Fantastic. ‘And?’
‘I couldn’t find anything, unfortunately. The whole session was erased.’
Beatrice ran her hand through her hair and tried to suppress the irritation welling up inside her. But it didn’t matter. It spoke volumes that the man had erased everything which could provide clues as to what he was doing.
‘You’ve been a great help. Now I just need to ask you for a description of the guest, as precise as you can be. Any detail you remember could be very important.’
The young man gathered his thoughts. ‘The coat he had on was dark blue, and his shoes were black. I noticed that because they didn’t match, although the items looked very expensive. He had pale gloves on, and a pale scarf.’
‘Can you remember his hair colour?’
‘He was bald. Completely, as if he was ill. But his beard was brown with a bit of grey. He had a full beard, a really thick one.’
If only all our witnesses had such good memories. ‘You’re doing a great job, really. Is there anything else that stood out? Birthmarks, warts, tattoos?’
He thought again before giving his answer. ‘No. All I really saw was his head and face, so if he had a tattoo on his arm, I don’t…’
‘Of course.’
‘He said something strange though. Probably that’s why I remember him so well… and because it fits in with what’s happening now. At the time I thought he was crazy.’
Beatrice leant back. ‘Yes?’
‘He said: “It’s possible that they might ask about me. If they do, tell them they could be making life much easier for themselves. And tell them: Thanks for the hunt.”’
The sky above him was blue, and the swallows were soaring high. The weather was good, and would probably hold for another two or three days.
Days of waiting. His thoughts wandered to the policewoman, as they often had recently. It couldn’t last much longer now, if she had followed his clues, if she had finally understood them.
Looking up at the sky made him dizzy, almost making him stumble. Take it easy, be careful, he reminded himself. The thought wasn’t without a comic element. It was a shame he couldn’t share it with anyone.
Except the woman, perhaps. Everything was ready. He was throwing the fingerless man out as bait. His predators would fall into the trap; they had no other option.
He waited until his senses were obeying him again, then looked upwards. Directly above him, an aeroplane was sketching its white line in the perfect blue, a long minus sign which frayed out at the end, dissolving, dissipating. Five minus two was three, minus one…
It couldn’t be avoided. With a shrug of his shoulders, he let the sky be sky and turned his attention to more earthly matters. Severity. Blood. Pain.
The past weeks had been filled with those things. The most surprising realisation he had drawn from his experiences was just how much reality could differ from imagination.
Not when it came to the plan itself. That had gone perfectly. But in practice, the action felt so different from any fantasy.
He looked around one more time before he went back into the darkness, smiling into the strengthening breeze. So beautiful.
Someone sighed, and it took him the duration of a heartbeat to realise it had been him. A man who had to go back to his work. Brutal, harsh, gruesome, painful. Not willingly, never willingly – how could he? But it was the safest way. Everything was ready; there was no reason to wait any longer.
After he had done what was necessary, just two hours had passed by. He was getting better at it. It wasn’t even that difficult any more.
He cleaned up, using three buckets full of water to dispose of the blood. Good. Now just the message. The picture had turned out well, even though the sight of it almost winded him. He gasped for air and waited until he felt better, then put the mobile in one pocket and the battery in the other. Looked for and found the car keys. There was no rush. He could take his time. Ten or fifteen kilometres would be enough. Then back. And sleep, at last.
Jakob kissed and hugged her before he disappeared back to the neighbours’ farm, but Mina was querulous. She reminded Beatrice of herself at that age, almost thirty years ago now. Or even just thirty minutes ago. She’s a smaller version of me. Maybe that’s why we clash, she thought.
‘If you don’t have any time for us, you can give us to Papa. He likes having us there, he told us.’
‘I thought you liked being with Oma?’
‘I do. But…’ She panted for air, and for the words. ‘You always say it’s just for a few days, and then it’s always much longer, every time.’
If this was Mina’s way of telling her mother she missed her, then she was doing her best at hiding it. Everything she said came out as an accusation.
‘You’re right,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s already taken far too long. But now we’re nearly there, I’m sure of it. And this weekend Papa will come and get you, and you might be going sailing if the weather’s nice.’
The idea seemed to appeal to Mina, as she summoned up a nod and a half-smile. ‘That might be nice. So when are we going to do something together?’
‘Once the case is over I’ll take some time off and you guys can pick what we do. Is that a deal?’
‘Anything we want? And we can do it?’
‘If I can afford it and it’s not illegal, then yes.’ She pulled Mina close to her, feeling resistance at first, then little arms around her waist.
‘I don’t think it is,’ mumbled her daughter from down by her stomach.
Richard, in a gracious mood today, found some reassuring words once Mina was out of earshot. ‘She’s perfectly happy here, don’t worry. And if you were to come more often in the evening, instead of just phoning, then that would be—’
He broke off as her mobile beeped loudly.
‘Shit.’ Beatrice rummaged around in her handbag, found the phone and muted the sound. A picture message. At first, all she saw was the number – the number – then the picture appeared. Beatrice heard herself gasp for air.
‘What is it?’ Quickly, too quickly, Richard was beside her, catching a glimpse of the screen. ‘Oh, God, Bea, what is that? A person? Or… yes, look, that’s an arm! Horrific. It looks like something in an abattoir.’
She freed herself from his grasp on her wrist as he tried to get a closer look at the photo.
An abattoir.
‘I have to go.’ She grabbed her bag and rushed out to the car without saying goodbye. She turned the engine on, the phone slipping from her fingers. She picked it up and dialled Florin’s number. ‘Are you still in the office?’
‘No, I just got home, why? Should I—’
‘I’ll come to your place, see you in fifteen minutes.’
A severed middle finger, swimming in blood, next to the mutilated hand. A fresh wound, a bloody stump. The amputation cuts on the ring and little fingers seemed to be inflamed rather than healing. The thumb and index finger, the only ones still attached, were crooked towards each other like the two halves of a pair of crab scissors. Or the tips of a croissant. Beatrice took a deep breath, in and out.
Enlarged on Florin’s laptop, the picture showed details that hadn’t been visible on the small screen of her mobile phone. There was a newspaper, partially saturated with red, and when they zoomed in today’s date was visible on it.
‘Sigart’s still alive.’ It was hard to tell whether Florin saw that as good news or bad. Without tearing his gaze away from the photo, he scrolled from the top to the bottom and from left to right. ‘It’s a wooden table, and the background is quite dark. The photo was taken with flash.’ He pointed at a light reflection in the pool of blood. ‘The killer put something underneath, it looks like a white plastic tablecloth. He’s doing everything he can to maximise the impact of the picture.’