“You can see mine, but then you’ll have to pay. I’ve got a photo of it that my boyfriend took.”
He smiled. He obviously knew what the deal was even if he wasn’t entirely sure what it entailed.
“You’ll just show me some other pussy you found on the Internet.” He turned toward his friends and laughed. Out of earshot, they didn’t fully understand what was going on but laughed back anyway.
“Are you in or not?” Jazmine took out her cell phone from her purse. “You just have to pay the bill. We don’t have any money.”
He stood for a moment, swaying in his work boots.
Denise tried to keep a straight face. Jazmine was totally cool and the man was caving in: brilliant to watch.
The bricklayer turned to the bar. “Waiter! How much do these ladies owe?” he shouted.
He checked the cash register. “One hundred and forty-two,” he answered.
The guy turned toward Jazmine. “I don’t normally pay to see pussy, but I’m a gentleman and can’t refuse to help ladies in distress.” He took out a plump wallet and found the money.
“Keep the change,” he said, slamming the notes down on the bar. How generous: eight kroner as a tip.
He’s working on the side, thought Denise, staring at the wallet. She had a builder sugar daddy who was much the same.
Jazmine held out her phone and let him have a good, thorough look.
He nodded, breathing a little heavier through his slightly dilated nostrils. He alternated his gaze between Jazmine and the screen. If you want more than that, I’m game, his expression said. Denise was impressed.
“If you want to see one where I’m not shaved, it’ll be two hundred extra,” she offered.
The guy was apparently in his own world, his neck and ears flushed with blood.
He put down two hundred on the table. “But then you have to send it to my e-mail.” He gave her the address letter by letter while Jazmine typed.
When he heard a tone on his cell a few seconds later, he turned to his friends, sent them a good-bye glance, and left.
“Do you think he’s running straight home to jerk off?” Michelle said, laughing.
It was easy money. Denise nodded appreciatively. “Was that your secret?” she asked.
Jazmine shook her head. “Hell no. That was just a trick. I’ll tell you the secret later.” She shoved the two hundred kroner in her back pocket, packed her handbag, and suggested they leave.
But then a guy stood up from one of the tables by the bar and slammed another two-hundred-kroner note in front of them.
“I saw what you did. I want in on it.”
Jazmine smiled, taking her phone out of her bag.
Denise looked the man over. There were many reasons why he was standing there. Even though he was no more than thirty-five, his face had lost its glow. No ring on his finger to indicate a serious relationship. His clothes were nice enough but put together wrong. Dandruff on his unironed jacket. A typical guy with a permanent job and no one to come home to.
Denise didn’t like him. Frustrated men could explode at any moment, which was exactly what happened.
In a surprising move, he grabbed Jazmine by the wrist so he could soak up the image on the screen in his own good time. Denise was about to intervene, but Jazmine shook her head. She’d deal with this herself.
“I want to see the whole body,” said the guy. “Two hundred is too much for a few pubes.”
Cocky, thought Denise, as alarm bells rang.
“Come on, bitch. Full frontal or I won’t let go.”
Jazmine wriggled loose, pulling her cell phone back. Even Michelle showed initiative, grabbing the two hundred kroner from the table and stashing it away.
Then the guy started shouting, calling them whores and thieves and saying they all needed a knock to the head.
That was when the waiter got involved, demonstrating that he could make things happen. He masterfully grabbed the man, asking him whether he should call the gang back or if he would leave the place quietly.
The guy managed to spit on the table before storming out the door.
The waiter shook his head, taking the cloth from his apron.
“Lively young women, aren’t you,” he said as he wiped away the spit. “A little too lively for a Thursday afternoon for my taste,” he said. “So when that guy has reached the end of the street, I’d appreciate it if you’d find yourself another hunting ground.”
It was difficult to argue with.
Five minutes later they were standing out on the street, bent over double laughing. Denise was about to say that they could learn a lot from one another but was interrupted by the unmistakable stench of aftershave from the bricklayer Jazmine had just pulled a number on. She turned toward the entrance of the building next to them just as the bricklayer stepped out.
Threatening, determined, and with lightning speed, he grabbed the strap of Jazmine’s bag and, despite her attempts to pull away, managed to stick his hand in and pull out her cell phone.
“Give me the PIN code or I’ll smash your phone on the cobbles,” he warned, raising it in the air above his head to show he meant business.
Jazmine’s expression showed that she knew this was a fight she couldn’t win, that the easy money would soon be back where it had come from, and that her cell phone was worth more than she stood to lose.
“Four-seven-one-one,” she said, watching him type in the code and open her picture gallery. He scrolled back and forth before finding the file he was looking for. When he opened it, Jazmine’s hand was already in her back pocket to get the money.
“I knew it!” he shouted. “You bitch, this isn’t you!” He shoved a photo in her face of the woman who had provided the titillation. There was apparently a whole series.
Jazmine shrugged her shoulders. “We couldn’t pay and you were the one who seemed most like a gentleman; wasn’t that the word you used to describe yourself?”
Jazmine’s smile, intended to accompany this carefree confession, was suddenly wiped off her face as the bricklayer lunged at her, knocking her flat to the ground.
He was just about to kick her where she lay but stopped mid-action and fell quietly to his knees. The bottle of wine Denise had brought to their get-together was obviously more than his bull-like neck could take.
—
The cobbles on the pavement by the canal on Gammel Strand were warm with the rays of the sun when they sat down under the railings side by side with another group of young people who were sitting with their legs against the wharf and the water beneath them. The summer sun was coming out and the light was sharp, so Jazmine’s cheek wasn’t easy to miss.
“Cheers,” said Denise, passing the bottle of red wine.
“And cheers to you.” Jazmine gestured toward Denise, raising the bottle to her mouth and taking a good swig. “And also to you,” she said to the bottle before passing it on to Michelle.
“You shouldn’t have kicked him so hard when he was lying there, Jazmine,” Michelle said quietly. “I didn’t like him bleeding from his head. Why did you do it? He was already unconscious.”
“I was raised badly,” she offered.
They looked at one another for a moment and then Michelle started to laugh. “Selfies!” she shouted and pulled out her phone.
Denise smiled. “Watch you don’t drop it in the water,” she said as they nudged up closer to one another.
“We look damn good together, don’t you think?” Michelle held out her cell at arm’s length. “There aren’t many here with better legs than us,” she said, laughing.
Denise nodded. “That was a good one you pulled at the café, Jazmine. I think we have the makings of a good team.”
“Then maybe we can call ourselves the White Ladies,” Michelle said with a laugh. Two swigs and the red wine was already havi
ng an effect on her.
Denise smiled. “You were going to tell us a secret, Jazmine. How about now?”
“Okay. But I don’t want to hear a bad word about it afterward. No judgment or shit. I’ve had enough of that from home, all right?”
They swore silently, raised their hands, and laughed. How bad could it be?
“When we met each other it was only the third time in six years that I’d gone to the social to beg, but I’ve actually been on benefits the whole time.”
“How?” Michelle sounded especially interested. Not surprising in her situation.
“I make sure I’m pregnant and go through with the pregnancy. I’ve done it four times now.”
Denise’s head shot forward. “You’ve what?”
“Yeah, you heard. You look a state for a while—stomach, tits, and whatnot—but I’ve always regained my figure.” She patted her flat stomach. Mother to four children and not a visible trace.
“Have you got a guy?” Michelle asked naively.
Jazmine laughed without making a sound. That was obviously the point.
“Adopted, all four. The system is simple. Get pregnant with someone, complain about pelvic joint pain or some other bullshit, and the social will come to your rescue. When they start making noises about you finding work, you just get pregnant again. They remove the baby automatically after a while, and then you’re pregnant again and saved one more time. It’s been a few months now, so lately I’ve just been going to the meetings at the social.” She laughed.
Michelle reached out for the bottle. “I wouldn’t be able to do that,” she said. “I really dream about having kids even if it probably won’t be with Patrick.” She took a swig and turned to Jazmine. “So you don’t know who the father is?”
Jazmine shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe for one of them, but it’s completely irrelevant.”
Denise followed the ripples on the water when yet another tour boat had sailed past them. Jazmine wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. A remarkable woman.
“Are you pregnant now?” she asked.
Jazmine shook her head. “But maybe in a week. Who knows?” She tried to force a smile. It was obvious that there were other scenarios she’d rather imagine.
Was she maybe thinking that it was time to consider new survival strategies?
“What about that girl gang? What if you’re pregnant and they assault you? Have you thought about that?” asked Michelle.
She nodded. “I’m moving away from the area, anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders apologetically. “Yeah, I still live at home. Haven’t I mentioned that?”
They didn’t answer, but then she hadn’t expected them to.
“‘Next time you’re pregnant, I’ll kick you out!’ my mom shouts all the time.” Jazmine pursed her lips. “I just need to find a place, then I’m out of there.”
Denise nodded. Untenable living situations for all three of them.
“If you don’t dream about having kids, what do you dream about, Jazmine?” asked Michelle. She obviously hadn’t moved on.
Jazmine looked blank. Those sorts of dreams were obviously not something she mulled over on a daily basis.
“Choose whatever you want,” Michelle suggested, trying to help her along.
“Okay. Then it’s to beat up that lousy caseworker Anne-Line Svendsen and never have to go back to the social.”
Denise laughed and Michelle nodded. “Yeah, just be totally free. Maybe some sort of reality TV show where you can win money, then you could do whatever you wanted.”
Then they turned toward Denise with an encouraging look.
“Oh, is it my turn? But you’ve already mentioned everything. Win a load of money and sort out that bitch caseworker once and for all.”
They looked at one another in silence, as if picturing how they could put an end to all their problems.
10
Friday, May 13th, 2016
“Frustration” was a moderate word to describe Carl’s state of mind after having waited in vain for more than half an hour in the courtroom. Copenhagen resembled a bombsite now more than ever due to the terrible coordination of roadworks and diversions as a result of building the metro; be that as it may, if he and the witnesses could manage to turn up on time despite the difficulties, then the damn judge should be able to manage it too.
All things considered, it was a real bummer of a case, and now it had been postponed again. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t even a case within Carl’s remit; he had just been on a routine investigation in the vicinity when the woman screamed for help from inside a house.
Carl glanced over at the glowering defendant. Three months earlier he had been standing in front of Carl with a claw hammer, threatening that if he didn’t leave his property he’d plant the hammer in his head. It was one of the few times Carl had wished that he had had his service revolver with him. So he did what the man asked and left.
When he returned twenty minutes later with backup and kicked the door in, the man had already cracked his Filipino girlfriend’s jaw and trampled on her, breaking every rib on her breastbone. Definitely not a pretty sight.
Carl thought again that if only he had heeded his basic training from the police academy and had his revolver in his holster under his jacket, he would have been able to prevent what happened.
No, it wouldn’t happen again. After that incident he had been more particular about remembering to put on his shoulder holster. And now that ugly bugger was sitting there with his Neanderthal face, smirking at him as if he could get away without any punishment because the judge was a tardy slowpoke. True, the guy didn’t have “idiot” written on his forehead, but it wasn’t far off. At least four years was Carl’s bet for what the guy would get for his violence, because it was certainly not his first offense. One just had to hope that someone would give him a good beating in the slammer so he could learn what it felt like to be battered so brutally.
“You need to go up to Lars Bjørn,” the people in security informed him when he was back at HQ.
Carl frowned. Was he some sort of rookie to be ordered where to go and when? He’d just wasted an hour and a half on nothing; wasn’t that enough for today?
“And Bjørn asked us to give him a heads-up when you were on your way, so just straight up the stairs and to the left, Carl.” They laughed behind him.
What did he care what they had been asked to do?
—
Down in the basement corridor, Gordon was standing, waving his arms. “We’ve got a problem,” he managed to blurt out before noticing Carl’s moody expression.
“But, er, maybe it’s better if Assad explains it,” he was quick to add.
Carl stopped. “Explain what?”
Gordon stared at the ceiling. “It’s something to do with our department that Lars Bjørn came up with. Something about us not solving enough cases.”
Carl looked surprised. It was only fourteen days ago that he had calculated the percentage of solved cases in Department Q as 65 over the past two years, which was in no way less than it had been in previous years. Viewed objectively, it was far more than what could be expected, considering that their cases were those that the rest of the force had been unable to solve. A 65 percent success rate and 65 percent of perpetrators no longer loose on the streets. What was Bjørn talking about?
“Take this and put it on my desk.” He shoved the legal papers into Gordon’s arms, heading directly toward the endless stairs that led up from the basement.
He’d show Bjørn how to read statistics; that was for sure.
—
“Yes, Carl, unfortunately it is completely accurate.” Lars Bjørn looked almost sad about it, but Carl hadn’t fallen for that sort of emotional manipulation since his girlfriend in high school told him that she was pregnant by his best friend.
As expected,
Bjørn’s next sentence was uttered with much less empathy. “The parliamentary judicial committee has been analyzing the percentage of solved cases in different jurisdictions to facilitate a more satisfactory division of resources and strengthening of local workforces, and it has been scrutinizing special funding in particular. That is precisely where Department Q falls, so cuts have been made. One employee will be laid off and you’ll relocate up here, in the event that the department isn’t disbanded. That’s their final word, Carl; I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything about it.”
Carl looked tiredly at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Our percentage of solved cases is sixty-five, and those cases we haven’t yet solved are just waiting for a breakthrough. These are cases that everyone else has given up on and which would otherwise be left rotting in the archives if it weren’t for us.”
“Hmm. Sixty-five percent, you say. Where is that noted? I can’t see that in my paperwork.”
He rummaged around a little on the neatly ordered desk.
“Here!” A piece of paper was raised in the air, and Bjørn pointed at a number before passing it to Carl. “This is what Department Q has submitted. And this is what management has concluded from that. Percentage of solved cases, fifteen. Not quite sixty-five percent, now, is it, Carl? So the conclusion is that you are too ineffective and that your department is costing society a lot of money that would be put to better use up here.”
“Fifteen percent!” Carl looked shocked. “They’re totally bonkers. And what do these mediocre idiots from Christiansborg know about what we cost and what we do? We might well be a couple of reports behind schedule, but that’s all.”
“A couple of reports? A fifty percent difference is not a couple of reports, Carl. You exaggerate as usual, but it will do you no good in this situation.”
A sudden feeling of fire and brimstone harrowed Carl’s nervous system. Could he be the one to blame for the situation?
“Firstly, that analysis is utter nonsense, and secondly, you’re the ones with your sticky fingers on most of the special funding allocated for Department Q—don’t forget that, Lars Bjørn. So if we are closed down, it’s to save less than a quarter of what the judicial committee think we cost. That paper isn’t even worth wiping my ass with.” He waved it angrily. “Where do you have these figures from, Lars?”
The Scarred Woman Page 7
