She held her breath. Was that really true? Was it not equally plausible that the murderer was picking names out of the phone book at random and finding out about them, just to look on gleefully as the police desperately tried to establish a connection between them? The thought paralysed her. If that were the case, then the hunt could last a very long time.
She looked at Sigart, who was hunched over on his chair, staring out of the window at the grey concrete wall opposite. Over time, most heavily traumatised people either found a way to deal with their lot, or they committed suicide.
‘You know,’ he said, with a barely perceptible smile, ‘it would save me the effort. A murderer, I never thought of that. Stepping in front of a bus, a scalpel, injecting myself with an overdose – sure.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve put lots of animals to sleep, and I’d like to die like they do. Calmly. At peace.’
There was no doubt about the sincerity of his suicide wish, but they weren’t making any progress here. ‘As my colleague has already mentioned, we’d like to put you under police protection, but we need your approval for that.’
‘I appreciate your concern.’ His comment sounded genuine, at least. ‘But I don’t want that. I want my peace and quiet and I don’t want policemen at the door.’
She had feared that kind of response. ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’
He looked at her, confused. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll give you my mobile number, and my colleague’s too. If you feel under threat or even suspect someone is watching you, call us. It’s better to call us than the emergency line, because we’ll know what it’s about.’
Sigart blinked as though he had something in his eye, then turned his head to the side. ‘Thank you. But I can’t promise I’ll take you up on your offer.’
He saved the number in his phone regardless. Beatrice tried to discreetly sneak a glance into his existing contacts, but without success.
‘We’ll send a squad car over to check on you now and then,’ said Florin, getting up from his chair. ‘But please do us a favour and watch out for yourself.’
Sigart’s shoulders twitched. It was futile; he would do as he pleased. They were almost out through the door when something occurred to Beatrice. The idea was an unusual one, and she was intrigued to see how he would react. ‘If you’re in agreement, I’d like to speak to your therapist. I need your permission though.’
He hesitated. So there were some things he still cared about.
‘What do you hope to achieve from doing that?’
‘I’m grasping at any straw I can think of, you know? You’re connected to this case in some way, and I want to understand how.’
With his scarred left hand, he kneaded the unscathed fingers on the other.
‘You’re ambitious, aren’t you?’
The question startled Beatrice for a moment. ‘I would say I’m more… persistent, I think.’
Again, that crippled version of a smile. ‘Good for you. I can remember how that used to feel.’ He swept his pale tongue slowly over his lips. ‘You can speak to my therapist if you really want to – her name is Anja Maly and her practice is in Auerspergstrasse. I’ll tell her to expect you.’
‘You were very quiet towards the end,’ said Beatrice as they went back to the car.
‘I know. I was concentrating on Sigart. He was different to our last visit and I was trying to work out exactly how.’
‘And?’
Florin hesitated. ‘I’ve never studied psychology, but he reminded me of someone today. An uncle who’s been dead for a long time now.’
Beatrice opened the passenger door, but didn’t get in. Instead, she glanced back at the small balcony belonging to Sigart’s flat. ‘Your uncle committed suicide, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. By the end he was so calm, giving all his things away. He just let go of everything. I think Sigart is almost at that point. Shouldn’t we have him sectioned?’
It was a tempting thought – Sigart would get help, and at the same time no longer be accessible to the killer. A tempting thought indeed.
Back at the office, they worked late into the night. The photos of the three puzzles lay spread out on the desk in front of Beatrice, each one the Owner had given them so far. A singer. A loser. A key figure. She looked for parallels, differences, hidden messages. By half-ten, her eyes were stinging. ‘I’m going to head off home. I’m—’
—dead tired, she had been about to say, but Sting interrupted her; sending his SOS out. The phone was in her bag and Beatrice’s attempt at opening it resulted in knocking it from the table and spilling half the contents across the floor. The message tone continued.
Hopefully everything was okay with the children, and hopefully the Owner hadn’t—
She read the message and froze. But some kind of noise must have escaped her, for through the thick, dirty haze veiling her mind, she sensed Florin’s sudden attentiveness, his concern.
‘Bea?’
She didn’t respond. She had to get her thoughts straight first. By now, she could recognise the number at first glance; it was the prepaid card in Nora Papenberg’s mobile. Then she realised: this was the response to the last text she had sent.
Spirit of Man,
How like water you are.
Fate of Man,
How like the wind.
Let’s look for a victim.
Evelyn R.
R.I.P.
The ball had been returned. It was as if he was saying, You know something? Then look at this – so do I!
She resisted the impulse to delete the message. Let’s look for a victim, my God.
‘Bea? What’s wrong?’
Speechless, she handed him her mobile. She watched as he immediately recognised the sender’s number, then scanned the message with a frown.
‘Goethe.’
‘Yes. “The Song of the Spirits over the Waters”.’ She rested her forehead in her hands. How had the Owner found out?
‘Who’s Evelyn R.?’
She’s the end of innocence. The caesura. The volte-face.
‘She’s dead.’ It didn’t answer his question, but it was all she could manage right at that moment. How could the Owner know about Evelyn?
She thought about the car that had followed her, the one with the headlights turned up too brightly. Suddenly, the thought of spending the night at home alone was yet another threatening shadow in her world.
Forbidding herself from thinking longingly of Florin’s spare room, she started to pack up her things. ‘Could you give me my phone, please?’
‘Bea!’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. ‘Explain to me what this is about. This isn’t caching slang – it’s to do with you personally, right?’
‘So it seems.’
‘So it seems?’ He pushed his hair back from his brow, clearly exasperated. ‘Look, of course you’re under no obligation to tell me everything about your life, but this is about a case we’re working on together. It would be really helpful if I was also able to interpret the messages the suspect is sending us.’
She had to collect her thoughts. Everything was rushing, colliding inside her. She needed to be alone. ‘I sent the Owner a message, and it seems this is his answer.’
Florin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You did what?’
‘Yes. I know. I played a lone hand, without discussing it first. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, when we were in Liebscher’s apartment and found the writing in the dust. I made it clear to him that we knew the identity of the man whose body parts he was putting in the caches. “Herbert Liebscher”, that’s all I wrote. I wanted him to know we’re getting closer, that we’re open to a dialogue. The more often he gets in touch, the higher the probability that he’ll slip up and make a mistake.’