Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(19)

“My mother didn’t,” said Tobias Sartorius from the background. “But I do. Just about everybody in this damned town hates me.”

His voice sounded bitter.

“Do you have anyone particular in mind?” asked Kirchhoff.

“No,” Hartmut Sartorius replied quickly. “No, I don’t believe anyone would be capable of something so terrible.”

Pia’s gaze fell on Tobias Sartorius, who was still standing by the window. With the backlight she couldn’t really see his expression, but from the way his eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted she could tell that he disagreed with his father. Pia could almost feel the angry vibes that seemed to emanate from his tense body. In his eyes blazed a long-suppressed fury like a tiny, dangerous flame that was waiting for a reason to flare up into a brushfire. Tobias Sartorius was definitely a ticking time bomb. His father, on the other hand, seemed tired and powerless like a very old man. The condition of the house and the farm spoke for itself. The man’s zest for living was extinguished, and he had barricaded himself behind the ruins of his life. Being the parent of a murderer was always horrible. But it must have been even worse for Hartmut Sartorius and his ex-wife, living in a village as small as Altenhain, with each day bringing a new gauntlet to run. Mrs. Sartorius hadn’t been able to take it anymore. She had left her husband behind, although undoubtedly with a guilty conscience. She hadn’t succeeded in getting a new start; the loveless void of her apartment clearly demonstrated that.

Pia looked over at Tobias Sartorius. He was gnawing absentmindedly on the knuckle of his thumb, staring into space. What was he plotting behind that blank expression of his? Was he upset about what he had done to his parents? Bodenstein handed Hartmut Sartorius his card, which the man glanced at and then put in the pocket of his cardigan.

“Maybe you and your son should go see your ex-wife. She’s really not doing very well.”

“Of course. We’ll drive over to the hospital right away.”

“And if you have any idea who might have done this, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

Sartorius senior nodded, but his son didn’t react. Pia had a bad feeling. She hoped that Tobias Sartorius would not take it upon himself to search for the man who had attacked his mother.

* * *



Hartmut Sartorius drove his car into the garage. The visit with Rita had been dreadful. The doctor he spoke to refused to offer any sort of prognosis. She’d been lucky, he said, that her spinal column was virtually unscathed, but of the 206 bones in the human body about half of hers were broken. She had also suffered severe internal injuries when she fell onto the moving car. On the drive back home Tobias hadn’t uttered a word, merely stared glumly into space. When they walked through the gate and approached the house, Tobias stopped by the steps to the front door and turned up the collar of his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Hartmut asked his son.

“I’m just going to get some fresh air.”

“Now? It’s almost eleven thirty. And the rain is coming down in buckets. You’ll get soaked in this terrible weather.”

“For the past ten years I haven’t had any weather at all,” said Tobias. “It doesn’t bother me to get wet. And at this time of night at least nobody will notice me.”

Hartmut hesitated, but then he put his hand on his son’s arm.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Tobi. Promise me that.”

“Of course not. Don’t worry about me.” He gave a brief smile, even though he didn’t feel like smiling at all, and waited until his father went inside. With his head down he walked through the darkness, past the empty stables and the barn. The sight of his mother lying in the ICU with her bones crushed, attached to all those tubes and other apparatus, had hit him harder than he’d expected. Was this attack on her somehow related to his release from prison? If she died, which the doctors had not ruled out as a possibility, then whoever had pushed her off the bridge would have a murder on his conscience.

Tobias stopped when he reached the rear gate to the farm. It was closed, overgrown with ivy and weeds. It probably hadn’t been opened at all in recent years. Tomorrow morning he would start cleaning up. After ten years he had a tremendous longing to breathe fresh air and do his own work.

After only three weeks in the joint he could tell that he’d turn into a zombie if he didn’t make an effort to use his mind. His lawyer had informed him that he had no chance for early release; an appeal had been denied. So Tobias had begun taking correspondence courses from Hagen University, studying to become a locksmith. Every day he had worked for eight hours; after an hour for exercise, he sat up half the night over his books, in order to distract himself and make the monotony of the days more bearable. Over the years he had become accustomed to the strict regulations, and the sudden lack of structure to his life now seemed threatening to him. Not that he was homesick for the joint, but it was going to take a while before he got used to freedom again.

Tobias vaulted over the gate and stopped underneath the cherry laurel, which had become a huge tree. He turned left and walked past the driveway of the Terlinden estate. The double wrought-iron gate was closed; the camera on top of one of the gateposts was new. Right behind the house the woods began. After about fifty yards Tobias turned down the narrow footpath, called the Gouge by the locals, which wound through the village to the cemetery, past the rear gardens and backyards of the houses built so close together. He knew every angle, every set of steps, and every fence—nothing had changed. As a boy he and his pals had often run along this path, on the way to church, to play soccer, or to visit a friend.