‘Draw a line under the last comment and write something – whatever you like. People normally leave a note of thanks – TFTC means “Thanks for the Cache”. Then sign off with Undercover Cookie. We can log our find on the website – it’s my eight hundred and sixty-seventh.’ Stefan sounded proud.
Beatrice stared at the notepad, wondering whether it was wise to leave handwritten evidence, then shook her head in disbelief. She was thinking like a perpetrator, not a policewoman.
So she did what Stefan had said, drawing a line under the last entry and writing:
I wish all caches were like this. TFTC, Undercover Cookie.
‘Is that the right plural for cache?’
‘Absolutely. Right, now you pack the logbook back into the plastic bag and see what treasures are in the box.’
A transparent dice, a sticker that clearly belonged in a collection album from the last football World Cup, a glass marble and a broken Matchbox car.
‘Those are the trades,’ explained Stefan. ‘Normal trades. You can take something with you and then put something else in. Do you want to?’
Even though she couldn’t have explained why, she did want to. In her jacket pocket, alongside a rubber band and a tissue, she found a tiny metal heart that had once been part of a keyring. She exchanged it for the glass marble.
‘Okay. Now pack everything up neatly and put it back exactly where you found it.’
Having made a note of the hiding place behind the crag ledge, she put the box back, then turned her attentions to the arduous task of crawling back out.
‘Right then, I’ll have to go and get changed,’ Beatrice determined. ‘Thank you, Stefan, that was very educational. I think I understand the appeal now.’
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ He beamed. ‘The last stage is on the computer. Come on.’
They logged the cache as ‘Found’, which resulted in a yellow smiley appearing on both the map and the webpage with the cache description.
I really enjoyed it, TFTC, wrote Beatrice as her comment on the site. The abbreviation was flowing from her hand as though it was second nature now.
On the drive home, she contemplated whether she should get one of these GPS devices; perhaps the treasure hunt could be something Mina and Jakob would both enjoy. But thinking back to her very first find made her quickly dismiss the idea. Today, even accompanied by Stefan, she had been overcome by a queasy feeling as she opened the cache box. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to look at a plastic container like that again without thinking of the severed hand.
They all met in front of the office shortly before four and got into the car, Stefan taking the wheel and Florin – still exhausted from his round trip to Munich – claiming the back seat.
Christoph Beil’s house was out in the suburbs, and looked in dire need of renovation. The cracked facade suggested damp in the walls, and the wooden terrace looked unsound even from twenty metres away. But the garden was well looked after, complete with gnomes, clay frogs and a replica of the Manneken Pis.
‘We have to be careful – under no circumstances can we give too much away,’ warned Florin. ‘So not a word about coordinates or caches with body parts.’
They rang the bell at the garden gate. Beil opened it so quickly that it seemed likely he had been watching out for their arrival from the window.
‘Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?’ He waved to his wife, who had been waiting in the doorway and now came out bearing a tray of drinks, only to disappear back into the house again straight afterwards.
They all sat down at a massive wooden table, on which a company of ants were forming a long line. Beil wiped them off with nervous, jerky hand movements. ‘I’ve been racking my brains since lunchtime, trying to work out what you might want from me.’
He looked tense, like someone who had to do an exam without knowing what subject it was in. Beatrice cleared her throat. ‘We’re investigating the murder of Nora Papenberg. Does the name mean anything to you?’ She fixed her gaze on him. But Beil didn’t bat an eyelid; on the contrary, he suddenly seemed to relax. ‘No, I’m sorry. Although – it’s possible that I might have heard about it on the radio. Is this the woman who was found in the cattle pasture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Could you tell me what I have to do with all of this?’
Beatrice wiped her forehead, a tiny insect stuck to her hand. ‘We’re pursuing every single lead, and one of them led us to you. May I check your ID, please?’ Seeing him hesitate, she smiled reassuringly.
Beil pulled a battered black wallet out from his trouser pocket and handed Beatrice his driving licence. She immediately focused her attention on his date of birth.
1964. She noted the day and month, along with the date of issue and licence number, then returned the document to Beil. ‘The thing is,’ she began cautiously, ‘the suspect left a clue that could indicate there’s some connection between you and the victim. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific.’
‘Aha.’ He stared at the discoloured spot on the back of his hand. ‘But that’s not the case. Which means I can’t be of any further assistance to you.’
Florin cleared his throat, a signal that he wanted to take over. ‘Have you been singing with the choir for a while?’
‘Yes, nearly ten years now. I’m a dental technician, so I like to have some artistic balance in my free time.’
‘How’s business in the dental trade?’
Beil grinned. ‘I assume you’re referring to the run-down state of the house? It’s being renovated this summer. My great-aunt left it to me.’
Florin nodded to Beatrice, who was pulling two photographs from her bag. ‘We’d like to ask you to look at the woman in the pictures very closely and tell us whether it’s possible that you know her after all.’
Beil took the photos. ‘Is that this Nora Pa…’
‘Papenberg. Yes. Please take your time.’
He laid the picture down on the table, the one of her laughing heartily, and flicked one last confused ant away. It began to scrabble over the edge. ‘No. I really am very sorry.’
The second photo was a portrait in which Nora was looking directly at the camera with a serious expression. The jolt that went through Beil’s body as Beatrice laid the photo in front of him was subtle, so much so that at first she wasn’t certain she had really seen it. But it had definitely been there. No widening of the eyes or sudden intake of breath, but a jolt nonetheless. When Beil handed the pictures back to Beatrice, his hand was completely steady. ‘No, sorry. I really wish I could have helped you.’
She kept staring at him, not looking away for a second. ‘Are you completely certain that this woman doesn’t look familiar to you?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a really good memory for faces, so I would know if I’d ever met her. And the name doesn’t mean anything to me.’ Beil grimaced apologetically. ‘I can imagine that your job is no walk in the park, so I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing. And on a Sunday of all days.’
He smiled warmly and looked her right in the eyes without blinking, but she didn’t believe him. He had recognised Nora Papenberg – not immediately, but when he saw the second photo. So it was very interesting indeed that he was denying it.
With a friendly smile, Beatrice took the pictures, tucked them away in her bag and pulled out a business card. ‘If anything else occurs to you that you think might be relevant to us, then please call me.’
He put the card in his wallet. ‘Of course, but as I said…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know the woman.’
Beatrice was convinced, even though neither Florin nor Stefan had noticed Beil’s reaction to the second photo. If he was lying, then there must be a reason.