Snow White Must Die (34 page)

Behnke stared at him mutely, then went to his desk and grabbed his jacket hanging over the back of the chair.

“Leave your badge and service weapon here,” Bodenstein commanded.

Behnke unfastened his weapon and tossed it and his badge carelessly on the desk.

“All of you can kiss my ass,” he gasped, then squeezed past Bodenstein and left. For a moment there was complete silence.

“What did the interview with Terlinden turn up?” said Bodenstein to Fachinger, as if nothing had happened.

“He owns the Ebony Club in Frankfurt,” she replied. “As well as the Black Horse and the other restaurant that Andreas Jagielski manages.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I could get out of him. But I think that explains a few things.”

“You do? What?”

“Claudius Terlinden wouldn’t have had to support Hartmut Sartorius financially if he hadn’t personally destroyed the man’s livelihood by opening the Black Horse,” Fachinger replied. “In my opinion he is anything but a good Samaritan. First he ruined Sartorius, then he prevented him from losing the property and leaving Altenhain. I bet he has more people in the village under his thumb, like this Jagielski, who he put in charge of his restaurants. It reminds me a little of the mafia: He protects them, and in return they keep their mouths shut.”

Bodenstein looked at his youngest colleague and frowned in thought. Then he nodded.

“Well done,” he said. “Very good.”

*   *   *

Tobias jumped up from the couch as if electrocuted when the front door opened. Nadia came in. She had a plastic bag in one hand and was trying to get her coat off with the other.

“So?” Tobias helped her off with her coat and hung it in the wardrobe. “Did you find anything?” After waiting tensely for hours he could hardly contain his curiosity.

Nadia went into the kitchen, put the bag on the table, and sat down.

“Not a thing.” Tired, she shook her head, undid her ponytail, and ran her hand through her hair. “I searched the whole damn house. I’m beginning to think that Amelie made up these paintings.”

Tobias stared at her. He was deeply disappointed.

“But that can’t be!” he countered vehemently. “Why would she make up something like that?”

“No idea. Maybe she wanted to make herself seem important,” said Nadia with a shrug. She looked exhausted, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. The whole situation seemed to be making her equally discouraged.

“Let’s eat first,” she said, reaching for the bag. “I brought home some Chinese.”

Although Tobias hadn’t eaten all day, the appetizing aroma coming from the paper boxes didn’t tempt him. How could he think about eating? Amelie hadn’t made up the story with the paintings—she would never do that. She wasn’t the sort of girl who liked to show off. Nadia was totally wrong about that. He looked on silently as she opened one container, separated the chopsticks, and began to eat.

“The police are looking for me,” he said.

“I know that,” she said, her mouth full. “I’m doing everything I can to help you.”

Tobias bit his lip. Damn it, he really couldn’t blame Nadia for anything. But it was making him crazy to be consigned to doing nothing. Most of all he wanted to go out and look for Amelie on his own. But they would arrest him on the spot as soon as he set foot outside the door. There was nothing to do but be patient and trust Nadia.

*   *   *

Bodenstein parked across the street, turned off the engine, and remained sitting behind the wheel. From here he could watch Cosima through the brightly lit kitchen window busily moving about. He’d had another discussion with Dr. Engel because of Behnke. News of the incident had spread through the whole station like wildfire. Nicola Engel had approved the suspension of Behnke, but now Bodenstein had a serious problem on his hands. Not only Behnke, but Hasse was out too.

On the drive home Oliver had thought over how he should act toward Cosima. Silently pack his things and leave? No, he had to hear the truth from her lips. He felt no anger, only the utterly wretched feeling of boundless disappointment. After hesitating for several minutes, he got out and slowly crossed the rain-wet street. The house that he and Cosima had built together, in which he had lived for twenty happy years, in which he knew every nook and cranny, suddenly appeared foreign to him. Every evening he had been glad to come home. He had looked forward to seeing Cosima and the kids, to playing with the dog and doing the gardening in the summer, but now he dreaded opening the front door. How long had Cosima lain next to him in bed and longed secretly for another man? Someone else who would caress her and kiss her and make love to her? If only he hadn’t seen Cosima together with that guy today. But he had, and now everything inside him was screaming,
Why? Since when? How? Where?

He never would have believed that he would be in such a situation. His marriage was good, until … yes, until Sophia had come into the world. After that, Cosima changed. She had always been restless, but her expeditions in foreign lands had satisfied her longing for freedom and adventure so that she could tolerate daily life for the remaining months of the year. He had known that and accepted the traveling she did without complaint, although he’d always hated the long separations. After Sophia was born, hardly two years ago, Cosima had stayed at home. She had never let him sense that she was unhappy. But looking back he recognized the changes. Previously they had never argued, but now they often did. The fights were always over trivial things. They were quick to reproach each other and criticize individual quirks. Oliver stood with his key in his hand at the front door when suddenly and unexpectedly fury flared up inside him. For weeks she had concealed her pregnancy with Sophia from him.
She
had decided all by herself to have the child and present him with the fait accompli. In this instance she had to realize that having a baby with their gypsy lifestyle was out of the question, at least for a while.

He opened the door. The dog jumped out of his basket and greeted him effusively. When Cosima appeared in the kitchen doorway, Oliver’s heart sank.

“Hello.” She smiled. “You’re kind of late today. Did you already eat?”

There she stood, in the same celadon green cashmere sweater that she’d been wearing at the Ebony Club at lunch, and looking the same as usual.

“No,” he replied. “I’m not hungry.”

“Just in case, I have meatballs and a noodle salad in the fridge.”

She turned away, heading back to the kitchen.

“You weren’t in Mainz today,” he said. Cosima stopped and turned around. He didn’t want her to lie to him, so he kept talking before she could say anything. “I saw you at the Ebony Club at lunch. With Alexander Gavrilow. Please don’t try to deny it.”

She crossed her arms and looked at him. Silence. The dog felt the sudden tension and crept soundlessly back to his basket.

“In recent weeks you’ve almost never been in Mainz,” Oliver went on. “A few days ago I came out of the forensics lab and you happened to be driving right in front of me. I called you on your cell and saw you pick up the phone. And then you claimed you were in Mainz.”

He stopped talking. He still hoped in a corner of his heart that she would laugh and give him a completely innocent explanation. But she didn’t laugh or deny it. She just stood there with her arms crossed. Without a sign of guilty conscience.

“Please be honest with me, Cosima.” His voice sounded pathetic in his ears. “Are you … are you having … an affair with Gavrilow?”

“Yes,” she replied calmly.

His world collapsed, but Oliver managed to remain just as calm as Cosima.

“Why?” he asked, torturing himself.

“Oh, Oliver. What do you want me to say?”

“Preferably the truth.”

“I met him this summer by chance at an opening in Wiesbaden. He has an office in Frankfurt, was planning a new project, and was looking for sponsors. We talked on the phone a few times. He had an idea that I could do a film about his expedition. I knew you wouldn’t like it, so first I wanted to hear what sort of ideas he had in mind. That’s why I didn’t tell you that I met with him. And somehow it just … happened. I thought it was only a fling, but then…” She broke off, shaking her head.

Unbelievable. How could she meet another man and start an affair without him suspecting a thing? Was he too stupid, too trusting, or too self-involved? The lyrics of a song came to mind, a song that Rosalie in her worst phase of puberty had blasted constantly all over the house.
What does he have that I don’t have? Tell me the truth, what it is. Now it’s much too late, but what have you missed?
Such a dumb song—and now all of a sudden it contained so much truth. Oliver left Cosima standing there and went upstairs to the bedroom. In another minute he would have exploded, screamed in her face what he thought of adventurers like Gavrilow who started affairs with married mothers of small children. He had probably conducted his dalliances all over the world, that bastard! Oliver opened all of the clothes cabinets, yanked his suitcase down from one of the top shelves, and stuffed it with underwear, shirts, and ties, throwing in two suits on top. Then he went into the bathroom and packed his personal things in a toiletry bag. Ten minutes later he dragged the suitcase downstairs. Cosima was still standing in the same spot.

“Where are you going?” she asked softly.

“Away,” he said without looking at her. Then he opened the front door and stepped out into the night.

Friday, November 21, 2008

At a quarter past six Bodenstein was torn out of a deep sleep by the ringing of his cell phone. In a daze he groped for the light switch until he remembered that he wasn’t at home in his own bed. He had slept poorly and had crazy dreams. The mattress was too soft, the comforter too warm, so that he had alternated between sweating and freezing. His cell kept on ringing obstinately, stopped, and then began ringing again. Bodenstein rolled out of bed, felt around in the dark with no point of reference in the strange room and cursed when he stubbed his big toe on a table leg. Finally he found the light switch next to the door and then located his cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he had thrown over the chair last night.

A forest ranger had found a male corpse in a car at a forest parking lot below the Eichkopf mountain between Ruppertshain and Königstein. The evidence techs were already on their way. Could he drive out and stop by to take a brief look? Of course he would—what choice did he have? His face contorted in pain, he hobbled back to the bed and sat down on the edge. The events of the other day seemed like a bad dream. For almost an hour he had driven around until he almost by accident happened to pass the turnoff to his family’s estate. Neither his father nor mother had asked him any questions when he showed up at the front door shortly before midnight and asked to stay for the night. His mother had made up a bed for him in one of the guest rooms on the top floor but hadn’t pressed him for an explanation. She certainly must have seen from his face that he hadn’t dropped by for fun. He was grateful for her discretion. There was no way he could have talked about Cosima and that guy.

With a sigh he got up, fished out his toiletry bag from his suitcase, and went across the hall to the bathroom. It was tiny and ice cold and reminded him unpleasantly of his childhood and youth, which had been devoid of any luxury. His parents had scrimped where they could, because money was always tight. Over there in the castle, where he had grown up, in the winter months only two rooms were heated; all the other rooms were only “lukewarm,” as his mother used to call the barely 64-degree room temperature. Bodenstein sniffed at his T-shirt and wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t avoid taking a shower. He thought nostalgically of the heated floors in his house, of the soft towels smelling of fabric softener. He showered in record time, drying himself with a rough, tattered hand towel, and then shaved with trembling fingers in the pale fluorescent light of the mirrored cabinet. Downstairs in the kitchen he encountered his father, who was drinking coffee at the scratched wooden table and reading the
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.

“Good morning.” He looked up and gave his son a friendly nod. “Coffee for you too?”

“Good morning. Yes, please.” Bodenstein sat down. His father stood up, got a cup from the cupboard and poured his coffee. His father would never dream of asking him why he’d showed up in the middle of the night and slept in one of the guest rooms. His parents had always been frugal with words as well. And Oliver felt no desire to discuss his marital problems at a quarter to seven in the morning. So father and son drank their coffee in silent harmony. For as far back as he could remember they had always used the Meissen porcelain for all of their meals—out of thrift. The china service was a family heirloom, and there was no reason not to use it or to acquire a different set of dishes. It would have been of inestimable value except that almost every piece had been repaired multiple times over the years. Even Oliver’s coffee cup had a crack and the handle had been glued back on. Finally he got up, put his cup in the sink, and said thank you. His father nodded and turned again to his newspaper, which he had politely put aside.

“Take a house key with you,” he said in passing. “There’s one on a red key ring hanging on the board next to the door.”

“Thanks.” Oliver took the key. “See you later.”

His father obviously assumed that he would be back in the evening.

*   *   *

Headlights and flashing blue lights brightened the dark November morning as Bodenstein turned in at the forest parking lot directly beyond the Nepomuk curve. He parked his car next to the patrol car and set off down the path. The autumn smell of damp earth and decaying foliage penetrated his nostrils, and he recalled fragments of a Rainer Maria Rilke poem, one of the few he knew by heart.
Who is now alone will remain so for long, wandering restlessly among the avenues when the leaves are turning.
The feeling of loneliness pounced on him like a mad dog, and he had to force himself with all his might to go on, to do his job, although he would have preferred to creep away somewhere.