Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(67)

* * *



The tall gate with the gilded spikes on top in front of the Terlinden estate was closed, and no one opened it even after she rang several times. But the tiny camera with the blinking red light followed every move she made. Pia shrugged, signaling the results of her efforts to her boss, who was still in the car talking on the phone. She had already tried in vain to speak with Claudius Terlinden at his company. He wasn’t in his office because of personal problems, his secretary had informed her with regret.

“Let’s head over to the Sartorius place.” Oliver started the engine and backed up a ways to make a U-turn. “Terlinden isn’t going anywhere.”

They drove past the rear entrance to the Sartorius farm, which was swarming with officers. The search warrant had been approved without difficulty. Kathrin Fachinger had called Pia late last night to let her know. But the real reason for the call was to report on how things had gone with Internal Affairs. The leniency that Behnke had previously enjoyed was now over; even Bodenstein’s attempt at an intervention wouldn’t have changed matters. Since Behnke had not obtained authorization for his second job, he now had to expect disciplinary action, a reprimand in his personal file, and most probably a demotion. In addition, Dr. Engel had bluntly told him to his face that she would have him immediately suspended if he ever behaved inappropriately toward Kathrin Fachinger or threatened her in any way. Pia would never have filed an official complaint against Behnke. Was that a sign of cowardice or of loyalty to others on the force? Quite frankly, she admired her younger female colleague for having the courage to report a male colleague to the supervisory board. All of them had obviously underestimated Kathrin.

The usually deserted parking area in front of the Golden Rooster was now full of police vehicles. On the sidewalk across the street curious onlookers had gathered despite the rain. Six or seven older people who had nothing better to do. Bodenstein and Kirchhoff got out of the car. Using a scrub brush, Hartmut Sartorius was busy removing new graffiti from the fa?ade of the former restaurant. A hopeless undertaking. ATTENTION, it said, HERE LIVES A KILLER OF GIRLS!

“You’re not going to get that off with soap,” Bodenstein told him. The man turned around. There were tears in his eyes. He was a picture of misery with his wet hair and soaked blue smock.

“Why won’t they leave us alone?” he asked in despair. “We were always good neighbors before. Our children played together. And now it’s nothing but hate!”

“Let’s go inside,” Pia suggested. “We’ll send over somebody to remove it.”

Sartorius dropped the scrub brush into the bucket. “Your people are turning everything in the place upside down.” His voice sounded accusatory. “The whole village has started talking again. What do you want with my son?”

“Is he home?”

“No.” He shrugged. “I don’t know where he went. I don’t know anything anymore.”

His gaze wandered past Kirchhoff and Bodenstein. All of a sudden, with a fury that surprised both of them, he grabbed the bucket and ran across the parking lot. Before their eyes he seemed to grow and became for a moment the man he once must have been.

“Get the hell out of here, you damned *s!” he roared, and tossed the bucketful of hot soap suds across the street at the people who had gathered there. “Piss off, why don’t you? Leave us alone!”

His voice cracked; he was about to attack the rubberneckers when Bodenstein managed to grab his arm. The spurt of angry energy vanished as fast as it had appeared. Sartorius collapsed like a hot-air balloon that has opened its parachute valve and released all the air.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. A shaky smile flitted across his face. “But I should have done that long ago.”

* * *



When the evidence techs had finished searching the house, Hartmut Sartorius closed the rear entrance of the former restaurant and led Kirchhoff and Bodenstein into the big, rustically furnished dining hall, in which everything looked like it had simply been shut down for the midday break. There were chairs on the tables, not a speck of dust on the floor, and menus bound in fake leather were stacked neatly next to the cash register. The bar had been polished to a high gloss, the draft beer dispenser gleamed, and the bar stools were neatly lined up. Pia looked around and shivered. Time seemed to have stood still inside this place.

“I’m here every day,” said Sartorius. “My parents and grandparents ran both the farm and the Golden Rooster. I just can’t bring myself to change anything.”

He brought the chairs from a round table near the bar and motioned Bodenstein and Kirchhoff to take a seat.

“Would you like something to drink? Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Bodenstein said with a smile. Sartorius busied himself behind the bar, taking cups from the cupboard, putting coffee beans in the machine. Familiar movements he’d done a thousand times, which gave him a sense of security. As he worked he kept up a lively account of the old days, when he did the butchering and cooking, and pressed his own cider.

“People used to come here from Frankfurt,” he said with unmistakable pride in his voice. “Just to have our cider. And you wouldn’t believe how many people would show up! Upstairs, in the big hall, there were parties every week. Earlier, when my parents were alive, there were movies and boxing matches and God knows what all. People back then didn’t have cars and didn’t go to a different town to eat.”