But something was different this time. She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket. Her heart skipped a beat. There it was, his next text, his next move in the game – but then she saw the number and sighed, rejecting the call.
It had only been a matter of time until her ex-husband got back in touch. But now wasn’t the time for an argument.
The clouds were chased across the sky by the wind, blocking the sun again. Beatrice put her mobile back in her jacket pocket with the same guilty feeling she always had when she ignored a call. Maybe it had been important. An emergency.
Evelyn jumped into her mind. But she couldn’t allow her mind to be clouded by what had happened back then. She had to focus. To concentrate. This was a different story, and it would have a different ending.
The dogs didn’t find anything. ‘Liebscher’s body parts are old enough by now and the temperatures high enough for the plastic film to inflate and eventually burst,’ Drasche had prophesied. ‘And even if they haven’t – the dogs would smell the caches anyway. We did some tests.’
‘But what would the Owner be hiding now?’ Beatrice interrupted the despondent silence that had so far dominated the drive back to headquarters.
Florin turned his head slowly in her direction without taking his eyes off the road. ‘What do you mean? We’re far from having found all of Liebscher. There are still the feet, the limbs, the torso – if the Owner wants to he still has enough for another twenty or thirty caches.’
‘But we already have the head. So there’s no more suspense. It’s more essential than any other part of the body and clearly answers the question of his identity. Would you play the feet or even inner organs after you’ve already done the head? It would be like taking a step back.’
‘Play?’
‘Yes.’ She hadn’t intentionally chosen the word, but it hit the nail on the head. He plays a hand, they play a hand. And given that he didn’t have to play by the rules, he was always at an advantage. It was costing them one round after the next.
She thought about the puzzle spread out on her desk. She would make the next move alone.
‘My daughter is being driven home by your colleagues. I get the impression she doesn’t feel entirely comfortable about it, but I tried to explain to her that it’s important.’ Carolin Dalamasso was a pretty woman, not much older than fifty. She had willingly agreed to Beatrice’s request to stop by, and had clearly used the time to bake a cake. The sweet aroma filled the apartment.
Beatrice tried to smile through her guilty conscience. Strictly speaking, the visit to the Dalamassos wasn’t necessary – Florin had asked all the important questions and compiled the information into his report. But he hadn’t spoken to Melanie, hadn’t even caught a glimpse of her. That wasn’t enough for Beatrice. She wanted to – no, not wanted, had to – get some impression of the young woman. A torn woman. Could you sense it just from standing opposite her?
‘Would you like some coffee? I have decaf too.’
She had neither the desire nor the need for her fifth coffee of the day, but she had to play for time. If necessary, she would make small talk until the daughter arrived home. ‘I’d love one. With plenty of milk and a little sugar, if that’s okay.’
The woman nodded and smiled. There was a watchfulness in her eyes, which Beatrice suspected wasn’t new, but rather stemmed from constantly looking out for her psychologically ill daughter.
It was 4.40 p.m. Melanie could arrive home any moment now, depending on how busy the traffic was.
‘What can I tell you that I haven’t already told your colleague with the lovely dark eyes?’ With swift energetic movements, Carolin Dalamasso cut three slices of cake and put the cups on the table. Then she sat down.
‘I’d like to know how Melanie was doing before her breakdown. Were there any events that, in hindsight, could be interpreted as warning signs?’
The woman’s smile was suddenly streaked with pain. ‘Of course. You always know better afterwards. Carlo and I have thought of dozens of situations in which, looking back, we should have sought medical assistance for Melanie. But back then we thought she was just a little sensitive because she was in love for the first time. She had a boyfriend, you see? Unfortunately we never met him, and my theory is…’ She sighed and looked out of the window, where a blackbird had settled on the balcony railing. It looked around jerkily, then flew away again. ‘I think he broke up with Melanie. She was still living in the flat share back then, and one evening she called us, but we couldn’t make out a single word. She was sobbing, almost howling. We drove over there right away of course, but she was in her room and didn’t want to talk to us. Her flatmates were just as clueless as we were. They were relieved in the end, I think, when she was admitted to the clinic. That was five days later.’
‘And there was never any clue as to what might have caused it?’
‘No. But I’ve already told your colleague all of that.’ The vigilance in her eyes increased in direct proportion with the narrowing of her smile.
‘Did you give him the names of Melanie’s flatmates?’
‘Of course.’ She took a sip of her coffee.
Beatrice decided to push further. ‘The case we’re working on is exceptionally challenging. I hope you understand. For that reason, communication between the investigators is not as thorough as we’d ideally like it to be.’ Was that the sound of a car stopping in front of the house? Hopefully. ‘I do know, however, that Florin Wenninger showed you these photographs.’ She pulled the photographs of the Owner’s victims out of her bag. ‘I also know that you don’t believe you know any of these people. But sometimes a day’s distance can help, and maybe something might occur to you, even if it’s about only one of the faces.’ She laid the photos in front of Carolin Dalamasso on the table. The unsolvable puzzle.
‘We’re convinced that these people had some connection to your daughter, but we just don’t know what kind. So far no one has been able to help us with this. That’s why I simply have to ask you once again. I hope you don’t mind.’
With a helpless shrug, Carolin leant forwards to look at the photos. ‘And these people have all been murdered?’
‘Four of them, definitely. One of them could still have a chance.’
‘My God.’ She picked up the photo of Nora Papenberg and stared at it intently. Then she shook her head and put it back down on the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re protecting Melanie,’ she said softly. ‘I just can’t understand why anyone would want to harm her. Her, of all people.’
‘We’re doing everything we can to find out. Absolutely everything.’
Beil’s photo, Sigart’s photo. Always the same shake of the head.
‘Does Melanie still play the flute, by the way?’ asked Beatrice.
‘Yes. But not like she used to. The sounds she produces now are a long way from being music, they—’ The woman paused and listened. Beatrice heard it too, a muffled whirr, then a metallic, rushing sound. The lift.
‘I think that’s them now.’ Carolin stood up. ‘You can’t question Melanie, you know that, right? She’s stable right now and the doctors are hopeful that her condition will improve. It was much worse, you see, far worse, and—’
The doorbell rang. The woman went into the hallway and opened the door. Beatrice gathered the photos up. Her guilty conscience was making her feel sick, but she had to do what she had come to do.
She heard the police officer’s affable voice. ‘Everything’s fine, no incidents. Have a nice evening!’
Beatrice knew the two policemen would now take up their position in their car in front of the building, nourish themselves on hot dogs and Red Bull, and wait for the night shift to come and relieve them. They were the good guys, and Beatrice envied them.