Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(71)

“What’s there to laugh about?” Oliver gave her an offended look.

“Please forgive me.” The tension that had been building inside her over the past few hours had given way to an almost hysterical laughing fit. “But somehow I thought your blood would be blue, not red.”

* * *



It was almost dark by the time Pia steered the rather dented but still drivable BMW through the gate of the Terlinden estate; this time it stood wide open. Fortunately Dr. Lauterbach just happened to be in her “branch office,” although normally she held consultations in her office in the old Altenhain courthouse on Wednesday afternoons. But she’d only stopped by to pick up a medical file for a visit to a patient when the accident occurred outside. She had quickly and expertly dressed the cut on Bodenstein’s head and advised him to lie down for the rest of the day, because there was the chance of a concussion. But he had staunchly refused. Pia, who had rapidly brought her outburst of levity under control, had an idea what was bothering her boss, although he hadn’t mentioned Cosima or his suspicions.

They were headed along the curving driveway, illuminated by low lamps, which led through a park with magnificent old trees, boxwood hedges, and flowerbeds bare in winter. Beyond a curve the house appeared out of the misty twilight. It was a big old villa in half-timbered style with oriels, towers, pointed gables, and invitingly lit windows. They drove into the inner courtyard and pulled up right in front of the three steps at the front door. Under the porch roof supported by massive wooden pillars an array of Halloween pumpkins grinned at them. Pia rang the doorbell, and at once a multivoiced barking arose inside the house. Through the old-fashioned milky glass panes of the front door she could dimly make out a whole pack of dogs jumping at the door; the highest jumper was a long-legged Jack Russell terrier, yapping like a maniac. A cold wind drove the fine rain, which was gradually changing to sharp little snow crystals, under the porch roof. Pia rang the bell again, and the barking of the dogs rose to an ear-splitting crescendo.

“I hope somebody hurries up,” she grumbled, putting up the collar of her jean jacket.

“Sooner or later someone will open the door.” Oliver leaned on the wooden railing and didn’t bat an eye. Pia gave him a sullen look. His stoic patience was making her blood boil. Finally footsteps approached, the dogs fell silent and vanished as if by magic. The front door was opened, and in the doorway appeared a girlish, delicate blonde dressed in a fur-edged vest over a turtleneck sweater, a knee-length checked skirt, and fashionable high-heeled boots. At first glance Pia took the woman to be in her mid-twenties. She had an ageless, smooth face and big blue baby-doll eyes, with which she scrutinized first Pia, then Oliver with polite reserve.

“Mrs. Terlinden?” Pia searched in the pocket of her down vest, then in her jean jacket underneath for her badge, while Bodenstein remained mute as a fish. The woman nodded. “My name is Pia Kirchhoff, and this is my colleague Oliver von Bodenstein. We’re from K-11 in Hofheim. Is your husband at home?”

“No, I’m sorry.” With a friendly smile Mrs. Terlinden offered her hand, which betrayed her real age. She must have passed fifty a few years ago, and her youthful attire suddenly seemed like a disguise. “Can I help you?”

She made no move to invite them inside. Through the open door Pia nonetheless caught a glimpse of the interior and saw a wide flight of stairs whose steps were covered with a Bordeaux-red carpet, an entry hall with a marble floor in a chessboard pattern, and dark framed oil paintings on high walls papered in saffron yellow.

“As you probably know, your neighbors’ daughter has been missing since Saturday night,” Pia began. “Yesterday the tracking dogs kept barking in the vicinity of your house, and we’ve asked ourselves why.”

“I’m not surprised. Amelie visits us often.” Mrs. Terlinden’s voice sounded like a bird chirping. Her eyes shifted from Pia to Oliver and back again. “She’s friends with our son Thies.”

With a gesture that seemed unconscious she reached up to smooth her hair, perfectly coiffed in a pageboy style. Then she glanced, a bit irritated, over at Bodenstein, who remained quiet in the background. The white bandage on his forehead glowed brightly in the dim light.

“Friends? Is Amelie your son’s girlfriend?”

“No, no, not at all. They just get along with each other,” Mrs. Terlinden replied guardedly. “Amelie doesn’t judge him or make him feel that he’s … different.”

Although Pia was steering the conversation, Mrs. Terlinden kept glancing over at Oliver, as if seeking his support. Pia knew this type of woman, this masterly rehearsed mixture of feminine helplessness and coquetry that awakened the protective instinct in almost every man. Few women were actually that weak; most of them had discovered over time this role was an effective method of manipulation.

“We would very much like to speak with your son,” she said. “Perhaps he can tell us something about Amelie.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Christine Terlinden pulled up the fur collar of her vest, again stroking her immaculate blond coiffure. “Thies is not well. Yesterday he had an attack, and we had to call the doctor.”

“What sort of attack?” Pia persisted. If Mrs. Terlinden was hoping that the police would be satisfied with vague hints, she now saw she was mistaken. Kirchhoff’s question seemed to annoy her.