‘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.