Snow White Must Die

by Nele Neuhaus

  “Well, what now? I mean … how … how…” Rosalie broke off. Helpless. All at once tears were running down her face. Oliver took his sobbing daughter in his arms, kissing her hair. He closed his eyes and sighed. How he longed to be able to let his own tears flow—to cry about Cosima, about himself and his life.

  “We’ll find a solution soon,” he murmured, stroking his daughter’s hair. “I have to digest it all first.”

  “But why did she do it?” Rosalie sobbed. “I don’t understand it!”

  They remained like that for quite a while, and then Oliver took her tear-stained face in his hands.

  “Go home, my dear,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. Your mother and I will get this all straightened out somehow, okay?”

  “But I can’t just leave you here alone, Papa. And … and soon it’ll be Christmas, and if you’re not there it won’t be a family celebration.” She sounded desperate and just like herself. Even when Rosalie was little she had felt responsible for everything that happened in her family and her circle of friends—and often took on more burdens than she could cope with.

  “It’s still a few weeks till Christmas. And I’m not alone,” he assured her. “Grandpa and Grandma are there, Quentin and Marie-Louise. It’s not so bad.”

  “But aren’t you sad?”

  He had no reply.

  “At the moment I have so much to do that I don’t have time to be sad,” he finally told her.

  “Really?” Her lips quivered. “I can’t stand the thought of you being sad and alone, Papa.”

  “Don’t worry. You can call me anytime or send me a text. But now you have to go to bed, and I do too. Tomorrow we’ll talk again, okay?”

  Rosalie nodded unhappily and pulled herself together. Then she gave him a wet kiss on the cheek, hugged him one more time, got in her car and turned on the engine. He stood in the parking area and watched her go, until the taillights of her car disappeared in the woods. With a sigh he turned to go inside. Knowing that his children would still love him, even if his marriage broke up, filled him with both relief and solace.

  Saturday, November 22, 2008

  She sat up with a start. Her heart was pounding loudly, and with wide eyes she looked around, but it was as pitch dark as ever. What had woken her up? Had she really heard a noise or only dreamed it? Amelie stared into the dark and listened tensely. Nothing. She had only imagined it. With a sigh she got up from the musty mattress, grabbed her ankles, and massaged her cold feet. Even though she kept telling herself that they would find her, that she would survive this nightmare, she had secretly given up hope. Whoever had locked her in here never intended to let her out again. Until now Amelie had been able to ward off the recurring panic attacks. But now she was beginning to lose her courage, and she often simply lay there waiting for death. So many times she had told her mother, I wish I was dead!—but now she truly comprehended what she had uttered so thoughtlessly. She regretted bitterly how she had treated her mother out of spite and indifference. If only she came out of this alive, she would do everything, absolutely everything, differently. And better. No more talking back, no more running away or being ungrateful.

  There had to be a happy ending. There always was. Most of the time, at least. She shuddered as she remembered all the newspaper stories and TV reports that did not have a happy ending. Dead girls buried in the woods, locked inside boxes, raped, tortured to death. Damn, damn, damn. She didn’t want to die, not in this shitty hole, in the dark, lonesome and alone. She wouldn’t starve very fast, but she could die of thirst. There was very little left to drink, so she was rationing the water to occasional sips.

  Suddenly she gave a start again. She heard noises. She wasn’t imagining it. Footsteps outside the door. They were coming closer and closer, then stopped. A key turned with a screech in the lock. Amelie wanted to stand up, but her body was stiff with cold and from the dampness that had crept into her bones after so many days and nights of dark imprisonment. A piercing light fell into the room, illuminating it for a few seconds and blinding her. Amelie blinked but couldn’t see anything. Then the door closed again, the key turned with another screech, and the footsteps went away. Disappointment clutched at her and held her tight. No fresh water! Suddenly she thought she heard breathing. Was somebody else in the room? The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her heart pounded like mad. Who was it? Was it a person? An animal? Fear threatened to choke off her breathing. She pressed her back against the damp wall.

  Finally she gathered her courage together and whispered hoarsely, “Who’s there?”

  “Amelie?”

  In disbelief she gasped for air. Her heart leapt for joy.

  “Thies?” she whispered, feeling her way along the wall. It wasn’t easy to keep her balance in the dark, although she had tried to memorize every square inch of the room. With outstretched arms she took two steps and flinched when she touched a warm body. She heard his excited breathing as she grasped his arm. Instead of retreating Thies grabbed her hand and held on tight.

  “Oh, Thies!” Suddenly Amelie could no longer hold back the tears. “What are you doing here? Oh Thies, Thies, I’m so happy! So happy!”

  She flung her arms around him and gave her tears free rein. Her knees felt weak, so great was her relief, finally, finally, not to be alone. Thies let her hug him. In fact, all at once she noticed that he was hugging her too. Cautiously and unpracticed. But then he pulled her close and rested his cheek on her hair. And all of a sudden she was no longer afraid.

  * * *

  Again the cell phone woke him. This time it was Pia, that merciless early riser, telling him at twenty past six that Thies Terlinden had escaped from the psychiatric ward during the night.

  “The doctor called me,” said Pia. “I’m here in the psych ward now, and I’ve spoken with the ward doctor and the night nurse. She looked in on him at eleven twenty-seven on her last round, and he was in bed asleep. When she looked the next time at five twelve, he was gone.”

  “What’s their explanation?” Bodenstein was having a hard time getting out of bed. He’d had three hours of sleep at most, and he felt like he could barely move. First Lorenz had called him just as he’d fallen sleep. Then Rosalie, and it took him a great deal of effort to talk her out of getting in her car and coming over to see him. With a suppressed moan he finally succeeded in hauling himself into a vertical position. This time he reached the light switch by the door without running into anything.

  “They can’t explain it. They searched the whole place and he wasn’t hiding anywhere. The door to his room was locked. It looks like he evaporated into thin air, the same as all the others. It’s enough to make me sick.”

  There was no sign of Lauterbach or Nadia von Bredow or Tobias Sartorius, despite a nationwide APB in print, radio, and TV.

  Bodenstein staggered into the bathroom, where during the night he had wisely turned up the heat and shut the window that had been open a crack. His face in the mirror was not a pleasant sight. As he listened to Pia talking, his thoughts kept churning. He had foolishly thought that Thies would be safe in the locked psych ward, but he should have known what danger he was in. He should have had a guard posted for Thies’s protection. This was Bodenstein’s second serious mistake in the past twenty-four hours. If things went on like this, he’d be the next one facing suspension. He said goodbye to Pia, pulled off his sweaty T-shirt and underpants and took a long shower. Time was running away from him. The whole case was threatening to slip out of his grasp. What did it all come down to, first and foremost? Where should he start? Nadia von Bredow and Gregor Lauterbach seemed to be the key figures in this tragedy. He had to find them.

  * * *

  Claudius Terlinden took the news of his son Lars’s suicide without a flicker of emotion. After four days and three nights in police custody, his relaxed charm had given way to stubborn silence. On Thursday his lawyer had already lodged a protest, but Ostermann managed to convince the judge there was a danger of possib
le obstruction of justice. They wouldn’t be able to detain him much longer unless there was conclusive evidence that he had no alibi for the time when Amelie disappeared.

  “The boy was always too soft, his whole life,” was Terlinden’s only comment. With an open shirt collar, a three-day growth of beard, and straggly hair he had about as much charisma as a scarecrow. In vain Pia tried to recall what had been so fascinating about him.

  “But you,” she said sarcastically. “You’re tough, right? You’re so tough that you don’t care about the consequences of all your lies and cover-ups. Lars committed suicide because he could no longer stand his guilty conscience. You stole ten years of Tobias Sartorius’s life, and you terrorized Thies to such an extent that he’s been looking after a dead girl for eleven years.”

  “I never terrorized Thies.” Claudius Terlinden looked at Pia for the first time this morning. In his bloodshot eyes there was suddenly a vigilant expression. “And what dead girl are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on!” Pia shook her head angrily. “Are you trying to make me believe you don’t know what was in the cellar under the orangerie in your garden?”

  “No, I don’t. I haven’t been down there in twenty years.”

  Pia pulled out a chair from the table and sat down across from Terlinden.

  “Yesterday in the cellar under Thies’s studio we found the mummified corpse of Stefanie Schneeberger.”

  “What?” Uncertainty flared in his eyes for the first time. His façade of iron self-control showed its first tiny cracks.

  “Thies saw who killed the two girls,” Pia went on without taking her eyes off Terlinden. “Somebody found out about it and threatened to have Thies put in a home if he ever said a word. I’m firmly convinced that you were the one who told him that.”

  He shook his head.

  “Last night Thies disappeared from the psychiatric ward after he told me what he’d seen eleven years ago.”

  “You’re lying,” Terlinden countered. “Thies never told you anything.”

  “That’s right. His eyewitness account was nonverbal. He painted pictures that show the sequence of events in more detail than photos.”

  Finally Claudius Terlinden showed some reaction. His eyes shifted back and forth, and his restlessly moving hands betrayed his nervousness. Pia rejoiced inside. Would this conversation finally bring the breakthrough they needed so urgently?

  “Where is Amelie Fröhlich?”

  “Who?”

  “Please! The reason you’re sitting here facing me is because the daughter of your neighbor and employee Arne Fröhlich has disappeared.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten for a moment. I don’t know where the girl is. What interest would I have in Amelie?”

  “Thies showed Amelie the mummy of Stefanie. He gave her the paintings that he made about the murders. Amelie was in the process of exposing all the dark secrets of Altenhain. And it’s obvious that you wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What dark secrets?” He managed a scornful laugh. “You really watch too many soap operas. Incidentally, you have to let me go soon. Unless you have some specific charge against me, which I find hard to believe.”

  Pia didn’t allow him to shake her. “Eleven years ago you advised your son Lars not to admit that he had anything to do with Laura Wagner’s death, even though it was probably an accident. We’re investigating at the moment whether that’s enough to extend the detention order.”

  “Because I wanted to protect my son?”

  “No. For obstruction of justice. For perjury. Take your pick.”

  “All that is ancient history.” Claudius Terlinden scrutinized Pia coolly. He was a tough nut to crack, and Pia’s confidence was fading.

  “Where were you and Gregor Lauterbach after you left the Ebony Club?”

  “That’s none of your business. We didn’t see the girl.”

  “Where were you? Why did you commit a hit-and-run?” Pia’s voice grew sharper. “Were you so sure that nobody would dare turn you in?”

  Claudius Terlinden didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to let himself be provoked into making a rash statement. Or was he perhaps really innocent? The evidence techs had been unable to find any trace of Amelie in his car. A hit-and-run accident was no grounds to hold the man any longer, and he was unfortunately right about the statute of limitations regarding the facts of the old case. Damn it.

  * * *

  Bodenstein drove along the now familiar main street, past Richter’s grocery store and the Golden Rooster, and at the kindergarten turned left onto Waldstrasse. The streetlights were on; it was one of those days when it never really got light. He was hoping to find Lauterbach at home on an early Saturday morning. Why had the cultural minister incited Hasse to destroy the old transcripts? What role had he played in September 1997? He stopped in front of Lauterbach’s house and saw to his dismay that, contrary to his orders, there were no patrol cars or even a plainclothes vehicle to be seen. Before he could telephone the station and voice his anger, the garage door opened and the backup lights of a car turned on. Bodenstein climbed out and walked over to the driveway. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Daniela Lauterbach behind the wheel of the dark-gray Mercedes. She stopped next to him and got out. He could see from her face that she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “Good morning. What brings you here so early?”

  “I wanted to ask you how Mrs. Terlinden is doing. I’ve been thinking about her all night.” It was a lie, but Daniela Lauterbach would surely take a sympathetic interest in her neighbor. He was right. Her brown eyes showed concern and the smile faded from her weary face.

  “She’s not doing well. Losing a son that way is beyond terrible. And then the fire in Thies’s studio and the corpse in the cellar of the orangerie—it was all too much for her.” She shook her head sadly. “I stayed with her until her sister arrived to help out.”

  “I really admire the way you support your friends and patients,” Bodenstein said. “People like you are rare.”

  His compliment seemed to please her. She smiled again, that warm, motherly smile that seemed to trigger an almost irresistible need in him to throw himself into her arms, seeking comfort.

  “Sometimes I care more about the fate of others than is good for me.” She sighed. “But I simply can’t hold back. When I see somebody suffering, I have to help.”

  Bodenstein shivered in the icy morning air. She noticed at once.

  “You’re cold. Let’s go in the house, if you have any more questions for me.”

  He followed her through the garage and upstairs into a big entry hall, a relic of the eighties in all its uselessness.

  “Is your husband home?” he asked in passing, looking around.

  “No.” For a fraction of a second she hesitated. “My husband is on a business trip.”

  If that was a lie, Bodenstein accepted it for the moment. Maybe she didn’t know the game her husband was playing.

  “I have to speak with him, urgently,” he said. “We found out that he had an affair with Stefanie Schneeberger eleven years ago.”

  The warm expression vanished abruptly from her face, and she turned away.

  “I know,” she admitted. “Gregor told me about it then, although not until after the girl disappeared.” It was obviously difficult for her to speak about her husband’s infidelity.

  “He worried that he’d been seen during his … bit of hanky-panky in Sartorius’s barn and the police might consider him a suspect.” There was bitterness in her voice and her gaze was somber. The betrayal still hurt, and it reminded Bodenstein of his own situation. Daniela Lauterbach may have forgiven her husband after eleven years, but she had definitely not forgotten the humiliation.

  “But why is that important now?” she asked in confusion.

  “Amelie Fröhlich was looking into those past events and must have found out about the affair. If your husband knew about it, he may have con
sidered Amelie a threat.”

  Daniela Lauterbach stared at Bodenstein in disbelief.

  “Surely you don’t suspect my husband of having anything to do with Amelie’s disappearance?”

  “No, he’s not a suspect,” Bodenstein assured her. “But we urgently need to talk to him. He did something that could have legal implications for him.”

  “May I ask what that might be?”

  “Your husband convinced one of my colleagues to remove the 1997 interview transcript from the official police records.”

  This news obviously gave her a shock. She turned pale.

  “No.” She shook her head resolutely. “No, I can’t believe that. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “That’s what I’d like to ask him. So, where can I find him? If he doesn’t get in touch with us immediately we’ll have to launch a search for him. And I’d rather save him that embarrassment, given his position.”

  Daniela Lauterbach nodded. She took a deep breath, keeping her emotions under control with iron self-control. When she looked at Bodenstein again, another emotion was visible in her eyes. Was it fear or rage—or both?

  “I’ll call him and let him know,” she said, trying with difficulty to lend her words a casual tone. “I’m sure there must be some kind of mistake.”

  “I think so too,” Bodenstein agreed with her. “But the sooner we get this matter cleared up, the better.”

  * * *

  It had been a long time since Tobias had slept so soundly and blissfully, without a single dream. He turned over on his back and sat up with a yawn. It took him a moment to realize where he was. Last night they had arrived here quite late. In spite of a heavy snowfall Nadia had exited the autobahn at Interlaken. Somewhere she had stopped, put chains on her car, and then drove on undaunted, up the steep switchback road, higher and higher. He was so tired and exhausted that he hardly noticed what the inside of the cabin looked like. He hadn’t been hungry either, just followed her up a ladder and got into the bed, which took up the entire area of the loft. His head barely touched the pillow before he was asleep. No doubt the deep sleep had done him good.