But only if he was that stupid. She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the IMEI she had noted down. She remembered something Florin had told her a few weeks ago when he had turned up in the office with a new phone. Just to be sure, she checked the information online too.
The first eight digits of the IMEI formed the TAC, the Type Approval Code, in which the third to eighth numbers were the decisive ones – denoting device brands and types. If you knew how to read them, that was. Which she definitely didn’t; she would need to consult an expert, or at least Stefan …
Following a flash of inspiration, she typed TAC end device analysis into Google and found a link promising to reveal the corresponding mobile model upon the code being entered. Beatrice typed in the first eight digits.
Bingo.
Manufacturer: Nokia Mobile Phones
Model: Nokia N8-00
TAC: 35698804
She felt her pulse start to race, but wasn’t yet sure why. The phone was a Nokia, which wasn’t uncommon by any stretch of the imagination. But in this context …
Rummaging through her papers, she found the notes from her first conversation with Konrad Papenberg, the day they had informed him about his wife’s murder.
There it was. Nokia N8.
I gave it to her for her birthday .
She stood up and turned the espresso machine on. But on remembering how much coffee she had drunk at the agency and how disgruntled her stomach had been, she turned it off again.
It could be a coincidence, but she doubted it. Gathering up her notes from the conversation with the provider, along with a printout of the online analysis page, she went off to Stefan’s office. ‘Could you find out who this mobile is registered to?’
He glanced at the papers, his finger wandering to the neatly circled IMSI code. ‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Thanks.’
At the door, she realised that her curt request had implied he had all the time in the world, but she left it at that. She was willing to bet anything that the name his research unearthed would be Nora Papenberg.
The evening sun painted stripes across the wooden floor of the balcony. Beatrice shunted the little round wooden table into the pink-tinged light and laid her Friday evening meal out on it: sushi from the Japanese restaurant two streets down. She opened the plastic container, inhaled the aroma of fresh fish and ginger and hoped that her appetite would finally kick in. But no such luck. The only dinner of interest to her was the agency one after which Nora had disappeared, running off into her murderer’s arms. The Owner, the master of the cryptic messages.
The most recent note, meticulously examined by Drasche, hadn’t offered up any new clues. ‘Not one single fingerprint, apart from yours of course,’ were his words. ‘We’re still investigating the ink type, but it seems to be from some bog-standard mass-produced biro.’
Drasche hadn’t been interested in how the very existence of the note told them a great deal about the Owner. That wasn’t his job.
When she had driven home that evening, Beatrice had parked her car a street further up from her apartment, looking around several times to check whether anyone was following her, or even just watching her. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but had double-locked the door behind her just in case.
She sighed, looked at the sushi box on the table and found herself thinking about beef carpaccio and Anneke, even though she’d never met her. Dinner for two by candlelight. She wondered whether she should put a candle on her balcony table.
But she deposited her rattling laptop on it instead and had another look through the photos of the agency dinner, cursing when soya sauce dripped down onto her grey marl jogging bottoms.
She concentrated on the pictures taken around the time of Nora Papenberg’s departure. The last one, which depicted a scene of carefree hilarity, was of Nora and Irene Grabner, their heads close together and tongues stuck out. Like a couple of
The first eight digits of the IMEI formed the TAC, the Type Approval Code, in which the third to eighth numbers were the decisive ones – denoting device brands and types. If you knew how to read them, that was. Which she definitely didn’t; she would need to consult an expert, or at least Stefan …
Following a flash of inspiration, she typed TAC end device analysis into Google and found a link promising to reveal the corresponding mobile model upon the code being entered. Beatrice typed in the first eight digits.
Bingo.
Manufacturer: Nokia Mobile Phones
Model: Nokia N8-00
TAC: 35698804
She felt her pulse start to race, but wasn’t yet sure why. The phone was a Nokia, which wasn’t uncommon by any stretch of the imagination. But in this context …
Rummaging through her papers, she found the notes from her first conversation with Konrad Papenberg, the day they had informed him about his wife’s murder.
There it was. Nokia N8.
I gave it to her for her birthday .
She stood up and turned the espresso machine on. But on remembering how much coffee she had drunk at the agency and how disgruntled her stomach had been, she turned it off again.
It could be a coincidence, but she doubted it. Gathering up her notes from the conversation with the provider, along with a printout of the online analysis page, she went off to Stefan’s office. ‘Could you find out who this mobile is registered to?’
He glanced at the papers, his finger wandering to the neatly circled IMSI code. ‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Thanks.’
At the door, she realised that her curt request had implied he had all the time in the world, but she left it at that. She was willing to bet anything that the name his research unearthed would be Nora Papenberg.
The evening sun painted stripes across the wooden floor of the balcony. Beatrice shunted the little round wooden table into the pink-tinged light and laid her Friday evening meal out on it: sushi from the Japanese restaurant two streets down. She opened the plastic container, inhaled the aroma of fresh fish and ginger and hoped that her appetite would finally kick in. But no such luck. The only dinner of interest to her was the agency one after which Nora had disappeared, running off into her murderer’s arms. The Owner, the master of the cryptic messages.
The most recent note, meticulously examined by Drasche, hadn’t offered up any new clues. ‘Not one single fingerprint, apart from yours of course,’ were his words. ‘We’re still investigating the ink type, but it seems to be from some bog-standard mass-produced biro.’
Drasche hadn’t been interested in how the very existence of the note told them a great deal about the Owner. That wasn’t his job.
When she had driven home that evening, Beatrice had parked her car a street further up from her apartment, looking around several times to check whether anyone was following her, or even just watching her. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but had double-locked the door behind her just in case.
She sighed, looked at the sushi box on the table and found herself thinking about beef carpaccio and Anneke, even though she’d never met her. Dinner for two by candlelight. She wondered whether she should put a candle on her balcony table.
But she deposited her rattling laptop on it instead and had another look through the photos of the agency dinner, cursing when soya sauce dripped down onto her grey marl jogging bottoms.
She concentrated on the pictures taken around the time of Nora Papenberg’s departure. The last one, which depicted a scene of carefree hilarity, was of Nora and Irene Grabner, their heads close together and tongues stuck out. Like a couple of
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