The torchlight was now dancing over the wooden shed surrounding the well again, which someone must have rebuilt after the fire. Presumably Sigart himself. She looked into his face; it was wet with sweat and tears, but showed relief at the same time.
‘Why didn’t you content yourself with just killing Estermann?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He waited, only continuing when she shook her head. ‘After all, you read the file. The call to the emergency services was made by one of the two farmers whose farms burnt down that night. Before and after that – nothing.’
For a moment, it seemed as though Sigart was about to break down; he lost control of his facial muscles, but then gathered his composure again after a shaky breath. ‘They knew who had been trapped up there amidst the flames. But not a single one of the group reported the fire. Not even anonymously. Not a single one.’
There was nothing that could be said in response to that. Silently, she wondered what would have happened if Nora had informed the police as she had promised, if Liebscher had been less worried about his job, if Beil had been less worried about his marriage. If…
‘But Melanie,’ she said. ‘Why did she keep quiet? Was she so sure that Nora would get help? I mean, Nora didn’t even know about the fire.’
She thought back to the moment when she had let the photos fall, remembering Melanie’s horror.
‘She struggled out of Beil’s grip again because she couldn’t bear the screams from the cabin. She wanted to go back and warn the neighbours, but Beil and Estermann wouldn’t let her. That’s how Liebscher told it. Melanie was screaming like crazy, he said, and Estermann slapped her; then Beil was trying to persuade her to leave and practically carried her down the hill.’ With his bandaged hand, Sigart stroked the barrel of the gun. ‘I don’t know exactly what they did with her then. Presumably Beil told her they could never see each other again if she didn’t keep her mouth shut. And Estermann’s threats would have been a lot less subtle than that. But those are only my presumptions.’
Melanie, torn between her love for Beil and her con science. It was entirely possible that Estermann had turned up at that rehearsal for the Mozarteum summer concert, thought Beatrice.
‘Why did you cut Liebscher up into pieces?’ she whispered. ‘Surely not just because it was his cigarette?’
A brief laugh. ‘No. But you see – the others at least felt guilty enough to feel incapable of going caching any more. Or let’s call it a fear of being discovered. Either way, none of the others were still active when I compared the entries from the logbook with the profiles on the website. But Liebscher was. So because those cursed little containers were clearly so important to him, I thought it was only logical that he ended up in them.’
The arm with which Beatrice was holding the torch was slowly going numb. ‘And what about the parts that didn’t fit in the caches? Legs, arms, torso?’
Sigart’s lips were parted by something which was almost a smile. ‘Burnt,’ he murmured.
Of course. Every one of Sigart’s actions told the story they were rooted in; not a single decision had been made at random.
The torch in Beatrice’s hand trembled, painting loops of light in the forest. If he was finished telling his story, then it was now time for what he had referred to as ‘the end’. Straining her ears, she listened into the night. No engine sounds, no sirens. It seemed that the text message Sigart had sent from her phone hadn’t aroused Florin’s suspicions.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound confident. ‘I think I can just about follow the steps you took. But I don’t fit into the pattern. I wasn’t there that day, I had nothing to do with the case.’ Let me go were the unspoken words hanging in the air.
His silence gave her hope, but at the same time haunted her with fear. Was he contemplating sparing her? Before, in the cellar, he had told her she had a small chance of surviving. At least that means he’s not going to shoot me point blank in the head. Beatrice tried to drag her gaze away from the gun and look at Sigart instead.
When he finally spoke, it was in such a quiet voice that it was almost drowned out by the whisper of the trees. ‘Four years,’ he said. ‘That’s how long I asked myself whether I could have locked the cabin myself. By accident, because my thoughts were already with the pregnant mare. The fact that I wasn’t here at the decisive moment to tackle Estermann, that will haunt me as long as I live.’ He looked at Beatrice thoughtfully. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to ask yourself, for four long years, whether you set the trap that your wife and children burnt to death in with your own hands? Every single day, I tried to remember each movement I made from the moment I left the house to when I got into the car. Do you know what it’s like to never come to a clear conclusion? Sometimes the cabin door was open in my memory, other times it was closed, the keys were in my hand – or were they in my bag after all? Every day, endlessly. I could have spared myself all that if the police had just been more thorough in their investigations.’
Behind her, Sigart took a step closer. Beatrice expected to feel the barrel of the gun at her head or against her neck, but all she could feel was his breath. ‘I found the cache in the well. So why didn’t your colleagues? I questioned the suspects, uncovered the circumstances leading to the deaths of my wife and children – I did everything that should have been the police’s job.’
She couldn’t help but retort, even though she wasn’t sure if it was wise. ‘But by using methods that we would never employ.’
‘You have other ones, better ones. A whole infrastructure of technicians and labs, with all the equipment that money can buy.’ He placed his mutilated, bandaged hand on her shoulder, making her jump.
‘But I didn’t work on that case,’ she said, suddenly enraged with the injustice of the situation. ‘I had nothing to do with it!’
‘Correct. But there was a time when you felt just the same as me,’ whispered Sigart. ‘Your brother said you were so angry with the police that you swore at them down the phone and then eventually decided to take matters into your own hands. That’s why we’re here today. Because you can understand me.’
What did he want? Did he need an ally? A kindred spirit? She had to concentrate, had to make sense of what he had just said. ‘You’re right. I can understand that you want to speak to someone who lost a loved one in an equally brutal manner, and I’d be happy to talk to you about it.’
He laughed softly. ‘No, Beatrice, we’ve talked enough. Now we’re going to do something different.’
The barrel of the gun bored hard into her spine. Instinct was threatening to overpower her common sense; she needed all her willpower just to stop herself from running away. He would shoot her in the back just as he had warned, and she would have lost her chance. In despair, she looked over at the top of the hill; maybe Florin wasn’t coming with squad cars, but on foot, stealthily, just with Stefan, or two or three others?
But there were no shadows, no footsteps, and still no engine sounds.
‘It’s like a bet, you see? You’re relying on the skill of your colleagues, and I’m betting against them. I’m intrigued to see who will win.’ He pushed her, just a light shove with the gun, and she took a step forwards.
‘The police didn’t find the tin in the well – but fair enough, it was small and inconspicuous. You, on the other hand, Beatrice, are not.’
A further shove made it clear to her that she had understood the significance of his words correctly. ‘You want to—’
‘Hide a cache, that’s right. A big one in place of a small one. One that should be more worth your colleagues’ efforts than an old tin can with a key in it. Unfortunately though, this cache is a little less robust. So let’s hope the police are more resourceful this time.’