens, Beatrice couldn’t help but laugh. No, Florin didn’t have any such intentions when it came to her, most definitely not.

She looked at the walls, the ledge over the open fire, the antique bookcases – there was no photo of Anneke to be seen. They were probably in the bedroom, where they belonged. Beatrice stretched out.

‘Fancy a splash of champagne?’ called Florin. He was standing in the open-plan kitchen, holding up a bottle. ‘We’re off duty now, so we’re allowed.’

‘But I still have to drive. Half a glass at the most.’

‘Okay.’

He came over to her with two delicate champagne flutes in his hand and passed the half-full one to her. ‘It’ll kick in quickly on an empty stomach. Do you already know what you’d like to eat?’

‘Yes. Roast beef. Please.’

‘And salad with avocado and lime dressing?’

She should have realised that Florin wouldn’t just serve up the average snack. ‘Sure sounds delicious.’

While he busied himself in the kitchen, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. But she was fine with that right now.

‘Do you have any paintings on the go at the moment?’ she called.

‘Yes. Two. But neither is going well. There’s not a flicker of life in them.’ The clatter of plates. ‘Do you want to see? Go on up if you’d like.’

His studio consisted of a chaotic corner one floor up, with an overhead light, two easels, a paint-spattered wooden table and a collection of blank canvases of varying sizes. It smelt of paint and solvents.

‘How about some music?’ Florin’s voice resonated up from below.

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Any special requests?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘Whatever’s in the player right now.’

Whatever you put on when you’re here alone, painting, reading, thinking about Anneke.

‘Okay.’

It was no longer the Erik Satie album she’d heard down the phone the last time. It was Schubert’s String Quintet in C major, the second movement. The kind of music that made Beatrice feel as if just one misguided thought would be enough to make her burst into tears.

She drank her champagne down in one gulp and positioned herself in front of the first easel.

Red, bright in the middle, dark around the edges. Silver streaks across the left corner, as though something had splintered. The sight unleashed something within her that she didn’t want to face up to right now. She stepped aside and looked at the second easel.

A square canvas, which at first sight depicted an eternity of blue. Towards the middle, the colour darkened until it was almost black, with metallic specks flying through the darkness as if someone had stomped into a puddle of molten copper. The picture was like this evening: a spark of light amidst the darkness.

‘Not that great, right?’ she heard Florin ask.

‘No, they are. Sorry, but I…’ I love this one, she wanted to say, but bit back the words at the last moment. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Strong – and unfathomable, with a glimmer of hope.’

Florin had come up the stairs and was now standing next to Beatrice, his head cocked to the side. ‘Really? Hmm. I think I’ll need to take a fresh look at it. But not tonight.’ He rotated the canvas ninety degrees. ‘It might work like that though. Come on, dinner’s ready.’ Beatrice felt his arm around her shoulders, the light pressure as he pulled her towards the stairs. ‘I’m starving.’

It was a long time since she had been able to enjoy a meal without having to stare at her computer or tame her children at the same time. The roast beef was tender, cut at just the right thickness, and Florin had warmed up a baguette to go with it. Because Beatrice didn’t have the slightest desire to let her enjoyment of it be diminished, she drank another glass of champagne, noticing how light-headed it was making her.

‘Why are you doing this?’ The question slipped out before she could stop it.

‘What exactly am I doing?’

‘Inviting me round after the working day’s over. I would have thought you’d be relieved not to have me under your feet any more.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I like having you under my feet, as you so nicely put it. And besides—’ He stopped, shook his head and topped up both their glasses.

‘Carry on.’

‘No. It might come out the wrong way. It’s the kind of comment which could lead to a misunderstanding.’

She tried to formulate a question in her mind that would encourage him to be more specific, but he shook his head with a smile before she could come up with one. ‘Wrong day, wrong time, wrong mood.’

Beatrice put her glass down on the table, suddenly aware of how tired she felt. ‘Which door is the bathroom?’

‘The second on the right.’

It was spacious, tiled in elegant grey and far too well lit. The mirror confronted Beatrice with her pale face, tired eyes, and the dark rings beneath them. For a moment, she thought about reapplying her lipstick, but immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous.

Instead, she splashed a little water on her face and looked at the clock. It was already half-past one in the morning.

‘I have to get going,’ she said as she walked back into the living area.

‘Or you could sleep here.’ He held his hands up reassuringly before she could respond. ‘I have a spare room with lots of space, and no, you wouldn’t be imposing.’ He pointed towards a door behind him. ‘I really would prefer it if you did. After all, we drank more than one glass.’

Beatrice gave in. It was less the thought of the ten-minute drive, and more that of her empty apartment with the nocturnally active telephone.

When Christoph Beil awoke, the world around him consisted of intense darkness. For a few moments, boundless gratitude streamed through him.

He had dreamt it all.

But the very next moment, the pain came back. His sore wrists were burning and throbbing behind his back, and every time he swallowed it felt as if nails were tearing into his larynx. It was all real. He hadn’t survived anything.

At least he seemed to be alone now. He held his breath, listening in case he could still hear breathing in the room. He heard something, but it might have been the wind. A gentle, quiet breeze between the leaves.

Gradually, he began to realise that the darkness wasn’t necessarily synonymous with night. Something had been bound tightly around his head and eyes.

The noose around his neck was gone, and he was sitting now, but the pain in his throat was still unbearable. He tried not to swallow, but that only made it more difficult. His salivary glands worked as though his very awareness of their existence was spurring them on to hyperactivity.

It hurt so much.

He whimpered involuntarily. Thought about the policewoman with the blonde hair who had given him a chance. Wished fervently, with all the energy he had left, that he could turn back time.

There. A noise. He raised his head and struggled to suppress a sob. Tried to speak, but his voice was only a rasp and trembled so much that hardly a word he said was decipherable. At the third attempt, he managed to get a whole sentence out.

‘Will you… let me go?’

He didn’t get an answer. Maybe he was mistaken; maybe he was alone after all and his mind was just playing tricks with him. That would be good. Better than the alternative.

It was only when he heard the cough that he realised his senses were still functioning. He struggled against the ties that bound him. ‘Please, let me go, I’ve told you everything.’

A hand on his head, almost a caress. And then the voice.

‘That doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t know enough.’

The morning was sunny and bright, announcing its arrival through the broad slats of the half-shut Venetian blinds. Beatrice awoke gradually for a change, drifting slowly and languidly at the surface of her consciousness.

The shirt she was wearing smelt of unfamiliar washing powder. Because… she wasn’t at home, but in Florin’s spare room. She sat up, feeling as though she had slept too late, but her watch said it was only half-past six. Her next glance was directed at her mobile, and even though she was sure an incoming message would have woken her, she still checked to be sure. Nothing.

Tiptoeing on bare feet, she made her way out to the bathroom. Florin was standing at the hob frying eggs, his hair still wet. ‘I’ve put towels on the stool next to the shower, and you’ll find everything else by the sink,’ he called.

While she was brushing her teeth, Beatrice wondered why she felt much fresher than she usually did at this time of the morning. And younger. It reminded her of her days as a student, of staying overnight in unfamiliar flatshares after long parties, of—

Pushing the thoughts away, she rinsed out her mouth, got under the shower and started to plan the day ahead. Their main goal was to find the key figure.

‘We worked on it all night.’ Drasche shot Beatrice a look which implied that she was personally responsible for that fact. ‘The apartment wasn’t the scene of the crime, that much is clear.’

‘Did you find fingerprints? The letters on the TV screen were most likely left by the killer.’

‘Who wore gloves, yet again.’ He raised his coffee cup to his lips, took a slurp and pulled a face. ‘All of the prints we’ve evaluated so far are the victim’s. For which, as luck would have it, we have a variety of fingers at our disposal for comparison.’ He laughed. ‘The car hasn’t been much help either. There are some hairs, presumably belonging to Beil’s wife. Unless the perpetrator has long blonde hair – shit!’ In the process of gesticulating wildly to depict the hair length, Drasche had spilt coffee all over his shirt. ‘So, did you two at least manage to get home at a reasonable hour in the end?’

Beatrice felt herself go red. Of course Drasche didn’t know anything about her sleepover – innocent sleepover – at Florin’s. Each of them had driven to work in their own cars. But she still felt as though she’d been caught in the act.

‘There’s no need to look so offended. I know you two work hard too.’

Offended. Smiling, Beatrice shook her head. Drasche was in exactly the right job with the forensics. He wouldn’t have been suited as a psychologist.

As soon as she was out of the room, the first person she saw – appropriately, given that last thought – was Kossar, waiting in front of the door to her office. She sighed and ushered him in.

‘I had a very interesting evening,’ he began. ‘Where’s Wenninger? I think this will interest him too. In fact, I’m sure it will.’

‘Florin’s with Hoffmann. I’m sure he’ll be here soon though, so let’s make a start. Do you want a coffee?’

He did. While Beatrice busied herself with the machine, he sauntered around the room, inspecting everything closely as though he was thinking of buying it.

It was only when she sat down that he too pulled up a chair. ‘I haven’t created a definitive perpetrator profile yet, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to study as many similar cases as I can from the files before I can make a substantiated testimony. But I have managed to establish some first impressions, and in my opinion they should stand up to inspection.’ He looked at Beatrice expectantly.

‘And?’ she asked, a little confused. ‘Please go on.’

‘Okay. We can assume that we’re dealing with a perpetrator who is planning his actions, rather than acting in an uncontrolled way. He’s not just killing his victims, but also satisfying other needs, one of which particularly jumps out at me: that he wants to be in contact with us. He sends his messages via the murdered victims – the tattooed coordinates with Nora Papenberg, the notes in the caches, and not least the body parts. He forces us to listen to him, and to engage with what he sends us.’

That was nothing new. ‘So you think his main motive is a desire for attention?’

‘Without a doubt. He also wants to pit himself against us, to prove himself; that comes across very clearly in his messages.’

‘But it’s also very clear that he doesn’t take us seriously. Why would he want to pit himself against someone who he regards to be incapable?’

Kossar straightened his glasses. ‘Well, have you ever been to a boxing match? Before it starts, the opponents often shout abuse at each other, provoking one another. By doing so, they motivate themselves and try to make the other man angry, because then he might make mistakes.’ He sipped at his coffee. ‘I suspect the perpetrator exhibits strong narcissistic tendencies. He enjoys picturing the police trying to fathom the pieces of the puzzle he’s throwing at their feet. I’m sure he’d love to be here in person, watching us come up with theories and pulling our hair out in frustration because none of it makes any sense.’

Florin had arrived in the middle of the last sentence. ‘Is that what you think?’ he asked. ‘Does none of the information in the files make any sense to you?’

‘No, on the contrary. But at the moment the information we have mainly draws attention to individual aspects of the perpetrator’s psyche.’

‘Like what, for example?’

Kossar stared thoughtfully at his hands. ‘Normally, when a person is acting like this I would assume he picks his victims at random, studies them for a while and then rips them from their lives. Like God, you see? He watches how his chosen ones contend with their daily lives, drive their cars, care for their families, knowing that he’s going to put an end to it all, at a time and in a way that suits him. Like a sadistic child watching an anthill and then plunging a burning match into it.’

Kossar lifted a finger. For a moment, he resembled a pompous old headmaster giving a lecture. ‘But unlike most perpetrators who act like that, this one is making a connection between the victims. He leads us from one to the next: Nora Papenberg was the signpost to Herbert Liebscher’s body parts. Those, in turn, led us to Christoph Beil and on to Bernd Sigart. Now Beil has disappeared, and you—’ he looked at Beatrice – ‘have a feeling that he knew Nora Papenberg but kept quiet about it.’

‘Yes. And the longer I think about it, the more sure I am.’

‘That’s very interesting.’ He propped his chin in his hand, his forehead furrowed, gaze averted to the side.

Good God, what a show he puts on, thought Beatrice. ‘And what do you conclude from that?’ she asked, in a tone that left no doubt of her low expectations. But Kossar wouldn’t be distracted.

‘There was a case in the USA some years ago; a twenty-nine-year-old man who killed people who had a particular breed of dog. They didn’t know each other, but they all had this one thing in common. Maybe we’ll find something like that with Herbert Liebscher and Nora Papenberg too.’

It was an idea they couldn’t immediately dismiss, in any case. ‘The best lead so far,’ Beatrice summed up, ‘is this desire for attention that the Owner clearly has. What would happen if we took that away from him?’

For a moment, Kossar’s lopsided smile made him look almost endearing. ‘Presumably he would try to force it.’

‘Then I think it’s time to change the rules of play on our side,’ she said. ‘If what you’re saying about him is true, and he really does want to be a fly on the wall here, then I’m sure he’s following the news and buying the papers to find out as much as he can about how the investigations are coming along. If nothing is being mentioned all of a sudden – then I’m sure he wouldn’t like it in the slightest.’

‘That’s absolutely right.’ The smile on Kossar’s face deepened. ‘It’s a shame that you never finished your studies.’

‘Indeed.’ Beatrice made no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice. ‘Anyway, let’s make use of these insights.’

Within two hours, following Hoffmann’s intervention, the Department of Public Prosecutions had imposed a gagging order on the press, preventing them from publishing details about the case.

The bus rumbled along the uneven road. Bernd Sigart’s forehead banged lightly on the pane of glass he was leaning against, which fogged up every time he exhaled. Observing his breathing calmed him down. Every intake and exhalation of breath was one less to contend with. The number was endless.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps, this time, he would just stay seated when his stop came. Keep riding the same route on the bus over and over again, until someone threw him off.

No, he warned himself. Tiredness cannot be permitted as an excuse to let yourself fall, no more than despair and weariness of life could. The appointment would take place, just like every week. And just like every week, it wouldn’t help.

As he got off the bus, a woman with a limping Alsatian crossed his path, but it was only when he rang the bell to the practice that he realised he hadn’t immediately made a flash diagnosis out of habit.

Another goodbye. He was no longer a father or a husband – and now he was gradually ceasing to be a vet.

Dr Anja Maly’s therapy practice was decorated in cream tones which were intended to encourage relaxation, the only real fleck of colour coming from a dense blue meditation picture hanging over the desk. Everything here was designed to promote calm, not least Maly herself. Moving majestically like a tall ship, she came slowly over from the window to greet him, squeezing his hand and gesturing for him to take a seat on the armchair.

Sigart sat down.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ She asked him that every time, even though he had never once said yes. This time, too, he shook his head. ‘How have you been this week?’

He looked her in the eyes, without smiling. ‘I didn’t kill myself.’ It was the same answer he always gave.

‘I’m glad to see that.’ The doctor flicked through her files. ‘Tell me what’s happened over the last few days. We agreed that you should go for a walk for half an hour each day. How did that go?’

He hesitated. ‘I didn’t manage to go every day. But I went three times.’

She smiled as if he had really made her happy. ‘That’s a wonderful improvement. How did you feel afterwards?’

He looked to the side, thinking for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Strange. Once I felt like someone was following me, but it was probably just the thing that’s always following me. My conscience.’

Maly made a note in her file. ‘Did you turn around and see if there was really anyone there?’

‘No. Well, not properly, I mean. It was more of a blur, like someone had just ducked into a doorway or disappeared behind a delivery van. Do you know what I mean?’ The long sentence had exhausted him. A glance at the clock told him that he had only been here for five minutes, and now he wished he really had stayed on the bus.

‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Maly’s pen scurried across the page. ‘Let’s come back to the subject of your conscience again.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘What’s the point? I know I didn’t set the forest on fire. But the fact is and remains that I didn’t see the signs. Miriam asked me not to drive off and she was really upset with me that I was doing it regardless. She was…’ He put a hand over his eyes.

Then go to hell, Bernd, if you can’t even make time for us on holiday.

And that’s exactly what he had done. He had taken the most direct and harrowing route to hell imaginable.

When he looked up, Anja Maly’s gaze was resting on him, patient and empathetic. He pulled himself together. ‘I wasn’t there, that’s what it comes down to. There’s no way that therapy can erase that knowledge from my mind. If I hadn’t driven to the stud farm, if I’d sent a colleague instead, my family would still be alive. There’s not a shadow of a doubt about that. I could have made sure that everyone got out of the house.’ He took a deep breath, but it was as though none of it was making its way into his lungs. ‘If you knew how often I dream about it. I smell the smoke and see the flames in the forest, but I don’t panic, I just open the door, then I get Miriam and wake the children quickly – Lukas and Hanna run out, and I carry Oskar. We even have enough time to take our most important possessions with us. By the time we’re sat in the car the fire is getting closer, but the route down to the valley is clear, and it only takes us ten minutes to get down there. Miriam has phoned the emergency services on her mobile, and they pass us on the road, two big fire engines, their sirens turned on. I park by the church and know that everything’s fine. I turn around and see the children on the back seat, and I’m almost exploding with happiness, because I did things right this time, I turned back the clock. Miriam puts her hand on my shoulder, and Lukas says: “Do you think there’ll be another fire engine, Papa?” And then I wake up.’

He could feel the tears running down his face, but didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t have the strength to lift his hand. ‘Every time I think – this time it will kill me, that moment when I realise they’re all gone, for ever. Do you know what I do then?’

Anja Maly shook her head, looking moved. ‘Tell me.’

‘I make it worse. In my head, I go back to the moment when I saw what the fire did to my children. Charred, distorted… things. So tiny. Did you know that the heat can make limbs explode?’

His words were clearly getting to her. She had children herself, her assistant had told him that, and he could see in her eyes that she was trying to stop the picture he was so vividly describing from seeping into her mind.

‘Every single time I think the pain is going to kill me, because it really feels like that. Physical cramps, choking fits. But it never happens.’ He sank his gaze down to the parquet floor. ‘Other people die so easily. They have heart attacks, or cancer. My body just keeps living… unless I destroy it with my own hands.’

Maly cleared her throat. ‘You’re punishing yourself for something that isn’t your responsibility. I can understand that you make a connection between your absence and the death of your family, but it wasn’t in your power to predict such a fateful event—’

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. ‘Let’s leave it. There was something unusual that happened last week, as it happens. It might be of interest to you.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The police paid me a visit.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘It was about some woman who was murdered. It was really strange actually – the police wanted to know if I knew her. But I didn’t.’

‘So then why is the event significant to you?’

Good question. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because it was the first time in a long while that I’ve spoken to the police. A woman and a man, they were both very considerate.’ He stopped, trying to formulate a thought, and wondered how Maly would interpret it. ‘It was almost a good feeling, somehow, speaking about a murder case that didn’t affect me.’

Beatrice read through the description of the ‘key figure’ for what must have been the tenth time in a row. The word she kept lingering over was ‘quota’. What kind of quota could be over 2,000? A hit ratio? Was the man connected with weapons in some way?

She rubbed her forehead. Weren’t quotas usually given in percentages? But 2,000 per cent was mathematical nonsense. What was plausible, though, was 2,000 geocaches. In this context, it could be a highly active cacher, a real professional. Someone like that should be easy enough to track down online.

So he works in sales of some kind. Perhaps the quota was in reference to that? Wasn’t there something like in-house sales statistics in a lot of companies?

It was infuriating: nothing, nothing at all in this clue could be used. Especially not the last sentence of the description.

Felix could just as easily be three as twenty-three, and the number of boys named Felix in the surrounding area was probably in the thousands. Exasperated, Beatrice struggled to think clearly. ‘The other two clues were child’s play compared to this—’

At that moment, her phone vibrated.

Beatrice jumped up and grabbed for her phone, feeling her heart pound throughout her entire body.

It wasn’t a message from the Owner, but Achim, who must have somehow found out that the children were at Mooserhof.

Feeling raw inside, Beatrice erased the message. Her gaze met Florin’s. He was clearly waiting for her to say something.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just another message from my ex.’

She put her mobile away again, aware of him watching her. ‘You were expecting something else, right?’ he asked.

All she could manage was a shrug. ‘Well, it could have been the Owner.’ For a few moments, Beatrice was tempted to tell Florin about the lone hand she had played. If you could call it that, but the description seemed to hit the nail on the head. Hoffmann would go mad if he found out she had taken it upon herself to respond to the killer without consulting the others first.

Well, then he would finally have something worth going mad about.

She changed the subject. ‘If we’re not making any progress on the next stage, then how about with Herbert Liebscher? Has anyone questioned his colleagues at the school yet?’

‘Stefan went there with two of our guys. But nothing useful came of it. Three of Liebscher’s colleagues knew that he was a geocacher, so Stefan spoke to them for a good while, but unfortunately he didn’t find out anything we don’t already know.’

Beatrice drew circles on her notepad, lost in thought. ‘Liebscher went geocaching, we can take that as a given. But Papenberg didn’t, unless her husband was lying to us, which would pose the question of why. And we didn’t question Beil about it.’ Beatrice didn’t say it out loud, but she doubted they would ever get the opportunity to remedy that.

Beil’s wife phoned their office for what must have been the fifth time that day – she had been out of her mind with worry ever since hearing that her husband’s car had been found. Luckily for Beatrice, Florin took the call, repeating with seemingly limitless patience the same thing he had already said the last few times. That they were doing everything they could to find Christoph Beil. That they would be in touch as soon as they had any news. Then he paused. ‘Actually, it’s possible you might be able to help us with something. Do you happen to know whether your husband ever went geocaching?’ He turned the phone onto loudspeaker so Beatrice could listen in.

‘That’s… the thing with the navigation devices, right?’ The woman’s tear-choked voice resounded out from the speaker. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He had so many hobbies. If he did do it, then he never told me about it.’

‘Don’t you spend your free time together?’

A hiccoughing sob. ‘Not always. He’s much more sporty than I am, and I don’t mind when he does things with friends without me. He always says a little distance keeps things fresh.’

‘So that means you don’t know exactly what he’s doing when he’s not at home?’

‘Well, most of the time he tells me. But it’s the same the other way around. I have my hobbies too.’

Beatrice, who had just brought up the geocaching website on her screen, was struck by an idea. ‘Ask her if her husband had a nickname,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps one that his friends gave him at school, or one that she used for him. Something along those lines.’

Florin nodded, but his question was initially met with incomprehension.

‘Why do you want to know that?’ asked the woman. ‘What does that have to do with the blood in his car, and the fact that he’s missing?’

Beatrice pointed to her screen, and Florin caught on. ‘It’s possible that your husband registered on Internet forums with a nickname of some kind. If you can help us a little we can narrow down our search and possibly find some clues. Does your husband have a PC at home?’

The sound of her breathing came through the loudspeaker. ‘He has a laptop. And I always call him my Grizzly Bear.’

There was a ‘GrizzlyBear’ on Geocaching.com, as well as a ‘GrizzleBear’, but neither of them were Christoph Beil. The first had only registered one found cache, which was back in 2009, in Berlin. The second had registered only five months ago, already logging over 500 finds. ‘But all of them in Baden-Württemberg,’ Beatrice declared.

Two hours later they had Beil’s laptop in their possession – his wife had handed it over without hesitation. Stefan took charge of searching for clues, opening the Web browser and looking through the bookmarks. Geocaching.com wasn’t there, not even in the history, which covered the last three months.

‘I’ll check the emails now,’ he declared. ‘He has an inbox stretching back four years. If he was sent messages via his geocaching account during that time, then we might find them here, which would give us his username too.’

But not even rummaging through his email folders brought anything to light. The disappointment was written all over Stefan’s face, even though he tried to hide it. ‘It looks like Beil wasn’t a geocacher then. With your agreement, I’d like to go through all the emails from the last few weeks with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe I’ll find something useful. Then I’ll send the laptop to the IT lab so they can bring any deleted data back from the dead on the hard drive.’

Every single path they pursued seemed to lead to a dead end. The investigation of Sigart’s patient files hadn’t unearthed anything either: it seemed neither Nora Papenberg nor Christoph Beil had taken their pets to him for treatment. Another idea smothered in the cradle. But there was no time to brood over it: one of Liebscher’s colleagues had emailed through some photos taken at a bowling night, including a few close-ups of Liebscher. He was laughing, exposing crooked teeth. Beatrice’s attention was drawn to his ears, her hand instinctively lifting to touch her own left ear as she thought about the cache.

‘Do you want to come and get a coffee with me?’ Kossar had popped up out of nowhere. His question was clearly directed solely at Beatrice.

‘Sorry. I’m busy.’ The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. Whenever colleagues tried to approach her about anything other than work, she always felt the acute impulse to run away. She turned her concentration back to Liebscher’s photos. Pale blue eyes. They would fit in a very small container. A micro-cache.

Kossar seemed to have noticed her irritation. ‘I don’t mean to impose.’ His tone was significantly more businesslike than before. ‘But a chat over coffee might spark off some more ideas about the case. I’m happy to come back later if you—’

Her mobile beeped, announcing the arrival of a message.

With one quick lunge, she grabbed it from her bag and pressed ‘Read’.

Just one word. She stared at it, the context slowly dawning on her. But maybe she was wrong. Hopefully.

‘Bad news?’

She had to get rid of Kossar. Showing him the message right now would just bring on another of his gusts of hot air. She would tell him about it later. Once she had worked out her own thoughts on it.

‘It’s a family matter. With all due respect, I really must ask you to let me get on with my work.’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Family, I understand. Yes, Hoffmann mentioned that you had a messy divorce behind you. If you’d like—’

‘Sorry if I didn’t express myself clearly enough, but I really don’t have much time and I have to work.’

‘How about the two of us go get some coffee?’ Florin stood up, walked over to Kossar and clapped him affably on the shoulder. ‘I could use a quick break. Let’s go.’ Beatrice, having known him for so long, was the only one to hear the edge of sharpness to his voice.

Kossar’s laugh sounded forced, but Beatrice barely noticed. The word on the screen of her phone was taking up all her attention:

With one click, she found the caching dictionary under her favourites on the browser, opened it and confirmed that her suspicion was correct. An archived cache was one that had been taken out of operation. It was gone and wouldn’t be replaced.

First disabled. Then archived.

Presumably the Owner didn’t mean the container he had hidden for the police. He was being abstract. It was clear he was referring to something they were looking for, and right now, first and foremost, they were searching for Christoph Beil.

Archived. In the unusual peace and quiet of her empty office, Beatrice wondered whether the Owner was trying to tell them, in his own particular way, that Beil was no longer alive.

That evening, she drove to Mooserhof and found the children being kept very busy. Jakob – dressed in jeans and his pyjama top – was sweeping the floor, singing and distributing little packets of sugar among the tables, while Mina was in the process of serving a bottle of water and two glasses on a tray. Her gaze was fixed with the utmost concentration on the load in her hands, as if hoping that through hypnosis she could prevent them from falling.

Beatrice’s mother was standing behind the bar, pulling a pint of beer. ‘I didn’t expect to see you!’ She waited until the foam top was at the right thickness, then put the beer krug down and hugged Beatrice. ‘You look tired. Are you hungry? Hang on, I’ll tell André to bring you a portion of stuffed cabbage leaves – they’re delicious!’

Beatrice was about to protest, but didn’t have the energy. Besides, she really was hungry. Her stomach was practically screaming out for nourishment. ‘Okay. I really just came to see the children quickly though.’

‘But you’re not taking them with you today, are you?’

‘No. It’ll probably be another few days. This new case is… very unusual.’

Her mother looked indifferent to the explanation. ‘That’s fine. I love having them here, you know that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sit down at table twelve, I’ll bring you a drink in a moment.’

Jakob shot over to her, giggling, placed an open sugar sachet on her knee and hugged her. ‘Are you staying here tonight?’

‘No, sweetie. I really wanted to see you, but I have to get up early tomorrow, and it’s going to be another long day.’

He nodded, his eyebrows knitted together, the very personification of understanding. ‘I earned some pocket money. Three euros and forty-five cents. For clearing plates and putting out the sugar. Oma said I’m a really good helper.’

‘You certainly are.’ She squeezed him against her, seeing Mina come towards them carrying water and a glass of apple juice.

‘You’re not picking us up yet, are you?’ She looked really worried.

‘No. Although I’d really love to. I miss you guys.’

‘Yeah. We miss you too, but you can hold out a bit longer, right?’

‘A bit.’

‘Good,’ replied Mina contentedly, going back to the bar. Jakob fidgeted around on Beatrice’s knees.

‘Uncle Richard told us that you’re going to have a… a burn-ow… soon. What’s that?’

It took her a moment to understand what Jakob meant. ‘No, sweetie, I’m not going to have a burn-out. Where is Uncle Richard anyway?’

‘He’s over there playing cards.’

Beatrice looked over her left shoulder. Yes, there he was, her darling brother. Shuffling cards and laughing about something the brawny man next to him was saying.

‘You two should go to bed – it’s already past eight,’ whispered Beatrice in Jakob’s ear. ‘I’ll tuck you in, okay?’

‘Okay!’

The bedroom up in the loft was still as cosy as it had been when she used to sleep there herself. She put Jakob and Mina to bed, listening to their stories of the day and trying to push everything about the case to the deepest recesses of her mind. No, she wasn’t going to burn out. Three days’ holiday once the Owner was caught would be enough to recharge her batteries; it always was.

When she went back downstairs to the restaurant, there were two things waiting for her: cold stuffed cabbage, and a critical brother. ‘Surely they can’t be paying you so much that you just let everything else go to hell?’ His blond hair clung to his sweaty forehead – and he had put on weight since the last time she saw him.

‘It’s not a question of money, Richard.’ She started to eat. Even though it was no longer hot, it tasted good.

‘No, of course not. You’re saving the world, right?’ He winked as he said it, but she still felt like plunging the prongs of her fork into the back of his hand. Just as she’d always wanted to back when they were kids, when he used to pinch food from her plate.

‘Achim was here this lunchtime – we had a long chat.’

The fork nearly dropped out of her hand. ‘What?’

‘Yep. He’s in a really bad way, Bea. He comes here a lot, whenever he’s sure he won’t run into you. I think he’s hoping that one of us can explain to him why you wanted a divorce.’ Richard looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you’ll at least explain it to us one day? You had it good, Bea. He was crazy about you, and if you ask me, he still is.’

She almost spat out her half-chewed mouthful of cabbage. ‘Yeah, sure. Listen, he doesn’t even talk to me when he picks the kids up. He looks at me as if I’m a stinking pile of rubbish that someone forgot to take out.’

Richard wiped a serviette across his forehead. ‘I believe you. But only because you’re the one who took everything he cared about away from him. If you were to give it back—’

‘You can’t be serious.’ She put her knife and fork down. ‘We’re not good for one another, Achim and I. We never were. He wants someone who enjoys the same things as him, who laughs at the same jokes. Who likes cooking and only works to bring money in.’ She snorted. ‘You would probably get on much better with him than I ever could.’

‘But it would make your life so much easier.’

‘Except it wouldn’t be my life any more.’

Richard twisted the serviette between his hands as though he wanted to strangle someone with it. ‘It’s because of what happened back then, right? You’ve become so much harder since then, Bea. You have to move on at some point, you can’t bring someone back to life by—’

‘That’s enough, okay?’ She pushed her plate away; at least she had eaten half of it. ‘I’m really grateful that Mama always helps out when I need it, and that you look after the children too. Really I am. But when it comes to Achim and what happened back then, as you put it, you don’t get a say.’ Without giving him a chance to react, she stood up, ruffled his hair and gave him a hug. ‘Everything’s fine. I’m not on the brink of burning out, but thank you for teaching Jakob a new word.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He held her at arm’s length for a moment and gave a sigh. ‘Is there anyone who understands what’s going on in your head, Bea?’

She smiled and shrugged.

Not that I know of.

She drove home slowly, the car radio turned up louder than usual. Once she got back, she would have a shower and then try to look at Stage Four with fresh eyes.

The car behind her seemed to have its headlights on full beam, because the reflection in the rear-view mirror was blinding her. Aggravated, she stepped on the accelerator to put some distance between them. But by the next traffic light, he was right behind her again. And at the next, and the one after that.

An uneasy feeling started to creep over Beatrice. She turned around. Was the car following her? It was impossible to see the driver’s face, but maybe she could at least make out the model of the car… No, she couldn’t.

At the next crossroads, she turned left, then right at the one after that. The car was still behind her. It was keeping to the same speed, not even overtaking when she slowed down and gave it the opportunity to.

There were two more turns before she would be back home. Then she would park and get a better look at her pursuer. But when she turned right at the next crossroads, the car drove straight on. She tried to catch a quick glimpse of the driver’s profile, but couldn’t see clearly enough; even the number plate was too dimly lit to be made out. She shook her head. She didn’t normally get so worked up about things. What was it that Richard had said about a burn-out?

Nonsense. She had all her wits about her and would only worry about it if she saw the car again in the next few days. It had been red, four-door – a Honda, if she wasn’t mistaken.

A thought rushed into her mind.

A red Honda Civic. The car Nora Papenberg used to drive. She sat at the living-room table, searching through her notes. It was probably just a coincidence; there was always a time in the midst of the investigations when it was common to overanalyse everything, and Beatrice was very familiar with this phenomenon.

Had the car following her really been a Civic? She had only seen it briefly from the side – it had been red, yes, and definitely a Honda, but other than that?

She filed the thought away for the time being and took the photos from the most recent cache out of her bag. For the next two hours, she sat there studying the photos and letters, staring at Nora Papenberg’s writing and trying in vain to find someone on Geocaching.com whose profile would prompt that familiar ‘click’ in her mind.

His quota is over 2,000. He never concedes defeat. Was there a way of filtering users with over 2,000 finds? Apparently not. That night, in spite of all her efforts, Stage Four refused to reveal its secrets.

The news reached Beatrice on a cool morning from which the drizzle had slowly but persistently washed away all colour. She arrived in the office at the same time as the phone call: a male body had been found near the Salzach lake. Three fishermen had pulled the corpse from its hiding place after spotting a naked foot protruding from the reeds at the water’s edge.

On the way to the scene, Beatrice thought about Beil’s wife. She would now have to identify the man she had affectionately named Grizzly Bear. The description given by the police officers at the scene seemed to fit his profile.

The third victim. She looked across at Florin, who was driving. ‘We should arrange some police protection for Bernd Sigart.’

Beil’s body had been laid out on the shore of the lake, and it was a horrific sight. Naked down to his underpants, his body was covered with wounds, some of them deep, narrow and jagged, as if a small animal had been trying to burrow something out from beneath his skin. Blue strangulation marks ran around his neck, and the face above it was already bloated. But there was no doubt that it was him.

‘Do you know what instrument the cuts might have been inflicted with?’ asked Beatrice, but she didn’t receive any answer from Drasche, who was busy taking Beil’s fingerprints. Typical. She spotted the medical officer standing just outside the cordoning tape, making notes whilst he leant over the bonnet of his car.

‘Good morning, Doctor. I know I’m impatient, but I need all the information you can give me.’

He nodded, without breaking the contact between his pen and the paper. ‘The man has been dead for roughly three days, but he was brought here a good while later. He has grazes and deep scratches all over his body, and a stab wound on the left side of his ribcage. That could be the cause of death, but the victim was definitely strangled as well. He was found lying on his stomach, but the livor mortis is on his back, which means the corpse must have been in another position for a good two days.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s all I can tell you right now.’

‘The scratches and cuts – what do you think they were inflicted by?’

The doctor sighed loudly. ‘I don’t know. Presumably it was a jagged instrument, something like a blunt saw that both scrapes and cuts the surface.’

‘While he was still alive?’

‘Yes, that’s very likely.’

Beatrice glanced over her shoulder back at the dead body. Beil had been tortured, and she would bet anything that someone had been trying to force information out of him. Presumably the same information he hadn’t wanted to tell her.

Florin spoke to the uniformed policeman who had been the first one on the scene, while Beatrice went over to the three fishermen who were waiting, palely and silently, by the squad car.

‘The guy over there had a go at us about moving the body,’ said one of them. ‘But we wanted to see if he was still alive, whether there was anything we could do.’

‘Of course. Don’t worry,’ Beatrice reassured them. ‘My colleague is a little quick-tempered – it’s nothing personal. Did you notice anything else that might be significant? Did you encounter anyone on your way down to the lake, for example?’

The three men looked at each other, then shook their heads in consensus. ‘It was half-five in the morning, and there’s hardly ever anyone here at that time,’ said the oldest man, whose grey-flecked hair came down almost to his shoulders. ‘But there was something I noticed – well, nothing really compared to the dead body, but still –’

‘Yes?’

‘Twigs.’ He looked at Beatrice almost apologetically. ‘A few metres away from where we found the man, there were these short twigs on the ground, and they formed a word—’

‘Not a word,’ interrupted one of the two younger men. ‘Just meaningless letters. TFTL, I think.’

‘No, it was TFTH,’ said the third man.

‘Are they still there?’

‘No, we dragged the body across them when we pulled it out.’

‘I see.’ How incredibly helpful. ‘Nonetheless, if you could please show me where the twigs are.’

The spot was just inside the cordon, directly on the river bank where the ground was soft. Beatrice waved Ebner over, who collected the twigs up one by one and stowed them away carefully.

‘The Owner left us his usual message,’ she said to Florin, after pulling him a few steps away from the uniformed policemen. ‘Thanking us for the hunt. We’ll have to…’ She closed her eyes, trying to bring some order to her thoughts. ‘We’ll have to speak to Konrad Papenberg again. Tell me if you disagree, but I believe Beil was killed because of something he knew. The Owner tortured him to find out exactly what, then killed him. Whatever it was – this information he had – must be connected to Nora Papenberg.’

‘The accomplice the Owner disposed of.’ Florin was gazing off over the lake into the distance. ‘That seems the most likely explanation to me. Maybe Beil even knew why they murdered Herbert Liebscher.’

Twenty minutes later, Hoffmann’s car drove up while Beatrice was asking the fishermen some further questions. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Hoffmann look at the body, pace around the scene, then speak briefly with Drasche before heading over in her direction. ‘You knew the victim, is that correct?’

‘Yes. Christoph Beil. We questioned him last Sunday, and two days later his wife reported him missing.’

Hoffmann nodded gloomily. ‘The third murder in such a short period of time – this is ruining our safety stats for the entire year. I expect this case to speed up, Kaspary. For heaven’s sake, the murderer is giving you clues, communicating with you – there must be a way to work with that! Why aren’t you following Kossar’s suggestions?’

Beatrice was silent. Letting herself get drawn into an argument would be just as futile as pointing out Kossar’s overly relaxed approach. Any attempt at self-defence had a tendency to spur Hoffmann on to self-opinionated tirades. More often than not, they started with the words: If I were in your position, I would have…

‘You’ll attend the autopsy today and report back to me afterwards.’ Before she had a chance to respond, he marched over to Florin, who was kneeling down at the edge of the cordoned area talking to Drasche, the body firmly fixed in his sights. She watched Hoffmann go, allowing herself to daydream for a moment that it was his autopsy she was attending instead.

‘Male corpse, 184 centimetres tall and weighing 93 kilos, in a healthy state of nourishment with a strong build.’ Dr Vogt’s scrawny figure moved around the autopsy table with measured steps as he talked into his Dictaphone. ‘The subject’s back – with the exception of the area which was in contact with the ground – reveals fixed, reddish violet livor mortis that doesn’t fade when finger pressure is applied.’

As Vogt continued with the external examination of Beil’s corpse, Beatrice reached for her mobile, which she had tucked into the pocket of the white coat lent to her by the forensics unit. Archived had been the Owner’s last message. He still hadn’t responded to her reply. Did he not care that she knew who he had been dismembering and hiding away? Did it please him, unsettle him?

‘Rigor mortis has set in, the eyelids are closed. There are dotted traces of bleeding around the upper and lower lids. Moving on now to the skin injuries –’ Vogt stopped next to Beil’s shoulder. ‘There are abrasions around the inside of the upper arm, four centimetres wide and six centimetres long, which have penetrated the upper layers of the dermis. The wounds are uneven in depth, which suggests they were inflicted by a serrated object. Lesions of the same sort are also located to the left of the navel, in both armpits and on the inner left thigh, five centimetres above the knee.’

As Vogt detailed one injury after the other, Beatrice closed her eyes, trying to picture a tool that would create wounds like that. Maybe a blunt saw blade? It was possible, but the cuts seemed too small in surface area for that.

‘There are sharply outlined wounds around the ankles and wrists, suggesting that the subject was forcibly restrained. On the back of the left hand is a violet-pigmented scar, two centimetres in diameter, which predates the victim’s injuries and death.’

The scar which had enabled them to find him. The Owner had led them to Beil with his clues, waited until they had spoken to him, then attacked almost as soon as their backs were turned.

But why not sooner? Was it all about provoking the police, was that really part of his motive? It felt as though they were just running around haplessly, dashing to wherever he wanted them to go. Yet the Owner was always there in front of them.

A thought that had occurred to her when she arrived at the scene earlier that day reared its head again with renewed force: if that was the killer’s trick, then they would have to keep an eye on Sigart.

The autopsy lasted two and a half hours. It seemed Beil had died as the result of a stab to the heart. A sharp object, presumably a knife blade, had penetrated the front wall of the thorax and the pericardium, as well as the anterior and posterior walls of the heart. He had died of internal bleeding.

‘What about the strangulation marks?’ Beatrice pointed at the blue marks which ran around Beil’s neck in ring formations.

‘There are two choke marks which suggest he was hanged, but not fatally,’ Vogt explained.

‘Aha. And what do you make of that?’

‘Either he tried to hang himself and failed, or his murderer couldn’t decide which method to use. Are you familiar with Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio? “First beheaded, then hanged, then impaled on hot stakes…”’ He sang with an astonishingly full and deep voice.

Beatrice knew a few pathologists and was familiar with their unique sense of humour, but the sight of Vogt singing in front of the corpse while the liver was being weighed by the assistant pathologist was almost enough to make her flee the room.

‘Two choking marks, you say?’

Vogt interrupted his performance. ‘Yes. So either the rope slipped or someone tried to hang him twice.’ He shrugged, looking at Beatrice with his head tilted to the side. ‘I’ll leave it to you to make sense of that one.’

It was just before five in the afternoon when they rang Sigart’s doorbell, and it took him a long time to answer.

‘You’ll have to excuse me. I was sleeping.’ He was shockingly pale, and a deep red crease stretched diagonally across the right side of his face, clearly the imprint of a pillow. ‘Come in.’

He sat down on the edge of the couch, awkwardly pulling on a pair of socks.

‘Sorry that we woke you,’ said Florin.

‘Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll be able to get a few hours’ sleep tonight now.’ He looked up. ‘It’s the pills, you know? My doctor prescribed me new ones which make me very tired, but unfortunately only during the day.’ He gestured towards the folding chairs, which, it seemed, were still at the table from their last visit.

‘Herr Sigart, we’d like to know whether you’ve noticed anything unusual in the last few days,’ Florin began. ‘Anything unsettling?’

Sigart looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean by unsettling?’

‘Well, have you received any strange phone calls? Were there perhaps anonymous messages in your letter box? On your mobile?’

Sigart’s expression indicated that he found Florin’s questions strange, but he was clearly still dazed with sleep. ‘No.’

‘Good. I’d like to ask you to contact us right away if something of that sort happens. Only open the door to people you know and trust. Inform us if anything seems even the slightest bit suspicious.’

Sigart was fully awake now. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

It had been obvious that this question would come, and they had already agreed during the drive over to cause him as little worry as possible. Beatrice took a deep breath.

‘It’s possible that the person who murdered Nora Papenberg takes a perverse pleasure in the act of killing, so it’s important to us that all people who are connected to the case exercise caution.’

He nodded slowly. ‘What happened?’

‘As I already said, there are signs that the man could continue to be dangerous.’

Sigart seemed interested, but not excessively so. ‘What kind of signs?’

‘That’s not relevant, but the important thing is that…’

‘Earlier on, on the news –’ he interrupted her, pointing the scarred index finger of his left hand to an old portable radio – ‘they said that a body was found in the Salzach lake. This morning. Is that what you mean by “signs”?’

The latest murder had of course been reported in the media, albeit without any reference to the Papenberg case. But Sigart wasn’t stupid. Reading the answer etched on their faces, he nodded. ‘That’s quite a clear sign. And now you’re worried that he’ll come after me next?’

‘That could tie in with his weird logic, yes,’ answered Florin. ‘We don’t know enough about him and his motives, but he – how do I put this? – led us to you, just like the man we found today. That’s why we’d like to put you under police protection.’

‘Me?’ He seemed genuinely amazed. ‘I can’t think of one single reason why anyone would kill me,’ he said. ‘After all, I hardly even exist any more. Whether I’m sitting here in this hole of a flat or lying in a coffin under the earth doesn’t make a difference to anyone. Not even me.’

‘I don’t doubt that you feel that way,’ said Beatrice. ‘But that won’t protect you if the killer’s mind works the way we suspect it does. Please think for a moment. Is there someone who might stand to profit from your death?’

‘Only the funeral director. I’ve stipulated in my will that any remaining funds are to go to the Association for Psychological Crisis Intervention.’ Something almost resembling a smile crept across his features.

‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a material motive. Is it possible that you know something that could hurt someone else?’ She held his gaze. ‘It seems like that may have been the case with the most recent murder. Is there anyone you could prove to be dangerous for if you were to divulge some information?’

His eyes were already rejecting the notion even before he shook his head. ‘If you like, I can tell you the names of people who feed their dogs chocolate because they think of them as children. Or others that keep their parrots in criminally small cages. But I don’t have any information more damaging than that. What do you want from me? Do you want me to make something up just so I have something to tell?’

Florin laid the portrait from Christoph Beil’s missing persons report out on the table. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

A resigned sigh. Sigart looked at Beatrice as if he wanted to ask for her help, but then shrugged his shoulders and leant over towards the photo. He looked at it for a long while – so long that they started to get hopeful.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The face doesn’t ring any bells. And I really tried to recognise him, believe me.’

‘And what about this man?’ Florin pulled out another photo, this time of Liebscher. ‘Do you perhaps know him?’

‘Why? Does he belong to the circle of potential victims too? Or is he already dead?’ He pushed the photos away. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what you want from me. I have nothing to do with your case. I don’t know the people who were murdered, and I don’t feel threatened. And even if I did, my life ended when my family died. Leave me in peace.’

Sympathy and irritation fought for the upper hand within Beatrice. It just wasn’t possible that every single one of their attempts to make progress led to a dead end. There had to be some connection between the victims.

She held her breath. Was that really true? Was it not equally plausible that the murderer was picking names out of the phone book at random and finding out about them, just to look on gleefully as the police desperately tried to establish a connection between them? The thought paralysed her. If that were the case, then the hunt could last a very long time.

She looked at Sigart, who was hunched over on his chair, staring out of the window at the grey concrete wall opposite. Over time, most heavily traumatised people either found a way to deal with their lot, or they committed suicide.

‘You know,’ he said, with a barely perceptible smile, ‘it would save me the effort. A murderer, I never thought of that. Stepping in front of a bus, a scalpel, injecting myself with an overdose – sure.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve put lots of animals to sleep, and I’d like to die like they do. Calmly. At peace.’

There was no doubt about the sincerity of his suicide wish, but they weren’t making any progress here. ‘As my colleague has already mentioned, we’d like to put you under police protection, but we need your approval for that.’

‘I appreciate your concern.’ His comment sounded genuine, at least. ‘But I don’t want that. I want my peace and quiet and I don’t want policemen at the door.’

She had feared that kind of response. ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

He looked at her, confused. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll give you my mobile number, and my colleague’s too. If you feel under threat or even suspect someone is watching you, call us. It’s better to call us than the emergency line, because we’ll know what it’s about.’

Sigart blinked as though he had something in his eye, then turned his head to the side. ‘Thank you. But I can’t promise I’ll take you up on your offer.’

He saved the number in his phone regardless. Beatrice tried to discreetly sneak a glance into his existing contacts, but without success.

‘We’ll send a squad car over to check on you now and then,’ said Florin, getting up from his chair. ‘But please do us a favour and watch out for yourself.’

Sigart’s shoulders twitched. It was futile; he would do as he pleased. They were almost out through the door when something occurred to Beatrice. The idea was an unusual one, and she was intrigued to see how he would react. ‘If you’re in agreement, I’d like to speak to your therapist. I need your permission though.’

He hesitated. So there were some things he still cared about.

‘What do you hope to achieve from doing that?’

‘I’m grasping at any straw I can think of, you know? You’re connected to this case in some way, and I want to understand how.’

With his scarred left hand, he kneaded the unscathed fingers on the other.

‘You’re ambitious, aren’t you?’

The question startled Beatrice for a moment. ‘I would say I’m more… persistent, I think.’

Again, that crippled version of a smile. ‘Good for you. I can remember how that used to feel.’ He swept his pale tongue slowly over his lips. ‘You can speak to my therapist if you really want to – her name is Anja Maly and her practice is in Auerspergstrasse. I’ll tell her to expect you.’

‘You were very quiet towards the end,’ said Beatrice as they went back to the car.

‘I know. I was concentrating on Sigart. He was different to our last visit and I was trying to work out exactly how.’

‘And?’

Florin hesitated. ‘I’ve never studied psychology, but he reminded me of someone today. An uncle who’s been dead for a long time now.’

Beatrice opened the passenger door, but didn’t get in. Instead, she glanced back at the small balcony belonging to Sigart’s flat. ‘Your uncle committed suicide, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. By the end he was so calm, giving all his things away. He just let go of everything. I think Sigart is almost at that point. Shouldn’t we have him sectioned?’

It was a tempting thought – Sigart would get help, and at the same time no longer be accessible to the killer. A tempting thought indeed.

Back at the office, they worked late into the night. The photos of the three puzzles lay spread out on the desk in front of Beatrice, each one the Owner had given them so far. A singer. A loser. A key figure. She looked for parallels, differences, hidden messages. By half-ten, her eyes were stinging. ‘I’m going to head off home. I’m—’

—dead tired, she had been about to say, but Sting interrupted her; sending his SOS out. The phone was in her bag and Beatrice’s attempt at opening it resulted in knocking it from the table and spilling half the contents across the floor. The message tone continued.

Hopefully everything was okay with the children, and hopefully the Owner hadn’t—

She read the message and froze. But some kind of noise must have escaped her, for through the thick, dirty haze veiling her mind, she sensed Florin’s sudden attentiveness, his concern.

‘Bea?’

She didn’t respond. She had to get her thoughts straight first. By now, she could recognise the number at first glance; it was the prepaid card in Nora Papenberg’s mobile. Then she realised: this was the response to the last text she had sent.

The ball had been returned. It was as if he was saying, You know something? Then look at this – so do I!

She resisted the impulse to delete the message. Let’s look for a victim, my God.

‘Bea? What’s wrong?’

Speechless, she handed him her mobile. She watched as he immediately recognised the sender’s number, then scanned the message with a frown.

‘Goethe.’

‘Yes. “The Song of the Spirits over the Waters”.’ She rested her forehead in her hands. How had the Owner found out?

‘Who’s Evelyn R.?’

She’s the end of innocence. The caesura. The volte-face.

‘She’s dead.’ It didn’t answer his question, but it was all she could manage right at that moment. How could the Owner know about Evelyn?

She thought about the car that had followed her, the one with the headlights turned up too brightly. Suddenly, the thought of spending the night at home alone was yet another threatening shadow in her world.

Forbidding herself from thinking longingly of Florin’s spare room, she started to pack up her things. ‘Could you give me my phone, please?’

‘Bea!’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. ‘Explain to me what this is about. This isn’t caching slang – it’s to do with you personally, right?’

‘So it seems.’

‘So it seems?’ He pushed his hair back from his brow, clearly exasperated. ‘Look, of course you’re under no obligation to tell me everything about your life, but this is about a case we’re working on together. It would be really helpful if I was also able to interpret the messages the suspect is sending us.’

She had to collect her thoughts. Everything was rushing, colliding inside her. She needed to be alone. ‘I sent the Owner a message, and it seems this is his answer.’

Florin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You did what?’

‘Yes. I know. I played a lone hand, without discussing it first. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, when we were in Liebscher’s apartment and found the writing in the dust. I made it clear to him that we knew the identity of the man whose body parts he was putting in the caches. “Herbert Liebscher”, that’s all I wrote. I wanted him to know we’re getting closer, that we’re open to a dialogue. The more often he gets in touch, the higher the probability that he’ll slip up and make a mistake.’

She searched Florin’s face for understanding, but it was expressionless and – despite the tiredness in his eyes – harder than usual. ‘You do realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that by doing that you’re playing his game, not yours. Let’s forget for a moment that you didn’t inform anyone else in the team – you accepted his invitation by sending that message, Bea. Now you’re his official opponent. And I don’t like that one bit.’ He held her mobile out towards her. ‘You can see how personal he makes things. He swotted up, and clearly knows more about you than the people who see you every day.’

That was one way of looking at it. His official opponent. Her eyes were burning; she closed them and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. ‘Evelyn was one of my friends at university,’ she said, watching the dots and streaks that appeared in the darkness of her self-imposed blindness. ‘We shared an apartment. Then she died.’ Beatrice opened her eyes again and looked directly at Florin. ‘She was doing German philology, and I was studying psychology. Neither of us graduated.’

The question he wanted to ask her was clearly written on his face, but he didn’t voice it. ‘Under the circumstances I think it would be better if you don’t stay by yourself until we’ve caught the Owner,’ he said instead. ‘My apartment is big enough, so why don’t you—’

‘No.’

He blinked, then turned away. ‘Fine. But do me a favour and call me once you’re home and you’ve locked up. Leave your mobile next to the bed. Have you got the emergency number on speed dial?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘You should head home soon too. It’s been a long day.’

On her way out to the car park, Beatrice turned to look back several times, but there was no one behind her. Nor was there during the drive home, throughout which she spent more time looking in the rear-view mirror than at the road.

She did as Florin had asked: double-locking the door behind her and even sliding across the bolt she had never used the whole time she had lived here. It would be completely useless if someone was really intent on getting in, but it still felt reassuring to limit the possibilities. She checked that the windows were locked and pulled the curtains. Then she kicked her shoes off, sank down onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

Evelyn. Anyone could read about it in the newspaper archives if they made the effort, but establishing the connection to Beatrice was a lot more difficult. Her surname had been different back then, and she hadn’t spoken to a single journalist. And yet the Owner had still managed to draw the correct conclusions.

She felt her eyes start to close, then opened them wide. Was that a noise?

No. She was being silly. Nonetheless, she still felt better after doing a round of the rooms, not finding anything apart from the usual blend of order and chaos. Only then did she call Florin.

‘Did you get home safely?’ He was still at the office; she could hear the clatter of the keyboard in the background.

‘Yes. No one followed me, and there was no one lying in wait when I got here. Everything’s fine.’

‘Good. And remember, if anything unusual happens—’

‘I’m a police officer, Florin. I know how to look after myself.’ The words sounded convincing, even to her. For the first time since arriving at her apartment, she started to relax.

The night passed unbelievably quickly. Her head had barely touched the pillow before her alarm clock went off again. She had slept deeply, as if drugged, and her mobile had stayed silent.

‘Make sure a squad car goes round to check on Sigart. They just need to briefly make sure that all’s well.’ Beatrice leant on Stefan’s desk, pointing at the address on the note she had just given him. ‘And then could you try to make some sense of Stage Four? I can’t make head nor tail of it, so it would be good to have a second pair of eyes take a fresh look.’

Stefan ran a hand through his red hair, looking mildly offended. ‘Do you seriously think I haven’t been going over it already? I’ve requested a list from the records office on all residents in the state of Salzburg named Felix who are under the age of forty.’

That’s exactly what Beatrice would have done a few years ago. But she had learnt through experience that lists like that only helped if you at least had some vague idea of what you were searching for. Still, it wouldn’t hurt.

Seeing Kossar approaching out of the corner of her eye, she sighed. ‘See you later, Stefan.’

Kossar waited in the doorway to her office, glancing longingly over at the coffee machine, but she didn’t want to offer him anything that might lengthen his stay unnecessarily. It was bad enough that she would have to talk to him about her past. ‘The Owner sent me a new message yesterday. Here it is.’ She had typed up the message and printed it out.

Kossar scanned the words, nodded, sat down and read it through once more. ‘Can you tell me who Evelyn was?’

‘A friend. We lived together.’ For some inexplicable reason, it felt easier to tell Kossar about it than Florin. It felt less personal, at least as long as she was just talking about the bare facts.

‘So my assumption would be that she didn’t die of natural causes. Am I right?’

He was pretty good at his job when it came to direct conversation, at least. Which meant all she needed to do was nod, not explain anything.

‘I understand. The fact that the Owner knows about it is one thing, the fact that he’s shoving his knowledge right under your nose is another entirely. That supports our theory that he wants to demonstrate his superiority. And – correct me if I’m wrong –’ he looked at Beatrice as if he was searching her face for something – ‘but it seems like he’s hit a raw nerve. Am I right?’

She hesitated, then nodded.

‘He wants to show he can hurt you. He’d probably also like to see how you react, so don’t rule out the possibility that he might try to get close to you.’

Beatrice was pleased Florin was out of the office and not around to hear Kossar’s words. He was already on the brink of putting her under the personal protection Sigart had refused. ‘Okay. So, a tentative prognosis then – what will he do next?’ she asked.

‘Well.’ Kossar took his glasses off with a sweeping flourish. ‘He will continue to pursue his plan – unfortunately, at this point, no one can say what that plan consists of. To me, it looks like an opus, a production, a kind of psychopathic work of art. There were a few cases in the US that showed similar patterns. I’ve spent the last two days looking for possible parallels.’ Looking pleased with himself, Kossar leant back in his chair and put his glasses on again. ‘By the way, that means you’re not in danger. You’re the audience – it would be counterproductive to kill you.’

That’s good to know. Beatrice forced a smile. ‘Thank you for your comments. So what do you suggest I write back to him in response?’

Kossar took a long time before he answered, even for him. ‘Only reply if you have something clever to say, something that will interest him. Something on a level with the surprise he dealt you yesterday.’

Even though she wasn’t hungry, Beatrice went to the canteen for lunch and picked up a sandwich. On the way back, she ran into Stefan.

‘Some of the guys checked on Sigart, everything’s okay. They said he looks ill and seemed absent-minded, but apart from that he was fine.’

It sounded as though he was a step closer to ending things. They had to initiate the process for institutionalisation.

‘I’ve also been pondering what the comments about the key figure’s career could refer to. Selling things that no one needs – he might be an insurance salesman.’

She burst out laughing, and was suddenly unable to remember the last time she had done so. ‘Stefan! That’s a serious career path you’re calling into disrepute.’

‘If you say so. But that’s what came to mind – knocking on people’s doors, cold calling – see what I mean? Or maybe he sells something completely different – like stain removal products or newspaper subscriptions, or maybe just hot air…’

Hot air – in other words, mere rhetoric. Maybe he was in the advertising industry. If that was the case, there could be a connection between him and Nora Papenberg.

‘That’s not a bad idea. Keep at it, Stefan.’

He beamed and disappeared into his office. Beatrice went off to hers and found Florin there with his eyes closed and the telephone held to his ear. Within just a few moments, Beatrice worked out he was talking to Vera Beil. She had identified her husband yesterday, and had collapsed right there on the spot. Severe shock and circulatory failure, the doctors had said when she had been taken to hospital. Presumably she was phoning from there; she had already called twice today, but only ever wanted to speak to Florin.

‘Anything,’ he was saying. ‘Try to think back, Frau Beil. What did your husband say as he left the house? Or before that, on Sunday evening?’

Beatrice turned her attentions to her computer. The mobile provider had emailed saying that the last connection via the prepaid card had been made at 22.34 yesterday, at which time the mobile was located in Salzburg’s historic quarter. She was relieved: no one had been following her; she could rely on her instincts after all. Unfortunately, though, it seemed she could also rely on the Owner’s caution: he hadn’t yet connected to the same cellular network twice.

The afternoon crept up slowly and doggedly, leading to a gloomy evening and, shortly after 8 p.m., an equally gloomy evening meeting. No one in the team had any great flashes of inspiration to offer; no one was in the position to lay new ideas on the table.

‘We’re stuck,’ said Florin. ‘Stage Four is a hard nut to crack – neither Beil’s wife nor Papenberg’s husband know anyone who meets the criteria of the key figure. So we’re going to have to do the painstaking work and translate the two clues.’

Beatrice’s phone interrupted him. It wasn’t the melody announcing a text message, but the one for incoming calls.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pulling the phone from her bag and heading towards the door. She didn’t know the number on the display, which was a good thing, implying it would be quick to resolve.

‘Kaspary.’

A wail, followed by a whimper. Crashing in the background. She gripped her phone tightly. ‘Who is it?’

‘Help me!’ The man’s words were hoarse and faltering, squeezed out between sobs, but Beatrice was sure she could recognise Bernd Sigart’s voice.

‘Herr Sigart, is that you?’ Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Florin gesticulated frantically with his thumb, as though he was pressing something. She understood and switched to speakerphone.

‘Help me!’ Sigart was sobbing. ‘He’s trying to—’ The word culminated in a scream, followed by a crash which sounded like a bookcase falling over. Another crash, then the whimpering was muffled; someone must have put their hand over the microphone. It crackled, rustled, then the sound became clear again, and Sigart’s cries cut shrilly through the air in the meeting room. ‘Stop! Please! No!’

‘Where are you?’ shouted Beatrice.

There was no answer, just a dull thud, more pain-racked screams, then the connection was abruptly broken.

‘Shit! Florin, Stefan, we need to drive to Sigart’s flat right now!’ She clapped Bechner on the shoulder. ‘Tell all available squad cars in the area to get over there, Theodebertstrasse thirty-three. Quickly!’

She estimated the driving time in her mind: they would need at least fifteen minutes, twenty more realistically, even if they went through the red lights. Florin jumped behind the wheel, stepping on the accelerator even before all the doors were shut. His lips were pressed into a thin line, all his concentration directed on the road. Meanwhile, from the back seat, Stefan offered his analysis of the call.

‘Sigart said “he”, which means it’s just one guy. So now we at least know that the Owner is a man—’

‘We don’t even know for sure if it was the Owner,’ Beatrice interrupted him. Her throat felt dry with nerves. Sigart does value his life after all, she thought. We all do, as soon as someone wants to take it from us, as soon as things get serious.

Hopefully became her mantra for the next ten minutes. Hopefully we won’t get there too late. Hopefully.

The walls of the building in Theodebertstrasse were reflecting the blue lights of the two squad cars that had arrived before them. The street was narrow, so one single car up at the crossing was enough to block access to traffic.

Four male and one female uniformed officers were standing at the front door, talking into walkie-talkies. Seeing Beatrice and Florin arrive, the policewoman came running over to them.

‘We’ve already been in,’ she called breathlessly. ‘It looks pretty bad in there.’

Florin voiced Beatrice’s thoughts before she managed to. ‘Is Sigart dead?’

The policewoman shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s hard to say.’

‘What does that mean?’ The entrance lay in front of them, and even though dusk was already turning to darkness and the street lamps were only giving off sparse light, the dark smears and flecks in the hallway were unmistakable. Bloodstains ran down the stairs, as if something heavy had been dragged along the floor. They led down to the cellar.

‘It certainly seems like whoever did this got a look at the house beforehand and worked out the best escape route,’ explained the policeman holding the walkie-talkie. ‘The cellar leads to a rear exit, and the suspect must have had a car parked there, because the traces of blood stop abruptly.’

‘But what about Sigart?’ asked Beatrice impatiently.

‘We haven’t found him.’

They ran up the stairs, taking care not to disturb the bloodstains. Beatrice noticed a large shoe print in one of the smears and hoped fervently that the Owner had finally made a mistake. The story told by the bloodstains was a clear one. They had come too late.

‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’

‘No.’

Now she saw for herself: the door was open, but undamaged. He must have let the killer in.

The inside of the flat looked like a slaughterhouse. Most of the blood was on the floor, on the wall next to the couch and by the table, which had been knocked over. The bookcase lay diagonally across the room and had buried a folding chair beneath it; the legs jutted out from under the heavy load like those of a squashed insect.

As expected, there was no sign of Sigart, but they still called out for him, checking the bathroom and finding nothing but blood and more blood. The patterns on the wall suggested an intensely spurting wound. Sigart must have been badly injured, unconscious or even dead before the killer dragged him through the building out to his car.

‘He acted pretty damn fast.’ Florin’s gaze had stopped at the pool of blood next to the table. ‘The patrol team said they arrived seven minutes after the emergency call, and both Sigart and the killer were already gone.’

That at least increased the probability that, in his haste, the Owner had made a mistake. The bloody shoe print on the stairs, for example. Tiptoeing cautiously, Beatrice crossed the small living area and glanced into the kitchen. Compared to the rest of the flat, it was quite clean. ‘But we warned him. Why would Sigart just open the door like that?’

‘The Owner isn’t stupid. Maybe he disguised himself as a policeman, a handyman, or a postman. Or maybe…’

Beatrice nodded, fighting against the sense of helpless frustration rising inside her. ‘Or maybe they knew each other.’

It was a mild evening, and most of the neighbours hadn’t been home at the time the crime was committed. While Drasche and Ebner inspected the flat and stairwell, the others tried to find someone who might have seen the Owner.

An old woman living in one of the ground-floor flats reported that she had heard a dull thud: ‘As though someone had dropped something heavy.’

‘That was it? No screams?’ Florin probed.

‘Yes, but I thought they were coming from the TV.’ The neighbours who lived next to Sigart were only arriving home now, and were clearly horrified. By 10 p.m., the residents from the other flat downstairs still hadn’t come back.

‘It must have been very loud. There was a struggle – we heard part of it on the phone,’ Beatrice explained to the tenants in the flat above Sigart. ‘Did you not hear anything?’

The man lowered his gaze. ‘We did. He was screaming and banging against the walls, but, the thing is – that was nothing new. In the last few years I’ve rung his bell again and again whenever he had those… incidents, but he never opened up, and I knew, you see… I mean, the thing with his family.’ He looked back up. ‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance. He always made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any contact or help.’

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.’

Let’s look for a victim echoed in Beatrice’s mind. She had been convinced that the Owner was alluding to Evelyn, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe he had meant Sigart, and had been announcing what he was about to do. A loser, a victim – the two were closely linked.

‘We have reason to believe that he knew the suspect and opened the door to him,’ said Florin. ‘Sigart mentioned to us that he almost never leaves the house and doesn’t have contact with anyone. Are there any exceptions?’ He smiled at the therapist. Even though Maly barely moved a muscle in her face, Beatrice could tell that the smile was having the desired effect.

‘Wait a moment, I’ll just get my notes.’

She pulled a thick blue ring binder out of a lockable cupboard and opened it towards the end. ‘The last few times he was here we mainly spoke about his sleeping problems and the fact that he was going to try to leave the house more often.’ She flicked forwards. ‘He was having nightmares a lot, and increasingly suicidal thoughts. But he never mentioned any acquaintances. I don’t think he even knew his neighbours by name.’ She looked at the next page, read some more, then shook her head. ‘It’s very sad. He was living in complete isolation.’ She stopped for a moment, laying her index finger on the page she had in front of her. ‘Wait, this could be of interest to you. In his last session he told me he’d felt like someone was following him on one of his walks. When I tried to find out more, he just shrugged it off and said it was probably his guilty conscience.’ She looked up. ‘His feelings of guilt were always a major topic in our sessions. He was convinced he was responsible for his family’s deaths, and resisted all attempts to relativise it.’

Beatrice leant forwards. ‘You said he thought he was being followed?’

‘Yes. But not threatened, it seems. He didn’t think it was worthy of anything more than a brief mention, and also said he didn’t see or recognise anyone. I think he thought it was just his imagination.’

Like I did the other day, thought Beatrice. The blinding lights in the rear-view mirror.

‘Did he mention any phone calls? Was there someone who might have got in touch out of the blue, a new or old acquaintance perhaps?’

Maly shook her head emphatically. ‘No. From time to time the vet who took over his surgery would call, whenever she had questions. Sigart’s parents aren’t around any more, and he completely broke off contact with his former friends. He didn’t want—’

She was interrupted by Beatrice’s phone beeping.

Beatrice quickly pressed the red button in order to stop the message tone. ‘Excuse me for a moment, please.’ She turned away, recognising the Owner’s number, and felt her face start to burn up.

This time it was a picture message. The text said NM. Just those two letters, nothing more. The attached picture took around three seconds to load, but even once it appeared Beatrice wasn’t sure at first what she was looking at. She rotated the phone a little, then suddenly everything became clear. She suppressed the noise that was trying to force its way out of her, something between a curse and a groan.

‘Something urgent?’ asked Florin.

‘Yes. I’m afraid we’re going to have to excuse ourselves, Dr Maly. Thank you very much indeed for your help.’

The therapist accompanied them to the door. ‘Could you let me know when you find out where he is?’

‘Of course. Thank you again.’ Beatrice practically pulled Florin out of the practice, down the steps and over to the car, where she leaned against the driver’s door.

He stood next to her. ‘I take it that was from the Owner.’

‘It certainly was.’ She opened the picture and handed Florin her mobile. ‘You tell me whether that’s good or bad news.’

‘Oh, God.’ He looked closely at the picture, then gave her the phone back. ‘It looks terrible.’

The image was sharp, and in spite of the small display, new details jumped out at Beatrice every time she looked. The pale arm with the dirty sleeves, pushed up to the elbow. The pile of bloody gauze bandages, crumpled on the brown tabletop. And the hand. Three fingers and a gruesome wound where the little and ring finger had once been. Dark red, almost black in places.

‘Let’s drive back to the office and enlarge the photo as much as we can,’ said Beatrice. ‘Some of the background is visible, so maybe it will give us some clues.’

‘NM.’ Frowning in concentration, Florin pointed at the message attached to the photo. ‘Could it be initials this time? Is he giving us clues to his name, or perhaps the next victim’s?’

‘I don’t think so. If I remember rightly, it’s another geocaching abbreviation and means “needs maintenance”.’

‘This guy has a pretty sick sense of humour,’ muttered Florin. He flung open the car door and sat down behind the wheel. ‘Let’s go. We need some extra people on the case to question the neighbours again, shine a light on the other victims’ social circles and search through the geocaching sites. We have to find Sigart before the Owner kills him.’

The photo was easy to enlarge and revealed further chilling details. They had summoned Vogt from the pathologist’s office, and he was now sitting in front of Beatrice’s computer, his hands folded into a steeple in front of his mouth.

‘I can’t be completely certain, but I suspect the fingers were severed with one single blow. Have a look for an axe or a sharp kitchen knife as possible weapons.’

Florin pointed at the image. ‘The man is likely to also have a neck wound and has lost a lot of blood. I know you can only see the arm in the picture – but do you think he’s still alive?’

Vogt zoomed in further on the section showing the hand and moved his face so close to the screen that his nose was almost touching it. ‘Well, he at least lived for some time after the fingers were severed, because the edges of the wound seem slightly inflamed, and you can see the first stages of the healing process.’ He pushed his glasses right up to the top of his nose. ‘It also looks as though the hand muscles are tensed. So it’s likely that he was still alive when the photo was taken. I can’t give you any guarantees though.’

Guarantees weren’t necessary. For Beatrice, Sigart was alive until proved otherwise. ‘We’ll speak to Konrad Papenberg again,’ she said after Vogt had left. ‘This whole thing started with his wife – her handwriting is on the cache notes and Liebscher’s blood on her clothing. In one way or another, she must be the key to this case.’

‘But she’s not the key figure, at least not according to the Owner,’ Florin interjected. His fingers were drumming out a speedy rhythm on the surface of the desk. ‘He hasn’t yet given us any false information in his messages, have you noticed that? He doesn’t lie to us, so if he says someone is the key figure, then we should identify that person as quickly as possible.’

‘Yes, except that might take for ever,’ answered Beatrice. ‘I think Sigart is our priority, and the path to him is via the other victims.’

Konrad Papenberg’s face had turned a deep red and was just ten centimetres at most from Beatrice’s. ‘Get out of my house right this second! I won’t allow you to slander my dead wife under my roof!’ A drop of spit landed next to Beatrice’s right eye. She didn’t wipe it off. Instead of backing away from Papenberg, she took a tiny step towards him. It had exactly the desired effect: he stepped back, putting more distance between them.

‘I understand that you’re upset,’ she said in a decidedly calm voice. ‘Nothing has been proven, of course. But there was someone else’s blood on your wife’s hands and clothing, and we’ve since been able to match that blood to another victim. I hope you can understand that we have to investigate this.’

‘Perhaps she was trying to help him!’ roared Papenberg. ‘Had you thought of that? No, you’d rather believe that Nora is a murderer, my Nora, my…’ His voice failed him and he sank down onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.

Beatrice nodded to Florin. It was a silent request for him to take over the questioning. She hadn’t counted on such an extreme reaction, and although she felt sorry for Papenberg, his lack of control didn’t necessarily have to mean an end to the conversation if Florin took the right approach.

Florin sat down next to the man on the sofa and spoke to him softly. Beatrice removed herself from his line of sight as much as possible, positioning herself over by the window in an attempt to let him forget she was there.

It was clear that nothing had been cleaned or tidied in the apartment since their last visit. There was dust on the furniture, clothing scattered on the floor, newspapers, unemptied ashtrays – all evidence of how Konrad Papenberg’s life had been turned completely upside down.

‘Of course your wife was a victim,’ Beatrice heard Florin say. ‘We’re just trying to understand what happened. I’d like to show you photos of two men, perhaps you might know one of them. Would that be okay?’

Papenberg didn’t answer. Beatrice could hear the sound of papers being shuffled, so presumably he had nodded.

‘No, I’ve never seen them before. Which of them is Nora supposed to have murdered, according to your colleague?’

‘This man here, Herbert Liebscher.’

‘I don’t know him. I swear to you – if I did, I’d tell you.’

Beatrice looked around and saw that the photos were shaking in Papenberg’s hands. His face was wet. ‘No one wants the murderer to be found more than I do. I want to help you, but when you say things like that about Nora…’ He fumbled around in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue and blew his nose. ‘She was the most gentle person I’ve ever known. She could barely hurt a fly, and felt bad about the silliest of things. Sometimes she would burst into tears when bad news came on the TV, and then would be inconsolable for hours. About car crashes, for example, even if she didn’t know the people. She was so compassionate, you know?’ He scrunched the tissue up in his hand. ‘She could never have been an accomplice to murder.’

Beatrice turned around from the window. ‘Was she always that way?’ she asked. Her question was one of genuine interest.

‘Ever since I’ve known her, yes. She did a lot of charity work, like for Children’s Village, Médecins Sans Frontières and organisations for disabled people. Not just donations, I mean personal stuff too. She always said that when she… died, she wanted to feel like she had made a difference.’

A woman with a social conscience, empathy and a dedication to giving something back. But perhaps there was a darker side to Nora Papenberg, even if her husband had her up on a pedestal.

Beatrice tried to fight the feeling of frustration welling up inside her. She was familiar with this phase from previous cases. The aimless stumbling around in the darkness; being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It required the utmost patience, something she struggled with even in normal circumstances. But the fact that someone’s life depended on her work this time made it almost unbearable.

‘You look exhausted,’ said Florin as they got back in the car. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat, sit on a park bench and have a quick break.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Bea, it’s quite clear that you’ve already pushed yourself to the limit.’

A sharp retort twitched on her tongue, but she controlled herself. Usually she liked it when Florin looked out for her, but not when she was under as much pressure as today. ‘It’d make me feel sick, can’t you understand that? I won’t be able to stomach more than a coffee and a few biscuits, and we have all of that back at the office.’

Florin started the engine without saying another word. She looked at him from the side, feeling guilty for her harsh tone, but then fixed her gaze on the road. She knew she was taking this case more personally than any other. By mentioning Evelyn’s name, the Owner had stirred up an old guilt within her.

She knew she would do it; the only question was when. Since Florin had dropped her back at home, Beatrice had pulled her phone from her bag again and again, her fingers hovering indecisively over the buttons, trying to formulate a message in her mind. Something clever that would interest the Owner, that’s what Kossar had said.

Shortly before eight, she drove to Mooserhof to see the children. She felt a fleeting moment of relief that they were both happy and didn’t seem to be missing her too much. Mina hugged Beatrice for longer than usual, reporting that she’d got a good mark for her dictation. She also seemed to know exactly how many mistakes each and every child in the class had made.

Jakob had renewed his friendship with the neighbours’ son, and was spending most of his time on their farm with the chickens. He presented Beatrice with an egg he had personally collected from one of the hutches.

‘I got a present yesterday too,’ he said proudly. ‘A little world that lights up when you press a button.’

‘A globe, you mean?’

‘A globe, that’s what I said. And Mina got a really pretty mirror with sparkly flowers around the edges.’

From Achim of course. ‘Was Papa here for a while then?’

‘No, he hasn’t come.’

‘So who’s giving you such lovely presents? Oma?’

‘No, not Oma!’ He sounded almost outraged. ‘But the guests are all so nice to us, a few of them give us euros if we bring them their food. And sometimes we get stuff too. The man with the globe had all kinds of toys with him, a whole sack full, and he was going to sell it all at the flea market.’

‘And he just gave you some as a present?’

Sensing the hidden accusation, Jakob reacted with lightning speed. ‘I asked Oma if I was allowed to take it and she said yes. And today a woman gave me a pen, with penguins on it! Look!’

Beatrice admired Jakob’s new acquisition enthusiastically. He tapped his index finger on the tip of the egg which he had put on the table. ‘Make yourself a scrambled egg from it, okay?’ he said, rubbing his nose against her cheek.

Later, as she drove from her mother’s restaurant back to the office, she was almost expecting someone to be following her again, but the street behind her was practically empty. The egg lay on the passenger seat, and Beatrice made an effort to brake carefully at every crossing. She felt strangely protected, somehow, by the mere presence of Jakob’s fragile gift.

‘I want him to give me Sigart,’ declared Beatrice. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her ear and shoulder, had taken off her shoes and was sitting on the revolving chair with her legs tucked beneath her. By night, all was peaceful in the murder investigation department. There was no one else there except Florin, who sat wearily in front of his computer, an enlarged version of the photo of Sigart’s mutilated hand on the screen.

From the other end of the line, Beatrice could only hear heavy breathing. Had Kossar fallen asleep already? ‘What can I send to the Owner as bait? What can I offer him?’

Kossar cleared his throat. She could picture him setting his glasses straight. ‘That’s risky, my dear,’ he said. ‘We don’t yet know enough about him and his motives, and we don’t want to provoke him.’

My dear? Beatrice mouthed the words silently. ‘Listen, I have a chance here. I can’t just throw it away. We’ve been waiting for your input for days now, and time is running away from us. So, what would you do?’

She looked up, saw Florin’s surprised expression and shrugged her shoulders. She needed some expert advice. And if Kossar was the only one available, she had no choice but to turn to him.

‘Well,’ said the psychologist slowly, ‘the Owner has made a personal connection with you by referring to your deceased friend. Try to answer in an equally personal way. It’s not necessarily without danger, but it’s probably the only possibility of establishing some common ground with him. And that would be an immeasurable win. Show that you’re curious about what he’s doing. Be a good audience.’ She heard him chuckle softly. ‘Just don’t applaud too loudly.’

He tried to open his eyes, but the blindfold was so tightly wrapped around his head that his eyelids remained firmly shut despite all his efforts.

He was shaking from the cold, and from fear. With every cramped, trembling movement of his body, the ties cut deeper into his wrists. ‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Is anyone there?’

No answer.

He swallowed down the panic surging within him and tried to get his bearings.

It was in vain. He could have been here for an hour or even twelve; losing consciousness had taken away any sense of time.

But it hadn’t taken away the pain. His pulse was racing, a rhythm beating against the inside of his skull with the merciless sharpness of a pickaxe. His wrists were burning, but he couldn’t feel his hands. They were completely numb. He tried to move his fingers, but couldn’t work out whether they were responding.

‘Hello?’

He waited, trying not to breathe, trying to sense the presence of another person, but everything around him was quiet, empty.

He only had himself to blame. He had been warned and hadn’t taken one single word of it seriously. And now…

The fear swelled, breaking through the thin layer of control that had been holding it in. Even though his head felt close to bursting, he yelled, screamed with panic.

But no one came, and after a while he quietened down again, waiting silently. He tried to think about his family, but that just made everything worse. Behind the tight blindfold, tears began to well up. The mucous membrane in his nose was becoming swollen.

‘I see we’re ready now,’ he heard someone say behind him. He reacted instinctively, trying to turn around, but the ties just burrowed deeper into his flesh.

‘What do you want from me?’ he croaked.

‘Answers.’

He swallowed a sob, not voicing the question in his mind – Answers to what? ‘If I tell you what you want to know, will you let me live?’

The silence was as complete as before, as if the man behind him wasn’t even breathing. Then he felt a hand on his head.

‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. First, you’ll lie. Then you’ll tell the truth. Then, at the end, you will die.’

The clock on her computer said 01.26. Little by little, the space around Beatrice was losing its sharp contours. She had planned to drop by the office only briefly after visiting the children, to pick up a few files, but she had discovered two new reports. They had drawn her into some research, and now four hours had passed. She resolved to go home as soon as she had sent the text message. Let us help you, she typed into her mobile, only to delete it again. It was roughly her twentieth attempt at formulating a message which would provoke the Owner into conversing with her. But she couldn’t find the right tone. The messages she came up with either sounded ridiculous or overbearing. The last one topped them all, as it implied he was crazy.

‘Although he is, of course,’ mumbled Beatrice.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, Florin, I was just talking to myself.’ She tried to smile, but it felt like a pathetic attempt. ‘Shall I make us some coffee?’

He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. ‘Suicide by caffeine, eh? I could actually do with one too, though. Stay where you are, I’ll do it.’ The espresso machine rumbled back to life. ‘You’re still battling with the text message, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘We should come up with one together.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ She looked out of the window into the darkness, but her own pale reflection in the glass obstructed her view of the night. ‘Kossar advised me to be authentic and honest. And personal too, but I don’t want to mess around – this is about saving Sigart’s life.’ She tossed her mobile onto the table. ‘Maybe there are some magic words, some code that will unsettle the Owner so much it stops him from committing another murder.’

The steam pipe made hissing, spitting noises, transforming the milk into a cloudy froth.

‘I think the Owner’s going to see through the message no matter what you write. He’ll know what you’re trying to achieve, so you might as well spell it out.’ He placed a cup in front of her. ‘But forget Kossar – don’t go in for anything personal, Bea. Don’t give him any incentive to get to know you better.’

She let his words go in one ear and out the other, then pulled the mobile back towards her. That’s what I want, she thought, one to one.

She drank the cup of coffee down in three long gulps and sent the message off before she had the chance to change her mind. He wouldn’t know what to make of the date; a little puzzle for the Owner, for a change. Yawning, she stretched her arms. ‘I’m going to head off, Florin. And yes, I will let you know when I get there.’

The memories filled her mind as she got in the car, summoning up images that Beatrice hadn’t pictured this vividly in a very long time.

She turned the car radio on and allowed the music to chase the ghosts from her head at eighty decibels.

The answer came at 5.43 a.m., as the gleaming red display of the radio alarm clock betrayed when Beatrice opened her eyes. The text message tone had haunted her dreams, so she didn’t realise at first that her phone really was making a noise.

Her hand fumbled around, grasping the mobile and nearly knocking it off the bedside table. She managed to get a grip on it just in time, then held it up in front of her face.

From one second to the next, Beatrice was wide awake. She read the text again and again. The right conclusions, sure. If they had already reached them, then any conversation between them would be taking place in the interrogation room. But at least the Owner had responded to her message, and with an answer that referred back to what she had written. They had entered into a dialogue.

Feeling slightly dizzy, she got out of bed and padded into the kitchen. She filled a glass with cold water and drank it down in long gulps.

He liked taking things literally. And he wasn’t willing to admit that he didn’t know what the date referred to. If he had even an inkling of what significance it held for Beatrice then his message would have read differently, she was sure of that.

In the hope of being able to get back to sleep, she lay down in bed and closed her eyes. She had set the alarm for seven. But sleep had now escaped her, and unfortunately without taking the tiredness along with it. Beatrice stayed in bed regardless, mentally scanning every single word in the Owner’s message.

What would he say if she asked him about Sigart, whether he was still alive? Or if she asked him for another clue for Stage Four?

He would continue to be cryptic, just the same as always. You come to me – how original.

With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned onto her side. Her instinct was urging her to forget the search for Stage Four temporarily, to leave Liebscher’s remaining body parts to their vacuum-packed fate. Because if there was any conceivable pattern at all, it was that the Owner waited until the police made a find before he pounced. In all likelihood, the best thing they could do to protect the people he had chosen was to play dumb.

‘I have a used-car salesman, a sales coach and a calendar salesman, each of whom have two sons including one called Felix.’ Stefan beamed as he held some papers under her nose. ‘Now, is that good work or what?’

‘It’s –’ Beatrice glanced quickly through the pages – ‘wonderful, Stefan.’

‘I carried on researching from home until I found them. Who do you think we should start with? Look, here are the addresses, so if we visit the calendar guy first—’

She held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘Not today. We’ll discuss it with the team, but I think we should hold off with Stage Four for now.’

‘What? Why?’

His obvious disappointment made him look even younger than he did already. She patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘We need to be cautious. It didn’t turn out too well for Beil and Sigart after we spoke to them.’

‘You think—?’

‘I’m not sure. But it seems like the Owner just wants to shove people under our noses before ultimately killing them. So we’re not going to play that game any more.’

Stefan mumbled something that sounded both dejected and acquiescent at the same time.

‘Come to the office for a bit.’ She pulled him gently along the corridor. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

Kossar agreed with her entirely. Their new approach was not giving the Owner what he wanted, but instead luring him out of his hiding place. The psychologist was wearing different glasses today: blue frames with a dark red pattern. They clashed intensely with his green eyes.

‘This is the most personal message he’s sent you yet, Beatrice. He’s spurring you on, reacting to the date you gave and inviting you to come and find him. That goes far beyond merely transmitting information.’

‘It’s just that I don’t believe I can coax him into giving up Sigart, no matter what I write, and that’s really—’ She saw Stefan and Kossar exchange a brief glance. ‘I see. You both think he’s already dead.’ The memory of that April night twelve years ago fought its way back into Beatrice’s mind. The memory of Evelyn’s face – first alive, then dead. She pushed the image away, forcing herself to think of Sigart, his pale expression, devoid of all hope. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll repeat myself as often as I have to – so long as we haven’t found a body, I won’t give up on him.’

‘Neither will I,’ she heard Florin say as he entered the room. ‘If he was alive yesterday, then the chances aren’t bad that he’s still alive today.’

The only problem was that they didn’t have the faintest idea where to look for him. Further questioning of his neighbours hadn’t brought any results. But how was that possible? Had the noise really not startled anyone, had no one even looked through the peephole in their front door?

‘We heard the struggle ourselves on the phone, and know that at least one of the witnesses in the building heard it too, even though he misinterpreted it.’ Florin was propping up his chin with one hand while doodling in a squared notepad with the other, drawing snake-like lines that ended in crooked fingers. ‘Okay, Sigart lives on the first floor, so the route to the cellar isn’t far, but the Owner must still have been incredibly quick.’

Beatrice’s eyes followed the intertwining lines and picked up on his thoughts. ‘He grabbed him by the arms and pulled him down the stairs. The bloody shoe print –’ she pulled the corresponding photo towards her – ‘was pointing up the stairs. So either the Owner went down the stairs backwards, or he went back up again.’

‘Backwards,’ Florin surmised. ‘He was pulling Sigart down behind him.’

The telephone rang. Bea’s contact in the mobile provider’s technical department reported that the text message earlier that morning had been sent from a location near Golling, around twenty kilometres south of Salzburg.

‘It wasn’t even 6 a.m.’ Beatrice tapped her pen agitatedly on her notepad. ‘The Owner must have to sleep at some point too; after all, he’s got a hell of a workload. If he gets too tired he’ll make mistakes, which he won’t want to risk, so it’s very likely he lives near Golling. Or that he’s at least staying there temporarily.’

‘Unless,’ Stefan interjected, ‘he’s not alone. I mean, you agree that Nora Papenberg may have been his accomplice. It’s possible that there are more.’

They had discussed this idea a number of times, with differing results. Kossar rejected the theory every time, and today was no exception. ‘The person composing these puzzles is clearly conceited. The Owner wants to prove he’s better than us, but his success will only be fully satisfactory if he, and only he, can take all the credit. I’m absolutely convinced that we’re looking for a lone perpetrator.’

‘So then how do we explain Nora Papenberg’s role?’

Kossar only needed a few seconds to answer. ‘It’s possible that he needed help at the start. But at soon as things were going to plan, he—’

A knock at the door interrupted his flow. One of the secretaries came in – Jutta, Jette, Jasmin? Beatrice cursed her appalling memory for names – bearing a bunch of flowers wrapped up in paper, their scent mingling with the aroma of the coffee.

‘These were delivered for you, Frau Kaspary.’ She winked, laid the flowers on the desk and headed off.

‘Just a moment!’ Beatrice called after her, but the woman had already pulled the door shut behind her. Kossar was grinning as if the bunch had been sent by him personally.

‘Come on then, show us!’

Beatrice slowly pulled the cellophane off the paper. For a brief moment, the thought occurred to her that Florin might have sent them. But why would he send flowers? A quick glance revealed that he seemed as confused as she was.

She dispatched the first layer of cellophane into the wastepaper bin, admitting to herself that she was just trying to buy time with all the fumbling, then ripped the packaging open.

White calla and violet lilies. Three spruce twigs. Baby’s breath. All tied together with a white-and-gold ribbon.

Her body reacted more quickly than her mind. She rushed out of the office and got to the bathroom just in time. She threw up her breakfast and the coffee she had only just drunk, still retching even after her stomach had nothing left to give. But not even the smell of vomit was enough to drown out the scent of the flowers, still clinging mercilessly in her nose. It had been a mistake to believe that 21 May would be a date just like any other to the Owner. He knew what role the day played in Beatrice’s life, and that clearly wasn’t all he knew.

She straightened up, waited until the black spots in her vision had disappeared, and then flushed the toilet. Her shock and disgust had now been joined by shame. Losing the plot like that at the sight of a few flowers didn’t exactly make her look very professional; how was she going to explain it to the others?

A few sips of water chased the acrid taste from her mouth. She opened the door leading back out into the corridor, bracing herself for questions from her colleagues – and ran straight into Hoffmann.

‘On a break, Kaspary?’

Her first instinct was to dodge around him without a word, to run away like a child, but she had already exhibited enough weakness today.

‘Why would you ask that? You can see exactly where I’ve been.’ The words came out quiet and forced; the hollow feeling in her stomach had returned.

Hoffmann came a step closer and sniffed the air. ‘Have you just been sick?’

It took all the control Beatrice had to stand still and not break eye contact. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you pregnant or something? For heaven’s sake, what next?’

She couldn’t hold back her laughter. ‘No, most certainly not.’

He looked her up and down. ‘I see. Well, that doesn’t make it much better, but—’

‘If you say so,’ Beatrice interrupted him. ‘I don’t really think that concerns you though. I’m feeling much better now, by the way, thank you for asking.’ Without waiting for a response, she left him standing there.

Kossar and Stefan were still in the office when she walked back in, and so was Florin. ‘Are you feeling better?’ He stood up and came over to her. ‘You’re really pale. If you don’t feel well, you should go home, okay? It’s not going to help anyone if you collapse, Bea.’

The bouquet of flowers was still on her desk. Someone had freed them from the rest of the paper.

‘I’m not ill. Sorry that my reaction was so extreme – it’s just… these flowers.’

‘So I gathered.’ Florin held up an envelope, white with a black edging, like a death notice in a newspaper. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

She shook her head and swallowed down the stomach acid rising up in her throat again. A death announcement, what else could it be? Sigart was dead, and the Owner had found his own unique way of telling her. She sat down, pushing the flowers far away from her, and steeled herself for the sight of more horrific pictures. She opened the envelope.

A white card without any adornment. Beatrice read it through, and tried to make sense of it but failed.

Speechless, Beatrice handed the card to Florin.

‘We’ve already phoned the flower delivery company while you – while you were outside,’ explained Stefan. ‘They said the order came from a young woman who spoke very poor German.’

‘We need a more detailed description.’ She averted her gaze from the flowers, staring into the distance. ‘Stefan, could you—’

‘Drive over there? Of course.’ On the way to the door, he waved his phone in the air. ‘Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.’

Beatrice looked back at the card. New coordinates. Was this Stage Four? A little extra help from the Owner so the game didn’t grind to a halt?

Florin pushed a glass of water over towards her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘White calla and violet lilies,’ she said softly, ‘were the flowers on the wreath I bought twelve years ago for my friend’s funeral, the one who was murdered. The Owner keeps making references to Evelyn.’ She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. ‘Even the colour of the ribbon is the same.’

‘I wonder why he picked you, out of all of us.’ Florin’s gaze was full of sympathy, and Beatrice couldn’t handle that right now.

‘No idea.’ She gestured towards Kossar, who was standing at the window with a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Why don’t you ask the expert? And while you’re at it, ask him how the Owner knows the inscription on her gravestone.’

The quote had been chosen by Evelyn’s mother, a pretty, friendly woman who had collapsed during the funeral and had to be taken away in an ambulance. Beatrice had only seen her twice after that, and she had looked smaller and greyer each time. Not just her hair but her skin and eyes, too, seemed to lose their colour. She had been as friendly as ever, but the friendliness had become absent-minded. Even though Beatrice had fully intended to, she had never managed to tell Evelyn’s mother about what had happened back then. About how easily Beatrice could have prevented it.

No one from her new life knew about it. Or so she had thought.

‘Right then,’ said Kossar, interrupting her thoughts, ‘what seems evident is that the Owner wants to establish a strong link with Frau Kaspary. She’s the only one receiving his text messages, and now flowers, and he put a note under her windscreen wiper too – a little like lovers might do, don’t you think?’

Beatrice looked away. If Kossar carried on like this she would have to run off to the toilet again.

‘Was the man who killed your friend ever caught?’

She shook her head, convinced she knew what Kossar really wanted to ask.

‘There’s no way it’s the same killer! The behavioural patterns are completely different. For a start, the Owner doesn’t commit any sexual offences.’ She gestured towards the photos of the severed hands and ears that lay in front of Florin. ‘The dismemberments aren’t in any way com parable, and nor are the weapons, as far as we know. Besides, the Owner has predominantly killed men, so there aren’t any parallels there either.’ She raised her chin, staring defiantly at Kossar. Hold your head high, even if your neck’s dirty had been one of Evelyn’s favourite sayings. When Beatrice continued to speak, her voice was quieter than before, but also fiercer. ‘I would have thought you knew that. No serial killers change their pattern just like that.’

‘No, of course not,’ responded Kossar gently. ‘And I can’t remember having suggested that. I only asked whether your friend’s murderer was ever caught because I think it would have helped you considerably in dealing with the trauma.’

His response felt like a blow to the stomach. He was right; she had simply pushed her own interpretation onto him. She would have to apologise for questioning his competence. But right now she was too angry to be fair. ‘More important than my so-called “trauma”,’ she snapped, ‘are these coordinates. Let’s not fool ourselves – we know what we’re going to find there.’ Sigart’s blood-covered mobile came into her mind. The prospect that his painful life had now come to an end wasn’t comforting, not even in the slightest.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Florin pointed his pen at the computer monitor in front of him. ‘The quote the Owner sent you this time is by René Descartes, and he was a mathematician.’

‘Like Liebscher!’

‘Precisely. So it’s possible that the Owner hasn’t sent us the location of Sigart’s body, but the coordinates to Stage Four, as a gift of sorts. Leading us to another one of Liebscher’s body parts. It’s as if he knew we were planning to stop playing his game.’

The location was directly at the intersection of two busy roads near Bischofshofen, where a bridge stretched over the Salzach. Water and scenic spots – the Owner clearly had a weakness for them.

They made their approach with a backup team: three dog handlers, and four squad cars to immediately block off the street if they found something. Drasche and Ebner had been called away to a break-in at a jewellery store, but two colleagues had been sent in their place.

The coordinates directed Beatrice and Florin right towards the bridge, the arches of which were accessible on foot – stone steps beneath the road led from one arch to the next. The three officers with their dogs were already down there, while four others were searching the surrounding area within a radius of thirty metres, so far without any success.

Down below, the river rushed northwards towards the city. Beatrice stood at the edge of the bridge, leaning over the stone wall and trying to ignore the pungent stink of urine rising up towards her. If the Owner hadn’t been careful, the river might already be carrying what they were looking for off towards the border. It was damp within the arches of the bridge; a plastic box could easily be dislodged by a strong gust of wind and fall into the water.

And it seemed that Beatrice’s fears were to be confirmed, for three hours later they still hadn’t found anything. The dogs had dug up a perished squirrel, but that was all. No body, no cache. At around two in the afternoon, they gave up the search.

‘He’s making fools of us,’ said Beatrice bitterly. ‘He tosses us a few coordinates and we run off and do exactly what he wants.’ She sat down in the grass near the roadside and watched the dog handlers working their way through the arches of the bridge one more time.

What if it was a mini-cache? An eye, vacuum-packed in an old photo film cartridge, hidden away in one of the numerous niches in the wall. Would the dogs be able to sniff it out?

Probably. But so far the Owner had hidden his containers in such a way that, with a little patience, they could always be found.

‘I wish I knew why we’re here.’ A cool wind had started up, prompting Florin to pull his jacket closed across his chest.

‘Me too. Why is he luring us out here? Maybe it’s to get us out of the way. If all the attention is focused on Point A, it leaves him in peace to do whatever he wants at Point B.’

What did the Owner mean exactly? That they knew everything, knew the coordinates, and still weren’t finding anything? Or were his words meant to be read figuratively?

For the duration of the journey back to the office, Beatrice went over the messages she had received from him again and again in her mind. A text message and a card today alone – he was astonishingly eager to communicate. Which gave her reason to fear they were moving towards the culmination of his bloody production.

Achim was waiting in the car park next to the entrance of the office building. Judging by his posture, he had already been standing there a long time. For a few moments, Beatrice felt yet again as though her lungs were refusing to take in any oxygen.

It’s fine, she reassured herself. If he were to get loud and offensive then she wouldn’t hesitate to call for help this time. After all, there were enough law enforcers on hand.

Florin had noticed Achim too, and groaned with irritation. ‘That man’s got perfect timing. I can get rid of him for you if you like.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll deal with it.’ She took her time getting out of the car and waited until the others had disappeared into the building. Achim looked at her. A few strands of blond hair stood up from his head, windswept.

‘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.

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.

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.

‘We’ve got another body.’ Florin’s voice sounded incredibly weary. ‘And three guesses as to where it was found.’

‘Oh, shit. Sigart.’ So the Owner had gone against his word and killed him – or let him die of his injuries.

‘No, it doesn’t seem like it’s Sigart, going by the description. But it’s definitely one of our Owner’s victims.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘The body’s at the bridge, at the coordinates where we searched yesterday morning. I’m already on my way. It would be good if you could come too.’