Snow White Must Die (36 page)

“Dad.” Tobias hugged his father. “I was at Nadia’s. The cops aren’t going to believe me. They’ll just lock me up again.”

Hartmut Sartorius nodded.

“I came to grab a few clothes. Nadia went to the funeral and will pick me up later.”

Only now did it occur to him that his father was at home on a weekday instead of being at work.

“They let me go.” Hartmut Sartorius shrugged. “Came up with some sort of flimsy argument. My boss is Dombrowski’s son-in-law, after all.”

Tobias understood. His throat tightened. Now he was also to blame for his father getting fired.

“I wanted to quit anyway,” said Hartmut Sartorius lightly. “I want to do real cooking again, not just thaw out frozen crap and shovel it onto plates.” Then he seemed to remember something. “A letter came for you today.”

He turned and went into the kitchen. Tobias followed. The letter had no return address. He would have liked to throw it in the trash unopened. Probably another vulgar insult. He sat down at the kitchen table, tore open the envelope, and unfolded the elegant cream-colored sheet of paper. Baffled, he looked at the letterhead of a Swiss bank before he started to read the handwritten text. The very first lines hit him like a fist in the stomach.

“Who’s it from?” asked his father. Outside a fire engine thundered past with blue lights flashing and the siren wailing, rattling all the windowpanes. Tobias swallowed. He looked up.

“From Lars,” he croaked. “From Lars Terlinden.”

*   *   *

The gate to the Terlinden property stood wide open. The acrid smell of smoke penetrated even through the closed car window. The fire department vehicles had driven across the lawn, leaving deep ruts in the marshy ground. It wasn’t the villa that was in flames, but a building farther back on the expansive grounds. Pia Kirchhoff left her car in the courtyard in front of the house and approached the site of the fire on foot along with Bodenstein. The thick smoke brought tears to their eyes. The fire department already seemed to have the fire under control. No more flames could be seen, only thick, dark clouds of smoke roiled out of the windows. Christine Terlinden was dressed all in black. Apparently she had been at the funeral or had been just about to drive there, when she noticed the fire. She watched the spectacle in shock, the muddle of fire hoses, the firemen trampling through the flowerbeds and destroying the lawns. Next to her stood her neighbor, Daniela Lauterbach. At the sight of the doctor Bodenstein involuntarily recalled his crazy dreams of the night before. She turned around as if she’d heard his thoughts, and walked over to him and Kirchhoff.

“Hello,” she said coolly and without a trace of a smile. Her normally shining, hazelnut-brown eyes today looked like frozen chocolate. “Was your visit with Thies productive?”

“No,” Pia replied. “What’s going on here? What’s the building that’s burning?”

“The orangerie. Thies’s studio. Christine is very worried about how Thies will react when he finds out that all his paintings have burned.”

“Unfortunately we have some more bad news for Mrs. Terlinden,” said Bodenstein.

Daniela Lauterbach raised one of her shapely eyebrows. “It can’t get much worse,” she said, her voice sharp. “I heard that you’re still holding Claudius. Why?”

For a moment Bodenstein was tempted to plead for her understanding in order to justify his actions. But Pia spoke first.

“We have our reasons,” she said. “Unfortunately we have to report to Mrs. Terlinden that her son has taken his own life.”

“What? Thies is dead?” Dr. Lauterbach looked at Pia. Was it relief that flickered briefly in her eyes before consternation spread across her face? How odd.

“No, not Thies,” said Pia. “Lars.”

Bodenstein let Pia do the talking. It irritated him that he was so eager for Daniela Lauterbach’s approval. Was it because of the sympathy that she had shown him? Had he read too much into her kindness because of his own emotional crisis? He couldn’t take his eyes off her face and wished absurdly that she would smile at him.

“He died from carbon monoxide poisoning, sitting in his car,” Pia said. “We found his body this morning.”

“Lars? Good God.”

As the doctor realized what terrible news was in store for her friend Christine, the ice in her eyes melted. She seemed suddenly helpless, but then she straightened her shoulders.

“I’ll tell her,” she said with determination. “It’s better that way. I’ll take care of her. Call me later.”

She turned and went over to her friend, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the burning building. Daniela Lauterbach put both arms around her friend’s shoulders and spoke softly to her. Christine Terlinden emitted a muted cry and swayed a bit, but Lauterbach held her tight.

“Let’s go,” said Pia. “They’ll manage.”

Bodenstein tore himself away from the sight of the two women and followed Pia back through the ravaged park. Just as they reached their car, a woman came walking toward them, but he couldn’t immediately place her.

“Hello, Mrs. Fröhlich,” Pia greeted Amelie’s stepmother. “How are you doing?”

“Not good,” the woman admitted. She was very pale but seemed composed. “I wanted to ask Mrs. Terlinden what happened here, since I saw her car. Is there any news? Did your colleague make any headway with those pictures?”

“What pictures?” asked Pia in surprise.

Bewildered, Barbara Fröhlich looked back and forth from Pia to Bodenstein.

“B-but your colleague visited me yesterday,” she stammered. “She … she said you had sent her. Because of the pictures that Thies gave Amelie.”

Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a quick look.

“We didn’t send anyone,” said Pia with a frown. This whole case was getting stranger and stranger.

“But the woman said…” Barbara Fröhlich began, and then stopped helplessly.

“Did you see the pictures?” Bodenstein asked.

“No … she looked through the whole room and found a concealed door behind the chest of drawers. And inside there really was a roll of pictures. Amelie must have hidden them there … But I didn’t see what was in the pictures. The woman took them with her, and even offered to give me a receipt.”

“What did she look like, our so-called colleague?” Pia asked. Barbara Fröhlich seemed to grasp that she had made a mistake. Her shoulders slumped forward and she leaned against the fender of the car, a fist pressed to her lips. Pia went over to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

“She … she had a police badge,” Amelie’s stepmother whispered, fighting back the tears. “She was … so understanding and friendly. She … she … said that the pictures would help you find Amelie, and that was all that was important to me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pia tried to console her. “Can you remember what the woman looked like?”

“Short dark hair. Glasses. Slim.” Barbara Fröhlich shrugged. In her eyes was naked fear. “Do you think Amelie is still alive?”

“I’m sure of it,” said Pia, though she had her doubts. “We’ll find her. Try not to worry.”

*   *   *

“Thies’s paintings show the real killer, I’m sure of it,” said Pia a little later to her boss as they drove in the direction of Neuenhain. “He gave them to Amelie for safekeeping, but Amelie made the mistake of telling somebody about the pictures.”

“Exactly.” Oliver nodded darkly. “Namely Tobias Sartorius. And he sent someone over to the Fröhlichs to get the pictures. He’s probably already destroyed them.”

“It wouldn’t matter to Tobias if he was in the pictures,” Pia countered. “He served his time. What else could happen to him? No, no, there has to be somebody else who has a vested interest in making sure those pictures never see the light of day.”

“And who would that be?”

Pia found it hard to put her suspicions into words. She realized that her first impression of Claudius Terlinden couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Thies’s father,” she said.

“Possibly,” Oliver agreed. “But it could also be somebody who isn’t even on the list, because we don’t know about him. You have to take the next left.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” Pia turned on the left turn signal, waited for traffic to clear, and turned into the street.

“To Hasse’s,” Oliver said. “He lives in the last house on the left side, up near the woods.”

Her boss hadn’t reacted when Pia told him earlier about Ostermann’s call, but he now seemed determined to get to the bottom of the matter. A moment later they pulled up in front of the cottage with a tiny front yard. They knew that Andreas Hasse was planning to have his mortgage paid off on the day he retired. He had mentioned it countless times, full of resentment over the rotten pay that public servants received. They got out and went to the front door. Oliver rang the bell. Hasse himself opened the door. He suddenly turned deathly pale and lowered his head in embarrassment. So Ostermann had scored a bull’s-eye with his hunch. Unbelievable.

“May we come in?” Oliver asked. They entered a dark hallway with a worn linoleum floor; the smell of food mixed with cigarette smoke hung in the air. The radio was on. Hasse shut the door to the kitchen. He didn’t waste any time trying to lie, but spilled everything out.

“A friend asked me for a favor,” he said uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Jeez, Andreas, are you nuts?” Pia was beside herself. “You took transcripts out of the files?”

“How was I to know that old crap would be of any importance?” he protested lamely. “I mean, it’s all ancient history, the whole case was closed long ago…” He stopped talking when he realized what he was saying.

“You know what that means,” Oliver said gravely. “I have to suspend you from the force and take disciplinary action against you. Where are the documents?”

Hasse made a helpless gesture. “I destroyed them.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” Pia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had he really thought nobody would notice?

“Pia, Sartorius killed two girls and tried to cast suspicion on everyone else—even his friends and his teacher. I knew that guy back then. I was on the investigative team from the very beginning! What an ice-cold bastard he was. And now he wants to fan the flames again and—”

“That’s not true at all!” Pia interrupted him. “I’m the one who began having doubts. Tobias Sartorius has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“What’s the name of your friend who asked you to do this dubious favor?” Oliver asked. Hasse hemmed and hawed a little.

“Gregor Lauterbach,” he finally admitted, hanging his head.

*   *   *

The Black Horse was jam-packed. The whole village had gathered there after the funeral. But over their coffee and sandwiches, people were talking less about Laura Wagner and more about the fire at the Terlinden place. Everyone was airing conjecture and speculation. Michael Dombrowski was the captain of the volunteer fire department and had led the operation. On the way back to the firehouse he had gotten off at the Black Horse, and the smell of smoke and fire still clung to his clothes and hair.

“The police think it was arson,” he told his friends Felix Pietsch and Jörg Richter as he joined them at a small table in the corner. “I have to ask myself why anyone would set fire to a garden hut.” Only now did he notice the oppressive mood of his pals. “What’s the matter with you guys?”

“We have to find Tobi,” said Jörg. “And end this whole thing once and for all.”

Felix nodded in agreement.

“What do you mean?” asked Michael, baffled.

“Don’t you see that it’s starting all over again? Just like before.” Jörg Richter put his half-eaten cheese sandwich back on the plate and shook his head in disgust. “I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Me neither,” Felix agreed with his friend. “We really have no choice about this.”

“Are you sure?” Michael looked uncomfortably from one to the other. “You know what that means. For every one of us.”

Felix and Jörg nodded. They were aware of the consequences of their plan.

“What does Nadia say?”

“We can’t take that into consideration anymore,” said Jörg, taking a deep breath. “We can’t wait any longer. Otherwise there might be another tragedy.”

“Better an end with terror than a terror without end,” Felix added in agreement.

“Shit.” Michael rubbed his face. “I can’t do it! I … I mean … it was all so long ago. Can’t we just let it be?”

Jörg stared at him. Then he shook his head.

“No, we can’t. Nadia just told me at the cemetery that Tobi is at home. I’m going over there and put an end to this.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Felix.

Michael still hesitated, desperately searching for a way to stay out of it. “I have to go check the fire site,” he finally said.

“You can do that later,” said Jörg. “This won’t take long. Come on, let’s go.”

*   *   *

Daniela Lauterbach had crossed her arms, staring at her husband with a mixture of disbelief and contempt. When she came home, he’d been sitting at the kitchen table, gray in the face and looking years older. Even before she could take off her jacket he had started talking—about anonymous threatening letters, about e-mails and photos. The words spilled out of him like a waterfall, bitter, desperate, full of self-pity and fear. Silently and with growing bewilderment she had listened to him without interrupting. His last plea had left her speechless. For a while there was complete silence in the big kitchen.

“What do you expect from me now?” she asked him coolly. “God knows I helped you more than enough back then.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” he replied dully. At these words rage overcame her, a hot, wild rage that had slumbered deep inside her all these years. What hadn’t she done for him? This spineless weakling, this phony who couldn’t do anything but act like a big shot and make beautiful speeches. As soon as he was in a tight spot, he came crawling to her, whimpering and clinging to her apron strings. She used to like it when he listened to her advice and asked for help whenever he was at his wits’ end. He had been her obedient sorcerer’s apprentice, her fountain of youth, her masterpiece. When they first met more than twenty years ago, she had instantly seen the talent in twenty-one-year-old Gregor. Back then she was already a successful physician, twenty years older than he was and well-situated thanks to a respectable inheritance. At first she had regarded him only as a diversion in bed, but then she decided to finance the education of the working-class boy, and turned him on to the worlds of art, culture, and politics. Through her contacts she got him a job as a high-school teacher and paved his way into politics. The position of cultural minister was the culmination of her efforts. But eleven years ago, after what happened, she’d wanted to throw him out. He wasn’t worth it. An ungrateful weakling who still didn’t appreciate all her work and investments even today.