‘Yes, except that might take for ever,’ answered Beatrice. ‘I think Sigart is our priority, and the path to him is via the other victims.’
Konrad Papenberg’s face had turned a deep red and was just ten centimetres at most from Beatrice’s. ‘Get out of my house right this second! I won’t allow you to slander my dead wife under my roof!’ A drop of spit landed next to Beatrice’s right eye. She didn’t wipe it off. Instead of backing away from Papenberg, she took a tiny step towards him. It had exactly the desired effect: he stepped back, putting more distance between them.
‘I understand that you’re upset,’ she said in a decidedly calm voice. ‘Nothing has been proven, of course. But there was someone else’s blood on your wife’s hands and clothing, and we’ve since been able to match that blood to another victim. I hope you can understand that we have to investigate this.’
‘Perhaps she was trying to help him!’ roared Papenberg. ‘Had you thought of that? No, you’d rather believe that Nora is a murderer, my Nora, my…’ His voice failed him and he sank down onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
Beatrice nodded to Florin. It was a silent request for him to take over the questioning. She hadn’t counted on such an extreme reaction, and although she felt sorry for Papenberg, his lack of control didn’t necessarily have to mean an end to the conversation if Florin took the right approach.
Florin sat down next to the man on the sofa and spoke to him softly. Beatrice removed herself from his line of sight as much as possible, positioning herself over by the window in an attempt to let him forget she was there.
It was clear that nothing had been cleaned or tidied in the apartment since their last visit. There was dust on the furniture, clothing scattered on the floor, newspapers, unemptied ashtrays – all evidence of how Konrad Papenberg’s life had been turned completely upside down.
‘Of course your wife was a victim,’ Beatrice heard Florin say. ‘We’re just trying to understand what happened. I’d like to show you photos of two men, perhaps you might know one of them. Would that be okay?’
Papenberg didn’t answer. Beatrice could hear the sound of papers being shuffled, so presumably he had nodded.
‘No, I’ve never seen them before. Which of them is Nora supposed to have murdered, according to your colleague?’
‘This man here, Herbert Liebscher.’
‘I don’t know him. I swear to you – if I did, I’d tell you.’
Beatrice looked around and saw that the photos were shaking in Papenberg’s hands. His face was wet. ‘No one wants the murderer to be found more than I do. I want to help you, but when you say things like that about Nora…’ He fumbled around in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue and blew his nose. ‘She was the most gentle person I’ve ever known. She could barely hurt a fly, and felt bad about the silliest of things. Sometimes she would burst into tears when bad news came on the TV, and then would be inconsolable for hours. About car crashes, for example, even if she didn’t know the people. She was so compassionate, you know?’ He scrunched the tissue up in his hand. ‘She could never have been an accomplice to murder.’
Beatrice turned around from the window. ‘Was she always that way?’ she asked. Her question was one of genuine interest.
‘Ever since I’ve known her, yes. She did a lot of charity work, like for Children’s Village, Médecins Sans Frontières and organisations for disabled people. Not just donations, I mean personal stuff too. She always said that when she… died, she wanted to feel like she had made a difference.’
A woman with a social conscience, empathy and a dedication to giving something back. But perhaps there was a darker side to Nora Papenberg, even if her husband had her up on a pedestal.
Beatrice tried to fight the feeling of frustration welling up inside her. She was familiar with this phase from previous cases. The aimless stumbling around in the darkness; being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It required the utmost patience, something she struggled with even in normal circumstances. But the fact that someone’s life depended on her work this time made it almost unbearable.
‘You look exhausted,’ said Florin as they got back in the car. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat, sit on a park bench and have a quick break.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Bea, it’s quite clear that you’ve already pushed yourself to the limit.’
A sharp retort twitched on her tongue, but she controlled herself. Usually she liked it when Florin looked out for her, but not when she was under as much pressure as today. ‘It’d make me feel sick, can’t you understand that? I won’t be able to stomach more than a coffee and a few biscuits, and we have all of that back at the office.’
Florin started the engine without saying another word. She looked at him from the side, feeling guilty for her harsh tone, but then fixed her gaze on the road. She knew she was taking this case more personally than any other. By mentioning Evelyn’s name, the Owner had stirred up an old guilt within her.
She knew she would do it; the only question was when. Since Florin had dropped her back at home, Beatrice had pulled her phone from her bag again and again, her fingers hovering indecisively over the buttons, trying to formulate a message in her mind. Something clever that would interest the Owner, that’s what Kossar had said.
Shortly before eight, she drove to Mooserhof to see the children. She felt a fleeting moment of relief that they were both happy and didn’t seem to be missing her too much. Mina hugged Beatrice for longer than usual, reporting that she’d got a good mark for her dictation. She also seemed to know exactly how many mistakes each and every child in the class had made.
Jakob had renewed his friendship with the neighbours’ son, and was spending most of his time on their farm with the chickens. He presented Beatrice with an egg he had personally collected from one of the hutches.
‘I got a present yesterday too,’ he said proudly. ‘A little world that lights up when you press a button.’
‘A globe, you mean?’
‘A globe, that’s what I said. And Mina got a really pretty mirror with sparkly flowers around the edges.’
From Achim of course. ‘Was Papa here for a while then?’
‘No, he hasn’t come.’
‘So who’s giving you such lovely presents? Oma?’
‘No, not Oma!’ He sounded almost outraged. ‘But the guests are all so nice to us, a few of them give us euros if we bring them their food. And sometimes we get stuff too. The man with the globe had all kinds of toys with him, a whole sack full, and he was going to sell it all at the flea market.’
‘And he just gave you some as a present?’
Sensing the hidden accusation, Jakob reacted with lightning speed. ‘I asked Oma if I was allowed to take it and she said yes. And today a woman gave me a pen, with penguins on it! Look!’
Beatrice admired Jakob’s new acquisition enthusiastically. He tapped his index finger on the tip of the egg which he had put on the table. ‘Make yourself a scrambled egg from it, okay?’ he said, rubbing his nose against her cheek.
Later, as she drove from her mother’s restaurant back to the office, she was almost expecting someone to be following her again, but the street behind her was practically empty. The egg lay on the passenger seat, and Beatrice made an effort to brake carefully at every crossing. She felt strangely protected, somehow, by the mere presence of Jakob’s fragile gift.
‘I want him to give me Sigart,’ declared Beatrice. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her ear and shoulder, had taken off her shoes and was sitting on the revolving chair with her legs tucked beneath her. By night, all was peaceful in the murder investigation department. There was no one else there except Florin, who sat wearily in front of his computer, an enlarged version of the photo of Sigart’s mutilated hand on the screen.