by Nele Neuhaus
“Please forgive me,” he said softly, reaching out his arms. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. Come here.”
She leaned against him, snuggling her face against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“Maybe you’re right,” he whispered into her hair. “We can’t turn back time.”
She raised her head and looked at him. There was deep anxiety in her eyes. “I’m afraid for you, Tobi.” Her voice quavered a little. “I don’t want to lose you again, now that I finally have you back.”
Tobias grimaced. He closed his eyes and put his cheek on hers. If he only knew whether things could ever work out for them. He didn’t want to be disappointed, not again. He’d rather live the rest of his life alone.
* * *
Manfred Wagner looked like a heap of misery as he sat at the table in the interview room. With an effort he raised his head when Kirchhoff and Bodenstein came in. He stared at them with the red-rimmed, watery eyes of an alcoholic.
“You have been charged with multiple felony counts,” Bodenstein began sternly after he had turned on the tape recorder and stated the requisite formalities for the transcript. “Grievous bodily harm, dangerous disruption of traffic, and—depending on what the district attorney decides—negligent manslaughter or even homicide.”
Manfred Wagner turned another shade paler. His gaze shifted to Kirchhoff and back to Bodenstein. He swallowed.
“But … but … Rita is still alive,” he stammered.
“That’s true,” said Bodenstein. “But the man whose windshield she fell onto suffered a heart attack at the scene of the accident. Not to mention the property damage to the other vehicles that were involved in the pileup. This matter will have serious consequences for you, and it doesn’t help that you didn’t turn yourself in to the police.”
“I was meaning to,” Wagner protested in a whiny voice. “But … but they all advised me not to.”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’?” Kirchhoff asked. Any sympathy she’d had for this man was gone. He had suffered a terrible loss, but that didn’t justify his assault on Tobias’s mother.
Wagner shrugged but didn’t look at her.
“All of them,” he repeated, as vague as Hartmut Sartorius had been a few hours earlier, when Kirchhoff asked him who was behind the anonymous threatening letters and the attack on his son.
“I see. Do you always do what ‘all of them’ say?” It came out sharper than she intended, but had an effect.
“You have no idea!” Wagner flared up. “My Laura was someone really special. She could have amounted to something. And she was so beautiful. Sometimes I could hardly believe that she was really my daughter. And then she had to die. Just tossed aside like a piece of garbage. We were a happy family. We’d just built a house out in the new industrial park, and my cabinet shop was doing well. There was a good sense of community in the village, everyone was friends with everyone else. And then … Laura and her girlfriend disappeared. Tobias murdered them, that ice-cold bastard! I begged him to tell me why he killed them and what he did with her body. But he never said a word.”
He doubled up and sobbed without restraint. Bodenstein wanted to turn off the tape recorder, but Kirchhoff stopped him. Was Wagner really crying out of sorrow for his lost daughter or because he was feeling sorry for himself?
“Cut out the playacting,” she said.
Wagner’s head flew up and he stared at her as dumbfounded as if she’d kicked him in the ass. “I lost my child,” he began in a quivering voice.
“I know that,” Kirchhoff cut him off. “And for that you have my complete sympathy. But you still have two children and a wife who need you. Didn’t you think at all about what it would mean for your family if you did something to hurt Rita Cramer?”
Wagner fell silent, but suddenly his face contorted with fury.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through for the past eleven years!” he cried.
“But I do know what your wife has been through,” Kirchhoff replied coolly. “She has not only lost a child, but also a husband, who goes out every night drinking out of sheer self-pity, leaving her in the lurch. Your wife is fighting to survive. What are you doing?”
Wagner’s eyes began to flash in anger. Kirchhoff had obviously hit a sore spot.
“What the hell business is that of yours?”
“Who advised you not to turn yourself in to the police?”
“My friends.”
“Probably the same friends who stand idly by as you get tanked up at the Black Horse every night and take your life in your hands. Am I right?”
Wagner opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. His hostile expression turned unsure, and he looked at Bodenstein.
“I’m not going to let you get to me.” His voice shook. “I’m not saying another word without a lawyer present.”
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin to his chest like a recalcitrant child. Kirchhoff looked at her boss and raised her eyebrows. Bodenstein pressed the STOP button on the tape recorder.
“You’d better go home,” he said.
“You mean I’m … I’m not … under arrest?” Wagner croaked in astonishment.
“No.” Bodenstein stood up. “We know where to find you. The DA will bring an indictment against you. So you are going to need a lawyer.”
He opened the door. Wagner staggered past him, accompanied by the uniformed officer who had been present in the room. Bodenstein watched him go.
“The guy’s so pitiful that I almost feel sorry for him,” Pia said next to him. “But only almost.”
“Why did you come down on him so hard?” Oliver wanted to know.
“Because I have a hunch that there’s a lot more hidden behind all of this than we can see at the moment,” Pia said. “There’s something going on in that dump of a village. And it’s been going on for the past eleven years. I’m absolutely sure of it.”
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Bodenstein was not in the mood for another family celebration, but since it would be held at his home with a small group, he accepted his fate and served as the sommelier. His son Lorenz was turning twenty-five. The night before, Lorenz had partied into the wee hours with his huge circle of friends at a disco whose proprietor he knew from his DJ days, but he wanted to spend Sunday afternoon with his family to celebrate his birthday in a calmer setting. Cosima’s mother had come from Bad Homburg, Oliver’s parents and Quentin arrived with his three daughters—Marie-Louise couldn’t get away from her Schlosshotel—and the mother of Lorenz’s girlfriend Thordis, the veterinarian Inka Hansen, completed the guest list. They were all seated around the dining room table, with its white place settings and decorations in lovely autumn colors. Chef St. Clair had given his best cook, Rosalie, the day off, so from early morning she was to be found, with red cheeks and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, dashing about in the kitchen, which she had banned everyone from entering. The result was fantastic. The roast goose liver with almond crème and lemon followed a watercress mousse soup with marinated shellfish and quail eggs. For the main course Rosalie had really outdone herself: the saddle of venison with mélange of petits pois, crispy cannelloni and carrot-ginger purée couldn’t have been prepared better by the master chef himself. The guests applauded the young chef enthusiastically, and Oliver gave his eldest daughter a hug. She was utterly exhausted from all the work and the burden of responsibility.
“I think we’ll keep you,” he joked, kissing her on the top of her head.
“Thank you, Dad,” she replied wearily. “Now I need a schnapps!”
“In honor of the day you shall have one,” he said with a smile. “We’d like another…”
“We’d rather have more champagne,” Lorenz butted in, motioning to his sister. She remembered something they’d prearranged and vanished like lightning back to the kitchen, followed by Lorenz and Thordis. Oliver sat down and exchanged a glance with Cosima. He’d been watching her unobtrusively all morning. At around
ten o’clock Rosalie had ordered them out of the house, so he and Cosima had driven out to the Taunus to take a walk around Glaskopf Hill in the beautifully warm Indian summer weather. Cosima had acted completely normal; there was nothing unusual about her behavior, and she had even taken his hand during their walk. His suspicions began to weaken, and yet he hadn’t dared bring up the topic with her.
Rosalie, Lorenz, and Thordis came back to the dining room, balancing full glasses of champagne on a tray, and served one to each guest, even the three young teenage nieces, who giggled gleefully. In the absence of their strict mother, Quentin decided not to object.
“Dear family,” Lorenz then announced solemnly. “Thordis and I wanted to take this opportunity to announce in the presence of the whole family, that we are engaged to be married.”
He put his arm around Thordis’s shoulder, and the two smiled at each other happily.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Lorenz with a grin as he looked at his father. “We don’t have to get married—we just want to.”
“Time for a toast,” said Quentin. Chairs were pushed back and everyone rose to congratulate the two. Even Oliver hugged his son and future daughter-in-law. The announcement of their engagement didn’t really surprise him, but he was astounded that Lorenz had kept the secret so well. He caught Cosima’s eye and went over to her. She wiped away a tear of emotion.
“You see,” she said with a smile. “Even our eldest son has turned bourgeois and is going to marry.”
“He’s certainly been keeping us in suspense long enough with his adventurous life,” said Oliver. Since he graduated Lorenz had spent an alarmingly long time as a DJ and in all sorts of temp jobs in radio and television. Oliver would have liked to exert his authority over his son, but Cosima had remained calm, firmly convinced that someday Lorenz would find his true calling. By now he was successfully moderating a daily three-hour show for a large private radio station. And on the side he made a surprisingly good living as the MC of galas, sporting events, and other functions all over Germany.
Everyone took their seats, and the mood was happy and relaxed. Even Rosalie had left her kitchen and was drinking champagne.
“Oliver.” His mother leaned over to him. “Could you get me a glass of water?”
“Yes, of course.” He pushed back his chair, stood up and walked through the kitchen, which his hardworking daughter had almost finished cleaning up. In the pantry he took two bottles of mineral water from a case. At that instant a cell phone rang in one of the jackets hanging on hooks next to the door to the garage. A special ringtone. Oliver knew the sound. It was Cosima’s cell. He struggled with himself, but this time his suspicions won out. He quickly stuck one bottle of water under his arm so he could search the pocket of the jacket she’d been wearing earlier in the day. He found the phone in the inside pocket, flipped it open, and pressed the message symbol.
MY DARLING, I THINK OF YOU ALL DAY LONG! LUNCH TOMORROW? SAME TIME, SAME PLACE? I LOOK FORWARD TO IT!
The letters on the display blurred before his eyes and his knees felt weak. Disappointment hit him in the stomach like a fist. How could she pretend like that? Smiling and walking hand in hand with him around Glaskopf Hill? Cosima would notice that someone had read the text message, because the message symbol was now grayed out. He almost wished she would talk to him about it. He stuck the phone back in her jacket, waited until his heart slowed to normal, and went back into the dining room. Cosima sat there with Sophia on her lap, laughing and joking as if everything was fine. He felt like calling her out in front of everyone and telling her that there was a text message from her lover on her cell, but then his eyes fell on Lorenz, Thordis, and Rosalie. It would be selfish and irresponsible to spoil this lovely day for them with his unconfirmed suspicion. He had no choice but to grin and bear it.
* * *
With an effort Tobias opened his eyes and groaned. His head was roaring and the slightest movement made him feel terrible. He leaned over the edge of the bed and threw up into the bucket someone had put beside his bed. The vomit stank terribly. He fell back and wiped his mouth. His tongue was furry, and the carousel in his head wouldn’t stop. What had happened? How did he get home? Images raced through his foggy brain. He remembered Jörg and Felix and other old pals, the garage, the vodka mixed with Red Bull. There had been a couple of girls there too, and they kept giving him conspicuously curious glances, whispering and giggling with each other. He had felt like an animal in the zoo. When did all that happen? What time was it now?
With great effort he managed to sit up and lift his legs over the edge of the bed. The room spun before his eyes. Amelie had also been there—or was he mixing things up? Tobias got to his feet, braced himself against the slanted ceiling, stumbled to the door, opened it, and felt his way along the hall. He’d never had such a bad hangover in his life. In the bathroom he had to sit down to pee or he would have fallen over. His T-shirt reeked of cigarette smoke, sweat, and puke. Disgusting. He got up from the toilet and was shocked when he saw his face in the mirror. The hematomas around his eyes had spread down and formed purple and yellow spots on his pale, unshaven cheeks. He looked like a zombie, and he felt like one too. Footsteps in the hallway, a knock on the door.
“Tobias?” his father called.
“Yeah, come in.” He turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under the cold water, drinking a few swallows. It tasted terrible. The door opened and his father looked him up and down with concern.
“How are you feeling?”
Tobias sat back down on the toilet seat. “Like shit.” It took a huge effort to raise his head, which felt like lead. He tried to look at his father, but his eyes kept sliding away. At first everything looked very close, then far away. “What time is it?”
“Three thirty. Sunday afternoon.”
“Oh God.” Tobias scratched his head. “I really can’t take much more of this.”
His memory came back, at least in part: Nadia had been with him up by the edge of the woods, talking to him. Afterward she drove him home because she had to get to the airport in a hurry. But what had he done then? Jörg. Felix. The garage. Lots of alcohol. Lots of girls. He hadn’t been feeling well. Why not? Why did he go there in the first place?
“Amelie Fröhlich’s father just called,” said his father. Amelie. There was something he needed to remember about her. Oh yeah, she’d wanted to tell him something important, but then Nadia showed up and Amelie ran off.
“She didn’t come home last night.” The urgent tone of his father’s voice made him pay attention. “Her parents are worried and are thinking of calling the police.”
Tobias stared at his father. It took a moment before he understood. Amelie hadn’t come home. And he’d had a lot to drink. Just like eleven years ago. Ice settled over his heart clenched.
“You … you don’t think I had anything to—” he broke off and gulped.
“Dr. Lauterbach found you last night at the bus stop in front of the church on her way back from an emergency call. It was half past one. She drove you home. We had a hell of a time getting you out of the car and up to your room. And you were talking about Amelie the whole time…”
Tobias closed his eyes and dropped his face in his hands. He tried in vain to remember. But there was—nothing. His friends in the garage, the giggling, whispering girls. Had Amelie been there too? No. Or was she? No. Please no. Please, please no.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The entire K-11 team had gathered in the conference room around the big table; except for Hasse they were all present, even Behnke, who looked grumpier than usual.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Pia Kirchhoff, heading for the last vacant chair. She took off her jacket. Nicola Engel glanced demonstratively at her watch.
“It’s twenty past eight,” she noted sharply. “We’re not the Rosenheim Cops on TV, after all. In the future please organize your farm work so that it doesn’t interfere with your work schedule.”
Pia could f
eel the heat rush to her face. Stupid cow!
“I was at the pharmacy getting some cold pills,” she replied, equally caustic. “Or would you rather I took a sick day?”
The two women stared each other down for a moment.
“All right. I see that everyone is present now,” said the commissioner without apologizing for her unjustified insinuation. “We have a missing girl. Our colleagues from Eschborn informed us this morning.”
Pia scanned the group. Behnke was leaning back in his chair with his legs spread, vigorously chewing gum. He kept shooting fierce glances over at Kathrin, who responded with a hostile expression and her lips pressed tight. Pia recalled that at the insistence of Dr. Engel, Oliver had talked to Behnke last week. What had come of that? In any case Behnke seemed to know that Kathrin had reported seeing him working in the bar in Sachsenhausen. The tension between the two could not be ignored. Bodenstein sat at the head of the table staring down at the tabletop. His face was stony, but the shadows under his eyes and the vertical furrow between his eyebrows revealed that something was bothering him. Even Ostermann made an unusually sullen impression. He seemed caught in the middle. Behnke was an old friend, and Ostermann had always protected him, covering his mistakes. But he’d finally become fed up with Behnke taking advantage of his friendship. And Ostermann usually agreed with Kathrin Fachinger—so whose side was he on?
“Has the Wallau case been cleared up?” Dr. Engel asked. It took Pia a moment to realize the question was directed at her.
“Yes,” she replied, frowning at the memory of the large-scale operation by the evidence team and forensic medical examiners at the accident scene. “They did find two bodies, but we probably won’t have much to do with them.”
