Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(75)

He claimed he had rejected Laura Wagner twice, when she had made explicit advances. Was that true? Pia clicked on the photos the search engine had found of him and studied the man who had aroused such strong feelings in her. Did his wife know that her husband was into young girls, and that’s why he dressed so youthfully? Had he done something to Amelie because she resisted his advances? Pia chewed on her lower lip. She simply didn’t want to believe it. Finally she logged off the Internet and entered his name in POLAS, the police computer search system. Nothing. He had no criminal record, had never been in trouble with the law. Suddenly her eyes fell on a link inserted at the lower right corner. She straightened up. On Sunday, November 16, 2008, at 1:15 A.M. someone had reported Claudius Terlinden to the police. Pia pulled up the file on her screen. Her heart began to pound as she read it.

“Well, what do you know,” she murmured.





Wednesday, November 19, 2008



The alarm clock rang as it did every morning at exactly six-thirty, but for the past few days he hadn’t really needed to set the alarm. Gregor Lauterbach had been awake for a long time. The fear of Daniela’s questions had made it impossible for him to go back to sleep. Lauterbach sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was soaked with sweat and felt like he’d spent the night on a torture rack. He dreaded facing the countless appointments scheduled for the day. How was he supposed to concentrate while in the back of his mind this threat kept ticking like an insidious time bomb? Yesterday another anonymous letter had arrived in the office mail, the contents even more distressing than the first one:



I wonder if your fingerprints could possibly still be identified on the tire iron that you tossed in the cesspool? The police will find out the truth and then you’re in for it!




Who knew these details? Who was writing him these letters? And why now, after eleven years? Gregor Lauterbach got up and dragged himself into the bathroom. Bracing his hands on the washbasin, he stared at his unshaven, bleary-eyed face in the mirror. Should he call in sick? Make himself scarce until the storm gathering on the horizon blew over? No, impossible. He had to keep living as he always did. Under no circumstances could he let his resolve waver. His career ambitions didn’t need to end with the position of cultural minister; politically he could still achieve a lot more if he didn’t let himself be intimidated by shadows from the past. He couldn’t permit a single mistake, which in any case happened eleven years ago, to destroy his life. Lauterbach straightened his shoulders and gave his mirror image a determined look. Because of his job, means and opportunities that he’d never dared dream of were now at his disposal. And he was going to use them.

* * *



It was still dark when Pia rang the bell at the closed gate of the Terlinden estate. Despite the early hour it didn’t take long before the voice of Mrs. Terlinden spoke from the intercom. In a moment the gate opened as if by magic. Pia got back into the passenger seat of the plainclothes police car; Oliver was at the wheel. Followed by a patrol car and a tow truck they drove over the still virgin snow covering the winding drive. Christine Terlinden awaited them with a friendly smile at the front door, which under the circumstances was as misplaced as the polite greeting that Pia offered. At least for Mr. Terlinden it was not going to be a good morning.

“We’d like to speak with your husband.”

“I’ve already told him you were coming. He’ll be down shortly. Please come in.”

Pia merely nodded, while Oliver said nothing. She had phoned him yesterday and then spent another half hour talking with the acting district attorney, who refused to give her an arrest warrant, but approved a search warrant for Terlinden’s car and filed an application with the court. Now they stood in the imposing entry hall and waited. The lady of the house had vanished, and somewhere in a distant wing the dogs were barking.

“Good morning!”

Bodenstein and Kirchhoff looked up as Claudius Terlinden came down the stairs from the upper floor, impeccably dressed in suit and tie. This time the sight of him left Pia cold.

“You’re certainly the early birds.” He stood smiling before them without offering his hand.

“Where did the dent in the fender of your Mercedes come from?” asked Pia without any preamble.

“Excuse me?” Astonished, he raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll have to refresh your memory.” Pia didn’t take her eyes off him. “On Sunday a resident of Feldstrasse reported a hit and run, because someone had bashed into his car the night before. He had parked it in front of his house at ten minutes to midnight and happened to be standing on his balcony at 12:33 a.m. smoking a cigarette when he heard a crash. He could see the car belonging to the person who caused the crash and even the license plate: MTK-T 801.”

Terlinden didn’t say a word. His smile had vanished. Crimson was climbing up his throat and spreading over his face.

“The next morning the man got a phone call.” Pia explained that she had met the man, and then continued mercilessly. “A call from you. You offered to settle the whole matter with no bureaucracy, and consequently the man withdrew his complaint. Unfortunately, it was not deleted from the police computer.”

Claudius Terlinden stared at Pia with a stony expression.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, making an effort to control himself.