She searched Florin’s face for understanding, but it was expressionless and – despite the tiredness in his eyes – harder than usual. ‘You do realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that by doing that you’re playing his game, not yours. Let’s forget for a moment that you didn’t inform anyone else in the team – you accepted his invitation by sending that message, Bea. Now you’re his official opponent. And I don’t like that one bit.’ He held her mobile out towards her. ‘You can see how personal he makes things. He swotted up, and clearly knows more about you than the people who see you every day.’
That was one way of looking at it. His official opponent. Her eyes were burning; she closed them and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. ‘Evelyn was one of my friends at university,’ she said, watching the dots and streaks that appeared in the darkness of her self-imposed blindness. ‘We shared an apartment. Then she died.’ Beatrice opened her eyes again and looked directly at Florin. ‘She was doing German philology, and I was studying psychology. Neither of us graduated.’
The question he wanted to ask her was clearly written on his face, but he didn’t voice it. ‘Under the circumstances I think it would be better if you don’t stay by yourself until we’ve caught the Owner,’ he said instead. ‘My apartment is big enough, so why don’t you—’
‘No.’
He blinked, then turned away. ‘Fine. But do me a favour and call me once you’re home and you’ve locked up. Leave your mobile next to the bed. Have you got the emergency number on speed dial?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘You should head home soon too. It’s been a long day.’
On her way out to the car park, Beatrice turned to look back several times, but there was no one behind her. Nor was there during the drive home, throughout which she spent more time looking in the rear-view mirror than at the road.
She did as Florin had asked: double-locking the door behind her and even sliding across the bolt she had never used the whole time she had lived here. It would be completely useless if someone was really intent on getting in, but it still felt reassuring to limit the possibilities. She checked that the windows were locked and pulled the curtains. Then she kicked her shoes off, sank down onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
Evelyn. Anyone could read about it in the newspaper archives if they made the effort, but establishing the connection to Beatrice was a lot more difficult. Her surname had been different back then, and she hadn’t spoken to a single journalist. And yet the Owner had still managed to draw the correct conclusions.
She felt her eyes start to close, then opened them wide. Was that a noise?
No. She was being silly. Nonetheless, she still felt better after doing a round of the rooms, not finding anything apart from the usual blend of order and chaos. Only then did she call Florin.
‘Did you get home safely?’ He was still at the office; she could hear the clatter of the keyboard in the background.
‘Yes. No one followed me, and there was no one lying in wait when I got here. Everything’s fine.’
‘Good. And remember, if anything unusual happens—’
‘I’m a police officer, Florin. I know how to look after myself.’ The words sounded convincing, even to her. For the first time since arriving at her apartment, she started to relax.
The night passed unbelievably quickly. Her head had barely touched the pillow before her alarm clock went off again. She had slept deeply, as if drugged, and her mobile had stayed silent.
‘Make sure a squad car goes round to check on Sigart. They just need to briefly make sure that all’s well.’ Beatrice leant on Stefan’s desk, pointing at the address on the note she had just given him. ‘And then could you try to make some sense of Stage Four? I can’t make head nor tail of it, so it would be good to have a second pair of eyes take a fresh look.’
Stefan ran a hand through his red hair, looking mildly offended. ‘Do you seriously think I haven’t been going over it already? I’ve requested a list from the records office on all residents in the state of Salzburg named Felix who are under the age of forty.’
That’s exactly what Beatrice would have done a few years ago. But she had learnt through experience that lists like that only helped if you at least had some vague idea of what you were searching for. Still, it wouldn’t hurt.
Seeing Kossar approaching out of the corner of her eye, she sighed. ‘See you later, Stefan.’
Kossar waited in the doorway to her office, glancing longingly over at the coffee machine, but she didn’t want to offer him anything that might lengthen his stay unnecessarily. It was bad enough that she would have to talk to him about her past. ‘The Owner sent me a new message yesterday. Here it is.’ She had typed up the message and printed it out.
Kossar scanned the words, nodded, sat down and read it through once more. ‘Can you tell me who Evelyn was?’
‘A friend. We lived together.’ For some inexplicable reason, it felt easier to tell Kossar about it than Florin. It felt less personal, at least as long as she was just talking about the bare facts.
‘So my assumption would be that she didn’t die of natural causes. Am I right?’
He was pretty good at his job when it came to direct conversation, at least. Which meant all she needed to do was nod, not explain anything.
‘I understand. The fact that the Owner knows about it is one thing, the fact that he’s shoving his knowledge right under your nose is another entirely. That supports our theory that he wants to demonstrate his superiority. And – correct me if I’m wrong –’ he looked at Beatrice as if he was searching her face for something – ‘but it seems like he’s hit a raw nerve. Am I right?’
She hesitated, then nodded.
‘He wants to show he can hurt you. He’d probably also like to see how you react, so don’t rule out the possibility that he might try to get close to you.’
Beatrice was pleased Florin was out of the office and not around to hear Kossar’s words. He was already on the brink of putting her under the personal protection Sigart had refused. ‘Okay. So, a tentative prognosis then – what will he do next?’ she asked.
‘Well.’ Kossar took his glasses off with a sweeping flourish. ‘He will continue to pursue his plan – unfortunately, at this point, no one can say what that plan consists of. To me, it looks like an opus, a production, a kind of psychopathic work of art. There were a few cases in the US that showed similar patterns. I’ve spent the last two days looking for possible parallels.’ Looking pleased with himself, Kossar leant back in his chair and put his glasses on again. ‘By the way, that means you’re not in danger. You’re the audience – it would be counterproductive to kill you.’
That’s good to know. Beatrice forced a smile. ‘Thank you for your comments. So what do you suggest I write back to him in response?’
Kossar took a long time before he answered, even for him. ‘Only reply if you have something clever to say, something that will interest him. Something on a level with the surprise he dealt you yesterday.’
Even though she wasn’t hungry, Beatrice went to the canteen for lunch and picked up a sandwich. On the way back, she ran into Stefan.
‘Some of the guys checked on Sigart, everything’s okay. They said he looks ill and seemed absent-minded, but apart from that he was fine.’
It sounded as though he was a step closer to ending things. They had to initiate the process for institutionalisation.