The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “I think we should help Michelle.”

  Michelle frowned again. Was she taking the piss? Was she now the butt of another joke?

  “Okay, we’ll do it. But what’s that got to do with the game?” asked Jazmine.

  “If Michelle goes along with my idea, you’ll be the one washing the dishes, Jazmine.” Denise turned to face Michelle. “As things stand now, you don’t contribute anything at all around here, do you, Michelle? I’m only talking about money, okay? So now you’re going to tell us how to get our hands on some, and whatever you say, we’ll do it.”

  Michelle was totally confused. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know how we can get ahold of any; otherwise I would’ve done it already. You know Patrick kicked me—”

  “Say anything, Michelle. You suggested we should rob Anne-Line Svendsen. So is that what we’re doing?”

  “No, that was just a—”

  “Are we going to Patrick’s apartment to steal everything we can lay our hands on?”

  Michelle took a deep breath. “Hell no, he’d know it was me.”

  “Then what, Michelle? I’m willing to do whatever you say—even if it’s really bad.”

  Jazmine laughed. She was obviously in. Michelle didn’t like it at all. What was she meant to come up with?

  “You mentioned before that Patrick steals from his boss. Maybe you could blackmail him,” suggested Jazmine.

  “No!” She shook her head. “I don’t dare. He’ll kill me if I do anything like that.”

  “What a jolly nice guy that Patrick must be. But what’s the name of the club where he works as a doorman, Michelle, and when is he there?” asked Jazmine.

  Michelle shook her head more and more violently. “He’s there on Wednesdays and Fridays, but what difference does it make? He won’t give me any money, if that’s what you think. And we can’t do anything to him because there are cameras and everything.”

  “I asked you what club.”

  “It’s not really a club, more of a venue really.”

  “What venue, Michelle?”

  “Victoria, out in Sydhavnen.”

  Jazmine sat back and lit another cigarette. “Victoria? Okay. I’ve been there loads of times to pick up guys. It’s a really good concept because they’re also open Monday to Thursday. Actually, they’re the only place that is apart from a few city clubs and gay bars. They make you buy something to drink, but as long as you buy a Zombie you can sip it for the rest of the night—unless some guy picks you up and pays for the rest of the evening. But how long has Patrick been working there? I don’t remember seeing him.”

  Michelle tried to remember. She wasn’t good at keeping track of time.

  “Never mind,” said Denise, brushing the question aside. “Tell us everything you know. What the entrance is like, and how you get to the office. When they open and close, and what it’s like on a Wednesday, for example. Are there many guests, and what are they like? Tell us everything we can find on the Internet and everything we can’t. And afterward you can fill us in with whatever else you know, Jazmine.”

  “Why do you need to know all that? Are you planning for us to rob the place?” She smiled. It was all just a joke, wasn’t it?

  But Denise and Jazmine sat silently just a little too long for comfort.

  21

  Tuesday, May 24th, 2016

  Carl and Hardy were worn out from Morten’s constant hysterics. How did you tell a guy who was forty kilos overweight and usually a happy-go-lucky sort that there comes a time when significant weight loss is the order of the day if you want to hold on to a body-building, muscle-bulging, testosterone-fueled, encyclopedically knowledgeable, and outstandingly charming lover? As everyone knows, all roads lead to Rome, but there are at least as many potholes in the unhappy and broken heart of an oversensitive man. No matter what Hardy and Carl thought of to distract Morten from his hurt pride, it was like sticking voodoo pins in his all-consuming jealousy and apparently incurable misery.

  So it was understandable when, following yet another night of Morten’s heartrending sobbing every ten minutes, Hardy finally broke.

  “I’m going out for a while,” he said at the crack of dawn. “Tell Morten that I’m going to have my wheelchair battery recharged and I won’t be back before dinner.”

  Carl nodded. Wise man.

  Carl was also feeling tired as he began his day, taking the spiral stairs at HQ up to the second floor to see if he could gather any new information on the Zimmermann case.

  When a new case with an investigative aspect ended up in homicide, you could sense it in the same irrational way as you could smell and feel the promise of snow in the air before it fell. Good colleagues lifted their heads slightly higher and straightened their backs, and their eyes became a little more alert. Although they had very little evidence to go on, the homicide unit almost collectively sensed that there might be a latent lunatic on the loose intent on killing people in hit-and-run attacks. Every hallway was buzzing with determination and a desire to make a difference, because if their hunch was right, a focused and skilled effort could save lives.

  “What the hell do you know that’s causing such a stir?” asked Carl when Bente Hansen passed him in the hallway. She had recently been appointed superintendent and was one of the few colleagues Carl respected.

  “That’s a good question, but you don’t look away when Terje Ploug has a hunch. He’s set up two interdepartmental teams to look for similarities between the two hit-and-runs, and they’ve already hit on a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “A red Peugeot was used in both incidents, model 106 we think—the slightly boxy one—and it might well be the same one that was used in both attacks. That the last attack was a deliberate act by the driver. That there were no skid marks in either case. That the residents in the area where the first incident happened think they saw a car that fits the description parked for some time on the street at some distance from the curb. That the victims looked and dressed alike, were the same age, and were both on benefits.”

  “Okay, but there are undeniably quite a few of that sort in Denmark today, and the shops sell the clothes they sell. Can you show me one household that doesn’t have some piece of clothing from H&M in its wardrobe?”

  She nodded. “Anyway, now they’re keeping an eye out for a red car like that. All patrol cars have to report if they spot an older model of a red Peugeot, especially if there are marks indicating that it might have been involved in a hit-and-run.”

  “So now there are ten people in homicide waiting for that?”

  Bente Hansen elbowed him in the stomach. “Always caustic and ironic, Carl Mørck. It’s a good thing that there are some people in this country who don’t change as the wind blows.”

  Was that a compliment?

  He smiled at her and set a course for the front desk, behind which Mrs. Sørensen’s grumpy face was just visible. Why was she sitting down, and why there?

  “Who can I talk to about the Zimmermann case apart from Pasgård?” he asked innocently.

  She demonstratively pushed a couple of pieces of paper to one side. “This isn’t exactly an information service for state employees who don’t want to follow the chain of command, is it, now, Carl Mørck?”

  “Is Gert on Pasgård’s team?”

  She raised her head a little, her bangs sticking to her forehead, and the beginning of a frown on her face revealing her lower teeth. Annoyance wasn’t enough to describe the state Carl assumed she was in.

  “What the hell do you want, Carl? Do you want me to spell it out, put it up in lights, carve it in marble, or weld it in huge letters? Follow the chain of command, okay?”

  This outburst made Carl realize what was really going on. Mrs. Sørensen was having hot flashes again, sitting with her feet in a basin of ice-cold water behind the desk. She was a drago
n on the loose, the witch of Bloksbjerg, and a pack of stampeding wild animals that were after blood, all at the same time. Pure poison.

  Carl backed away. From now on and until this menopausal hell was over, he would quietly find the easiest shortcut past the fury.

  “Hi, Janus!” he shouted when HQ’s head of communications came trudging out from the Walk of Fame dressed to impress. Apparently it was time for him and the head of homicide to coordinate their opinions on how to deal with the media theories about the victims of the hit-and-run driver.

  “Can you give me a quick breakdown of the developments in the Zimmermann case, Janus? There are some alarm bells ringing with us downstairs, so maybe—”

  “Talk to Pasgård; he’s in charge of that case.” He waved over to Mrs. Sørensen, who responded with a tired expression, which was perhaps meant to demonstrate some form of respect.

  Carl was again standing cap in hand when Lis came prancing out of Lars Bjørn’s office, gracefully holding the door for Janus Staal.

  “Do you know anything about the developments in the Zimmermann case, Lis?” he asked.

  She giggled. “And who might have told you that I’ve just taken the minutes? Pasgård is in with Bjørn just now.” She looked over at Mrs. Sørensen, who was waving her hands dismissively.

  “Lis, listen. We have a case that might be connected to that case, and you know how Pasgård and I feel about each other.”

  She nodded. “Let me tell you something, Carl. The investigation is going in different directions, and Pasgård is well aware that there was an attack some years back that might resemble the one on Rigmor Zimmermann. And in that connection, they’ve been in contact with Marcus Jacobsen, who told them that you and he had discussed the circumstances of both murders. And Pasgård is fuming about it. So if I were you, I’d make myself scarce and mind my own business before he comes out, any second.”

  Okay. He would have to take up the gauntlet on this one. Bloody annoying that they’d dragged Marcus into the case. It was a good thing he hadn’t kept Marcus informed about what they had discovered in the King’s Garden. He would have to keep his cards close from now on if he was going to avoid them stealing everything from him.

  Pasgård looked like he was ready to breathe fire when he opened the door. A split second later, when he saw Carl standing there with his arms crossed, he revealed his infamous lack of charm.

  “You! Keep your hands off my cases, you fool. You’d better believe that I’ll make your life hell, and you can count on a huge bollocking from Bjørn.”

  “But surely not as huge as your ego, Passy?” said Carl.

  Not only did he screw up his eyes, but his entire face—mouth, nose, and eyes—seemed to be clenched. Carl didn’t catch what Pasgård shouted at him at full force in the next moment, but it was enough for Bjørn to open his door.

  “I’ll handle this, Pasgård,” Bjørn said calmly, waving Carl into his office.

  The head of communications, who was already sitting at the desk, nodded at Carl as he sat down to receive a bigger than normal official reprimand.

  “Janus has informed me that there are some issues with our joint project, Carl,” Bjørn began.

  Carl looked confused. “Joint project”? What was this about now?

  “Carl, you need to understand that Olaf Borg-Pedersen reports to me. Public relations and the commissioner himself have chosen you to assist them in this project with Station 3, which we all hope will differentiate itself from the usual angle where everyone sympathizes with the criminals.”

  Carl sighed again.

  “You might well sigh, Carl, but starting tomorrow you’ll show a little more willingness with the TV crew, okay?”

  What the hell was he supposed to answer? Now things would seriously be messed up.

  “Hold on a minute. That TV crew wanted to shadow me during a questioning, and that’s where we draw the line.”

  The head of communications nodded. “Of course we do, but instead of just saying no, you need to offer them a constructive alternative, right, Mørck?”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Say to them: ‘No, you can’t come with me for this, but tomorrow we can do such and such.’ It gives them a little something, you know?”

  Carl sighed again.

  “We know that you’ve been sticking your nose in Pasgård’s work, Carl,” said Bjørn. “Why else would you have been seen standing with Tomas Laursen in the King’s Garden at the Zimmermann crime scene? But tell me, what did you find, Carl?”

  Carl was looking out the window. The view was the best thing about this office.

  “Out with it, Carl!”

  “Okay, okay.” He sighed again. “We found an explanation for the urine the technicians found on the victim, and we also think that the victim was being followed by the perpetrator.”

  “See what I told you, Janus?” said Bjørn.

  They nodded to each other and smiled. What the hell were they up to? Did they maybe actually want the case solved?

  —

  “We need to head up to Mona in ten minutes, Carl,” said Assad when Carl was back in his office. “Did you have any luck upstairs?”

  “Yeah, we’ve been unofficially chosen to stick our noses in the Zimmermann case because we’re the only ones who can put Station 3 in its place. Turns out Station 3 requested to follow that case and Pasgård is the last person they want in front of a camera. Everyone would hate the police by the time he was finished.”

  Assad’s jaw dropped.

  “They also think you’ve gained a status as our ethnic wonderboy over the years and believe it’s time we showed off our diverseness.”

  “You mean ‘diversity,’ don’t you, Carl?”

  Now it was Carl’s jaw that fell victim to gravity. Diversity? Was that the way you said it?

  “Well then, we should just do what they say, Carl. My charm will see us through.” Assad laughed for a moment before scrutinizing Carl’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Hell no, Assad. I don’t want those idiots following us around for the next two weeks.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was thinking about how we’re meeting with Mona now.”

  “We’re what?”

  “I thought you didn’t hear what I said. Mona is waiting for us. And Rose’s sister Yrsa is with her up in the office. The other two sisters were at work.”

  22

  Tuesday, May 24th, 2016

  The newspaper stand outside the kiosk on Vesterbro Torv was conspicuous. Not only did the morning and afternoon papers mention the hit-and-run incidents, but the tabloid DK had really gone to town in reporting the top story of the day concerning the female victims. They didn’t leave anything to the imagination about what their focus was. It was pure drama.

  They had all used the same photos of Michelle Hansen and Senta Berger, but in a very misleading way. Readers were presented with the news of uncannily similar attacks on two young, healthy women that had resulted in an outpouring of emotion and outrage.

  Job seekers was written under their names again. Anneli snorted. Nothing could be further from the truth. The reality was that they were a couple of scrounging slime bags whom no one should give a second thought. And it infuriated Anneli that she had helped them achieve the unmerited fame that they had always thought they were entitled to.

  Why couldn’t they just call a spade a spade? Write that the girls were leeches, scroungers, and bloodsuckers of the worst sort? Parasites that should just be trampled underfoot and forgotten about. Why didn’t journalists do some research on the people they were writing about and what they stood for before churning out this rubbish about how charming and popular they were?

  They weren’t bloody popular. Certainly not with her, so who were they popular with?

  Since returning from her radiation therapy, sh
e had just been sitting behind her desk, thinking the same thing over and over. What if Jazmine or Michelle had seen the newsstands or the front pages of the bloody newspapers and decided to talk to the police? She tried to imagine the situation where a couple of investigators suddenly turned up to have a word with her. But hadn’t her confrontation with Jazmine yesterday proved that she could cope with the pressure? She thought it had. If the police came down on her, she would just say that she didn’t know anything about it and that she would be as shocked as anyone if it turned out that the attacks really were planned. And then she would remember to say that this was particularly difficult for her because she knew both the girls. That although it had been a few years since she had last seen Senta Berger, she was a nice girl who hadn’t deserved to die like this.

  Anneli laughed at the thought, covering her mouth so they wouldn’t hear her in the hallway. Someone might ask what was so funny—there wasn’t exactly much to laugh about in this department.

  —

  Anneli considered her next move, trying to forget the horrible feeling that they could suddenly be closing in on her and her crimes.

  She had considered killing her next victim this evening and already knew who it should be. She wasn’t a pretty girl, which was a clever move considering the newspaper description of the other two girls’ beautiful looks. Her new victim had steadily and stubbornly changed over the years from a demanding girl with too high an opinion of herself to an unpleasant, overweight brat with bad manners and a fashion sense that even girls in the former USSR would have turned their noses up at.

  She called herself Roberta in an attempt to hide her real name, Bertha. And she was one of Anneli’s many aversions, having bled more money out of the system than anyone else in her time as a caseworker. The number of boots she had asked to have money to replace over the years because they had split on account of her fat calves. Her gifted ability to ignore warnings, fobbing it off as forgetfulness. Not a single plan to get her back to work had resulted in anything other than excuses. And she had taken sanctions and reduced benefits on the chin, borrowing money all over the place when she could find someone who would help her out. The result was that she had managed to incur painful debts of more than one and a half million kroner when Anneli had applied for a transfer. That was four years ago, so it wouldn’t come as any surprise if the debt had more than doubled in size since then.