The first eight digits of the IMEI formed the TAC, the Type Approval Code, in which the third to eighth numbers were the decisive ones – denoting device brands and types. If you knew how to read them, that was. Which she definitely didn’t; she would need to consult an expert, or at least Stefan…
Following a flash of inspiration, she typed TAC end device analysis into Google and found a link promising to reveal the corresponding mobile model upon the code being entered. Beatrice typed in the first eight digits.
Bingo.
Manufacturer: Nokia Mobile Phones
Modeclass="underline" Nokia N8-00
TAC: 35698804
She felt her pulse start to race, but wasn’t yet sure why. The phone was a Nokia, which wasn’t uncommon by any stretch of the imagination. But in this context…
Rummaging through her papers, she found the notes from her first conversation with Konrad Papenberg, the day they had informed him about his wife’s murder.
There it was. Nokia N8.
I gave it to her for her birthday.
She stood up and turned the espresso machine on. But on remembering how much coffee she had drunk at the agency and how disgruntled her stomach had been, she turned it off again.
It could be a coincidence, but she doubted it. Gathering up her notes from the conversation with the provider, along with a printout of the online analysis page, she went off to Stefan’s office. ‘Could you find out who this mobile is registered to?’
He glanced at the papers, his finger wandering to the neatly circled IMSI code. ‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Thanks.’
At the door, she realised that her curt request had implied he had all the time in the world, but she left it at that. She was willing to bet anything that the name his research unearthed would be Nora Papenberg.
The evening sun painted stripes across the wooden floor of the balcony. Beatrice shunted the little round wooden table into the pink-tinged light and laid her Friday evening meal out on it: sushi from the Japanese restaurant two streets down. She opened the plastic container, inhaled the aroma of fresh fish and ginger and hoped that her appetite would finally kick in. But no such luck. The only dinner of interest to her was the agency one after which Nora had disappeared, running off into her murderer’s arms. The Owner, the master of the cryptic messages.
The most recent note, meticulously examined by Drasche, hadn’t offered up any new clues. ‘Not one single fingerprint, apart from yours of course,’ were his words. ‘We’re still investigating the ink type, but it seems to be from some bog-standard mass-produced biro.’
Drasche hadn’t been interested in how the very existence of the note told them a great deal about the Owner. That wasn’t his job.
When she had driven home that evening, Beatrice had parked her car a street further up from her apartment, looking around several times to check whether anyone was following her, or even just watching her. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but had double-locked the door behind her just in case.
She sighed, looked at the sushi box on the table and found herself thinking about beef carpaccio and Anneke, even though she’d never met her. Dinner for two by candlelight. She wondered whether she should put a candle on her balcony table.
But she deposited her rattling laptop on it instead and had another look through the photos of the agency dinner, cursing when soya sauce dripped down onto her grey marl jogging bottoms.
She concentrated on the pictures taken around the time of Nora Papenberg’s departure. The last one, which depicted a scene of carefree hilarity, was of Nora and Irene Grabner, their heads close together and tongues stuck out. Like a couple of schoolgirls. After that, Nora’s chair was empty. A few clicks later, Beatrice found a photo in which Nora could be seen in the background, recognisable by her red jacket.
She enlarged the photo. The resolution was very good. The closer Beatrice zoomed in, the clearer the view of Nora Papenberg’s face became – her eyes wide open. She was covering her nose and mouth with her left hand, as if she was shocked or about to throw up. In her other hand, she was holding the mobile to her ear.
The call had come from a telephone box, they knew that now, and it had definitely unleashed a reaction. She clicked through the remaining pictures. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on Nora’s face, not in any of them.
Had she left to drive to the phone box? To meet the caller? Was he her murderer? Or the man whose blood was found on her clothes?
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ Beatrice asked a distant-looking Nora in the photos that followed. She was pictured with her gaze averted, her thoughts clearly elsewhere, an outsider amidst the laughing group.
According to the records, she hadn’t contacted anyone after the ominous call, at least not from her mobile. Not even a brief message to her husband, letting him know she would be late.
Was it a rendezvous he wasn’t supposed to have known about? Or had she actually left in order to get home as quickly as she could, to reach her safe haven? Had she been intercepted en route?
Beatrice had eaten all of her sushi without having tasted any of it. She went to throw the packaging into the kitchen bin and was just letting the lid drop back down when she heard her mobile. ‘Message in a Bottle’. A text message.
Her pulse quickened. Stay calm. It might just be Florin; he texted from time to time.
She wiped her hands on her jogging bottoms and went back out to the balcony. It could just as easily be her mother.
But a tap of the mobile’s keypad was enough to clarify things. The sender’s number was the same as the one that lunchtime. Feeling as though something was tightening around her neck, Beatrice sank down onto the balcony chair.
Cold, completely cold.
The message consisted only of these three words, without any explanation or further comment.
Beatrice remembered the photo of Nora Papenberg holding her mobile pressed to her ear, hand in front of her mouth. He sent me the text message from this very phone. A Nokia N8, a present from her husband.
Suddenly, Beatrice felt as though she was being watched. She jumped up and went over to the main door of the apartment, checking to see if it was definitely locked properly. Pulled the curtains shut. Ran back to the balcony and peered down into the courtyard, but no one returned her gaze.
Cold, completely cold. The first association that had shot into Beatrice’s mind was the coldness of a corpse’s skin, but the longer she turned the words over in her thoughts, the surer she became that the sender of the message hadn’t meant that.
She thought back to Jakob’s last birthday party, when she had revived all the party games from her own childhood, including a treasure hunt. Cold, completely cold, warmer now, even warmer, colder, good, warmer, warmer, hot!
Was the Owner trying to tell her that they were on the wrong track?
She resisted the temptation to delete the message, and called Achim instead. In a way, she was relieved that the children weren’t with her, but she had to hear their voices and make sure that—
‘You? What do you want?’ Achim’s words perforated her thoughts. There it was again, the utter contempt.
‘Hello. Put Mina or Jakob on the line, please.’
‘They’re busy.’