‘You can say that again.’ Stefan pointed a pencil at the four letters the note was signed off with: TFTH.
‘What does that stand for? Are they elaborate initials of some kind?’ asked Florin. ‘Theodor Friedrich Thomas Heinrich? No, wait, I get it, it must be another puzzle.’
‘Not this time, it’s just the usual abbreviation. He’s thanking you. “TFTH” stands for “Thanks for the hunt”. You’re right, he does have an odd sense of humour.’
‘Or she.’ Beatrice clicked on one of the other photos: the note, written in what seemed to be a woman’s handwriting, sending them off on another hunt. ‘Does that mean anything to you? Stage two – what does that mean? The second level?’
‘It’s the next stage of the treasure hunt.’ Stefan reached for the mouse and enlarged the picture. ‘What we have here seems to be a multi-cache. That means there are several stages. You find Stage One, which gives you the clues for Stage Two, which in turn provides the clues for Stage Three, and so on and so forth, until you get to the final destination. Normally you find the container only at the very end.’
‘We can probably say goodbye to any concept of “normal” in this case,’ remarked Florin. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’
‘It’s not just a multi-cache,’ said Stefan, after thinking for a moment. ‘For that you would only need to count something – steps, trees, gravestones – in order to get the next coordinates. But here you have to solve a puzzle too. That makes it a mystery cache.’
Beatrice made a note: Mystery cache. ‘Thank you, Stefan. You’ve helped us a great deal. TFTH. Thanks for the help.’
But Stefan didn’t want to go just yet. ‘Can you tell me more about the case? How did you find the container? Oh, hang on, it’s connected with the woman from yesterday, right? The corpse in the cattle pasture?’ He gave Beatrice and Florin an earnest look. ‘Couldn’t you make use of an extra pair of hands for the investigation?’
‘I’ll speak with Hoffmann. If he agrees to give us more people, you’ll certainly be our first choice.’
Stefan seemed content with that. He set off back to his office, the pile of papers tucked under his arm.
Beatrice snapped the lid off a neon yellow highlighter and began to structure her notes.
‘Stop me if I’m talking nonsense, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to look for someone from the caching scene? It’s quite obvious that our man – or woman – knows their stuff here. Or would it be better to solve the coordinates for Stage Two first? If Stefan is right, it sounds like – after Stage Eight or Thirty-three or Ninety-two – it’ll eventually lead us to what we’re looking for.’
‘The murderer, you mean?’ Florin scratched himself behind the ear. ‘Do you really think he’ll offer himself up as the prize for us so enthusiastically and eagerly solving the puzzle?’
Beatrice looked at the photo of the hand again. ‘It’s probably just wishful thinking,’ she said. ‘But the way he’s been acting so far, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched an idea.’
The forensic test results from their find came back the next morning, even before Nora Papenberg’s autopsy report.
‘Say goodbye to any hopes about the amputation having been done in a hospital,’ said Florin, his expression grim as he scanned through the report. ‘The hand was cut off with a wood saw, post-mortem thankfully, and must have been shrink-wrapped straight afterwards. Traces of wood shavings were found in the wound.’ He put the report down and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is pretty messed up, don’t you think? Particularly considering no mutilated corpse has turned up anywhere.’
Not yet. But it soon would, and then they’d have not one murder case to contend with, but two. Unless the perpetrator had hacked up someone who had met their end through natural causes.
The perpetrator. The Owner.
‘Let’s start the search for the next stage then,’ she said.
Two copies of the photographed handwritten note were just gliding out of the printer when Hoffmann came storming into the office – without knocking, as usual.
‘Kaspary, what an unfamiliar sight. You’re actually at your desk during office hours!’
‘Good morning,’ said Beatrice. ‘I missed you too, sir.’
‘So what’s happening with those reports? I’ve been told you offloaded them onto young Gerlach without discussing it with me.’
‘I did indeed. You weren’t around to consult, unfortunately. Stefan very helpfully offered to take on the typing for me.’
The corners of Hoffmann’s mouth, which were droopy even at the best of times, sank even further down his face. ‘Well, you always were good at delegating unwanted tasks, weren’t you, Kaspary?’
Beatrice decided not to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she stood up and fetched the pages from the printer. The photo quality wasn’t great on normal printer paper, but it would have to do for now.
‘The press are breathing down my neck about the murder, as I’m sure you can imagine. So I hope you’re going to have some results for me soon. I’m relying on you, Florian!’ He ran his hand through his thinning, dirty-yellow hair and trudged out of the room.
‘Just wait, soon you’ll be on first-name terms,’ said Beatrice with a smirk. ‘He seems to have a real soft spot for you.’
‘I can’t believe he called me Florian!’
‘Well, the boss is too busy for minor details like that. It’s only an extra “a”. Don’t be such a girl, Wenninger!’
Don’t be such a girl was one of Hoffmann’s favourite catchphrases. Beatrice secretly suspected that his aversion to her was based on precisely that: that she was a girl, and what’s more – making it even worse – one who spoke her mind.
She handed Florin one of the printouts. On her copy, she underlined Christoph, birthmark, Salzburg choir and Mass in A flat with her yellow marker.
‘That’s all we have to go on, right?’
‘Well, it’s something at least. Although practically every choir sings Schubert’s Mass in A flat.’ A few clicks of the mouse, and he was on YouTube. Operatic tones resounded out from the computer’s tinny-sounding loudspeakers.
‘Good grief. Yep, that’s clearly a hit,’ sighed Beatrice.
Half an hour later, Florin slumped back in his chair and sighed. ‘From the looks of it, pretty much every Salzburg resident is in a choir,’ he said. ‘There are more choirs than there are churches. I reckon we’ll easily find fifteen Christophs, and for every one of those we’ll need to inspect the back of his left hand and check his year of birth.’ He pressed a tablet out of the blister pack that lay next to his desk lamp, swallowing it down with a gulp of orange juice. ‘These are the kind of things that make being a policeman so much fun.’
‘Headache?’
‘A little. It must have been Hoffmann’s voice – I can’t cope with the frequency.’
‘Either that or you’ve been hunched over your desk again.’ She stood up, went over to him and started to massage his neck muscles. She felt his surprise as he tensed up for a few seconds, but then he relaxed.
‘We’ll have to speak to the choirmasters, one after the other,’ she murmured. ‘By phone.’
‘The Owner wrote that this Christoph guy was in the choir more than five years ago. I would take that to mean he isn’t there any more. A bit to the left, please – yes, right there, that’s perfect. Thanks.’ He sighed.
Smiling, Beatrice pressed the balls of her thumbs into the knots between his neck and shoulders. ‘So we’ll ask them about former Christophs, too. And about a Schubert Mass that was rehearsed over five years ago.’