From the other end of the line, Beatrice could only hear heavy breathing. Had Kossar fallen asleep already? ‘What can I send to the Owner as bait? What can I offer him?’
Kossar cleared his throat. She could picture him setting his glasses straight. ‘That’s risky, my dear,’ he said. ‘We don’t yet know enough about him and his motives, and we don’t want to provoke him.’
My dear? Beatrice mouthed the words silently. ‘Listen, I have a chance here. I can’t just throw it away. We’ve been waiting for your input for days now, and time is running away from us. So, what would you do?’
She looked up, saw Florin’s surprised expression and shrugged her shoulders. She needed some expert advice. And if Kossar was the only one available, she had no choice but to turn to him.
‘Well,’ said the psychologist slowly, ‘the Owner has made a personal connection with you by referring to your deceased friend. Try to answer in an equally personal way. It’s not necessarily without danger, but it’s probably the only possibility of establishing some common ground with him. And that would be an immeasurable win. Show that you’re curious about what he’s doing. Be a good audience.’ She heard him chuckle softly. ‘Just don’t applaud too loudly.’
He tried to open his eyes, but the blindfold was so tightly wrapped around his head that his eyelids remained firmly shut despite all his efforts.
He was shaking from the cold, and from fear. With every cramped, trembling movement of his body, the ties cut deeper into his wrists. ‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Is anyone there?’
No answer.
He swallowed down the panic surging within him and tried to get his bearings.
It was in vain. He could have been here for an hour or even twelve; losing consciousness had taken away any sense of time.
But it hadn’t taken away the pain. His pulse was racing, a rhythm beating against the inside of his skull with the merciless sharpness of a pickaxe. His wrists were burning, but he couldn’t feel his hands. They were completely numb. He tried to move his fingers, but couldn’t work out whether they were responding.
‘Hello?’
He waited, trying not to breathe, trying to sense the presence of another person, but everything around him was quiet, empty.
He only had himself to blame. He had been warned and hadn’t taken one single word of it seriously. And now…
The fear swelled, breaking through the thin layer of control that had been holding it in. Even though his head felt close to bursting, he yelled, screamed with panic.
But no one came, and after a while he quietened down again, waiting silently. He tried to think about his family, but that just made everything worse. Behind the tight blindfold, tears began to well up. The mucous membrane in his nose was becoming swollen.
‘I see we’re ready now,’ he heard someone say behind him. He reacted instinctively, trying to turn around, but the ties just burrowed deeper into his flesh.
‘What do you want from me?’ he croaked.
‘Answers.’
He swallowed a sob, not voicing the question in his mind – Answers to what? ‘If I tell you what you want to know, will you let me live?’
The silence was as complete as before, as if the man behind him wasn’t even breathing. Then he felt a hand on his head.
‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. First, you’ll lie. Then you’ll tell the truth. Then, at the end, you will die.’
The clock on her computer said 01.26. Little by little, the space around Beatrice was losing its sharp contours. She had planned to drop by the office only briefly after visiting the children, to pick up a few files, but she had discovered two new reports. They had drawn her into some research, and now four hours had passed. She resolved to go home as soon as she had sent the text message. Let us help you, she typed into her mobile, only to delete it again. It was roughly her twentieth attempt at formulating a message which would provoke the Owner into conversing with her. But she couldn’t find the right tone. The messages she came up with either sounded ridiculous or overbearing. The last one topped them all, as it implied he was crazy.
‘Although he is, of course,’ mumbled Beatrice.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, Florin, I was just talking to myself.’ She tried to smile, but it felt like a pathetic attempt. ‘Shall I make us some coffee?’
He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. ‘Suicide by caffeine, eh? I could actually do with one too, though. Stay where you are, I’ll do it.’ The espresso machine rumbled back to life. ‘You’re still battling with the text message, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘We should come up with one together.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ She looked out of the window into the darkness, but her own pale reflection in the glass obstructed her view of the night. ‘Kossar advised me to be authentic and honest. And personal too, but I don’t want to mess around – this is about saving Sigart’s life.’ She tossed her mobile onto the table. ‘Maybe there are some magic words, some code that will unsettle the Owner so much it stops him from committing another murder.’
The steam pipe made hissing, spitting noises, transforming the milk into a cloudy froth.
‘I think the Owner’s going to see through the message no matter what you write. He’ll know what you’re trying to achieve, so you might as well spell it out.’ He placed a cup in front of her. ‘But forget Kossar – don’t go in for anything personal, Bea. Don’t give him any incentive to get to know you better.’
She let his words go in one ear and out the other, then pulled the mobile back towards her. That’s what I want, she thought, one to one.
I’d like to speak to you and understand why you’re doing what you’re doing.
Now add something personal.
21 May, 08.41 a.m.
She drank the cup of coffee down in three long gulps and sent the message off before she had the chance to change her mind. He wouldn’t know what to make of the date; a little puzzle for the Owner, for a change. Yawning, she stretched her arms. ‘I’m going to head off, Florin. And yes, I will let you know when I get there.’
The memories filled her mind as she got in the car, summoning up images that Beatrice hadn’t pictured this vividly in a very long time.
She turned the car radio on and allowed the music to chase the ghosts from her head at eighty decibels.
The answer came at 5.43 a.m., as the gleaming red display of the radio alarm clock betrayed when Beatrice opened her eyes. The text message tone had haunted her dreams, so she didn’t realise at first that her phone really was making a noise.
Her hand fumbled around, grasping the mobile and nearly knocking it off the bedside table. She managed to get a grip on it just in time, then held it up in front of her face.
If you want to talk, then you come to me, said the Owner’s message. You’d be able to if you drew the right conclusions. An interesting date – a shame that you omitted to mention the year, but I think I recognise it all the same.
From one second to the next, Beatrice was wide awake. She read the text again and again. The right conclusions, sure. If they had already reached them, then any conversation between them would be taking place in the interrogation room. But at least the Owner had responded to her message, and with an answer that referred back to what she had written. They had entered into a dialogue.
Feeling slightly dizzy, she got out of bed and padded into the kitchen. She filled a glass with cold water and drank it down in long gulps.