by Nele Neuhaus
“This has to go out today,” he told his secretary and dropped the envelope on her desk.
“Of course,” she replied sharply. She had once been the executive assistant to the board, and she still felt it was beneath her dignity to be secretary to a division VP. “You do remember that you have an appointment, yes?”
“Of course.” He left without looking at her again.
“You’re already seven minutes late!”
He went outside to the hall. Twenty-four steps to the elevator, which seemed to be waiting impatiently for him with doors open. Upstairs on the twelfth floor the entire board had been sitting for seven minutes. His future was at stake, his reputation, yes, his entire life. Two female colleagues from the back office slipped into the elevator after him. He knew them by sight and nodded absently. They giggled and whispered, returning his nod of greeting. The doors closed silently. He was shocked when he saw the man in the mirror with the haggard face who returned his gaze with dull, dejected eyes. He was tired, infinitely tired and burned out.
“Where to?” asked the brunette with the big eyes politely. “Up or down?”
Her finger with the long fake nail paused expectantly over the button panel. Lars Terlinden couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his face in the mirror.
“Down,” he replied. “All the way down.”
* * *
Pia Kirchhoff walked into the Ebony Club, nodding in thanks to the doorman who had opened the door for her with a flourish. Only a short time ago she and Christoph had dined here with Henning and Miriam. Henning had shelled out five hundred euros for the meal, utterly excessive in her eyes. Pia didn’t much care for trendy spots, cryptic menus, and wine lists in which the price for a single bottle could run into the four-figure bracket. Since she judged wines not by their labels but by her own personal taste, a bardolino or chianti at the pizzeria around the corner sufficed for a successful evening.
The maître d’ slithered down from his high perch and steered toward her with a radiant smile. Without a word Pia held up her badge in front of his nose. His smile cooled at once by several degrees. A potential prospect for the maharaja menu had suddenly transformed before his eyes into a toad that nobody would want to swallow. The criminal police were never welcomed anywhere, especially not in a posh restaurant in the midst of the noontime rush.
“May I inquire as to what this concerns?” murmured the maître d’.
“No, you may not,” said Kirchhoff dryly. “Where’s the manager?”
The smile vanished completely and with it the feigned courtesy.
“Wait here.” The man left, and Pia looked around unobtrusively. There she was. There sat Cosima von Bodenstein having an intimate conversation with a man who was clearly ten years younger. He was wearing a rumpled business suit, and his shirt was open with no tie. His casual posture radiated self-importance. His tousled, dark blond hair reached to his shoulders. He had an angular face with an aggressively jutting chin, five-day beard, and a prominent aquiline nose. His skin was tanned from being outdoors—or the result of alcohol, Pia thought maliciously. Cosima von Bodenstein was animatedly going on about something, and he was looking at her with a smile, obviously fascinated. This was no business lunch, and no accidental meeting of old acquaintances—the erotic vibrations between the two were evident even to an impartial observer. They’d either come directly from bed or were pausing on the way there for a little lunch to pump up the anticipation. Pia felt genuinely sorry for her boss, yet she also felt a certain sympathy for Cosima, who must be longing for an adventure after twenty-five years of marital routine.
The appearance of the restaurant’s manager tore Pia away from her ruminations. He was in his mid-thirties, at most, but his sparse sandy hair and puffy face made him look older.
“I won’t take up much of your time, Mr.…” Pia began, inspecting the huge man, who was so impolite that he hadn’t offered her his hand or deigned to introduce himself.
“Jagielski,” the man announced, peering down at her and dismissing his maître d’ with an arrogant gesture. “What is it? We’re in the middle of the noon rush.”
Jagielski. The name triggered some vague association in Pia’s mind.
“I see. Do you do the cooking?” she countered sarcastically.
“No.” He was clearly annoyed, and his restless eyes kept flitting over the dining room. Suddenly he turned around, stopped a young waitress, and hissed a remark that made her blush.
“It’s almost impossible to find properly trained help,” he then explained to Pia without a hint of a smile. “These young things are a disaster. They just don’t have the right attitude.”
New customers arrived, and they were standing in the way. In that instant she recalled where she had heard the name Jagielski before. That was the name of the owner of the Black Horse in Altenhain. Her inquiry confirmed that it was no coincidence. Andreas Jagielski owned the Black Horse as well as the Ebony Club and another place in Frankfurt.
“So, what’s the deal?” he asked. Politeness was not his strong suit. Neither was discretion. They were still standing in the middle of the foyer.
“I would like to know if a Mr. Claudius Terlinden had dinner here last Saturday evening with his wife.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Why do the police want to know?”
“Because it’s of interest to the police.” His condescending arrogance was really getting on Pia’s nerves. “Well?”
A tiny hesitation, then a curt nod. “Yes, he was here.”
“Just with his wife?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Perhaps your maître d’ would remember. You must keep a book of reservations.”
Reluctantly Jagielski waved over the maître d’ he had chased off earlier and told him to bring the reservation book. He held his hand out and waited silently while the maître d’ again climbed onto his high perch and then scurried back. The manager licked his index finger and paged slowly through the leather-bound register.
“Ah, here it is,” he said at last. “It was a party of four. Now I remember.”
“Who was with them? Names?” Pia insisted. Several customers were trying to get their coats and leave. At last Jagielski led Kirchhoff in the direction of the bar.
“I don’t see what business that is of yours,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Listen here.” Pia was impatient now. “I’m investigating the case of your missing waitress Amelie, who was last seen at the Black Horse on Saturday night. We’re looking for witnesses who may have seen the girl after that.”
Jagielski stared at her, thought it over for a moment, and probably decided that revealing the names would be harmless.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lauterbach were with them,” he finally told her.
Pia was astonished. Why had Claudius Terlinden withheld the fact that he and his wife went out to eat with their neighbors? At his office yesterday he had expressly mentioned only his wife and himself. Odd.
Cosima von Bodenstein’s companion was just paying the bill. The waitress beamed at him; apparently the tip was generous. He got up and went around the table to pull out Cosima’s chair for her. Although he was the complete opposite of Bodenstein in appearance, at least he had similar good manners.
“Do you know the man with the red-haired lady over there?” Pia asked Jagielski all of a sudden. He didn’t even have to raise his head to know who Pia was referring to. She turned around so that Cosima wouldn’t recognize her as she went out.
“Yes, of course.” His voice suddenly took on an almost incredulous tone, as if he couldn’t believe that anyone wouldn’t recognize the man. “That’s Alexander Gavrilow. Does he have something to do with your investigation?”
“It’s possible,” Pia replied with a smile. “Thanks for your help.”
* * *
Oliver was still sitting on the step smoking. At his feet lay four cigarette butts. For a moment Pia stood silently in front of her boss so she could take in this
unusual sight.
“And?” He looked up. His face was pale.
“Imagine this: The Terlindens went out to eat with the Lauterbachs,” Pia reported. “And the manager of the Ebony Club is also the owner of the Black Horse in Altenhain. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What else do you want to know?” Pia was playing dumb.
“Did you … see them?”
“Yes, I did.” She bent down to pick up the cigarette pack he had laid on the step beside him and put it in her pocket. “Come on. I don’t feel like freezing my ass off.”
Oliver got up stiffly, took one last drag on the cigarette, and flicked the butt into the wet street. As they walked Pia took a quick look at him in profile. Was he still hoping for an innocent explanation for this tête-à-tête between his wife and the attractive stranger?
“Alexander Gavrilow,” she said, and stopped. “The polar explorer and mountain climber.”
“Excuse me?” Oliver gave her a baffled look.
“That’s the man Cosima was with,” she explained, and then finished the sentence in her mind:… and who is definitely fucking her.
Oliver rubbed his hand over his face. “Of course.” He was speaking more to himself than to Pia. “I thought that guy looked familiar. Cosima introduced him to me once, I think, at her last film premiere. They planned a film project together years ago, but nothing came of it.”
“Maybe it was just a business lunch,” Pia tried to reassure him in spite of her own opinions. “Maybe they were discussing a project you’re not supposed to know about, and you’re worrying about it for nothing.”
Oliver looked at Pia, and for an instant a mocking glint flashed in his eyes but then vanished immediately.
“I have eyes,” he said. “And I know what I saw. My wife is sleeping with that guy, and who knows how long it’s been going on. Maybe it’s good that I don’t have to kid myself any longer.”
He resolutely started walking, and Pia almost had to run to keep up with him.
Thies knows everything, and the police are getting curious. You ought to make sure that you get hold of that item. Because you have everything to lose!
The letters on the screen swam before his eyes. The e-mail had been sent to his official address at the ministry. Good God, what if his secretary read it? She usually printed his e-mails every morning and laid them out for him. Only occasionally did he get to the office before she did. Gregor Lauterbach bit his lip and clicked on the sender: [email protected]. Who was hiding behind that address? Who, who, who? This question had dominated his thoughts since the first letter arrived; day and night he could hardly think about anything else. Fear attacked him like a convulsive shudder.
There was a knock on the door before it opened. He jumped as if he’d had a pail of boiling water dumped on him. At the sight of his face Ines Schürmann-Liedtke found herself unable to utter the friendly morning greeting she had intended.
“Aren’t you feeling well, sir?” she asked with concern.
“No,” Lauterbach croaked, and let himself sink back into his chair. “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”
“Should I cancel your appointments for today?”
“Is there anything important?”
“No. Nothing really urgent. I’ll call Forthuber so he can drive you home.”
“Yes, Ines, please do that.” Lauterbach nodded and coughed a little. She went out. He stared at the e-mail. Snow White. His thoughts were racing. Then he closed the message and blocked the sender with a right-click.
* * *
Barbara Fröhlich sat at the kitchen table, trying in vain to concentrate on a crossword puzzle. After three days and nights of uncertainty her nerves were shot. On Sunday she had taken the two younger kids to her parents in Hofheim, and Arne went to work on Monday although his boss told him to stay home. But what was he going to do at home?
The days were dragging by at an excruciating pace. Amelie was still missing; there had been no sign of her. Her mother had called three times from Berlin, though probably more out of duty than concern. During the first two days women from the village had dropped by wanting to console and support her, but since she hardly knew these women they had merely sat awkwardly in the kitchen trying to make conversation. Last night she and Arne had had a terrible fight, the very first since they’d met. She had reproached him for his lack of interest in the fate of his eldest daughter, and angrily had even insinuated that he’d probably be glad if she never turned up. Strictly speaking it hadn’t been a fight, because Arne had merely looked at her and said nothing. As usual.
“The police will find her,” was all he said and vanished into the bathroom. She stayed in the kitchen, helpless, speechless, and alone. And all of a sudden she had seen her husband with new eyes. He had gutlessly retreated into his daily routine. Would he act any differently if it had been Tim or Jana who had disappeared? His only concern seemed to be that he might annoy people. They hadn’t said another word, lying silently next to each other in bed. Ten minutes later he was already snoring, calmly and regularly, as if everything was just fine. Never in her life had she felt so abandoned as during that dreadful, endless night.
The doorbell rang, and Barbara flinched and stood up. She hoped it wasn’t one of the village women again. She knew that they feigned sympathy for her so that later at the grocery store they could present an exclusive report on the situation. She opened the front door. Before her stood a stranger.
“Hello, Mrs. Fröhlich,” said the woman. She had short dark hair, a pale, serious face with bluish smudges under her eyes, and she wore rectangular glasses. “Detective Superintendent Maren König from K-11 in Hofheim.”
She showed her criminal police badge. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course. Please do.” Barbara Fröhlich’s heart was pounding apprehensively. The woman looked so serious that she had to be bringing bad news. “Do you have any news about Amelie?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But my colleagues have learned that Amelie supposedly received some paintings from her friend Thies. Yet nothing of that sort was found in her room.”
“I don’t know about any paintings either.” At a loss, she shook her head, disappointed that the detective couldn’t tell her any news.
“Do you think we could take another look in Amelie’s room?” Maren König asked. “The paintings, if they actually exist, could be extremely helpful.”
“Of course. Come with me.”
Barbara Fröhlich led her upstairs and opened the door to Amelie’s room. She stood in the doorway and watched as the detective diligently searched the cupboards, then got down on her knees and looked under the bed and the desk. Finally she pulled the Biedermeier chest of drawers a bit out from the wall.
“A hidden door,” the detective said, turning to Barbara Fröhlich. “May I open it?”
“Certainly. I didn’t even know it was there.”
“In many houses with sloping roofs there’s a cubbyhole like this and it’s used as a storage area,” the police officer said with a little smile for the first time. “Especially if they don’t have an attic.”
She squatted down, pulled open the door, and crept into the tiny space between the wall and the roof insulation. A cold draft came into the bedroom. A moment later she emerged, holding a thick roll wrapped in paper and carefully tied with a red ribbon.
“My God,” said Barbara Fröhlich. “You actually did find something.”
Detective Superintendent Maren König straightened up and brushed the dust from her stockings. “I’ll take the paintings with me. I can give you a receipt if you like.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Barbara Fröhlich hastened to assure her. “If the pictures can help you find Amelie, then please take them.”
“Thank you.” The detective put her hand on her arm. “And try not to worry too much. We’re really doing everything humanly possible to find Amelie. I promise you that.”
&nbs
p; Her words were so kind that Barbara Fröhlich had to fight with all her might to quell the rising tears. Grateful, she merely nodded mutely. She briefly considered whether to call Arne and tell him about the paintings. But she was still deeply hurt by his behavior, so she didn’t bother. Only later when she was making herself some tea did it occur to her that she had neglected to look at the pictures.
* * *
Tobias was restlessly pacing back and forth in the living room of Nadia’s apartment. The big TV on the wall was on with the sound turned down. The police were searching for him “in connection with the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Amelie F.,” he had just read on the crawl beneath the picture. He and Nadia had spent half the night discussing what he should do. She thought they should look for the paintings. She fell asleep around midnight, but he had lain awake, trying in vain to remember what happened. One thing was sure: If he turned himself in to the police, they would arrest him on the spot. He had no plausible explanation for how Amelie’s cell phone could have wound up in his jeans pocket, and he still had not even the faintest memory of last Saturday night.
Amelie must have found out something about the events of 1997 in Altenhain, something that could be dangerous for someone. But who could that be? His thoughts kept leading him back to Claudius Terlinden. For eleven long years he had considered the man his only supporter on earth; in the joint he had looked forward to his visits and the long conversations with him. What a fool he’d been! Terlinden was only out for his own interests. Tobias didn’t go so far as to blame him for the disappearance of Laura and Stefanie. But Terlinden had ruthlessly taken advantage of his parents’ plight to get what he wanted: the Schilling land on which he had built the new administration building for his company.
Tobias lit a cigarette. The ashtray on the side table was already overflowing. He went to the window and looked out at the black water of the Main River. The minutes dragged by at an agonizing pace. How long had Nadia been gone? Three hours? Four? He hoped she found what they were looking for. Her plan was his only option. If the paintings actually existed, the ones that Amelie had mentioned on Saturday, then maybe he could use them to prove his innocence and at the same time find out who had kidnapped Amelie. Was she still alive? Was she … Tobias shook his head, but he couldn’t get rid of the thought. What if it was true—what the psychologists, expert witnesses, and the court had all affirmed back then? Was it possible that under the influence of too much alcohol he actually turned into a monster, as he’d been portrayed by the media? In the past, he’s always had a short fuse, and he had a hard time accepting defeats. He had expected to get what he wanted—good grades in school, girls, success in sports. He had seldom showed much consideration for others, and yet he’d been popular, the star of his group of friends. Or was that merely what he believed? Had his boundless conceit made him both blind and arrogant?
