Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(63)

“We’d like to speak with your son, Mr. Sartorius,” said Bodenstein. “Please let us in.”

“Do you suspect him every time some girl comes home too late?” The words sounded gruff, almost aggressive.

“You’ve already heard?”

“Yes, of course. Word gets around quickly here.”

“Tobias is not a suspect.” Bodenstein remained quite calm because he could see how nervous Sartorius was. “But Amelie did call your home number thirteen times the night she disappeared.”

The door closed, the safety chain was unhooked, and Sartorius let them in. He straightened his shoulders and was obviously preparing himself for this visit by the authorities. His son, though, looked terrible. He sat slumped on the sofa in the living room; his face was disfigured by bruises and he nodded weakly to Bodenstein and Kirchhoff when they came in.

“Where were you on Saturday night between ten p.m. and early Sunday morning?” Bodenstein wanted to know.

“Come on now!” Sartorius exclaimed. “My son was home all evening. On Friday night he was attacked in the barn and beaten half to death!”

Bodenstein didn’t let himself be thrown off track. “On Saturday night at 10:11 p.m. Amelie called your number. The call was picked up, but it was so short that probably no words were exchanged. Before that she had already tried to call twelve times.”

“We have an answering machine that switches on immediately,” said Sartorius. “Because of all the anonymous and abusive calls we get.”

Pia looked at Tobias. He was staring into space and seemed not to be following the conversation at all. Surely he had some idea about what was brewing in the village.

“Why would Amelie have tried to call you?” she asked him directly. He shrugged.

“Mr. Sartorius,” she said insistently, “a girl from the neighborhood who had contact with you is missing. Whether you like it or not, people are going to link you to her disappearance. We just want to help you.”

“Oh right,” retorted Hartmut Sartorius bitterly. “That’s exactly what your colleagues said back then. We just want to help you, boy. All you have to do is tell us what you did with the girls! And then nobody believed my son. Now go. Tobias was here at home all Saturday night.”

“That’s enough, Papa,” Tobias finally said. He grimaced as he laboriously got to his feet. “I know you mean well.”

He looked at Kirchhoff. His eyes were red.

“I ran into Amelie on Saturday around noon. Up the hill by the woods. She wanted to tell me something urgently. Apparently she found out something about the old case. But then Nadia came by and Amelie left. That’s why she probably tried to call me later. I don’t have a cell phone, so she would have tried the house.”

Kirchhoff recalled her meeting with Nadia von Bredow last Saturday, and the silver Cayenne. It could be true.

“What did she tell you?” Bodenstein wanted to know.

“Unfortunately not very much,” Tobias replied. “She said there was someone who saw everything that happened. She mentioned Thies and some paintings. And Lauterbach was in them too.”

“Who?”

“Gregor Lauterbach.”

“The cultural minister?”

“Yes, precisely. He lives right behind Amelie’s father’s house. He used to be Laura and Stefanie’s teacher.”

“And yours too, wasn’t he?” Pia remembered the transcript she had read, the one that then disappeared from the folder.

“Yes,” Tobias confirmed with a nod. “He was my German teacher when I was a senior.”

“What did Amelie find out about him?”

“No idea. As I said, Nadia showed up, and Amelie wouldn’t say any more. All she said was that she’d tell me everything later.”

“What did you do after Amelie left?”

“Nadia and I talked for a while, then we drove here and sat in the kitchen for about half an hour. Until she had to leave to catch the plane to Hamburg.” Tobias grimaced and ran his hand through his uncombed hair. “Then I went to see a friend. We ended up drinking with some other friends. Quite a bit.”

He looked up. His expression was blank. “Unfortunately I can’t remember when or how I got home. I have a twenty-four-hour blank spot in my memory.”

Hartmut Sartorius shook his head in despair. He looked like he wanted to burst into tears. The buzz of Bodenstein’s cell, which he’d set on vibrate, sounded loud in the sudden silence. He took the call, listened, and said thanks. His eyes sought Kirchhoff’s.

“What time did your son come home, Mr. Sartorius?” he asked, turning to Tobias’s father. Sartorius hesitated.

“Tell him the truth, Papa.” Tobias’s voice sounded tired.

“About one thirty Sunday morning,” his father said at last. “Dr. Lauterbach, our doctor, drove him home. She found him as she was coming back from a late emergency call.”

“Where?”

“At the bus stop in front of the church.”

“Did you drive anywhere yesterday?” Bodenstein asked Tobias.

“No, I walked.”

“What are the names of your friends that you spent Saturday night with?” Pia pulled out her ballpoint and wrote down the names that Tobias mentioned.