‘I’ve also been pondering what the comments about the key figure’s career could refer to. Selling things that no one needs – he might be an insurance salesman.’
She burst out laughing, and was suddenly unable to remember the last time she had done so. ‘Stefan! That’s a serious career path you’re calling into disrepute.’
‘If you say so. But that’s what came to mind – knocking on people’s doors, cold calling – see what I mean? Or maybe he sells something completely different – like stain removal products or newspaper subscriptions, or maybe just hot air…’
Hot air – in other words, mere rhetoric. Maybe he was in the advertising industry. If that was the case, there could be a connection between him and Nora Papenberg.
‘That’s not a bad idea. Keep at it, Stefan.’
He beamed and disappeared into his office. Beatrice went off to hers and found Florin there with his eyes closed and the telephone held to his ear. Within just a few moments, Beatrice worked out he was talking to Vera Beil. She had identified her husband yesterday, and had collapsed right there on the spot. Severe shock and circulatory failure, the doctors had said when she had been taken to hospital. Presumably she was phoning from there; she had already called twice today, but only ever wanted to speak to Florin.
‘Anything,’ he was saying. ‘Try to think back, Frau Beil. What did your husband say as he left the house? Or before that, on Sunday evening?’
Beatrice turned her attentions to her computer. The mobile provider had emailed saying that the last connection via the prepaid card had been made at 22.34 yesterday, at which time the mobile was located in Salzburg’s historic quarter. She was relieved: no one had been following her; she could rely on her instincts after all. Unfortunately, though, it seemed she could also rely on the Owner’s caution: he hadn’t yet connected to the same cellular network twice.
The afternoon crept up slowly and doggedly, leading to a gloomy evening and, shortly after 8 p.m., an equally gloomy evening meeting. No one in the team had any great flashes of inspiration to offer; no one was in the position to lay new ideas on the table.
‘We’re stuck,’ said Florin. ‘Stage Four is a hard nut to crack – neither Beil’s wife nor Papenberg’s husband know anyone who meets the criteria of the key figure. So we’re going to have to do the painstaking work and translate the two clues.’
Beatrice’s phone interrupted him. It wasn’t the melody announcing a text message, but the one for incoming calls.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pulling the phone from her bag and heading towards the door. She didn’t know the number on the display, which was a good thing, implying it would be quick to resolve.
‘Kaspary.’
A wail, followed by a whimper. Crashing in the background. She gripped her phone tightly. ‘Who is it?’
‘Help me!’ The man’s words were hoarse and faltering, squeezed out between sobs, but Beatrice was sure she could recognise Bernd Sigart’s voice.
‘Herr Sigart, is that you?’ Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Florin gesticulated frantically with his thumb, as though he was pressing something. She understood and switched to speakerphone.
‘Help me!’ Sigart was sobbing. ‘He’s trying to—’ The word culminated in a scream, followed by a crash which sounded like a bookcase falling over. Another crash, then the whimpering was muffled; someone must have put their hand over the microphone. It crackled, rustled, then the sound became clear again, and Sigart’s cries cut shrilly through the air in the meeting room. ‘Stop! Please! No!’
‘Where are you?’ shouted Beatrice.
There was no answer, just a dull thud, more pain-racked screams, then the connection was abruptly broken.
‘Shit! Florin, Stefan, we need to drive to Sigart’s flat right now!’ She clapped Bechner on the shoulder. ‘Tell all available squad cars in the area to get over there, Theodebertstrasse thirty-three. Quickly!’
She estimated the driving time in her mind: they would need at least fifteen minutes, twenty more realistically, even if they went through the red lights. Florin jumped behind the wheel, stepping on the accelerator even before all the doors were shut. His lips were pressed into a thin line, all his concentration directed on the road. Meanwhile, from the back seat, Stefan offered his analysis of the call.
‘Sigart said “he”, which means it’s just one guy. So now we at least know that the Owner is a man—’
‘We don’t even know for sure if it was the Owner,’ Beatrice interrupted him. Her throat felt dry with nerves. Sigart does value his life after all, she thought. We all do, as soon as someone wants to take it from us, as soon as things get serious.
Hopefully became her mantra for the next ten minutes. Hopefully we won’t get there too late. Hopefully.
The walls of the building in Theodebertstrasse were reflecting the blue lights of the two squad cars that had arrived before them. The street was narrow, so one single car up at the crossing was enough to block access to traffic.
Four male and one female uniformed officers were standing at the front door, talking into walkie-talkies. Seeing Beatrice and Florin arrive, the policewoman came running over to them.
‘We’ve already been in,’ she called breathlessly. ‘It looks pretty bad in there.’
Florin voiced Beatrice’s thoughts before she managed to. ‘Is Sigart dead?’
The policewoman shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s hard to say.’
‘What does that mean?’ The entrance lay in front of them, and even though dusk was already turning to darkness and the street lamps were only giving off sparse light, the dark smears and flecks in the hallway were unmistakable. Bloodstains ran down the stairs, as if something heavy had been dragged along the floor. They led down to the cellar.
‘It certainly seems like whoever did this got a look at the house beforehand and worked out the best escape route,’ explained the policeman holding the walkie-talkie. ‘The cellar leads to a rear exit, and the suspect must have had a car parked there, because the traces of blood stop abruptly.’
‘But what about Sigart?’ asked Beatrice impatiently.
‘We haven’t found him.’
They ran up the stairs, taking care not to disturb the bloodstains. Beatrice noticed a large shoe print in one of the smears and hoped fervently that the Owner had finally made a mistake. The story told by the bloodstains was a clear one. They had come too late.
‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’
‘No.’
Now she saw for herself: the door was open, but undamaged. He must have let the killer in.
The inside of the flat looked like a slaughterhouse. Most of the blood was on the floor, on the wall next to the couch and by the table, which had been knocked over. The bookcase lay diagonally across the room and had buried a folding chair beneath it; the legs jutted out from under the heavy load like those of a squashed insect.
As expected, there was no sign of Sigart, but they still called out for him, checking the bathroom and finding nothing but blood and more blood. The patterns on the wall suggested an intensely spurting wound. Sigart must have been badly injured, unconscious or even dead before the killer dragged him through the building out to his car.
‘He acted pretty damn fast.’ Florin’s gaze had stopped at the pool of blood next to the table. ‘The patrol team said they arrived seven minutes after the emergency call, and both Sigart and the killer were already gone.’
That at least increased the probability that, in his haste, the Owner had made a mistake. The bloody shoe print on the stairs, for example. Tiptoeing cautiously, Beatrice crossed the small living area and glanced into the kitchen. Compared to the rest of the flat, it was quite clean. ‘But we warned him. Why would Sigart just open the door like that?’