‘Erm, yes. What’s—’
‘Don’t worry, nothing’s happened. I just need some information from you. You lead the Arcadia chamber choir, if I’ve been correctly informed?’
A relieved sigh. ‘Yes.’
‘I have two rather unusual questions. Do you have a choir member called Christoph? Or a former member? The time period in question would be the last five to six years.’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘It’s connected to a current investigation. Unfortunately I can’t be any more specific than that.’
‘Aha. Yes, we do have a Christoph. Two, for that matter – Christoph Harrer and Christoph Leonhart – and they both still sing with us.’ A brief pause. ‘Are they in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, absolutely not. Did your choir perform Schubert’s Mass in A flat around six years ago?’
This time, his answer came more quickly. ‘Yes, that sounds about right. Let me think for a moment – yes. It must be almost six years ago now.’
Beatrice highlighted the two names.
‘You’ve been a great help, thank you.’ Her hand continued to hover over the notepad; one final question was burning on her tongue.
She took a deep breath.
‘Is that all, Frau Kommissarin?’
‘Yes. No, sorry, just a moment – there’s one more thing, and it might sound strange, but I’ll ask anyway. Do either of the two men have a birthmark on their hand? Something big, quite noticeable?’
‘What? Why do you ask?’
Beatrice sighed inwardly; it was an understandable reaction. ‘It could be an important detail in the case.’
‘A birthmark?’ He sounded slightly irritated, as if she was trying to make a fool of him. ‘I’ve no idea why that might be of interest to you, but I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I tend to concentrate more on my singers’ voices, as it happens.’
Three further telephone enquiries revealed yet another Christoph. After that, the only choirs left on the list were the very small ones, and the ones whose choirmasters she had been unable to reach. ‘That’s already fourteen we have to check out in person.’ Beatrice flung her pencil down on the desk in exasperation. ‘With my luck the last one will end up being the one we’re looking for. None of the choirmasters so far knew anything about a birthmark.’
‘Same here.’ Florin’s outstretched arm fished for Beatrice’s notes. ‘I’ll just type everything up, then get Stefan to hunt out the addresses.’
‘Okay. I really need to grab a bite to eat. Can I bring you anything?’
Florin shook his head silently, already populating the table on his screen with names. The glum twist of his mouth reflected her own mood: yet another weekend without any time off.
One steak sandwich later, Beatrice ran into Stefan on her way back to her office. He was eagerly waving a sheet of paper at her.
‘I’ve got a few addresses for you, and also the rehearsal times for four of the choirs. Interested?’
‘You bet. Thanks!’ She quickly scanned through the information. One of the choirs was rehearsing tonight at seven in the Mozarteum. She could just make it if she picked the kids up first, cooked them dinner and then asked Katrin to watch them for an hour. The neighbour’s daughter’s piggy bank must be almost bursting by now.
‘Perfect.’ Florin nodded as she explained her plan to him. ‘I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven.’
By seven, after laminating schoolbooks, putting a load of washing on, cooking carbonara and taking a quick shower, Beatrice was sitting in the passenger seat next to Florin, hoping she didn’t still smell of garlic.
‘Christoph Gorbach and Christoph Meyer. Blue eyes and a birthmark. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘No,’ replied Florin gruffly.
Beatrice resisted the impulse to give him a friendly nudge – after all, he was concentrating on the road. ‘You’re annoyed because of this weekend, right? Have you already told Anneke about the new case?’
Florin shrugged. ‘I’m wondering whether I should cancel. I mean, there’s no point her coming all this way if I have to work.’ He turned off into Paris-Lodron-Strasse.
‘Why cancel just yet? We’ll bring Stefan onto the team – he’s really fired up by the case and practically working on it already anyway.’ She looked at Florin’s profile. ‘He and I will make sure that we find the right Christoph, then…’
Florin braked abruptly and manoeuvred into a space that had just become free at the side of the road. ‘Have you considered the possibility,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the rear-view mirror, ‘that this whole puzzle nonsense could just be a red herring? The sick little mind games of a killer who wants to throw us off his scent by sending us on this ridiculous birthmark hunt?’
The idea had indeed occurred to Beatrice, earlier that evening when she was in the shower. They certainly couldn’t rule out the possibility that they were allowing themselves to be led down the garden path, giving the killer enough time to erase his or her tracks.
‘We’ll see. If it turns out there’s no man who meets the Owner’s description, then all we’ll have lost is a little time.’
‘Yes, but we’ll have lost it to him,’ Florin objected.
The plastic container pushed its way back into Beatrice’s mind. The dead hand.
‘We don’t have any other choice but to play the game, Florin. I don’t like it any more than you do.’
They parked up and got out. Florin took her arm as they crossed the road, making their way towards the steel-and-glass cube that housed the Salzburg Mozarteum. ‘The thing that makes me most angry,’ he said, ‘is the feeling that he’s really enjoying all of this.’
Male voices singing in unison. A slow descent into inconsolable grief.
Beatrice paused in front of the door to the rehearsal room and lifted her hand to turn the door handle. But she couldn’t bring herself to push it down. From all the songs they could have been rehearsing, it would have to be this piece.
The female voices had tuned in now, soaring and full of hope.
Beatrice hadn’t heard it since that day, but every note was familiar to her, every detail burnt into her memory. The smell of incense and flowers and grief, but above all the bitter metallic taste on her tongue that had stayed with her for months on end. Guilt was something that had to be suffered slowly.
‘Beautiful,’ whispered Florin at her side. ‘I don’t know what it is though… Puccini?’
‘No. Joseph Rheinberger, the Stabat Mater.’ She could feel that something inside her, something that had to remain hard at all costs, was starting to be softened by the music.
‘I’m impressed. Where do you know it from?’
‘It’s often sung at funerals.’ She pressed the door handle down brusquely. ‘Right then, it’s time to play. Our move.’
While Florin asked the two Christophs to step out of the rehearsal room so they could speak with each of them in turn, Beatrice pushed the unwelcome memory back into the hidden recesses of her mind, the place where it usually stayed, and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.
It soon became apparent that they hadn’t hit the bull’s eye first time. Christoph Gorbach had only been in the choir for just under two years. The backs of his hands were very hairy, making it hard to tell at first, but on closer inspection there was no birthmark. Christoph Meyer, in turn, was a little hesitant to show his hands to Beatrice initially, but that was more down to his chewed fingernails than any conspicuous changes in skin pigmentation.