Five Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Afterword

  Copyright

  About the Book

  EVERY CORPSE IS A CLUE

  N47° 46.605 E013° 21.718 A dismembered hand

  N47° 48.022 E013° 10.910 Two severed ears

  N47° 26.195 E013° 12.523 A mutilated corpse

  A woman is found murdered. Tattooed on her feet is a strange combination of numbers and letters.

  Map co-ordinates. The start of a sinister treasure hunt by a twisted killer.

  Detective Beatrice Kaspary must risk all she has to uncover the killer in a terrifying game of cat-and-mouse.

  THANKS FOR THE HUNT

  About the Author

  Ursula P. Archer was born in 1968, and worked as an editor at a publishing house. After the success of her first young adult novel, she now dedicates much of her time to writing fiction. She lives with her family in Vienna. Five is her first thriller for adults.

  Jamie Lee Searle’s recent and forthcoming translations include Andreas Maier’s Das Zimmer and co-translations, with Shaun Whiteside, of Frank Schätzing’s Limit and Floridh Ilies’ 1913, which was Radio 4 Book of the week. She co-founded the Emerging Translators Network in late 2010, and has been a member of the UK Translators Association Committee since late 2013.

  URSULA P. ARCHER

  FIVE

  TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

  Jamie Lee Searle

  Prologue

  The place where his left ear used to be was throbbing to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Fast and panicked. His breath came out in short, loud gasps. Nora was just a few steps away from him, leaning over the table where the pistol and knife lay. Her face was contorted, but she was no longer crying.

  ‘Please,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse. ‘Please don’t do it.’

  Now she let out a dry, strangled sob. ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘Why won’t you untie me? We still have a chance … please just untie me, okay? Okay?’

  She didn’t respond. Her right hand wavered shakily over the weapons, which gave off a dull gleam in the light of the naked bulb.

  His whole body convulsed with fear. He writhed around on the chair, twisting as far as the ropes would let him. They cut into his flesh, burning him, as unyielding as steel bands.

  But it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, it’s not my …

  He screwed his eyes tightly shut, only to open them again. He had to see what was happening. Nora’s hand was on the knife now.

  ‘No!’ he screamed, or at least he thought he did. ‘Help me! Why won’t anyone help me?’ But now, when he most needed it, his voice had abandoned him. It was gone, and soon everything would be gone, for all eternity. His breath, his pulse, his thoughts. Everything.

  Tears he was unable to wipe away blurred his sight of Nora, who was still standing there in front of the table. She gave a drawn-out wail, softer than a scream, louder than a groan. He blinked.

  She had picked up the pistol, her right hand quivering like an old lady’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He wrenched his body backwards and forwards in desperation, almost tipping the chair over. Then he felt the cool metal against his cheek and froze.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said.

  Her hand touched his head gently. He felt her fear, as great as his own. But she would carry on breathing, carry on talking, carry on living.

  ‘No,’ he whispered tonelessly, finding his voice again at last. He looked up at Nora, who was now standing right in front of him. He wished fervently that he had never heard her name.

  N47º 46.605 E013º 21.718

  The early morning mist enveloped her like a damp shroud. The dead woman was on her stomach, the grass beneath her soaked with dew and blood. The cows were taking care not to graze there, which was easy enough; the meadow was large, and the thing lying there in the shadow of the rock face unsettled them. A brown cow had ventured over shortly after sunrise, lowering her heavy head and licking the flaxen strands of hair with her rough tongue. But finding her discovery to be unpalatable, she had soon returned to the rest of the herd.

  They kept their distance. Most of them just lay there, chewing the cud and staring out at the river. But even the ones that were still grazing avoided straying too close. The scent of death made them uneasy. They much preferred to stay where the first beams of sunlight were pushing through the mist, etching bright patterns onto the meadow.

  The brown cow trotted across to drink from the trough. With every step, the clapper in her bell struck against the metal, producing a tinny sound. The rest of the herd didn’t even swivel their ears. They just stared stoically at the water, their lower jaws grinding constantly, their tails swishing to swat away the first flies of the day.

  A gentle gust of wind swept over the meadow, brushing the woman’s hair aside and exposing her face. Her small, upturned nose. The birthmark next to the right-hand corner of her mouth. Her lips, now far too pale. Only her forehead remained covered, where her hair and skin were matted with blood.

  The morning mist slowly frayed out to form isolated veils. These eventually wafted away, clearing the view of the meadow, the cattle, and the unwanted gift which had been left there for them. The brown cow’s muffled lowing greeted the new day.

  As always, Beatrice took the stairs two at a time. She skidded along the corridor, racing past the second door on the left. Just seven steps to go. Six. Reaching her office, she saw that no one was there but Florin. Thank God for that.

  ‘Has he been in yet?’ she asked, slinging her rucksack onto the revolving chair and her folder onto the desk.

  ‘Good morning to you too!’

  How did Florin always manage to stay so upbeat? She hurled her jacket towards the coat rack, missed and swore loudly.

  ‘Sit yourself down and catch your breath. I’ll get that.’ Florin stood, picked her jacket up from the floor and hung it carefully on one of the hooks.

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned her computer on and hurriedly emptied the contents of the folder onto her desk. ‘I would have been on time, but Jakob’s teacher caught me.’

  Florin went over to the espresso machine and started pressing buttons. She saw him nod. ‘What was it this time?’

  ‘He had a temper tantrum, and the class mascot caught the brunt of it.’

  ‘Oh. Was it a living thing, dare I ask?’

  ‘No. A cuddly toy owl called Elvira. But you wouldn’t believe what a huge drama it caused – at least ten children in the class were in floods of tears. I offered to send a crisis intervention team across, but the teacher wasn’t amused. Anyway, now I need to arrange a substitute Elvira before Friday.’

  ‘That sounds like quite a challenge.’

  He frothed the milk, pressed the button for double espresso and then crowned his work with a little dusting of cocoa. Florin’s calm demeanour was gradually starting to work its magic on Beatrice. As he put the steaming cup down in front of her, she realised she was smiling.

  He sat down at the opposite side of their desk and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘You look as though you didn’t get much sleep.’

  You can say that again. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she mumbled, staring intently at her coffee in the hope that Florin would be content with her brief response.

  ‘No nocturnal calls?’

  There certainly had been. One at half-past eleven, and another at three in the morning. The second had woken Mina, who hadn’t gone back to sleep again for an hour afterwards.
/>
  Beatrice shrugged. ‘He’ll give up eventually.’

  ‘You have to change your number, Bea, it’s been going on long enough. Don’t keep giving him the opportunity to wear you down. You are the police, for heaven’s sake! There are steps you can take.’

  The coffee was sublime. In the two years they had been working together, Florin had gradually perfected the ideal blend of coffee beans, milk and sugar. Beatrice leant back and closed her eyes for a few seconds, longing for just one moment of relaxation. However brief it might be.

  ‘If I change the number, he’ll be on my doorstep before I can count to ten. And he is their father, after all; he has a right to contact his children.’

  She heard Florin sigh. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘Hoffmann’s already been in.’

  Shit. ‘Really? So why isn’t my monitor covered in Post-its?’

  ‘I appeased him by saying you’d phoned and were on an outside call. He pulled a sour face, but didn’t say a word. The good news is that we’ll have some peace from him today because he’s in meetings.’

  That was more than good news, it was fantastic. Beatrice put her cup down, tried to relax her tensed shoulder muscles, and started to sort through the files on her desk. She would finally get a chance to work on her report about the stabbing; Hoffmann had been nagging her to do it for ages. She glanced over at Florin, who was staring intently at his monitor with an expression of utter confusion. A strand of his dark hair fell forwards, almost into his eyes. Clickclickclick. Beatrice’s gaze was drawn to his hand as it clasped the mouse. Strong, masculine hands: her old weakness.

  ‘Problem?’ she asked.

  ‘Unsolvable.’

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  A thoughtful crease formed between his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. The selection of antipasti is a serious matter.’

  She laughed. ‘Ah, I see. So when does Anneke arrive?’

  ‘In three days’ time. I think I’ll make vitello tonnato. Or maybe bruschetta? Damn it, I wish I knew whether she’s eating carbs at the moment.’

  Discussing menu planning wasn’t a good idea; Beatrice’s stomach immediately made itself heard. Quickly thinking back over what she had eaten so far today – an inventory which amounted to two biscuits – she decided she was perfectly entitled to feel hungry.

  ‘I’d vote for vitello tonnato,’ she said, ‘and a quick trip downstairs to the café.’

  ‘Already?’ He caught her gaze and smiled. ‘Okay then. I’ll just print this out and then—’

  The telephone rang, interrupting him. Once he answered the call, it was only a few seconds before his dark expression told Beatrice to forget about the tuna baguette she had been dreaming of.

  ‘We’ll be there right away.’ He hung up the phone and looked at her. ‘We’ve got a body, female, near Abtenau. It seems she fell from the rock face.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Sounds like a climbing accident.’

  Florin’s eyebrows knitted together, forming a dark beam over his eyes. ‘Hardly. Not unless she was climbing with her hands tied.’

  The corpse was a bright stain against the green, flanked by two uniformed policemen. A tall man, bare-chested under his dungarees, looked at them curiously. He was standing in the adjacent field, holding a small herd of cows in check. He raised his hand, as if wanting to wave at Beatrice and Florin, but then lowered it again.

  A rocky crag with an almost vertical twenty-metre drop towered over the meadow, jutting out in stark contrast to the idyllic landscape.

  The forensic investigators, Drasche and Ebner, had clearly arrived just a few minutes before them. They were already clad in their protective suits, busying themselves with their instruments, and only nodded briefly in greeting.

  A man was kneeling down right next to the pasture fence, filling out a form. He was using his doctor’s case as a makeshift desk. ‘Good morning,’ he said, without even looking up. ‘You’re from the Landeskriminalamt, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Florin Wenninger, and this is my colleague Beatrice Kaspary. Is there anything you can already tell us about the deceased?’

  The doctor pushed the top back onto his pen with a sigh. ‘Not much. Female, around thirty-five to forty years old. My guess would be that someone pushed her off the rock face last night. Cause of death probably head trauma or aortic rupture – the neck wasn’t broken in any case. You’ll need to ask the forensic pathologist for more detailed information.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  The doctor blew out his cheeks. ‘Between two and four in the morning, I’d say. But don’t hold me to that. All I’m supposed to do here is certify the death.’

  Drasche trudged over, carrying his forensics kit. ‘Did anyone here touch the body?’

  One of the policemen spoke up hesitantly. ‘The doctor. And me. But just to feel for a pulse. I looked for ID or a wallet too, but couldn’t find anything. We didn’t alter her position.’

  ‘Okay.’ Drasche beckoned to Ebner, who was poised with his camera at the ready. While the forensics team took photographs and collected samples, sealing them in small containers, Beatrice’s gaze rested on the dead woman. She tried to fade out everything else around her: her colleagues, the traffic noise from the main road, the chiming of the cowbells. Only the woman mattered.

  She was lying on her stomach, her head turned to the side. Her legs were bent out to the right, as though she had been paralysed mid-sprint. Her hands were behind her back, her wrists lashed together tightly with cable tie.

  Eyes closed, mouth half open, as if death had caught up with her while she was still speaking.

  Beatrice’s mind instinctively filled with images. The woman being dragged along through the darkness. The precipice. She struggles, digs her heels into the ground, pleads for her life, but her murderer grips her tightly, pushes her towards the edge, waits until she can feel the depths of the abyss beneath her. Then, just a light push in the back.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Florin’s hand touched her arm for a second.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m just going to talk to the others. I’m guessing you want to immerse yourself for a bit, right?’

  That’s what he called it. Immersing oneself. Beatrice nodded.

  ‘Don’t go too deep.’

  He walked over to the two officers and engaged them in conversation. She took a deep breath. It didn’t smell of death here, just cow dung and meadow flowers. She watched Drasche as he pulled a plastic bag around the woman’s hands. Ideally, she would have liked to climb over the fence to have a closer look at the body, but forensics wouldn’t take too kindly to that; Drasche in particular could get very touchy. Without taking her eyes off the dead woman, she walked in a small arc along the pasture fence, trying to find another vantage point. She focused her attention on the woman’s clothing: a bright-red silk jacket over a floral-patterned blouse. Expensive jeans. No shoes; the soles of her feet were dirty and speckled with blood, as if she had walked a long way barefoot. Amidst the dirt, there were dark flecks on each foot. Small, black marks. Or perhaps something else …

  Beatrice knelt down, squinting, but she couldn’t see clearly from this distance. ‘Hey, Gerd!’

  Drasche didn’t stop what he was doing for even the blink of an eye. ‘What?’

  ‘Could you take a look at the victim’s feet for me?’

  ‘Just a second.’ He fastened the transparent bag with adhesive tape before moving down to look at the lower end of the corpse.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘There’s something there, isn’t there? Characters of some kind, am I right?’

  Drasche gestured to Ebner, who snapped a series of close-ups of the feet.

  ‘Tell me!’ She lifted the barbed-wire fence and ducked underneath. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Looks like numbers. There’s a series of numbers on each foot. Could you please stay where you are?’

  Beatrice struggled against the temptation to go further forward. ‘Can I see the photos?’<
br />
  Drasche and Ebner exchanged a glance which betrayed both irritation and resignation.

  ‘Show her,’ said Drasche, clearly disgruntled. ‘It’s the only way she’ll leave us in peace.’

  Ebner put his camera onto viewing mode and held it out for Beatrice to see.

  Numbers. But not exclusively – the first character on the left foot looked like an N. Written in an unsteady hand, the oblique line tailed off in the middle before starting again. It reminded her of Mina’s handwriting back in kindergarten, the strokes leaning precariously against one another like the walls of a ramshackle old hut. The N was followed by a four, a seven and something that looked like either a zero or a lower-case o. Then another four, a six, another six, a zero and a five. Black, irregular strokes.

  She zoomed in. ‘Are they painted on? With a waterproof pen maybe?’

  She looked at the other foot. Again a letter first, then a series of numbers. An E with crooked horizontal lines, followed by a zero, a one, a three. Then another of the little circles. A brief gap, then five more numbers. Two, one, seven, one, eight.

  ‘No, they’re not painted on.’ Drasche’s voice sounded hoarse. ‘I’d say they were tattooed.’

  ‘What?’ She looked closer. Now that he’d said it, it suddenly seemed like the only plausible explanation. They were tattoos. But on such a sensitive part of the body, surely it was quite rare to have such a thing. So now the question was: did she already have them, or had they been inflicted on her by the killer?

  She wrote the number combinations down in her notebook.

  N47º 46 605

  E013º 21 718

  The pattern seemed familiar, but where from? It wasn’t anything connected to computing, nor were they telephone numbers. ‘I feel like I should know this,’ she murmured, more to herself than her colleagues.

  ‘You should indeed,’ said Drasche through his face mask. ‘And if you promise to leave me in peace, I’ll enlighten you.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘Those aren’t o’s, they’re degree symbols. Try putting the number combinations into your GPS. They’re coordinates.’