Five (3 page)

‘Well, that’s not strictly true. Thanks to your discovery.’

‘Do you really think the coordinates are connected to her death? The tattoos could be old. We should wait for the pathologist’s report first.’

‘Definitely.’ He drank his espresso down in one gulp. ‘But I’m still going to put the numbers into my GPS all the same. You never know, we might find something useful.’

Outside, the skies were clouding over. They hurried back to the office, where they were greeted by a message from Hoffmann asking to be updated on the new case. While Florin went off to look for their boss, Beatrice turned her computer on and loaded the page with the missing persons announcements.

A fifty-five-year-old woman with short grey hair who had gone missing from the local psychiatric unit. No. An unemployed twenty-two-year-old who had made suicide threats. Another no.

The third entry unleashed that subtle but familiar tug inside her, like a divining rod quivering and latching onto its target.

Thirty-nine-year-old female, blonde, green eyes, 170 centimetres, slim. A dark brown birthmark above the right-hand corner of her mouth. Special features: none. So no tattoos then.

Name: Nora Papenberg

Place of residence: Salzburg, Nesselthaler Strasse
.

The woman had been reported missing four days ago by her husband. Beatrice only turned her attention to the photograph after reading the statement through in full. It was a snapshot, and not really suitable as a missing persons photo, because the Nora Papenberg in the picture had been captured whilst laughing gleefully. Her eyes were half shut, and she was holding a champagne glass in her right hand.

Mouth open, eyes shut. Exactly the same as in the meadow, and yet so completely different.

Beatrice made a mental note of the corresponding features: the rounded chin, the snub nose and the birthmark at the corner of the mouth. Their corpse had a name.

She told Florin as soon as he came back from talking to Hoffmann. ‘Nora Papenberg. I’ve already googled her. She was a copywriter in a small ad agency. There are some photos of her online, so we can be pretty certain it’s her.’ She passed a pile of printouts over to Florin’s side of the desk.

‘Right, let’s get cracking then.’ The vigour in his voice sounded false, and Beatrice knew why. Now came the hardest part of the job: informing the next of kin. Disbelief, tears, devastation.
That’s not possible, it’s not my husband, my wife, my child. There must be some mistake. There has to be
.

They got stuck in traffic even before they reached the Karolinen bridge. Stealing a glance at her watch, Beatrice realised she would never make it on time now. She pulled her phone from her bag and quickly dialled a number.

‘Mama?’

‘Bea! It’s so lovely to hear from you. Are you already done for the day?’

‘No, unfortunately that’s why I’m calling. We’ve got a new murder case, and …’

Her mother’s sigh echoed down the line. ‘And you want me to pick the children up from the childminder?’

‘Yes. Please. I’ll be as quick as I can, and you won’t need to cook anything, I’ll see to it when I get back.’

‘Frozen pizza, I know.’

Beatrice closed her eyes. As if her guilty conscience needed any more ammunition.

‘No. In actual fact I was planning to make a broccoli bake. That’s quick too.’

If broccoli bake didn’t win her mother around then nothing would.

‘Fine then. I’ll pick them up, but it would be nice if you could give me more notice next time. I do have other things to do, you know.’

‘Yes. I know. Thank you.’

They turned off into Aigner Strasse, where the traffic finally eased up. ‘You don’t have to tell him.’ Florin stared fixedly at the Audi in front of them. ‘I’ll handle that, okay? You just make notes. Unless I overlook something important, then speak up.’

She could have hugged him. He was voluntarily drawing the losing card. The way she sometimes did with the children, just for the pleasure of seeing them hop around giggling, overjoyed to have beaten her.

Did Nora Papenberg have children? As Florin parked the car opposite the house, Beatrice scanned the garden for telltale signs. No sandpit, no children’s bikes, no trampoline. Just one of those Japanese Zen gardens with patterns raked in the sand.

‘We’re too early. He won’t even be home yet,’ said Florin as he turned the engine off.

They got out and rang the bell anyway. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a man wearing jeans and a checked jacket over a dark green polo shirt.

‘Are you Konrad Papenberg?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re from the police.’

Beatrice saw the man flinch, saw how he searched their faces in vain for the trace of a smile, for a sign of the all-clear. Then she saw the realisation dawn.

‘My wife?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid we have bad news, Herr Papenberg.’

‘Come in, please.’ He held the door open for them, turning his ashen face to the side. Most people looked away at that moment, when nothing of finality had yet been said. It was about maintaining that state for as long as possible, drawing out these last seconds of merciful ignorance. He gestured for them to sit down on the sofa, then jumped up again and brought them water from the kitchen, unbidden. The glasses shook so violently in his hands that he spilt half of their contents.

Florin waited until he had sat down and was looking at them. ‘We have every reason to believe that we’ve found your wife. She was discovered this morning in a field near Abtenau.’

‘What do you mean, every reason to believe?’ His voice was surprisingly steady.

‘It means that we’ve identified her based on the missing persons photo. She didn’t have any ID with her.’

‘But she always has it on her … in her handbag.’ The man swallowed, kneading the fingers of his left hand.

Beatrice made a note:
Bag missing
.

‘You will of course have the opportunity to identify her personally if you feel able to,’ Florin continued gently. ‘I’m very sorry.’

Papenberg didn’t reply. He fixed his gaze on a spot on the coffee table, moving his lips wordlessly, shaking his head in brief, abrupt motions.

In ninety per cent of cases, the husbands are the murderers
. That was Hoffmann’s rule – and it was fairly accurate. But this man’s reaction was so faint. He didn’t yet believe it.

‘What – I mean, how … how did she …’

‘At the moment we have to assume that she was murdered.’

He breathed in shakily. ‘No.’ Tears filled the man’s eyes and he covered his face with his hands. They paused to give him time. Beatrice handed him a tissue, which he noticed only after a few seconds and took hesitantly.

‘You last saw your wife on Friday, is that right?’ asked Florin.

Papenberg nodded. ‘She went to a work dinner in the evening, by car. She arrived without any problems, but left early, at half-ten. I spoke to her colleagues; they said she told them she was coming home, that she had a headache.’

He glanced at Beatrice, looking strangely hopeful, as if she could create some equation from her notes, something that would give everything some sense. ‘Her colleague Rosa said that she received a call shortly before she left.’

That was important. ‘We’ll certainly be speaking to your wife’s colleagues,’ said Beatrice. ‘We didn’t find a mobile on her though. Do you know which model she had?’

‘A Nokia N8. I gave it to her … for her birthday.’ His voice broke. His upper body doubled over, shaking with suppressed sobs.

They waited patiently for him to gather his composure.

‘Could you please give me your wife’s mobile number? We’ll check to see who she spoke to.’

Konrad Papenberg nodded weakly and pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. He opened his contacts and let Beatrice write the number down. ‘I phoned her at least thirty times that night.’ His words were hard to make out, his voice bloated with grief. ‘But she must have turned it off, it just kept going straight to answerphone.’

‘When you reported your wife missing, you said she had her car with her. Is that correct?’

He nodded without looking up, scrunching the tissue in his hand.

‘A red Honda Civic?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s one more thing we need to know, Herr Papenberg.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did – does your wife have any distinguishing features?’

He looked up. ‘Like what?’

‘Scars, any obvious birthmarks, tattoos?’

His trembling hand moved up to his face and pointed to the right-hand side, just above his mouth. ‘She has a birthmark here. It’s her beauty mark.’

‘Okay.’ Florin cleared his throat. ‘Nothing else? No tattoos?’

‘No. She always thought they were tasteless.’ A spark of hope smouldered in his eyes. ‘Maybe it isn’t Nora after all?’

Beatrice and Florin exchanged a glance.

‘I’m afraid there isn’t any doubt,’ said Beatrice softly. ‘And not just because of the birthmark.’

That was enough for now. ‘We won’t disturb you any further. Can we call anyone for you so you’re not alone? If you like we can arrange for someone from the counselling team to come and see you.’

‘My brother.’ Papenberg’s voice sounded strangled. ‘I’ll ring my brother.’

While he went to make the call, they left the room and waited in the hallway. There were some framed photos on a dresser: Nora Papenberg immortalised in all manner of situations. In a summer dress on the beach, looking tanned. In hiking gear in front of a summit cross on a mountain. Building a snowman with a group of friends while clad in a quilted jacket and bobble hat. In every single one, she was laughing and full of life, but unmistakably the same woman whose corpse they had seen that very morning.

‘There were five days between her disappearance and the presumed time of death,’ Beatrice pondered out loud. ‘That’s a long time.’

‘It certainly is. Which suggests she was held captive before her death. What are your thoughts on the husband? My hunch is that he’s being genuine.’

‘I agree.’

‘But we’ll still have to look into it.’

‘Of course.’

The door to the living room opened. Papenberg came out, his eyes red and swollen. ‘My brother will be here in twenty minutes. If you don’t have any more questions …’

‘Of course. We’ll leave you alone now.’ They were already by the door before Beatrice realised that she was still holding the snowman photo in her hand. She felt her cheeks go red, and was just about to put it back on the dresser when Papenberg took it from her hand.

‘That was such a great day. Ice cold and clear. Nora said the snow was like icing sugar,’ he whispered. ‘She loves the snow so much, and nature, everything about it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Beatrice, simultaneously loathing herself for uttering the worn-out phrase. But the man wasn’t even aware of their presence any more. He nodded absentmindedly. His steadfast gaze was fixed on his wife’s face as she stood there amidst the blinding white, laughing for all eternity.

‘That’s a bunny rabbit, see? And this is an angel, it just drilled a hole in the cloud and that’s why it’s raining.’ Jakob held the drawing so close to the pan of broccoli that the paper started to buckle from the steam. Beatrice gently herded him over towards the fridge, where she pinned the picture up with two magnets. ‘It’s wonderful. Did you draw it at school?’

‘Yes. Frau Sieber gave me a star for it,’ he beamed. Beatrice squatted down to hug him. At least one of them had ended up having a good day. ‘And Mama, look.’ He wriggled out of her arms and poked two fingers into his mouth. A wobbly tooth.

‘Great!’ she marvelled, before hearing a hissing sound behind her. Boiling water was sloshing over onto the hob and from there down to the floor. Beatrice cursed inwardly, pulling the pan aside and turning down the heat.

‘Go and play with Mina for a little while longer, okay? I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.’

‘But Mina doesn’t want to play with me,’ moaned Jakob. ‘She always says I’m a baby and that I don’t know anything about anything.’ Nonetheless, he trudged obediently back to the children’s room, making loud engine noises as he went.

Beatrice wiped up the mess on the hob and floor, then diced the ham, peeled the potatoes and – once the bake was finally in the oven – sank down, exhausted, onto a kitchen chair. In front of her on the table lay a letter from Schubert and Kirchner, Achim’s lawyers. She threw the letter unopened onto her hated ‘To do’ pile and pulled out her notebook.

Ad agency: Who was at the party? Did anyone else leave at the same time as Nora Papenberg?

Phone call. How soon after it did Papenberg leave? What exactly did she say? Is it possible that she went to meet someone?

Find out caller’s number
.

Where’s her car?

Five days before the murder – why so long???

She flicked back through her notes to the ones she had made right after leaving the crime scene.

Killing method – Why would someone choose to push their victim from a rock face?

She read through the farmer’s statement again – he hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t seen anything, the same as always. Above it, she had scribbled the coordinates. Beatrice closed her eyes and summoned the image again – the victim’s feet lying sideways as if mid-stride, the digits lined up on the soles. The tattoos hadn’t been done by a professional, that much was clear. They had been done by an amateur. By the killer. Or the victim? Hearing the timer start to peep, she opened her eyes again. Time for dinner.

‘Are we going to Papa’s again this weekend?’ asked Mina, dissecting a broccoli floret into microscopic pieces.

‘Yes, that’s the plan. Why? Don’t you want to go?’

‘No, I do.’ A tiny green fragment had clearly found favour, and was being transported into her mouth on the fork. ‘He said he might be getting me a cat. If it lives with Papa, can I stay there more often?’

Beatrice almost choked. ‘We’ll discuss that when the time comes.’
A cat!

‘Me too, Mama, me too!’ mumbled Jakob, his mouth full.