A quick search online and Anneli had found her. She was still living on the same side street off Amagerbrogade in a block of small apartments with plenty of pubs nearby. Anneli was sure that she could find her in one of these pubs, sprawled out on a barstool with a wall of cigarette smoke between her beer glass and the man next to her, whom she had probably roped into paying the bill.
Anneli had once turned up for a home visit with Bertha Lind only to find a locked door and nobody home. Having done the rounds of the local pubs, she eventually found her in Café Nordpolen, where they had a short argument about breaching agreements. Since then, Anneli had not gone out of her way to help her.
No, Bertha Lind was no paragon of virtue and no role model either. It was unlikely that she would get the same front-page coverage as the other more attractive victims.
The problem now, however, was that with all this newspaper coverage, the jack was out of the box, so to speak. She would have to reevaluate her plan. Bertha would have to wait for now.
—
When she finished work, she made a quick decision and cycled to Sydhavnen, where Jazmine lived.
She stood outside the red building for half an hour, sizing it up and observing the surroundings. When she killed Jazmine in a hit-and-run, it certainly couldn’t take place here. In part because Borgmester Christiansens Gade was far too busy, even at the end where it was closed off, and partly because there was a constant stream of people on the other side doing their shopping in Fakta or just hanging around in the square. So Anneli had to keep to her original plan to just keep an eye on the girl and then improvise later. At some time or other, one of Jazmine’s habits or vices would reveal a weak spot and inspire an idea of where the hit-and-run could take place.
She looked up at the third floor, where Jazmine had always been registered as living. According to the records, the only other person living there was her mother, Karen-Louise Jørgensen. Surely a woman who had had to put up with her fair share, what with all the pregnancies Jazmine had involved her in. But wasn’t Karen-Louise Jørgensen the one who had raised this little devil, and wasn’t she responsible for the way she had turned out? So there was no reason to feel sorry for her either.
But what if Jazmine didn’t live there anymore? What if like so many others she used her parents’ address while actually living with some guy or other who didn’t want to lose his government housing money? Maybe Anneli would be lucky and discover that Jazmine had moved to an address that was more remote.
She searched for the mother’s telephone number on her smartphone and pressed dial. After a short pause, she had contact.
“I’d like to talk with Jazmine,” she said, disguising her voice.
“Do you, now? And who might you be?” Her voice sounded very affected. A bit odd for this neighborhood.
“Uh, I’m her friend, Henriette.”
“Henriette? I’ve never heard Jazmine mention a Henriette. But you’re calling in vain, Henriette. Jazmine doesn’t live here anymore.”
Anneli nodded. So her intuition had been right.
“Really? That’s a shame. Where can I get ahold of her, then?”
“You are the second girl who’s asked for Jazmine today, but at least you speak Danish properly. Why are you asking? What do you want with her?”
It was a very direct question. What the hell did it have to do with her? Jazmine was a grown woman.
She could see Jazmine’s mother step forward, standing with her cell phone at the window. Wearing a dressing gown at this time of day. What a role model.
“I borrowed some money from Jazmine when I needed to buy some Christmas presents, and now that I finally have some money again I want to pay her back.”
“That sounds odd. Jazmine never has any money. How much?”
“Sorry?”
“How much do you owe her?”
“Two thousand two hundred,” she revealed.
It went silent for a moment at the other end. “Two thousand two hundred, you said?” came the response. “Listen, Henriette, Jazmine owes me a lot of money, so you can just give it to me.”
Anneli was taken aback. She was one determined bitch.
“Okay, I can do that. But I’ll need to call Jazmine first and tell her.”
She sounded disappointed. “You do that, then. Good-bye.”
No, no, no, you can’t hang up, that won’t help me one bit! Anneli screamed inside. “I live out in Vanløse,” she blurted out. “Isn’t it close by? Then I can tell her in person.”
“I have no idea if it’s close by. She has just moved to Stenløse, and I don’t know exactly where that is, just like I told the other person who called. I think Jazmine is still having her mail delivered here, so I’ll see her sooner or later, and then I can just tell her that you gave me the money.”
“Stenløse? Actually, yes, I think I heard something about that. On Lilletoftvej, right?” She had no idea if there was a road with that name in Stenløse, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“No, that’s not it. Of course, she didn’t tell me directly. Why would she? After all, I’m just her mother. But I overheard her speaking to someone on her cell. Something about sandals, as far as I could hear. But remember to give the money to me, okay? Don’t give it to her.”
—
When Anneli looked up “Sandal” and “Stenløse” on the Internet, all she found was a homeowners’ association in Sandalsparken, which, now that she was standing here, she realized was a huge area. Two long blocks containing approximately one hundred apartments. How on earth was she supposed to find out which one Jazmine lived in when she wasn’t registered as living there—unless she found her dancing along the walkways? It wouldn’t be a good idea to trudge around for hours on end until the early hours. Should she just call the bitch and come up with some excuse or other about a cheap TV package or something? The risk that she wouldn’t bite was significant, and it might sow the seed of suspicion.
She looked dejectedly at the first block of apartments. There were names on every buzzer, according to the rules of the association, but there were just so many. Then she thought she could just check the residents on the Internet instead but realized there was little chance that Jazmine would have changed her details online already. Of course, she could take each doorway in turn, checking the mailboxes one by one, but again, the chances that Jazmine had put her name on the mailbox were minimal.
Anneli sighed. She had an opportunity within her grasp, and that was better than nothing.
She began at entrance A, at one end of the first block of apartments, checking the names on the silver-colored mailboxes that hung in clusters in the hallway. And then just when she was about to give up—because this obviously wasn’t the sort of association where people simply stuck impromptu names on the mailboxes—she caught sight of a name in entrance B that made her heart skip a beat.
Two birds with one stone, she thought immediately.
Because there on the mailbox, written as per the rules of the association, was the name RIGMOR ZIMMERMANN.
A surname that, while it wasn’t Jazmine’s, was the surname of someone else high up on Anneli’s death list.
23
Tuesday, May 24th, 2016
Even outside her office, the scent was unmistakable. Sensual bygone days and months reached Carl’s nostrils, sending his mind into a state of alert. Why hadn’t he worn a smarter shirt? Why hadn’t he borrowed one of Morten’s vanilla-scented deodorants and given his armpits a quick wipe? Why hadn’t he . . . ?
“Hi, Carl. Hi, Assad,” came the voice that had once been able to bring him to his knees.
She was sitting in a room without a desk but with four armchairs, smiling at him through her red lips as if they had seen each other yesterday.
He nodded to her and Yrsa—that was all he could manage—and sat down with a lump in his throat so bi
g that it would be hard to utter a sound.
Mona was her usual self and yet different. Her body was still slender and desirable, but he saw her face in a new light, even though the differences were minimal. Her red lips were thinner, the small wrinkles above her top lip deeper, the skin on her face looser, but all in all more tempting to caress.
His Mona had aged. His Mona who had lived for years without him. What had time done to her?
He clung for one second to the short-lived but intense smile she sent him, and gasped for breath. Like a blow, he felt it inside, and it was almost physically painful.
Had she noticed his reaction? He certainly hoped not.
She turned to Rose’s sister, sitting in the armchair next to her.
“Yrsa and I have gone through Gordon Taylor’s list and the accompanying timeline of when Rose Knudsen changed the phrases in her mantra notebooks, as we might call them. Yrsa has a lot to add, judging from what I’ve already heard. Would you, Yrsa? I will support you along the way and add my own comments when necessary.”
The red-haired imitation of a character from a Tim Burton film nodded, seeming genuinely affected by the situation. Please excuse me if I start to cry, her eyes seemed to say. Then she took a deep breath and began.
“You’ll know a lot of this already, but I don’t know exactly what you know, so I’ll just sketch out the details. It’s quite strange, but this is actually the first time I’ve really considered exactly what Rose has written. The things Gordon has noticed make sense to me now.”
She placed the sheet with all the phrases in front of them. Carl knew them almost by heart.
“My dad started hounding Rose when I was seven years old, Vicky eight, Lise-Marie five, and Rose nine. I don’t know why, but it was as if something or other happened in 1989 that made him single her out. From 1990 to 1993, it became worse and worse. When Rose begins writing that she is ‘scared’ in 1993, it is about the time she begins isolating herself in her room. Actually, there was a time when she also locked the door, only opening up for me or my big sister Vicky. We’d bring her food because she had to eat something. We had to keep knocking and give her reassurances that Dad wasn’t standing outside before she’d open. She only ever left her room to go to school or the toilet, and the latter only if everyone else was asleep.”
“Can you give a few examples of the psychological terror your dad inflicted on Rose?” said Mona.
“Well, he did it in so many different ways. Rose could do no right in his eyes, and he put her down at every opportunity. Crushed her by calling her ugly, saying that no one in the whole world wanted her and that it would have been better if she’d never been born. That sort of thing. The rest of us blocked it out because we couldn’t stand hearing it. So I am afraid a lot of it is repressed now. We have discussed it, Lise-Marie, Vicky, and I, and we just don’t remember much at all. It’s really . . .” She swallowed a couple of times, suppressing her desire to cry, but her eyes gave away how sad she was that they had noticed so little of Rose’s misery.
“Go on, Yrsa,” said Mona.
“Okay. In ’95 you can see that Rose goes on the defensive. Can’t you sense it when she writes ‘I can’t hear you’?” She looked questioningly at them.
“So you think these phrases are a sort of internal conversation with your dad, and that it continued even after his death?” asked Carl.
Yrsa nodded. “Yes, without doubt. And Rose changes in ’95 from being a timid and scared Rose to one who dares to stand up for herself, and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s because of a new girl who started in her class in the middle of the previous year. As far as I can recall, her name was Karoline. A cool girl who listened to rap and hip-hop artists like 2Pac, Shaggy, and 8Ball while the rest of us girls were crazy about boy bands like Take That and Boyzone. She came from Vesterbro and refused to fit in, which rubbed off on Rose. Suddenly our sister was wearing the type of clothes that annoyed our dad most of all, and began covering her ears when he went for her.”
Carl saw it all too clearly. “And yet he didn’t hit her?”
“No, he was more sophisticated than that. He would forbid our mom from cleaning Rose’s room, or he’d punish her by stopping her allowance, or find all manner of ways to favor the rest of us.”
“And the rest of you thought that was okay?” asked Carl.
She shrugged her shoulders with an evasive air. “Back then, we thought Rose didn’t care. That she was fine in her own way.”
“What about your mom?” asked Assad.
Yrsa pursed her lips, sitting silently for half a minute before she was composed enough to continue. Her eyes searched about the room, avoiding direct eye contact with them, which continued for some time after she began speaking again.
“Our mom was always on our dad’s side. I mean, not seriously, but in the way that she would never contradict him or take Rose’s side. And when she finally did stand up for Rose this one time, he just directed his tyranny at her—that was the price for her rebellion. You can see it in 1996, where our mom gave up and started going after Rose just like our dad. In hindsight, she just followed in his wake.”
“Then that’s why Rose is screaming for help from your mom in that year’s notebook. But did she get that help?”
“Our mom moved out, leaving Rose almost defenseless. She has hated our mom for that ever since.”
“She writes ‘Bitch’ when your mom moves out.”
Yrsa confirmed with a nod, looking down at the floor.
Mona interrupted. “We can see that Rose was feeling worse from then on. And even though she did well in high school, the harassment only became worse and worse. In the end she didn’t dare do anything other than what her dad demanded. And when she was asked to pay full board and lodging for staying at home after graduating high school, she accepted an office job at the steel plant where her dad worked. Half a year later, he died in a tragic accident at the plant, and Rose was standing next to him when he was crushed by a steel slab. ‘Help me,’ she writes after that.”
“Why do you think she does that, Yrsa?”
She turned to face Carl, looking dead tired. Perhaps her and her sisters’ passive role had hit her in all its horror. She certainly couldn’t answer.
Again, it was Mona who came to her aid. “Yrsa has explained to me that she and her sisters didn’t know for certain because Rose moved away at that time. But there is no doubt that Rose was in permanent shock and suffering from depression of some sort. Sadly, she didn’t seek treatment, so her depression worsened. A sort of gloom and guilt that made her do the strangest things. She began going to pubs to pick up men. She slept with anyone. Had a series of one-night stands. And she adopted different personalities when she was with these men. She didn’t want to be herself anymore.”
“Suicidal thoughts?” asked Carl.
“Maybe not in the beginning, right, Yrsa?”
She shook her head. “No. She tried to escape from herself by dressing up like us. She pretended she was someone else, maybe because our dad hadn’t bullied us and we had actually had a fairly normal family life, which was thanks to Rose, because she always intervened and took the battles for us,” she said quietly. “It was worst at the millennium. On New Year’s Eve all four of us girls were together for once. We all had our partners with us, but Rose was alone and definitely not feeling well. It was just after we had sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ that Rose declared that she was fed up with everything and that this year would be her last. A few weeks later, at Lise-Marie’s birthday bash, we saw her playing with a pair of scissors as if she might cut her wrists with them.”
Yrsa sighed. “Back then it was only a threat, and not like last year when she was committed to the Nordvang psychiatric center having almost cut both her arteries.” She dried her eyes and regained her composure. “Anyway, we managed to persuade her to see a psychologist back then. In fact, that
was down to Lise-Marie, our youngest sister, who she has always been closest to.”
“Okay. I wonder if the psychologist from back then is someone who might be able to help us understand all this,” said Carl. “Do you remember the name, Yrsa?”
“The girls tried to talk with him, but he said he couldn’t due to patient confidentiality, Carl. Yrsa has told me who he is. I used to know him. Benito Dion was competent and actually taught us cognitive—”
“You said ‘was.’ Is he still alive?”
Mona shook her head. “And even if he was, he’d be over a hundred today.”
Damn it!
Carl took a deep breath and scanned the list of Rose’s phrases. “I can see that over the next few years, she slowly returns to a more normal state of mind—from ‘black hell’ to ‘dark’ and then to ‘grey.’ Then she implores herself not ‘to think’ and not to exist at all. ‘I don’t exist,’ she writes. But what happens in 2004, when there is suddenly a change in tone with ‘white light’? Do you know, Yrsa?”
“No, but I think Gordon figured that out. She started at the police academy and was doing really well and felt happy about everything until she failed the academy driving test.”
And yet she wasn’t entirely normal, thought Carl. Hadn’t he heard how her promiscuous behavior at the academy had become a burden? That she was legendary for being an easy lay?
“But she didn’t have a total relapse back to ‘hell’ when she was kicked out? She seemed more stable, right?” he asked.
“She found a good office job at Station City, don’t you remember?” said Assad, interrupting his train of thought. Carl had totally forgotten that he was there.
The Scarred Woman Page 19
