Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(73)

“Everyone in the village treated Hartmut and Rita like lepers after that terrible tragedy,” Claudius Terlinden replied. “I don’t believe in blaming a whole family for the crimes of one member. Whatever their son may have done, there was nothing they could have done to prevent it.”

“But Tobias suspected you of having had something to do with the disappearance of both girls. That claim must have caused you a lot of trouble.”

Terlinden nodded. He stuck his hands in his pants pockets and tilted his head. It didn’t seem to adversely affect his self-confidence that Bodenstein was a head taller than he was, forcing him to look up at the detective.

“I didn’t hold that against Tobias. He was under tremendous pressure and simply wanted to defend himself by all available means. And it was true, as a matter of fact, that Laura had twice gotten me into extremely compromising situations. As the daughter of our housekeeper she was in the house often, and she imagined that she was in love with me.”

“What kind of situations?” Bodenstein asked.

“One time she climbed into my bed while I was in the bath,” replied Terlinden in an unemotional voice. “The second time she undressed in front of me in the living room. My wife was away, and Laura knew it. She told me straight out that she wanted to sleep with me.”

For some incomprehensible reason his words annoyed Pia. She avoided looking at him and instead looked at the furnishings in his office. The huge desk of massive wood with imposing carvings on the sides rested on four gigantic lion’s paws. Presumably it was very old and valuable, but Pia had seldom seen anything so ugly. Next to the desk stood an antique globe, and on the walls hung dark expressionistic paintings in simple dark frames, similar to those she had spied over Mrs. Terlinden’s shoulder in their home.

“So what happened?” Bodenstein inquired.

“When I declined, she broke into tears and ran off. Just at that moment my son came in.”

Pia cleared her throat. She had herself under control again.

“You often gave Amelie Fr?hlich a ride in your car,” she said. “She mentions it in her diary. She had the impression that you were deliberately waiting for her.”

“I didn’t wait for her,” Claudius Terlinden said with a smile, “but I did give her a ride a few times if I happened to see her on the road to the bus stop or walking up the hill from the village.”

His voice was calm and composed and gave no indication that he had a guilty conscience.

“You arranged the waitress job for her at the Black Horse. Why?”

“Amelie wanted to earn some money, and the proprietor of the Black Horse was looking for a waitress.” He shrugged. “I know everybody here in the village, and if I can help I do it gladly.”

Pia scrutinized the man. His searching gaze met hers, and she stood firm. She asked questions and he answered. At the same time something completely different was going on between them, but what was it? What was this strange magnestism that this man exerted over her? Was it his brown eyes? His pleasant, sonorous voice? The aura of calm self-confidence that surrounded him? No wonder he had impressed a young girl like Amelie, if he was able to cast his spell on a grown woman.

“When was the last time you saw Amelie?” Bodenstein asked.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Then do you know where you were on Saturday night? We are particularly interested in the hours between ten p.m. and two a.m.”

Claudius Terlinden took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. Across the back of his left hand was a nasty scratch that looked fresh.

“That evening I went to dinner with my wife in Frankfurt,” he said, after thinking a moment. “Because Christine had a bad headache, I dropped her off at the house first, then I drove over here and put her jewelry in the safe.”

“When did you get back from Frankfurt?”

“About ten thirty.”

“So you drove past the Black Horse twice,” Pia noted.

“Yes.” Terlinden looked at her with the concentration of a contestant on a quiz show when the host asks the decisive final question; he had answered Bodenstein’s questions almost nonchalantly. This attention was starting to irritate Pia, and now Oliver also seemed aware of it.

“And you didn’t notice anything unusual?” he asked. “Did you see anyone on the street? Someone out for a late-night walk, perhaps?”

“No, I didn’t notice anything,” Claudius Terlinden answered. “But I drive by there several times a day and don’t pay much attention to my surroundings.”

“Where did you get the scratch on your hand?” asked Pia.

Terlinden’s face darkened. He was no longer smiling. “I had an argument with my son.”

Thies—of course! Pia had almost forgotten what had led her here in the first place. Even Oliver seemed not to have thought about it again, but he smoothly adapted to the change in topic.

“Right,” he said. “Your wife just told us that your son Thies suffered some sort of attack last night.”

Claudius Terlinden hesitated briefly, then nodded.

“What sort of attack was it? Is he an epileptic?”

“No. Thies is autistic. He lives in his own world and feels threatened by any change in his normal surroundings. He reacts with autoaggressive behavior.” Terlinden sighed. “I’m afraid that Amelie’s disappearance was the catalyst for his attack.”