‘There are sharply outlined wounds around the ankles and wrists, suggesting that the subject was forcibly restrained. On the back of the left hand is a violet-pigmented scar, two centimetres in diameter, which predates the victim’s injuries and death.’
The scar which had enabled them to find him. The Owner had led them to Beil with his clues, waited until they had spoken to him, then attacked almost as soon as their backs were turned.
But why not sooner? Was it all about provoking the police, was that really part of his motive? It felt as though they were just running around haplessly, dashing to wherever he wanted them to go. Yet the Owner was always there in front of them.
A thought that had occurred to her when she arrived at the scene earlier that day reared its head again with renewed force: if that was the killer’s trick, then they would have to keep an eye on Sigart.
The autopsy lasted two and a half hours. It seemed Beil had died as the result of a stab to the heart. A sharp object, presumably a knife blade, had penetrated the front wall of the thorax and the pericardium, as well as the anterior and posterior walls of the heart. He had died of internal bleeding.
‘What about the strangulation marks?’ Beatrice pointed at the blue marks which ran around Beil’s neck in ring formations.
‘There are two choke marks which suggest he was hanged, but not fatally,’ Vogt explained.
‘Aha. And what do you make of that?’
‘Either he tried to hang himself and failed, or his murderer couldn’t decide which method to use. Are you familiar with Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio? “First beheaded, then hanged, then impaled on hot stakes…”’ He sang with an astonishingly full and deep voice.
Beatrice knew a few pathologists and was familiar with their unique sense of humour, but the sight of Vogt singing in front of the corpse while the liver was being weighed by the assistant pathologist was almost enough to make her flee the room.
‘Two choking marks, you say?’
Vogt interrupted his performance. ‘Yes. So either the rope slipped or someone tried to hang him twice.’ He shrugged, looking at Beatrice with his head tilted to the side. ‘I’ll leave it to you to make sense of that one.’
It was just before five in the afternoon when they rang Sigart’s doorbell, and it took him a long time to answer.
‘You’ll have to excuse me. I was sleeping.’ He was shockingly pale, and a deep red crease stretched diagonally across the right side of his face, clearly the imprint of a pillow. ‘Come in.’
He sat down on the edge of the couch, awkwardly pulling on a pair of socks.
‘Sorry that we woke you,’ said Florin.
‘Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll be able to get a few hours’ sleep tonight now.’ He looked up. ‘It’s the pills, you know? My doctor prescribed me new ones which make me very tired, but unfortunately only during the day.’ He gestured towards the folding chairs, which, it seemed, were still at the table from their last visit.
‘Herr Sigart, we’d like to know whether you’ve noticed anything unusual in the last few days,’ Florin began. ‘Anything unsettling?’
Sigart looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean by unsettling?’
‘Well, have you received any strange phone calls? Were there perhaps anonymous messages in your letter box? On your mobile?’
Sigart’s expression indicated that he found Florin’s questions strange, but he was clearly still dazed with sleep. ‘No.’
‘Good. I’d like to ask you to contact us right away if something of that sort happens. Only open the door to people you know and trust. Inform us if anything seems even the slightest bit suspicious.’
Sigart was fully awake now. ‘Why? What’s going on?’
It had been obvious that this question would come, and they had already agreed during the drive over to cause him as little worry as possible. Beatrice took a deep breath.
‘It’s possible that the person who murdered Nora Papenberg takes a perverse pleasure in the act of killing, so it’s important to us that all people who are connected to the case exercise caution.’
He nodded slowly. ‘What happened?’
‘As I already said, there are signs that the man could continue to be dangerous.’
Sigart seemed interested, but not excessively so. ‘What kind of signs?’
‘That’s not relevant, but the important thing is that…’
‘Earlier on, on the news –’ he interrupted her, pointing the scarred index finger of his left hand to an old portable radio – ‘they said that a body was found in the Salzach lake. This morning. Is that what you mean by “signs”?’
The latest murder had of course been reported in the media, albeit without any reference to the Papenberg case. But Sigart wasn’t stupid. Reading the answer etched on their faces, he nodded. ‘That’s quite a clear sign. And now you’re worried that he’ll come after me next?’
‘That could tie in with his weird logic, yes,’ answered Florin. ‘We don’t know enough about him and his motives, but he – how do I put this? – led us to you, just like the man we found today. That’s why we’d like to put you under police protection.’
‘Me?’ He seemed genuinely amazed. ‘I can’t think of one single reason why anyone would kill me,’ he said. ‘After all, I hardly even exist any more. Whether I’m sitting here in this hole of a flat or lying in a coffin under the earth doesn’t make a difference to anyone. Not even me.’
‘I don’t doubt that you feel that way,’ said Beatrice. ‘But that won’t protect you if the killer’s mind works the way we suspect it does. Please think for a moment. Is there someone who might stand to profit from your death?’
‘Only the funeral director. I’ve stipulated in my will that any remaining funds are to go to the Association for Psychological Crisis Intervention.’ Something almost resembling a smile crept across his features.
‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be a material motive. Is it possible that you know something that could hurt someone else?’ She held his gaze. ‘It seems like that may have been the case with the most recent murder. Is there anyone you could prove to be dangerous for if you were to divulge some information?’
His eyes were already rejecting the notion even before he shook his head. ‘If you like, I can tell you the names of people who feed their dogs chocolate because they think of them as children. Or others that keep their parrots in criminally small cages. But I don’t have any information more damaging than that. What do you want from me? Do you want me to make something up just so I have something to tell?’
Florin laid the portrait from Christoph Beil’s missing persons report out on the table. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’
A resigned sigh. Sigart looked at Beatrice as if he wanted to ask for her help, but then shrugged his shoulders and leant over towards the photo. He looked at it for a long while – so long that they started to get hopeful.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The face doesn’t ring any bells. And I really tried to recognise him, believe me.’
‘And what about this man?’ Florin pulled out another photo, this time of Liebscher. ‘Do you perhaps know him?’
‘Why? Does he belong to the circle of potential victims too? Or is he already dead?’ He pushed the photos away. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what you want from me. I have nothing to do with your case. I don’t know the people who were murdered, and I don’t feel threatened. And even if I did, my life ended when my family died. Leave me in peace.’
Sympathy and irritation fought for the upper hand within Beatrice. It just wasn’t possible that every single one of their attempts to make progress led to a dead end. There had to be some connection between the victims.