The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Don’t take any notice of them, Anne-Line,” said Ruth.

  Don’t take any notice? Easy enough for her to say now that she’d managed to escape that crap.

  Anneli moved her hand slowly up to her breast. It suddenly felt as if the lump was huge. How hadn’t she noticed it before? It was hopefully just a side effect of the checkup.

  Say something, anything. You just need to think about something else, she thought as her pulse raced.

  “My brother’s daughter, Jeanette, is the same,” Klara said, saving her. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve had to listen to my sister-in-law and brother talking about how beautiful, fantastic, and talented she was.” She smiled wryly. “What talents? If she had any, she certainly never developed them. They fussed over her for years, and now she’s exactly like you described, Anne-Line.”

  The feeling in her breast subsided a little, replaced by a strange warm sensation that brought forth her anger. Why couldn’t this disease take one of these useless wenches instead of her?

  “So I assume Jeanette is now on benefits and has been given a long list of job offers and apprenticeships?” Anneli forced herself to ask.

  Klara nodded. “She begged for a work placement at a hairdresser’s for years, and when she finally got it she only lasted half a day.”

  A few of the others looked up. Clearly they were interested in what Klara had to say.

  “Jeanette was told to clean up during her lunch break, which she protested and said was totally unfair, but that wasn’t the excuse she came back home with!”

  “What did she have to say for herself?” one of them asked.

  “She said that she became so depressed listening to all the clients’ problems. Simply couldn’t deal with it!”

  Anneli looked around. They sat there frowning, but this was Anneli’s daily life. How often had she and the job center tried to find work placements and jobs for girls like Jeanette who couldn’t cope with them when it came to it?

  Why hadn’t she just studied economics like her father had recommended? She could have been sitting with all the crooks in the parliament, enjoying the perks of the job instead of being burdened with this mismatch of dysfunctional girls and women. They were like dirty water in a bath, and Anneli wanted to pull the plug!

  She had called four very well-dressed girls into a meeting today, all of whom had been unemployed for a long time. But instead of humility and basic ideas about how they might improve their situation, she was met with shameless demands for handouts from the public purse. It was really annoying, but, as always, Anneli had tried to lure them into her trap. If they didn’t want to learn anything and couldn’t hold down a placement, they’d have to accept the consequences. The law could help her that far.

  Anneli’s experience told her that these four harpies would be back before long with sick notes declaring them unfit for work, and the reasons would be myriad; when it came to that area there was no limit to their initiative: depression, dodgy knees, bad falls against the radiator with subsequent concussion, irritable bowel syndrome, and a long list of other ailments that could be neither observed nor checked. She had tried to get her line manager to take a stand against the doctors’ ridiculous diagnoses, but the subject was strangely too sensitive, so the doctors continued writing undocumented sick notes, as if that was all they were good for.

  One of the girls had turned up today without having extended her sick note because she had arrived too late at the doctor’s office. And when Anneli had asked why, stressing how important it was to keep one’s appointments, the bimbo had answered that she had been at a café with some friends and lost track of time. They were so socially inept and incompetent that they didn’t even know when they should lie.

  Anneli should have been shocked by the answer, but she was used to it. The worst of it was that it was girls like Amalie, Jazmine, whatever their names were, who were going to look after people like herself when she ended up in a nursing home one day.

  Jesus Christ.

  Anneli looked blankly into space.

  When she ended up in a nursing home, she had thought, but who was to say that she would live that long? Hadn’t the doctor implied that breast cancer of this sort should be taken very seriously? That even if they ended up removing the breast that the cancer might already have spread? That they didn’t know yet?

  “Why don’t you just stop working as a caseworker?” said Ruth, dragging her back from her own thoughts. “You’ve got the money.”

  It was a really awkward question to answer. For almost ten years now, Anneli’s circle had been under the impression that she had won a large sum of money on a scratch-off card, a delusion she had done nothing to stop. All at once she had unrightfully obtained a certain status that would have been impossible for her to achieve any other way. People still saw her as a small, boring, surly grey mouse. That was the reality of it. Only now, she was a grey mouse shrouded in mystery.

  Why did she use so little of the fortune on herself, they would ask? Why did she still go around in cheap rags? Why didn’t she buy expensive perfume or exotic vacations? Why, why, why? they asked.

  She had cheered completely spontaneously when she scratched the card at work in the middle of the day; five hundred kroner was her record win. Her victory cry brought Ruth hurrying from the neighboring office to hear what all the commotion was about.

  “I’ve won five hundred! Can you believe it? Five hundred!” Anneli had cheered.

  Ruth was speechless. It was perhaps the first time she had seen Anneli smile.

  “Have you heard? Anne-Line’s won five hundred thousand!” the woman had suddenly screamed, resulting in the news spreading like wildfire throughout the entire office. Afterward, Anneli had bought cakes for everyone, thinking that she had nothing against the misunderstanding under which they were all living. It elevated her status, made her a little more visible. That she couldn’t escape the lie and would later be teased for her persistence was another matter. Anneli weighed the situation and found the balance to be in favor of recognition rather than her alleged stinginess.

  And now here was Ruth asking why she didn’t just quit her job. What on earth could she answer? Maybe it was just a matter of time before the question answered itself. Before she was no longer in the land of the living.

  “Stop working? And who would replace me?” she answered seriously. “A girl of Jeanette’s age? A fat lot of good that would be.”

  “The first generation to be less educated than our parents!” agreed one of the others, who persisted in her belief that the bob was a fashionable haircut. “And who would employ someone who can do nothing?”

  “Paradise Hotel, Big Brother, and Survivor!” one of them answered in jest.

  But it was hard to see the funny side.

  —

  Anneli’s cocktail of gin and tonic, mixed with negative thoughts, left her in a state where she could neither sleep nor stay awake.

  If she had to leave this world, she was sure as hell not going to go alone. The thought of Michelle, Jazmine, Denise, or the violent punk Birna walking around laughing while she was rotting in her grave was just too depressing. The worst of it was that while she was trying to help them as best she could, she knew that they were sneering at her behind her back. Only today she had gone to call in one of her favorite clients, an elderly man who was unsteady on his feet and who had been unfit for work for almost six months, when she saw them sitting there comfortably and talking about her while the other clients laughed along. They said she was a miserable cow and that the only thing that could help a bitch like her was a couple of bottles of sleeping pills. Yes, they stopped when someone warned them that she had entered the waiting room, but they didn’t wipe the smirks off their faces. The episode left her seething inside.

  “Those damn scroungers need to be exterminated,” she drawled listlessly.

  O
ne day she would head down to the side streets of Vesterbro and get her hands on a really heavy gun. And when bimbos like them were sitting waiting, she would walk out and shoot them one by one right in the middle of their powdered foreheads.

  She laughed at the thought, staggering over to the display cabinet and grabbing the bottle of port. When the first four girls were down, writhing in their own blood, she would print out the client list and drive around to find and liquidate the rest of them until there were no more girls of that sort left in town.

  Anneli smiled, taking another swig. It would certainly save little old Denmark a lot more money than it would lose keeping her on bread and water for the rest of her life. Especially if her life was to be as short as it seemed at the moment.

  She burst out laughing at the thought. It would leave her yoga friends gawping when they read about it in the newspaper for sure.

  The question was, how many of them would actually visit her in prison?

  Probably none.

  She momentarily imagined the empty chair in the prison visiting room. Not exactly an appealing scene. Maybe it would be a better idea if she concentrated on eradicating the girls in a slightly more discreet way than simply gunning them down.

  Anneli fluffed up the sofa cushion, making herself comfortable, with her glass resting on her chest.

  6

  Friday, May 13th, 2016

  “Rose!” Carl gauged her blurred expression. She had appeared tired for some time now, but was this tiredness, or was she just being contrary?

  “Yeah, you probably don’t want to hear this, but my patience has finally run out asking you to complete the report for the Habersaat case. I’ve begged you for it at least twenty-five times, and I can’t be bothered reminding you about it anymore, okay? It will be exactly two years ago tomorrow that we cleared up the case of June Habersaat’s death. Two years, Rose! Get with the program!”

  She shrugged her shoulders. It was one of those days again when she puttered around in her own world doing her own thing.

  “If you think it’s so important, you can write it yourself, Mr. Mørck,” she said.

  Carl lowered his head. “You know full well that whoever starts a report in Department Q is the one who finishes it. How often do we need to discuss this? You’ve got all the notes in there, so just get it finished, Rose.”

  “Or what, Carl? You’ll fire me?”

  Their eyes met. “Listen here, missy! It’s reports like this that justify the existence of Department Q. Or should I be equally ridiculous and ask if you’re out to ruin the department?”

  Rose responded again with the same provocative shrugging of her shoulders. “What do we need this report for? I don’t get it. The murderer confessed and also happens to be dead. No one reads the reports, anyway.”

  “Very likely, Rose, but they’re registered. And unfortunately, even though June Habersaat confessed to the murder of Alberte to Assad and myself just before she drew her last breath, it hasn’t exactly been documented, has it? It’s her word against the unmistakable fact that she didn’t make a written statement to that effect. Of course she was the murderer, but we don’t have hard evidence to back that up, so the case is still open in principle. That’s how the system works, however idiotic it might sound.”

  “Right! Well then, maybe I can just report that we never solved the case.”

  “Damn it, Rose. Just get that shit finished before I lose my temper with you. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Finish that report so it makes our internal statistics look better. It’s the only thing left in the case, now that we’ve cleared the basement of all the material concerning it. Then we can put it behind us and move on with some of the other awful cases we’ve been boring ourselves with over the past few weeks.”

  “Put it behind us? That’s easy for you to say, but what about me?”

  “Stop, Rose! I want that report on my desk first thing tomorrow, got it?” He slammed his hand on the table so hard it hurt. He certainly hadn’t needed to go that far.

  She stood there fuming for a moment before rushing to her office, swearing as she went.

  As expected, less than thirty seconds later Assad stood in front of him, eyes agog and resembling a question mark.

  “I know, I know,” said Carl, exhausted. “It’s a complete mess with Rose, but there are always new cases waiting to be solved and archived. She’s the one who always hounds us about that. We need to be on top of things with the old cases and keep up-to-date with the new ones. It’s an important part of our work, so don’t look at me like that. Rose just needs to do what’s expected of her.”

  “Yeah, but it still wasn’t very clever, Carl. I can scent that she’s not happy.”

  Carl looked at him with confusion. “Scent! You mean ‘sense,’ don’t you, Assad? Scent is something else.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. But keep in mind how much the Habersaat case affected her. It was due to that case that she had a breakdown and decided to have herself admitted to the psychiatric ward—and she’s still under observation. Why else would it take her so long to write that report?”

  Carl sighed. “As if I don’t know that. The similarity between Christian Habersaat and her dad triggered something in her.”

  “Yeah, and then the hypnosis, Carl. Maybe she remembered everything about her dad too clearly after that. He was killed right in front of her.”

  Carl nodded. The hypnosis hadn’t been good for any of them. Memories of events they’d rather forget had come to the surface. Carl had had sleepless nights and weird dreams for a long time after, and it was much the same for Assad. So it was reasonable to assume that memories of the terrible accident at the steel plant that cost Rose’s dad his life had resurfaced during the hypnosis and plagued her ever since, even if she would never admit it.

  “I think that report is going to take her back to a dark place, Carl. Do you think it’s such a good idea? Can’t I write it for her?”

  Carl looked worried. He could imagine the result. Only Assad had ever understood what his reports actually contained.

  “Assad, that’s good of you, and of course we need to keep an eye out for Rose, but she needs to be able to cope with that assignment. I’m afraid I don’t have time to discuss it further.”

  He looked at the clock. The witness statement in the district court was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, so he needed to get going. It was the final hearing before sentencing in one of their cases, and who was going to write up the report for that? Him, who else? Carl, who hated every form of routine except smoking and taking a nap with his feet up on the table.

  He had just made it to the hallway when Rose, looking as white as a sheet, appeared in front of him and made it clear that if he pushed her to have anything to do with that report, she’d go home sick.

  Maybe he mouthed off a few unchoice words, but blackmail wasn’t going to cut it with him; and then he left.

  The last thing he heard on his way up the stairs was Rose’s shaky voice shouting that she’d do what he expected but that he would damn well have to live with the consequences.

  7

  Wednesday, May 11th, 2016

  “Haven’t you got anything in the fridge, Denise?”

  He sprawled himself on the mattress without covering anything. His skin was glistening, his eyes wet, and he was still out of breath. “I’m dying of hunger here. You know how to drain a man of energy, honey.”

  Denise wrapped her kimono tightly around her. Rolf was the one of her sugar daddies who came closest to giving her a feeling of what one might call intimacy. The men were normally halfway out the door before they’d even come, but this one had no wife waiting for him at home and no job where he needed to be at any given time. She had met him on an all-inclusive vacation to Alanya, which turned out to be the cheapest holiday she had ever been on.

  “Come on, you kno
w I haven’t, Rolf. You’ll have to make do with the crumbs in that bag there.”

  She pointed at the crumpled paper bag as she walked over to the mirror.

  Had his grip on her neck left a mark? Her other sugar daddies wouldn’t be happy about that.

  “Can’t you pop down to your mother’s and see what she’s got? I’ll pay you handsomely for it, sugar baby.” He laughed. He was all right as far as that area was concerned.

  She stroked the skin under her chin. There was a slight redness but nothing that would draw attention.

  “All right then, but don’t go expecting room service next time. This isn’t a hotel, you know.”

  He tapped the sheet lazily, sending her a commanding look. A little resistance always turned him on, and the fee would reflect this.

  —

  It smelled stuffy down in the apartment, and all the lamps were turned on. It was dark out on the street, but it was like daylight in here; her mother had kept it like this since her grandmother died. She seemed to be frozen in time.

  Denise noticed her mother’s arm first, hanging over the edge of the sofa, holding a burned-out cigarette, a pile of ash on the carpet next to her, before noticing the rest of her pathetic decay. Her mouth was hanging open, her wrinkled face without makeup, and her hair matted with the woolen blanket under her. What else could you expect when you turned up unannounced?

  The kitchen was complete chaos. Not just the usual, where the washing up, empty liquor bottles, packaging, and scattered food remains bore witness to laziness and a lack of discipline, but a totally surrealistic inferno of colors of the sort you would expect from rancid food, spread over the walls and every available surface. Her mother had apparently gone on a bender right in the middle of things; that’s the way it was when she had been drinking and decided to sod the consequences. She’d have a chance to think about those when she sobered up.