‘I can’t. Sorry.’ Florin pressed past her. She hung her bag over the back of the chair and turned the computer on. His voice filtered in from the hallway, pointedly calm, but as sharp as splintered glass.
‘It’s not very helpful when you demotivate us for an entire day because of a twenty-minute late start. We’re all pushing ourselves to the limit here, so I would be very grateful if you could recognise that and not put on additional pressure.’
‘Well, what kind of pressure do you think I’ll be under if we can’t show any results? You must realise that, Florin.’ Hoffmann’s voice now had the chummy, conspiratorial undertone that irked Beatrice so much. Not that he had ever used it with her – heaven forbid.
‘I know you’re fond of Kaspary,’ Hoffmann continued, now considerably quieter. ‘But recently she’s seemed very jittery and distracted, and that’s just not acceptable in a case like this. Kossar thinks she made contact with the killer without waiting for his advice.’ Hoffmann raised his voice again. ‘She’s blatantly disregarding my orders, and if she thinks she’s going to get away with it—’
‘She discussed making contact with the Owner with me. We had to act, and Kossar takes too long with things. If we’ve overstepped the mark, then you’ll have to hold both of us responsible.’
Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to suppress the protest that was trying to force its way out of her.
‘Is that so?’ The rage had drained away from Hoffmann’s voice. ‘Then you should have told me that before, Florin.’
‘You’re right. But I can assure you it was a clever move on Kaspary’s part. The Owner has already responded. You won’t find an investigator better than her, I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, come on. She has her qualities, no question of that, and she’s been successful on a couple of cases, but… I’m wondering whether I should partner you with someone else, someone without acute personal problems, because they seem to be consuming all her energies right now.’
Beatrice stared at the login screen on her computer. It was only once her jaw began to ache that she realised she was grinding her teeth. If Hoffmann thought he could sideline her he was mistaken, but she should have realised he would try.
‘No, absolutely not,’ she heard Florin say with a certainty that left no room for politeness. ‘That would be a big mistake. I don’t have the time or the energy to explain the case to another colleague, and besides—’
‘Oh, come on. Not the same old story about her oh-so-wonderful powers of deduction.’
‘You know full well I’m right.’ Florin had lowered his voice again. ‘Think back to the brewery murder. Or the two dead women on the train tracks. She was always the first one to put the pieces together.’
A dismissive click of the tongue, quite clearly from Hoffmann. ‘I think you’re exaggerating a little.’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Fine, have it your way. But I want to start seeing results, not just a steadily growing number of murder victims. I’m serious, Wenninger.’
‘You know full well that no one can force these things. Neither you, nor I, nor Beatrice Kaspary.’
Hoffmann snorted. ‘Does the girl know how much you stick up for her? People will start getting ideas, you know.’
‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get back to work now.’
‘Right then, good luck.’ Was that an ironic undertone in his voice?
Footsteps in the corridor betrayed Florin’s return. Beatrice hastily typed her password and didn’t look up from the screen even when he stormed into the room and sank down into his chair.
She could feel him looking at her.
‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that,’ he said.
She looked up, tried to smile and failed when she saw his serious expression. ‘Thank you. You know it makes me uncomfortable when you stick your neck out for me like that, right?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s the same way I feel when you send text messages to serial killers behind my back. But you were right about the time pressure. Waiting won’t get us anywhere.’
She rested her head in her hands. ‘I’m just worried that Hoffmann won’t buy the thing about my powers of deduction… or perhaps I should say former powers. I mean, not even I do.’
‘Well, you should. I wasn’t making it up, Bea, you’ve always been the one to have the flash of inspiration in the end.’
‘That’s teamwork. I was the first one to see it, that’s all. You might have had the same thought two hours later.’
‘Or two weeks later. You know, any other boss would be happy to have you.’ He shook his head. ‘Do me a favour and don’t let Hoffmann wind you up. Or bring you down. I’ll try to keep him away from you.’
She nodded silently, wondering how she was going to manage to concentrate on her work – she would have to ignore not just Hoffmann, but also Achim, her memories of Evelyn, this morning’s panic attack and her bad conscience regarding the children.
Hoffmann may be a bastard, but he’s right: I’ve got no end of personal problems. They’re like a millstone around my neck.
She pulled the files in front of her. On the top lay a note from Stefan, who had worked until four in the morning. I’ll be back in the office by ten. Goodnight, he had written.
There was also a preliminary written assessment from Drasche, who described the loss of blood indicated by the traces in the flat as potentially life-threatening, adding that, in all probability, Sigart was already dead.
That was very bad news. But in spite of it, for the first time that day Beatrice felt as though she had solid ground beneath her feet again. She worked well with facts, even if they were unwelcome ones.
A canine unit had been called out the previous evening and had searched the area surrounding the building in Theodebertstrasse, but they hadn’t been able to pick up any scent beyond the spot where the trail of blood stopped.
The times between the victims’ disappearances and their deaths varied. Why?
With Nora Papenberg, it had been just over four days. With Herbert Liebscher, at least a week, if they assumed he was already in the grip of his kidnapper the first time he didn’t turn up to class. Christoph Beil had lived just another three days.
If Sigart hadn’t already bled to death or had his throat cut by the Owner, how much time did they have left to find him?
Realising that she was chewing on her pen, she pulled it from her mouth. The Owner had done things differently this time: instead of luring his victim away with a phone call, he had made a personal visit. Why? Had Sigart not answered the phone?
And why such brute force at the scene? Beatrice leant back and closed her eyes, trying to visualise the situation.
The Owner rings the doorbell, perhaps disguised as a deliveryman. Or Sigart knows him, and opens up. Do they talk to one another? Maybe the killer tries to drag his victim away immediately, but Sigart manages to make the phone call. That’s why the Owner attacks there and then, severely injuring him, and drags him out of the house.
‘Florin?’
‘Yes?’
‘We have to speak to Sigart’s therapist.’
Dr Anja Maly gave up her lunch break to speak to them. She had sounded genuinely aghast on the phone when Beatrice informed her that Bernd Sigart had gone missing.
‘I’m very concerned,’ she said, closing the door of the consultation room behind her. ‘I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Herr Sigart may be a danger to himself.’
‘That’s the least of our worries right now,’ replied Florin. ‘It looks like he’s become the victim of a crime, and that’s why we need to ask you if he mentioned anyone during his sessions – any friends or acquaintances.’