‘As if she didn’t want anyone at the table to hear her conversation?’ Beatrice interrupted.
‘Yes. Or perhaps it was just too loud and she wanted to find somewhere quieter to talk. That was the impression I had, at least. But if I’m honest I wasn’t really paying that much attention to Nora at the time.’
The telephone conversation. She glanced questioningly at Stefan. He understood at once and, in a barely perceptible movement, shook his head. That meant the list of Nora’s phone conversations which they had requested from the provider hadn’t arrived yet.
‘She wasn’t on the phone for that long,’ continued Winstatt. ‘Three, maybe four minutes. Then she came back to the table.’
‘Did she carry on eating?’
Winstatt shrugged his shoulders apologetically. ‘I’m not sure, sorry. Probably. But then she left about twenty minutes later. She said she was heading back home, that she had a headache.’
That corresponded to what Beatrice had found out from Konrad Papenberg.
‘When she left the restaurant – was she alone, or did anyone else leave at the same time?’
This time, Winstatt shook his head decisively. ‘She was definitely alone. It wasn’t much later than half-nine, and we tried to convince her to stay, but she didn’t want to. She looked pretty exhausted too, so I don’t think she was feeling very well.’
‘Okay. Thank you. Right, so I’d like to speak with…’ She glanced at her notes. ‘Rosa Drabcek next. And also see the pictures on her camera if I can.’
Rosa Drabcek wasn’t a secretary but an executive assistant, as she emphasised right at the start of the conversation. Stefan, who had unwittingly stuck his foot in it by mentioning the word ‘secretary’ as they introduced themselves, nodded guiltily. Beatrice, on the other hand, only had eyes for the camera, the small, metallic blue device that was resting in Drabcek’s hands.
‘I haven’t yet downloaded the pictures from the meal,’ she said apologetically, ‘but the display is quite big, so you should be able to see everything well enough.’ She turned the camera on, activated the viewing mode and handed it to Beatrice. ‘I took quite a lot of pictures, but I hope they can be of help in some way.’
Hohensalzburg Castle, illuminated at night, was captured in at least ten images. There was a wonderful view from the restaurant over to the mountain and castle, and it was clear that the executive assistant hadn’t been able to get enough of it.
Next, the table, smartly set and still free of guests, plates and mess. Four photos. Winstatt, standing behind a chair with his head turned to the side. Then the castle again.
‘The camera takes good pictures, don’t you think?’ commented Drabcek.
Sure, if you looked beyond the nondescript subject matter… Beatrice clicked on impatiently to the next photo, and the next – there was nothing she could use here. But they would still copy all the photos to a memory stick to be sure.
Beatrice looked up. ‘Do you mind me asking why you took so many pictures? You must have hardly had time to eat.’
A shy smile. ‘It’s a new camera. I wanted to see what it can do. I really love photography, you know.’
Finally, some pictures of people. A young woman with an updo, wearing a short electric blue dress. A man with glasses and an expensive-looking suit – if Beatrice’s memory served her correctly, he was sitting outside right now, waiting to be questioned.
Then, right at the end, Nora Papenberg. The clothes she was wearing in the picture were without a doubt the same as those she had been found in. The jeans, the red silk jacket, the blouse with the delicate flower pattern. High-heeled red shoes which matched the jacket. The shoes that hadn’t yet turned up.
Nora was beaming into the camera, making a victory sign with the fingers on her right hand.
The next picture. Nora sitting next to the woman in the blue dress. ‘Is that Irene…?’
‘Irene Grabner,’ Drabcek eagerly completed her sentence. ‘Yes. She always dolls herself up like that.’
It suited her though, Beatrice reflected. She clicked further forwards. Nora and Irene with their arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling. Then a picture of the young man in a suit, one of Winstatt and another woman, and numerous shots of the whole table; the group now seemed to be complete. Drabcek was taking the photographs, of course, although she was in a few of the last ones herself. ‘Nora took those,’ she said softly.
Nora. Beaming happily in every shot. Beatrice continued to scroll through the images. Aperitifs, the group clinking glasses. The meal being served. A few close-ups of sumptuously presented plates. The colleagues, eating. Conversations.
Then, suddenly, Nora’s seat was empty. Beatrice squinted. Was she visible in the background at all? No, not in this photo. The next one had been taken from a wider angle, but the background was blurred. Another picture, a red splodge which looked like the colour of Nora’s jacket.
Five photos later, she was back at her seat. Even on the small display, Beatrice could see that something must have happened, as Nora was no longer smiling. Her eyes were gazing past the lens. Into nothing. Or into herself. In one of the subsequent shots, she had pulled the candle across the table towards her and was staring into the little flame.
Then came a series of photos in which Nora was nowhere to be seen. They were all of her colleagues, laughing, toasting, gesticulating. A half-full and an empty bottle of wine stood on the table.
I can’t let myself think too single-mindedly, Beatrice reminded herself. The call wasn’t necessarily the catalyst. It’s entirely possible that she really had just drunk too much alcohol and given herself a headache.
In the next photo, she was sitting there, both elbows propped on the table in front of her, holding her head. Then there were several of the desserts, followed by a group picture in which Nora’s chair was empty again.
Nora didn’t appear in any of the final photos. Beatrice passed the camera to Stefan. ‘We’ll copy the pictures to a memory stick and take them with us. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
While Stefan pulled a laptop and USB cable from his bag, Beatrice leant over the desk and looked at Rosa Drabcek silently for a few moments. Usually this made people begin to talk hurriedly, blurting out things that they might not otherwise say, but Drabcek clearly wasn’t one of those people. She remained silent.
‘Was there anything about Nora Papenberg’s behaviour that stood out that evening? Even something seemingly minor?’
She shook her head. ‘No. She was just her usual self – until the headache started, anyway, but even that wasn’t out of the ordinary for her. She used to get migraines from time to time. She always had a packet of tablets on her desk.’
‘Did Nora mention who she was speaking to on the phone?’
‘No. But then I didn’t ask.’
‘Okay. I’d like you to tell me about the evening from your perspective.’
Her narrative differed only marginally from what Winstatt had told them. Once they had finished, Beatrice saw Rosa Drabcek to the door of the office and asked her to send Irene Grabner in.
Even without the electric blue dress, Grabner looked – how had Rosa put it? – dolled up, that was it. But she was clearly one of those women who could wrap themselves in a tablecloth and still look fantastic. Stefan was beaming at her, transfixed. Beatrice shot him a quick, chiding glance, upon which he toned down his smile to a more professionally acceptable level.