The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Was your grandmother disabled, Denise?” she asked when they were sitting back together in the sitting room.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “There are grab rails on the wall and armrests on the toilet that go up and down. Did she have trouble walking?”

  “Her?! No, she was always on the move when she had the chance. They are from the former owners, I suppose.”

  “What about your granddad? He didn’t use them either?”

  “He was already dead when she moved out here. It was a long time ago and he was a lot older than her.”

  “Okay, but that doesn’t matter,” said Michelle. Was she thinking about the grab rails or the old man? It wasn’t always clear what she was thinking.

  “Who pays for the apartment?” asked Jazmine.

  Denise lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in the air.

  “The mortgage has been paid off already. All the other costs are simply deducted from her account. The probate court is taking care of the money, and there’s a lot of it. My grandfather had a shoe business with a monopoly selling some exclusive brands, but my grandmother sold most of the shit in one fell swoop when he died. I expect to inherit half when they’ve finalized her estate, and then we can find somewhere else to live. There’s no way I want to stay here. I hate this place.”

  “What about food and stuff?” asked Jazmine. “Michelle isn’t earning anything and if I don’t take a job I’ll lose my benefits.” She bit her cheek and took a cigarette from the table. “I’m ovulating this week so I’m considering getting myself knocked up.”

  Jazmine pulled out her smartphone, placed it on the table, opened her dating account, and pointed at a photo. “I’ve got a date with him tonight. At his place, actually. His wife is at a school reunion somewhere in darkest Jutland, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

  “Him?” Michelle gawped, and Jazmine could only agree, because he certainly wasn’t handsome. But as the man’s wife was pregnant, there was nothing wrong with his sperm.

  “I really don’t think you should do that.” For once, Michelle looked grown up. “What about in a year’s time?”

  Denise also looked critical.

  Jazmine looked at the smoke from her cigarette, but she never found an answer there. “What do you mean ‘in a year’s time’?” she asked.

  Denise put her cigarette butt in a vase of withered tulips standing in the middle of the table. “Okay, Jazmine. If you insist on using your body to have kids, why not earn a bomb doing it? It’s pathetic that you’re willing to settle for benefits while you’re pregnant. Find a couple who can’t have children. The way you look, which is bloody good by the way, you could easily earn a hundred and fifty thousand kroner under the table as a surrogate. Haven’t you considered that?”

  Jazmine nodded.

  “Well, then! Isn’t that a better solution?”

  “No, not for me. I don’t want to know anything about the kid. It’s just a piece of meat I hand over as far as I’m concerned, okay?”

  Jazmine could sense that Michelle was appalled. But what the hell did she know about how it felt if you looked the child in the eyes? Jazmine had tried that once, and there was no way she would do it again.

  “Okay, I get your point,” said Denise. “But then you should do what I do. Find a few sugar daddies. You can choose the guys yourself; there’s enough of them. They might be a bit on the older side, but they can be very generous. If you only sleep with each one once a month, you can easily earn five thousand out of them if you make an effort. One or two of those a week and you’ve got it made. Where do you think I get my money from? And it isn’t just when you’re twenty-eight, let me tell you. You’ve got years in you yet.”

  Michelle began to fiddle with her lace collar. She seemed uncomfortable at the way the conversation was developing. “That’s prostitution, Denise,” she said. “And what you’re doing, Jazmine! That’s even worse.”

  “Okay. But then I don’t know what you call the situation you had with Patrick,” said Denise. “What we saw at the hospital didn’t exactly look like love. But okay, Michelle, if you can come up with a better way to earn that kind of money, let me know. I’m up for anything.”

  “Anything?” asked Jazmine.

  “Just name it. As long as I don’t get fucked over. No pun intended.”

  Jazmine laughed and put out her cigarette. Time to put her to the test. “Even murder?”

  Michelle almost dropped the cup she was holding, but Denise just sat there grinning. “Murder! What do you mean?”

  She thought for a moment. “Kill someone. Someone who has a lot of money lying around at home.”

  “Ha-ha, you’re very creative, Jazmine. And who should we begin with? One of the fashion queens? Or an art dealer?” asked Denise.

  Maybe she was saying it for a laugh; Jazmine couldn’t figure it out.

  “I don’t know if people like that have cash lying around, but we could just start with Anne-Line.”

  “Christ! Of course,” blurted out Michelle excitedly. “I’ve heard she once won a couple of million, so she must have some cash lying around. But do we need to kill her? You’re just kidding, right?”

  “Are you telling me that Anne-Line has money? You wouldn’t think it to look at her.” Denise’s dimples showed in both cheeks. “Actually a rather creative suggestion, Jazmine. If we kill her, it will be two birds with one stone: most importantly the money but also that we get rid of her. Quite an interesting thought. Ha-ha, but not very realistic.”

  “Maybe we could settle for blackmailing her. That would be better in case her money is in the bank,” said Michelle. “If you and Jazmine tell her that you’re going to testify that you saw her when she tried to run me over, don’t you think she’ll cough up?”

  Jazmine and Denise looked at each other: They were impressed.

  19

  Monday, May 23rd, 2016

  Carl stood for a moment looking at the notice board in the situation room. It looked like Assad, Gordon, and Laursen had been busy, because it was full of information.

  Some of the information they had pinned to the board he hadn’t seen before. Photos of Rigmor Zimmermann’s body where it was found on the ground with the back of her head bashed in. A photo of a proud married couple and some employees in front of a shoe shop in Rødovre. Some journals from Hvidovre Hospital concerning several of Rigmor Zimmermann’s hospital admissions: surgical removal of the uterus, stitches to a minor lesion on her head, and the relocation of a dislocated shoulder.

  Then there was a map of the woman’s movements from Borgergade to where the body was found, a few photos of the bushes in the King’s Garden that Assad had taken with his smartphone, a fact list that increasingly conflicted with the investigation that had been carried out on the second floor, and Rigmor Zimmermann’s postmortem report. Finally, there was Fritzl Zimmermann’s death certificate and other more or less insignificant things that Carl didn’t think belonged there.

  All things considered, they were beginning to flesh out the Zimmermann case. But the problem was that they had no suspect in sight and the case was de facto not theirs and wouldn’t become theirs either. If they continued with this, he alone would bear the responsibility.

  Most of all he wanted to include Marcus Jacobsen in their discoveries. But didn’t he risk the retired head of homicide telling him to follow the chain of command? That he wouldn’t understand Carl’s attempt to get involved in his colleagues’ work up there on the second floor?

  “Are you going to report anything to Bjørn about our discoveries, Carl?” asked Tomas Laursen pertinently.

  Assad and Carl looked at each other. Carl nodded to Assad, indicating that he could answer. That took the heat off him for the time being.

  “Surely they have enough work on their hands up there with another case at the moment,” answered Assad
.

  It was good that Assad yielded on behalf of Department Q, but what was he talking about? What case?

  “Haven’t you read the newspaper today?” Assad said, preempting Carl’s question. “Bring it here, Gordon.”

  A pair of bony hands placed the newspaper on the desk. The lanky specter was beginning to look like a stick insect. Didn’t he eat anything?

  Carl scanned the front page. CONNECTION BETWEEN HIT-AND-RUN VICTIMS? read the headline, and beneath it were photos of the two women involved in the incidents over the past few days.

  Carl read the captions. Michelle Hansen, job seeker, 27 years old. Severely injured following a hit-and-run on May 20th. Senta Berger, job seeker, 28 years old. Killed in a hit-and-run on May 22nd.

  “The paper has made a connection between the two victims,” said Gordon eagerly. “Not surprising when you look closer.”

  Carl looked at the faces skeptically. Yes, they were born in the same year and were both good-looking, but so what? There were lots of hit-and-runs in Denmark today, where the drivers were too cowardly to take responsibility. Usually because they were under the influence of drugs or alcohol. To hell with that shit.

  “Just look at the earrings, Carl. They’re almost identical. And the blouse is the same, bought at H&M, only in two different colors,” continued Gordon.

  “Yeah, and they’re both made up like spitting images,” added Assad. His imagery was perhaps a little mixed up, but he was right. Even their makeup was similar; Carl could see that.

  “The rouge on the cheeks, the lipstick and eyebrows, and the well-cut hair with highlights,” continued Assad. “If I’d been with them at the same time, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference after five minutes.”

  Laursen nodded. “There are certainly similarities, buuuut . . .”

  Once again, Laursen and Carl were on the same wavelength. Coincidences like this were common enough.

  Carl smiled cheekily. “Okay, Assad. So you think that our colleagues up on the second floor are looking at the paper and connecting these two incidents?”

  “I know they are,” said Gordon. “I was upstairs asking Lis about something and she told me that they’ve already assigned a team to the case. A cyclist saw a red Peugeot tearing down the street where Michelle Hansen was hit, and a similar car was spotted parked with its motor running for over an hour on the street where the other girl was killed. Lars Bjørn has sent several teams out to the area to question people all day. I think Pasgård’s team was among them.”

  “Hallelujah,” said Assad.

  Carl looked at the front page of the newspaper again. “I can’t bloody believe that they’re prioritizing this! But regardless of what they’re running around doing today, I seriously doubt that it’ll bring homicide to a standstill. Uniform will take care of this until there is evidence of murder.” He turned to Laursen. “But Tomas. If you don’t say anything to Pasgård and his team who are investigating the Zimmermann case, then I think I can damn well forget it too.”

  Laursen patted Carl’s shoulder on his way out. “Then let’s hope you get there first, Carl.”

  “Sure. What could stop me?”

  He turned toward Assad and Gordon. There were several things in the case that needed clarification. Their assumption was that Rigmor Zimmermann had felt that someone was following her just before the murder and had therefore tried to hide. They also assumed that it might be because she had a bad habit of flashing her cash a bit too boldly and openly. The question remained how they could establish her movements from the daughter’s apartment to the scene of the crime. Had she gone in somewhere and opened her purse under the nose of someone she shouldn’t have? Or was it a coincidence that the killer had found both a victim and loot? But if the killer had just been a random person, why had she run? Had the person tried to attack her farther down the street? And was it even likely in a place where so many people walked and lived?

  There were a lot of unanswered questions even in this small area of the investigation, so Assad and Gordon would be kept busy visiting dozens of buildings, shops, and cafés.

  “Tell him what else you’ve been up to, Gordon,” Assad said with a grin.

  Carl turned to face the lad. What had he done now that he didn’t dare mention himself?

  Gordon took a deep breath. “I know we haven’t agreed on this, Carl, but I took a taxi to Stenløse.”

  Carl frowned. “To Stenløse! With your own money, I assume.”

  He didn’t answer. So he had had his fingers in the taxi vouchers.

  “Rose’s youngest sister has let me borrow all of Rose’s notebooks,” he said. “She met me at the apartment.”

  “I see. And of course Lise-Marie begged you on her knees to come and get them, is that it? Why didn’t she come down here with them herself if it was so important for her?”

  “It wasn’t quite like that.” Was he pretending to be embarrassed? That man could be so annoying. “It was actually my idea.”

  Carl felt his blood pressure rising, but just before he exploded, Assad jumped in.

  “Look, Carl. Gordon has organized all the information.”

  He placed Rose’s collection of notebooks and a sheet of letter-size paper on the desk.

  Carl looked at the piece of paper—a chronological collection of what were undoubtedly frightening phrases filled most of the page.

  It read:

  1990 SHUT UP

  1991 HATE YOU

  1992 BLOODY HATE YOU

  1993 BLOODY HATE YOU—I AM SCARED

  1994 SCARED

  1995 I CAN’T HEAR YOU

  1996 HELP MOM—BITCH

  1997 ALONE HELL

  1998 DIE

  1999 DIE—HELP ME

  2000 BLACK HELL

  2001 DARK

  2002 ONLY GREY—DON’T WANT TO THINK

  2003 DON’T WANT TO THINK—AM NOT

  2004 WHITE LIGHT

  2005 YELLOW LIGHT

  2006 I AM GOOD

  2007 DEAF

  2008 LAUGHTER STOPPED?

  2009 GET LOST, SHIT!

  2010 LEAVE ME ALONE

  2011 I AM OKAY, OKAY?

  2012 LOOK AT ME NOW, BASTARD!

  2013 I AM FREE

  2014 I AM FREE—IT ISN’T HAPPENING—AWAY

  2015 I’M DROWNING

  2016 I’M DROWNING NOW

  “These are the sentences that Rose has written in the notebooks.” Gordon pointed to the front covers: 1990 to 2016. They were all there.

  “As we already know, each notebook is filled with a phrase that is repeated over and over, and it’s these phrases that I’ve systematized on this sheet. In total, there are ninety-six pages of these phrases per notebook, with the exception of a few that Rose didn’t fill completely.”

  Gordon opened the notebook on the top of the pile, the one from 1990, where she had written over and over again: “SHUT UP SHUT UP.”

  “She started every new day by drawing a thin line under the first word,” he said. “So four lines on one page cover approximately four days, as you can see.”

  He pointed at a random page. It was just as he said; thin lines separated the days, and each day with the same number of phrases. Rose had obviously had a very systematic approach even as a ten-year-old.

  “I’ve counted the lines. There are in fact three hundred and sixty-five lines because she has also drawn a line under the first word of the last paragraph on the last day of the year.”

  “What about the leaping years?” asked Assad.

  “They’re called leap years,” Carl corrected him.

  He looked confused. “Leap years! That doesn’t make any sense,” he said dryly.

  “Anyway, it’s a good question, Assad,” said Gordon. “She had those covered too. In the seven leap years that there hav
e been since 1990, she inserted an extra day. She even drew a circle around the words written on the leap day.”

  “Of course she did. That’s our Rose,” grunted Carl.

  Gordon nodded. He seemed proud on Rose’s behalf, but then he was also her biggest fan and admirer. And all the feelings that came with that.

  “Why seven? Haven’t there only been six of those . . . leap years?”

  “Today is May 20th, Assad. We have had February. And 2016 is a leap year.”

  Assad looked at Carl as if he had been accused of being dim-witted. “I was actually thinking about the year 2000, Carl. Years divided by a hundred aren’t leap years; I know that much.”

  “True, Assad, but if the year can be divided by four hundred, then it is a leap year. Don’t you recall all the discussion there was about it back in 2000? It was repeated over and over.”

  “Okay.” He nodded, looking thoughtful rather than hurt. “Maybe it’s because I wasn’t in Denmark around that time.”

  “And people didn’t think about leap years where you were?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “And where were you?” asked Carl.

  Assad broke the eye contact between them. “Oh, you know, here and there.”

  Carl waited. That was obviously all he was going to get out of him this time.

  “Anyway, I chose to list what she has written down year for year,” interrupted Gordon. “And it says a lot about how she was feeling in those periods.”

  Carl skimmed over the page. “She doesn’t seem to have been well in 2000. Poor girl.” Then he pointed at 2002. “I can see that there are two different phrases in some of the years, and three in 2014. Why is that? Have you also figured that out, Gordon?”

  “Yes and no. I don’t know exactly why they change, but it’s possible to count the days and work out exactly when the phrases change, so we can assume that something significant must have happened in her life on those days.”