She straightened up, waited until the black spots in her vision had disappeared, and then flushed the toilet. Her shock and disgust had now been joined by shame. Losing the plot like that at the sight of a few flowers didn’t exactly make her look very professional; how was she going to explain it to the others?
A few sips of water chased the acrid taste from her mouth. She opened the door leading back out into the corridor, bracing herself for questions from her colleagues – and ran straight into Hoffmann.
‘On a break, Kaspary?’
Her first instinct was to dodge around him without a word, to run away like a child, but she had already exhibited enough weakness today.
‘Why would you ask that? You can see exactly where I’ve been.’ The words came out quiet and forced; the hollow feeling in her stomach had returned.
Hoffmann came a step closer and sniffed the air. ‘Have you just been sick?’
It took all the control Beatrice had to stand still and not break eye contact. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you pregnant or something? For heaven’s sake, what next?’
She couldn’t hold back her laughter. ‘No, most certainly not.’
He looked her up and down. ‘I see. Well, that doesn’t make it much better, but—’
‘If you say so,’ Beatrice interrupted him. ‘I don’t really think that concerns you though. I’m feeling much better now, by the way, thank you for asking.’ Without waiting for a response, she left him standing there.
Kossar and Stefan were still in the office when she walked back in, and so was Florin. ‘Are you feeling better?’ He stood up and came over to her. ‘You’re really pale. If you don’t feel well, you should go home, okay? It’s not going to help anyone if you collapse, Bea.’
The bouquet of flowers was still on her desk. Someone had freed them from the rest of the paper.
‘I’m not ill. Sorry that my reaction was so extreme – it’s just… these flowers.’
‘So I gathered.’ Florin held up an envelope, white with a black edging, like a death notice in a newspaper. ‘Shall I open it for you?’
She shook her head and swallowed down the stomach acid rising up in her throat again. A death announcement, what else could it be? Sigart was dead, and the Owner had found his own unique way of telling her. She sat down, pushing the flowers far away from her, and steeled herself for the sight of more horrific pictures. She opened the envelope.
A white card without any adornment. Beatrice read it through, and tried to make sense of it but failed.
Everything that is entirely probable is probably false.
N47º 26.195; E013º 12.523
You know everything, and yet you find nothing.
Speechless, Beatrice handed the card to Florin.
‘We’ve already phoned the flower delivery company while you – while you were outside,’ explained Stefan. ‘They said the order came from a young woman who spoke very poor German.’
‘We need a more detailed description.’ She averted her gaze from the flowers, staring into the distance. ‘Stefan, could you—’
‘Drive over there? Of course.’ On the way to the door, he waved his phone in the air. ‘Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.’
Beatrice looked back at the card. New coordinates. Was this Stage Four? A little extra help from the Owner so the game didn’t grind to a halt?
Florin pushed a glass of water over towards her. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘White calla and violet lilies,’ she said softly, ‘were the flowers on the wreath I bought twelve years ago for my friend’s funeral, the one who was murdered. The Owner keeps making references to Evelyn.’ She pushed sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. ‘Even the colour of the ribbon is the same.’
‘I wonder why he picked you, out of all of us.’ Florin’s gaze was full of sympathy, and Beatrice couldn’t handle that right now.
‘No idea.’ She gestured towards Kossar, who was standing at the window with a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Why don’t you ask the expert? And while you’re at it, ask him how the Owner knows the inscription on her gravestone.’
Spirit of Man,
How like water you are.
Fate of Man,
How like the wind
The quote had been chosen by Evelyn’s mother, a pretty, friendly woman who had collapsed during the funeral and had to be taken away in an ambulance. Beatrice had only seen her twice after that, and she had looked smaller and greyer each time. Not just her hair but her skin and eyes, too, seemed to lose their colour. She had been as friendly as ever, but the friendliness had become absent-minded. Even though Beatrice had fully intended to, she had never managed to tell Evelyn’s mother about what had happened back then. About how easily Beatrice could have prevented it.
No one from her new life knew about it. Or so she had thought.
‘Right then,’ said Kossar, interrupting her thoughts, ‘what seems evident is that the Owner wants to establish a strong link with Frau Kaspary. She’s the only one receiving his text messages, and now flowers, and he put a note under her windscreen wiper too – a little like lovers might do, don’t you think?’
Beatrice looked away. If Kossar carried on like this she would have to run off to the toilet again.
‘Was the man who killed your friend ever caught?’
She shook her head, convinced she knew what Kossar really wanted to ask.
‘There’s no way it’s the same killer! The behavioural patterns are completely different. For a start, the Owner doesn’t commit any sexual offences.’ She gestured towards the photos of the severed hands and ears that lay in front of Florin. ‘The dismemberments aren’t in any way com parable, and nor are the weapons, as far as we know. Besides, the Owner has predominantly killed men, so there aren’t any parallels there either.’ She raised her chin, staring defiantly at Kossar. Hold your head high, even if your neck’s dirty had been one of Evelyn’s favourite sayings. When Beatrice continued to speak, her voice was quieter than before, but also fiercer. ‘I would have thought you knew that. No serial killers change their pattern just like that.’
‘No, of course not,’ responded Kossar gently. ‘And I can’t remember having suggested that. I only asked whether your friend’s murderer was ever caught because I think it would have helped you considerably in dealing with the trauma.’
His response felt like a blow to the stomach. He was right; she had simply pushed her own interpretation onto him. She would have to apologise for questioning his competence. But right now she was too angry to be fair. ‘More important than my so-called “trauma”,’ she snapped, ‘are these coordinates. Let’s not fool ourselves – we know what we’re going to find there.’ Sigart’s blood-covered mobile came into her mind. The prospect that his painful life had now come to an end wasn’t comforting, not even in the slightest.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Florin pointed his pen at the computer monitor in front of him. ‘The quote the Owner sent you this time is by René Descartes, and he was a mathematician.’
‘Like Liebscher!’
‘Precisely. So it’s possible that the Owner hasn’t sent us the location of Sigart’s body, but the coordinates to Stage Four, as a gift of sorts. Leading us to another one of Liebscher’s body parts. It’s as if he knew we were planning to stop playing his game.’
The location was directly at the intersection of two busy roads near Bischofshofen, where a bridge stretched over the Salzach. Water and scenic spots – the Owner clearly had a weakness for them.