But she didn’t write that. She left it at first name and surname, not even adding a full stop, and pressed ‘Send’.
The neighbours didn’t know anything. Most of them were elderly people who hadn’t had any contact with Liebscher, and all they could say about him was that he lived a quiet life. Which was synonymous with: he was a pleasant enough neighbour. Female visitors? No. Friends, colleagues? Very rarely.
By the time they got back to the car it was half-past eleven. Beatrice tried to look discreetly at the display on her mobile. The Owner hadn’t replied yet. But believing he would have done was pretty laughable given that he only switched his mobile on for a few minutes at a time. He would get her message when he wanted to send another of his own.
‘Any news from the children?’
So Florin had noticed after all. She quickly shoved her mobile back in her bag. ‘No. But that’s good. If I don’t hear anything it means all’s well.’
He glanced at her searchingly. ‘Why are you so edgy?’
‘Am I?’
‘You seem to be.’ The next traffic light was red. He released the clutch and turned around to face her. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’
Food. Now that Florin mentioned it she felt an empty tug in her stomach. ‘No, not yet. But it’s fine, I’ve got some bread and ham at home. That’ll do me.’
‘I disagree.’ The light turned green. ‘We need to look after ourselves too, you know.’ He drove on slowly, his eyes fixed on the road again, but with an expression alternating between thoughtfulness and concern. ‘I notice that every time: whenever we’re working on a difficult case, you reduce your needs to a minimum. Eating, drinking, sleeping – it’s as though none of it matters to you any more.’
‘It’s good for the figure,’ she murmured. But her retort sounded a little pathetic and certainly wasn’t an appropriate response for Florin’s earnest words. She found herself wishing she could take it back.
‘I’m not joking, Bea.’ He indicated and veered off into Alpenstrasse. ‘Let’s take the computer to Stefan’s office, then go and get something to eat. A nice relaxed dinner, without discussing the case. Or even better – we can go to my place. I have roast beef at home, loads of leftover chicken salad, and if you want something hot there’s some delicious chilli con carne.’
The suggestion awoke something else besides hunger in Beatrice, something she didn’t want to examine more closely, not under any circumstances.
‘Thanks, but I’m really tired, and tomorrow we both have to get up early and… well, maybe Anneke wouldn’t like it.’
He gave her a bemused look. ‘Why would she have anything against it?’
Why indeed? It’s not like I’m a woman or anything, Beatrice was about to blurt out, but she didn’t say anything, laughing instead and hoping it sounded light-hearted and not as awkward as she felt.
Florin parked the car alongside the others in the car pool, turned the ignition off and brushed one of the unruly strands of dark hair off his forehead. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you suspected me of having other intentions than getting you to eat a decent meal.’ He smiled, his teeth the only bright thing inside the darkness of the car.
‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t think that for a second. It’s just that—’
‘It’s important to spend at least a few minutes a day enjoying life. Otherwise we’ll end up burning out. Come on – some good food, a glass of wine, music and talking about something other than murder for half an hour.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Okay.’
Florin’s apartment was close to the old town and most definitely not that of your average policeman. When Beatrice had come here for the first time around six months ago, she had asked him if he was taking backhanders to be able to afford digs like this. He had denied it, but the truth was clearly just as embarrassing to him: a rich family and a deceased grandmother who had left him not only money, but this penthouse too.
Walking in, she was met by the scent of acrylic paints. Florin went off to open the windows and terrace doors while Beatrice chose a place to sit from the immense landscape of seating options.
Everything was upholstered in white. Imagining Jakob running around here with his chocolate-smeared fingers, and Mina with her felt-tip pens, Beatrice couldn’t help but laugh. No, Florin didn’t have any such intentions when it came to her, most definitely not.
She looked at the walls, the ledge over the open fire, the antique bookcases – there was no photo of Anneke to be seen. They were probably in the bedroom, where they belonged. Beatrice stretched out.
‘Fancy a splash of champagne?’ called Florin. He was standing in the open-plan kitchen, holding up a bottle. ‘We’re off duty now, so we’re allowed.’
‘But I still have to drive. Half a glass at the most.’
‘Okay.’
He came over to her with two delicate champagne flutes in his hand and passed the half-full one to her. ‘It’ll kick in quickly on an empty stomach. Do you already know what you’d like to eat?’
‘Yes. Roast beef. Please.’
‘And salad with avocado and lime dressing?’
She should have realised that Florin wouldn’t just serve up the average snack. ‘Sure sounds delicious.’
While he busied himself in the kitchen, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. But she was fine with that right now.
‘Do you have any paintings on the go at the moment?’ she called.
‘Yes. Two. But neither is going well. There’s not a flicker of life in them.’ The clatter of plates. ‘Do you want to see? Go on up if you’d like.’
His studio consisted of a chaotic corner one floor up, with an overhead light, two easels, a paint-spattered wooden table and a collection of blank canvases of varying sizes. It smelt of paint and solvents.
‘How about some music?’ Florin’s voice resonated up from below.
‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Any special requests?’
She hesitated for a moment. ‘Whatever’s in the player right now.’
Whatever you put on when you’re here alone, painting, reading, thinking about Anneke.
‘Okay.’
It was no longer the Erik Satie album she’d heard down the phone the last time. It was Schubert’s String Quintet in C major, the second movement. The kind of music that made Beatrice feel as if just one misguided thought would be enough to make her burst into tears.
She drank her champagne down in one gulp and positioned herself in front of the first easel.
Red, bright in the middle, dark around the edges. Silver streaks across the left corner, as though something had splintered. The sight unleashed something within her that she didn’t want to face up to right now. She stepped aside and looked at the second easel.
A square canvas, which at first sight depicted an eternity of blue. Towards the middle, the colour darkened until it was almost black, with metallic specks flying through the darkness as if someone had stomped into a puddle of molten copper. The picture was like this evening: a spark of light amidst the darkness.
‘Not that great, right?’ she heard Florin ask.
‘No, they are. Sorry, but I…’ I love this one, she wanted to say, but bit back the words at the last moment. ‘I think it’s beautiful. Strong – and unfathomable, with a glimmer of hope.’
Florin had come up the stairs and was now standing next to Beatrice, his head cocked to the side. ‘Really? Hmm. I think I’ll need to take a fresh look at it. But not tonight.’ He rotated the canvas ninety degrees. ‘It might work like that though. Come on, dinner’s ready.’ Beatrice felt his arm around her shoulders, the light pressure as he pulled her towards the stairs. ‘I’m starving.’