Every one of Sigart’s sentence fragments conveyed utter despair. According to the report, the interview had to be interrupted again and again because he began to scream and the doctors had to be called.
But one thing was abundantly clear from the document: he blamed himself for his family’s deaths. He had taken the car on an emergency call-out to a complicated birth at a stud farm, thirty kilometres away. As he drove off, his thoughts were already with the mother animal, which he had been taking care of for four years by then. He considered it possible that he had locked the cabin on autopilot, thereby transforming it into a deadly trap for his family. The investigation had concluded that the door had indeed been locked.
Sigart had initiated legal proceedings against himself, saying that he alone bore the responsibility for his family’s deaths, and had refused a lawyer. But of course – given the tragic circumstances – he couldn’t be held responsible for what had happened. The psychological report, a summary of which was included in the file, spoke of severe post-traumatic stress disorder, and of a high suicide risk. He was given access to therapy sessions, the ones which he was clearly still making use of today.
Beatrice tucked the files away in her bag and went out onto the balcony. Breathe. The sky was starry and clear, the air cool. Goose pimples pricked her arms.
Why had the Owner led her to Bernd Sigart? What was he trying to show her? Was it possible that…?
She sat down and held her face in her hands, trying to think clearly. Was it possible that the Owner wanted to rub one of his own crimes under her nose? Look what I did, and you lot didn’t catch me!
But the fire hadn’t been an arson attack. It was just very bad luck; fires often broke out in the hot summer months. Was he trying to claim ownership of it regardless? Begging for attention, perhaps? Or, as Florin suspected, was he just doing this to confuse the police?
Perhaps they would know more tomorrow. The name of the street Sigart lived in had given them the new coordinates.
Beatrice unplugged the landline, but left her mobile on. She took it with her into the bedroom and put it on the bedside table. The night passed without interruptions. But in her dreams, she was running through a burning forest to the strains of the Stabat Mater.
Chapter 3
N47º 48.022 E013º 10.910
The waterfall crashed down a good twenty metres into the depths, colliding with a shallow pebbled basin and resuming its path as a peaceful, level stream. At its highest point, next to one of the many old mills in the area, Florin, Beatrice and Stefan were leaning over the GPS device.
The task of translating ‘Theodebert’ into new coordinates had taken a matter of minutes. Finding the cache, however, would be more difficult, for the navigation device was pointing them towards the rocks around the waterfall.
‘It could be hidden inside the mill, but that would mean the results are very imprecise,’ pondered Stefan. They agreed to clamber down the path to the stream. Drasche stayed close to their heels, lugging along his forensic case and making no effort to conceal his bad mood. He regarded the fact that he was unable to drive his car right up to the location as a personal affront.
They were completely alone here in the forest. At the weekends, the mills and waterfall were popular day-trip destinations, but today they shared the surroundings only with the birds and insects.
The tumbling cascades of water looked even more impressive from below. Beatrice felt a deep sense of foreboding, sensing that the beautiful view was about to be drowned out by something else entirely.
‘A little bit further to the right.’ Stefan pointed to the crag. A steep little mound, around four metres in height, was huddled up against it, sparsely vegetated with shrubbery. ‘One of us should climb up. I reckon that’s the spot.’
Drasche peered upwards. ‘There’s only room for one of us up there, and that’s me. Give me the GPS.’ Ebner helped him clamber up, handed the navigation device and camera to him and waited for further instructions.
Once again, a rushing sound was providing the soundtrack to their search; even though it didn’t come from the autobahn this time, it was still equally pervasive. Beatrice wondered if there was some kind of pattern behind the Owner’s choices of location.
‘I’ve got it,’ she heard Drasche call. ‘It’s smaller than the others though.’ The cache was hidden in a crevice in the rock, concealed by hard-stemmed plants with nodular blooms. Drasche took some photos in situ and then made his slippery descent, holding the plastic box in his gloved hands.
This time, the container was barely bigger than a cigarette packet, its contents – pressed against the transparent lid and clearly defined – only just squeezed in. It was unmistakable: an ear, possibly two if they were laid on top of one another. ‘Fuck,’ exclaimed Drasche. ‘More body parts. Let’s just hope they’re not from a different victim. If only the genetic tests could be quicker—’
Beatrice’s mobile rang, interrupting Drasche mid-sentence. She pulled it out of her bag, surprised that she even had reception out here. The number was unknown. It wasn’t the school, in any case. Nor Achim.
‘Kaspary.’
‘I… I found your card. Your business card.’ It was a woman’s voice. Her words were rushing into one another; she sounded breathless.
‘Who is this?’
‘Beil. Vera Beil. You were in our garden on Sunday.’
‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Frau Beil?’
A trembling intake of breath. ‘Christoph has disappeared. Yesterday evening. He said he was just popping out, but he didn’t come back all night and… I can’t reach him on his mobile either.’
‘Right, I see.’
‘I’m really scared something’s happened to him.’ Her voice almost cracked. ‘He’s so reliable – he always lets me know if he’s going to be late.’
The connection was cutting out. ‘I’ll come over to see you, Frau Beil, okay?’ Beatrice hurried to speak. ‘It may take an hour or even a little bit more, but I’ll set off right now. Are you at home?’
‘Yes. Thank you…’
Beatrice hung up. ‘Beil’s disappeared. That was his wife. I’m heading over there now.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said Florin immediately. ‘Gerd, please investigate the container as quickly as you can. We need photos of the letters as soon as possible – I’m sure there’ll be some in there again.’
They didn’t speak much on the steep climb up to the mill. Beatrice kept thinking of the moment when she had showed Christoph Beil the photo. Her memory of the jolt that went through his body refused to go away.
If I had only kept pushing. If I had pinned him down right away. If…
She gave herself a mental rap on the fingers. The old what-if game won’t help; it just drives you crazy. The clock can’t be turned back. You can’t correct the past.
And if I could, I wouldn’t be where I am today, she thought.
‘He was acting strangely the whole of Sunday evening.’ The tablecloth beneath Vera Beil’s clasped hands was made of plastic. Brown and yellow flowers struggled against each other for dominance, smothering the dingy white background beneath.
‘When did that start? Only after we left?’
‘Yes. I asked him what was wrong, what he talked to you both about, but he said it was nothing important. He said you just had him mixed up with some witness.’ The woman’s gaze darkened. ‘I sensed that he wasn’t telling me the truth. Even though he never normally lies.’