Five (40 page)

When the ambulance arrived, the emergency doctor diagnosed wound inflammation and severe dehydration. ‘He probably hasn’t had anything to drink for two days now. But if he doesn’t get sepsis then he has a good chance of surviving.’

Only once Sigart had been taken away did they pay more attention to the cellar. It was roughly twenty square metres. Around the wooden table were three chairs, and towards the back of the room Beatrice discovered a device which was roughly the size of a laser printer. She only realised its purpose – the wrapping of food products – when she saw the vacuum bags lying next to it. In a corner, half covered by bloody muslin bandages, was a pair of red women’s shoes.

Drasche arrived as dawn was breaking. He worked silently, and they left him in peace. He did the same, knowing that they had to get an impression of the place where Liebscher, Beil and Estermann had been killed. On a small stainless-steel bottle which Drasche was in the process of sealing away in his evidence bag, there was a sticker with the letters
HF
. Hydrofluoric acid.

The table’s surface was ploughed with notches and covered with red and brown flecks. If Beatrice stood in front of it, a little to the side, the perspective was exactly the one she knew from the picture messages, only without the hand and severed fingers.

The noose on the ceiling brought to mind the strangulation marks on Christoph Beil’s neck.

So this was where it had all happened.

Drasche had taken the tobacco tin cache, but the signatures in the logbook were firmly etched in Beatrice’s memory: Wishfulthinker28, AlphaMale, GarfieldsLasagne. DescartesHL, ChoristInTheForest.

Five.

The feeling of having stumbled upon a critical gap in her line of thought, the feeling which had crept chillingly up her spine the first time she read the entry, was no longer as intense as it had been initially, but it was still there. It lurked, ready to be summoned, in the recesses of her mind.

At the hospital, they were optimistic. They had treated Sigart’s wounds and he was responding well to the antibiotics they had given him. His psychological condition, however, was described as critical, veering from distracted and depressed to completely apathetic. ‘You’ll have to wait a little longer to speak to him,’ explained the doctor.

So Beatrice immersed herself yet again in online research. Stefan had already explained a while back that profiles set up on Geocaching.com couldn’t be erased: once you were registered, that was it. And true to his word, the pseudonyms from the cache log were all still there. AlphaMale – such a humble codename could only belong to Estermann. His quota was indeed over 2,000 caches. 2,144, to be precise – not a single unconquered find. In comparison, Christoph Beil’s 423 finds seemed downright modest. GarfieldsLasagne – had Dalamasso been witty enough to name herself after a plump cartoon cat and his favourite meal? Her profile showed only twenty-four caches; according to the log entries she had found them all with ChoristInTheForest.

They were a couple, thought Beatrice. Christoph and Melanie; they must have met at the Mozarteum, after a choir rehearsal perhaps.

A man old enough to be her father, as Carolin Dalamasso had put it. And married, so no wonder Melanie hadn’t wanted – or been able – to introduce him to her parents.

She was the last one, the one who had remained unharmed. It was hard to imagine the Owner would give up now, but so far no one had tried to get close to her. Her watchers hadn’t reported any unusual events.

‘Blood traces from Liebscher, Beil, Sigart and Estermann. And small amounts from Papenberg too. The saws were used to cut up Liebscher’s body, and Nora Papenberg’s fingerprints were found on the handle. A vacuum-packing machine has been taken off for investigation. The bags match those we found in the caches.’ Drasche stood in the conference room, leaning against the back of his chair as if he couldn’t carry the weight of his body without help. ‘So it’s as good as proven that the cellar was the scene of the crimes. You’ll have to work the rest out yourselves – all the evidence is there.’

‘And you say the Owner imprisoned Sigart in the building his family burnt to death in?’ Hoffmann’s question was directed at Florin.

‘In the cellar of the building. Yes, it looks that way.’

‘A particularly perfidious form of sadism?’ That, in turn, was addressed to Kossar.

‘I’d interpret it like that, yes.’ Beatrice noticed, not without a degree of satisfaction, that he had become more cautious since his ‘random victim’ theory had been proven so grossly inaccurate.

‘It would also be supported by the fact that he let Sigart live longer than the others. In his mind, they’re all connected with the fire – the five geocachers who passed through the area on the same day, and Sigart, who blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and children, both to himself and to anyone who would listen.’

Hoffmann nodded. ‘Then we’re dealing with someone who was also affected by the fire, in some way or another.’ His gaze slid from one person to the next, skipped Beatrice and stopped at Florin. ‘You’re working closely with the guys from the fire service, right, Florin?’ Without waiting for an answer, he smacked both hands down on the table to signify their dismissal. ‘Good. Then the case will soon be closed.’

The first detective to exchange a few words with Sigart was Florin. He managed to catch him at a good moment during a routine visit, and had a five-minute conversation while two doctors sat alongside, ready to usher him out immediately if their patient’s condition worsened.

‘I asked him about the Owner, but he said he didn’t know him. He described him though, as well as he could. The description matched fairly precisely with the one given by the hotel waiter. Bald, a full beard, medium height. Sigart wasn’t sure about his eye colour. Blue or green, he thinks. He said he spoke without any regional accent, and the voice was neither particularly high nor deep. He wore gloves the whole time. That’s as much as I got in five minutes.’

Florin’s disappointment was clear to see. If Sigart had known the man and been able to name him, the case could have been closed very quickly indeed. Hoffmann’s ideal scenario.

‘If I were a man,’ said Beatrice slowly, ‘and I wanted to disguise myself without using wigs and false teeth, then I’d grow a beard and shave off my hair. Everyone who sees me would then remember me as a bearded bald guy, even though I’m normally clean-shaven with a full head of hair.’

A smile twitched across Florin’s face. ‘Hoffmann would be very happy if you grew a beard. “Don’t be such a girl, Kaspary.”’

They laughed, and it did them good. ‘But you’re completely right,’ Florin continued. ‘The description doesn’t necessarily help. The Owner isn’t making it easy for us.’

She sat on Sigart’s bed and waited for him to wake up. He’d been in the hospital for three days now. His condition was stable, according to the doctors. They had allowed Beatrice to pay him a visit, but now he was sleeping, while the IV released one drop of electrolyte solution into his veins per second. The sight nudged something within Beatrice, something like the precursor to a realisation. She waited, but it didn’t come.

Sigart stirred. His eyelids fluttered softly before they opened. He turned his head and looked at her, and Beatrice knew that he had recognised her right away.

‘It’s good to see you alive, Herr Sigart,’ she said.

He didn’t smile, but looked at her steadfastly.

‘Can you speak?’

A shrug of the shoulders, followed by a pain-filled grimace. He cleared his throat. Had the tilting of his head been a nod? Beatrice decided to interpret it as such. ‘That’s good. I don’t want to disturb you for too long, but there are so many things on my mind. I’m sorry we didn’t get there soon enough to prevent you from being kidnapped. We came as quickly as we could, but the perpetrator was unbelievably fast.’

Sigart’s eyes closed again. His breathing sounded worse; the memory was clearly causing him distress.

‘The thing is,’ Beatrice continued, ‘I’d like to know why you ignored our warnings. We offered you protection, and when you didn’t want it we pleaded with you to be careful. Not to open the door to anyone. But the killer still got to you, and there was no sign of forced entry.’

She gave him time to process her question. His eyes were still closed, and after a few seconds he turned his head to the side, away from her.

‘That’s why we have the theory that you must have known the killer,’ she continued. ‘And there are a number of additional reasons why I still believe that’s the case. But you told Herr Wenninger he was unknown to you.’

He didn’t stir. Beatrice felt impatience welling up inside her, and counted silently to five. She gave herself, and him, time. Took a deep breath. Sigart no longer stank of blood, vomit and urine, just of disinfection fluid.

‘If you didn’t know him, why did you open the door? I just don’t understand.’

Had he gone back to sleep, or were her questions too painful for him? Beatrice tried again, as gently as she could, but Sigart was no longer reacting.

The Owner hadn’t been in touch since the picture message showing Sigart’s severed middle finger. The dog team had searched the woods around the cellar where Sigart was discovered, but hadn’t found anything. Drasche had been completely baffled by the prints found in the cellar. ‘We found fingerprints from all the victims, but not a single one from the killer. He must have worn gloves the whole time.’ That, at least, matched Sigart’s statement.

Lost in thought, Beatrice worked through the Owner’s text messages once more, reading one after the other.

Slow.

Cold, completely cold.

Was his sudden silence connected to Dalamasso? Was he frustrated that he couldn’t get close to her?

No
, she thought.
He could have got to Melanie before we solved the puzzle that led us to her. Like he did with Estermann
.

Melanie. Beatrice had saved her mother’s number in her mobile. She’d have to act fast, otherwise she’d lose her nerve.

‘Dalamasso.’

‘Good evening, this is Beatrice Kaspary from the LKA.’

A deep sigh. ‘Yes?’ Just one syllable, filled with contempt. But at least the woman hadn’t hung up.

‘I’d like to apologise for my behaviour. It was unacceptable. How is Melanie?’

‘She’s … she’s doing a little better. But she’s still trying to self-harm, and is hardly sleeping at all, except with the help of strong sedatives.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

No answer this time.

‘Did you want anything else?’ asked Carolin Dalamasso eventually. Curt, icy, clearly hoping that she didn’t.

‘Yes, to be honest. I’d like to ask you something.’ She took the silence at the other end of the line as consent. ‘Did Melanie used to react to things that extremely? Were there any events or triggers that upset her as much as those photos?’

She was expecting a dismissive answer, or none at all, but she was wrong.

‘Children.’

‘Sorry?’

‘She had strong reactions to children a few times, particularly loud ones. But only in the first year after her breakdown, and then it seemed to pass.’ Carolin Dalamasso sighed. ‘When she was at school, there were some children who bullied her a lot. The doctors think these memories might have been triggered by the sight of children.’

‘I understand.’
Yes, I really believe I do, but not in the way you think
. ‘Thank you, Frau Dalamasso. I wish Melanie all the best. My colleagues will continue to look out for her.’

‘I know. Are we finished now?’

‘Yes. Thank you again. Goodby—’ The rest of the word was swallowed by the beeping of the disconnect tone. Carolin Dalamasso had hung up.

The suspicion which Beatrice carried around with her that evening and the whole of the next day was much too vague to be uttered out loud to the others. When Florin questioned her on how quiet she was, she fobbed him off with an answer as brief as it was nondescript, and after that he left her alone with her thoughts.

Several times, Beatrice caught herself sitting and staring at the surface of her desk. To any onlooker, it must have seemed as though she wasn’t doing a thing, but inside her mind the kaleidoscope was turning incessantly, equipped with a few new fragments.

Drasche’s surprise about the fingerprints. The Owner’s silence. An IV needle.

The varying difficulty levels of the puzzles. And what was the point of them anyway?

Then the references to Evelyn, which she should have understood a lot sooner.

‘Coffee?’ Florin was standing next to the espresso machine, holding up two cups.

She stopped herself from snapping at him for interrupting her train of thought. ‘Yes, please. Strong.’

He pressed the buttons. ‘When are you going to tell me what’s going on in your head?’

‘When I’m sure it’s not just nonsense.’

‘Okay.’ It was clear he wasn’t content with the answer. ‘But I’d really prefer it if we could all discuss new approaches as a team. Or at least between the two of us.’

‘We will. When I’m ready.’ He would just have to be annoyed at her. Some threads of thought are so delicate that they tear and blow away if you try to put them into words. ‘Give me another few hours.’ In her mind’s eye, she saw the needle stuck into Sigart’s vein. It seemed inconceivable.
If you’re that fond of him, I’ll keep him for you until the end
.

The end
, thought Beatrice,
can’t be that far away now
.

She left the office earlier than usual; Florin’s probing looks were too off-putting. The feeling that her thoughts were going round in circles evaporated as soon as she stepped out into the fresh air.

The children were spending the evening at Mooserhof again; Achim had to take a client out for dinner. In those circumstances, of course, handing over the children was completely fine. Everything was always fine if he did it. But at least he had taken them to her mother’s, where they would be content.

When she arrived at the restaurant, Jakob clung to her like a monkey on a tree. ‘I want to go home,’ he mumbled. ‘Are you taking us with you tonight?’