The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

That was that sorted. Case closed.

  “Shut up, Michelle. I know full well what the difference is between theft, a simple robbery, and armed robbery. But nothing is going to go wrong if you just do what we say. So shut up with all your crap.”

  Michelle’s eyes looked like a mess of ash-grey, the color smeared on her eyelids, lashes, and even under her eyes. If anything, she resembled a silent film star suffering from TB. If she planned to go out like this tonight, she would definitely get attention.

  “You’ve told us everything you know about the place. What the manager’s office looks like, where they keep the money for admission and drinks throughout the night, and how to get to the office. We’ll be careful, Michelle, don’t worry. We’ll wait until the coast is clear and be quick. Yes, it’s theft, but no more than that.”

  “But what if someone comes? What’ll you do then?”

  “We’ll threaten them, of course.”

  “But then it’s a robbery.” She pointed at the iPad. “Look! It says on Wikipedia that you can get up to six years for robbery. Six years! Then we’ll suddenly be in our midthirties and our lives will be as good as over.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read on Wikipedia, Michelle!” Jazmine took the iPad from her and looked at the page. “We’ve got no priors, so it won’t be that bad.”

  “Yes, but look further down.” Michelle was almost shaking. This didn’t bode well for tonight. Jazmine looked at Denise. “I saw the way you pummeled that brickie to the ground, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you did something like that again. That changes everything, Denise. Then we can get up to ten years.”

  Denise grabbed Michelle’s arm. “Relax, Michelle. Nothing has happened. What’s any of that got to do with you? Nothing! You just have to chat with Patrick while we do the dirty work, okay?”

  Michelle looked away. “Are you telling me that if anything goes wrong, you’ll take all the blame?”

  “Of course. What else?” Denise looked at Jazmine. She just had to nod.

  And she did.

  “Good, then we’re agreed. And now we need to find some treasure in the apartment.”

  “Treasure?” Michelle didn’t follow.

  “My grandfather had a pistol, and I am sure my grandmother has kept it. I just don’t know where. I think it must be somewhere in the apartment.”

  —

  When it came to it, Denise didn’t know her grandmother’s apartment very well. The few times she and her mother had been invited there, the sitting rooms had always been full of her grandmother’s friends chattering away, but always with their eyes peeled, making it impossible to snoop around. But now that the wardrobes were unattended, Denise took the opportunity to rummage through piles of frumpy skirt suits and cardigans from a bygone age.

  “Throw all that junk on the floor and we can bag it up later,” she said. “We can sell it to secondhand shops in Østerbro if they’ll take it.” She sounded doubtful.

  “I think it’s disgusting rummaging through people’s old clothes. They smell of moth balls, and I’ve heard they’re unhealthy for the skin,” said Michelle.

  Unlike her, Jazmine seemed to relish the job at hand. Shoe boxes, hats, underwear, boxes of tissue paper, torn nylon stockings, and garters of all sizes flew out of the wardrobes. Jazmine was hunting for treasure, and everything else was junk.

  They looked under the beds, checked in sewing boxes, pulled out drawers, moved furniture, and when they had been through all the rooms, they sat down and looked around. What had before resembled the home of an elderly woman was now revealed as the site of shameless hoarding by a woman who had long lost any sense of reality. “Why do old people have so much worthless crap?” said Jazmine dryly.

  Denise was annoyed. Could her grandmother really have parted with her grandfather’s belongings? The photos from the war, the pistol, the medals and military badges? And if she had, what could they use as a threat if they were caught red-handed with the loot? The situation looked bleak. She had at least expected to find a box of jewelry, stocks and bonds, or some cash in a plastic bag from the days when her grandmother jetted about on package holidays with her decrepit husband. But all they had found was crap, as Jazmine put it.

  “That’s the only place left to look,” said Michelle, pointing at the balcony, which resembled a junkyard full of pots and plants still in their wrapping, and garden furniture waiting for warmer days that their owner would never enjoy. A few years ago, sliding glass partitions had been installed on the balcony with the intent of being opened once in a while. Now they were so dirty that you could hardly see out of them.

  “Allow me,” said Jazmine.

  Denise looked at her with growing admiration. Compared to Michelle, she looked slight and delicate. But if anyone could match Denise’s resolve, it was Jazmine.

  A moment later, she was out on the balcony. The sound of clattering and banging, accompanied by exclamations that were anything but feminine, told them that she was hard at work.

  “I think what we’re doing is wrong,” said Michelle.

  Then sod off home back to Patrick, thought Denise. If only she would shut up. While Denise had to admit that it was due to Michelle that they had joined forces, she now seemed extraneous.

  Once they had robbed the bloody nightclub, she and Jazmine would have to discuss Michelle’s role.

  They heard a sigh from the balcony and saw Jazmine get up from the floor with her hair tangled and lipstick smeared on her cheek.

  “Come out here and help me,” she said.

  —

  All the things were hidden in a heavy, rectangular, sun-bleached haybox, covered by women’s magazines from the eighties.

  They knelt down around the box to look at what Jazmine had found. Denise had never seen the box before but knew what it must contain.

  “This stuff is really old,” said Jazmine, pulling out piles of Neues Volk, Der Stürmer, Signal, and Das Schwarze Korps from the box. “Isn’t this Nazi stuff? Why would anyone keep stuff like this?”

  “Because my grandfather was a Nazi,” answered Denise. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone outside the family since she had blurted it out to a teacher when she was ten and received a couple of slaps to the face, against all regulations. Strangely enough, it didn’t mean anything to her now. The dust had settled and now she was in charge of the legacy.

  “What about your grandmother?” asked Michelle.

  “What about her? I guess she was—”

  “Ewww, what’s this?” said Jazmine, dropping a couple of photographs on the floor, which made Michelle jump.

  “God, they’re horrible. Let’s not look at those,” Michelle moaned.

  “That’s my grandfather,” said Denise, pointing at a photo where he was placing a noose around the neck of a young woman who was standing on a stool. “Nice guy, right?”

  “I don’t like it, Denise. I don’t like being here knowing that that sort of people have lived here.”

  “We live here, Michelle. Get a grip.”

  “I don’t know if I can go through with tonight. It just seems so scary. Do we have to do it?”

  Denise looked at her angrily. “What else do you propose? Do you expect me and Jazmine to provide for you? Do you think we enjoy doing what we do just to keep you fed? Would you spread your legs for our sake, Michelle?”

  She shook her head. Of course she wouldn’t. The little Goody Two-shoes.

  “Here’s a flag,” said Jazmine. “Bloody hell, Denise. It’s a Nazi flag.”

  “What?” asked Michelle.

  “There’s something heavy wrapped in it.”

  Denise nodded. “Allow me.”

  She carefully unfolded the flag on the sitting room floor, exposing a hand grenade with a wooden handle, an empty magazine and a whole box of cartridges, and a greasy pistol wrapped in fabric.


  “Look,” said Jazmine.

  She held up a piece of cardboard with drawings of the pistol they had just unpacked and with “Parabellum 08” written on it.

  Denise looked attentively at the drawing, which had a cross-sectional view and instructions, and held out the empty magazine with room for seven cartridges in front of her. She weighed it in her hand and pushed it up into the butt of the pistol. There was a satisfying click, and suddenly she could feel that the weapon had the right balance.

  “This is the same pistol that he’s using there,” she said, pointing to a photo of her grandfather executing a prisoner with a shot to the back of the head.

  “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” said Michelle. “You’re not bringing that thing with you.”

  “There aren’t any cartridges in it, Michelle. It’s just to scare people.”

  “Look!” said Jazmine, pointing at a device on the top left side of the pistol. “The drawing refers to it as a Sicherung, so if we want to fool anyone, Denise, we’ll have to click it up.”

  Denise found the safety and flicked it up and down. When it was down the word “Gesichert” could be seen engraved in the metal. It was so simple and cool. She weighed it in her hand once more. It felt exactly right—as if she were on top of the world and could decide everything.

  “It’s a real pistol, Denise,” said Michelle sulkily. “They come down hard on you if you threaten someone with one of those, so we aren’t taking it with us, are we?”

  But they did.

  —

  Michelle was silent in the taxi, clenching her handbag against her chest. It was only when they were dropped off a few hundred meters from the closed-down factory building where the Victoria nightclub was located that she finally revealed her state of mind.

  “I just feel so lousy. I don’t understand what we’re doing. Why don’t we just go home again before it’s too late?”

  Neither Jazmine nor Denise answered. They had gone over this already, so what did she think?

  Denise looked at Jazmine. The lipstick, fake eyelashes, huge black eyebrows, dyed hair, masses of eyeliner, and just as much foundation made it almost impossible to see who was underneath. It was an efficient disguise created with the minimum of resources.

  “Goddamn it, you look cool, Jazmine. How about me?” Denise turned her face up toward a streetlight.

  “Perfect. Stunning, like an eighties film star.”

  They laughed while Michelle pointed at Denise’s handbag.

  “Are you absolutely sure that the pistol isn’t loaded? Because if it is and things go wrong, it’ll cost another four years in jail. At least!”

  “Of course it isn’t. You saw yourself that the magazine was empty,” answered Denise, straightening the scarf around her neck and observing the traffic on Sydhavnsgade. If it stayed as busy as it was now, it would take only a few minutes after it was all over before they were sitting in a taxi again.

  “I know I’ve told you that Patrick and the others usually don’t frisk girls, but I don’t like this. I really don’t like this . . . ,” repeated Michelle over the next fifty meters. If only she’d swallow her tongue. That chickenshit!

  When they turned the corner, they followed the crowd to the entrance. The mood was high and many people were laughing. The pre-parties had done their job.

  “I think we’re the bloody oldest people here,” sighed Jazmine.

  Denise nodded. In the flickering light from the streetlamps, many of them looked only just old enough to drink and get past Patrick.

  “It can only be to our advantage if Patrick is going to be busy checking IDs,” said Denise. She turned to Michelle. “I hope you’re right that he won’t recognize us from the hospital.”

  “If only you could see yourselves. You’re not easy to recognize. But if I’m wrong, we’ll just leave again, okay?”

  Jazmine sighed. “We’ve gone over this a hundred times, Michelle. Of course we will. We’re not stupid!”

  “Okay, sorry. Anyway, Patrick is actually fairly nearsighted, but he won’t admit it, so I’ve never seen him with glasses. If you pull your neck scarves up a bit to reveal your cleavages like we discussed, he probably won’t notice anything else.” She considered what she had said for a moment. “The bastard,” she added.

  Jazmine looked at her watch. “It’s only twelve, Michelle. Do you even think there’s any money in the cashbox at this time?”

  She nodded. “It’s Wednesday, and most people have to get up early tomorrow, so the doors opened at eleven.”

  She pointed at the security cameras. In a few seconds they would be visible on the screen.

  Over at the entrance, Patrick was already in full swing, looking slightly threatening like the bulwark against unwanted guests he was employed to be. His tattoos were visible on his bare forearms, and his sleeves were rolled up to his biceps, displaying what you would have to contend with if you were after trouble. Not to mention the black gloves and boots no one in their right mind would want to be on the receiving end of.

  This image of a completely indifferent bouncer-robot admitted the guests one by one, frisked a few of the men, refused to let people in with plastic bags, and now and then demanded to see someone’s ID. Those he knew were waved in without further ado. There was no doubt who was in charge.

  “Wait!” Michelle grabbed Denise’s arm. “I think we have some help,” she whispered, and pointed over to a group of determined guys crossing the road, who looked like they might be immigrants. Maybe one of them was old enough to gain entry, but not the others. Early beard growth rarely disguised immaturity in Denise’s experience, and no doubt in Patrick’s too.

  It was clear that he had already spotted the problem the way he instinctively took a step forward and pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket to speak to one of his colleagues.

  “This is it,” whispered Michelle. “Walk behind me.”

  “Hi, Patrick,” she said clearly and loudly, as if she had overcome the worst of her nerves.

  An obvious look of confusion spread over Patrick’s otherwise determined face. Two totally different problems were obviously more than he was used to handling at once, which allowed Jazmine and Denise to walk straight past him.

  A few steps and they were inside, while Michelle remained outside to distract Patrick.

  The room was grey and raw. It was impossible to say what it had formerly been used for because now it just resembled a dirty storeroom with bare concrete walls. Where there had once been doors, there were now just openings. The banisters had been removed and replaced with shutter boards. The fixtures and fittings—and anything else of any value—had been removed.

  The whole sorry place will be demolished within a year, thought Denise. An era was coming to an end in Sydhavnen for all the small private businesses. It had simply become too expensive because of its proximity to the docks and the refreshing breeze over the harbor area.

  They paid the entrance fee and pushed past people dancing in an attempt to cross the dance floor. A lot of guys looked their way, but tonight their minds were on something altogether different.

  The DJ was already going crazy, and the mass of people and concrete floor appeared to be burning up under the laser-light show. The blasting volume was enough to render any meaningful communication impossible, so Denise just pushed through the crowd in Jazmine’s slipstream.

  Jazmine had said that a few years back she had been up in the office with the acting manager, who had been more than willing to accept her offer of a sexual encounter.

  She later heard that he had ended up in his grave due to an excess use of methamphetamine and cocaine, so it was a good thing she didn’t get pregnant by him like she’d intended. It would probably have damaged the embryo, she thought. And deformed children were harder to get rid of, so who would take the risk?

  They reached the other side of th
e dance floor and entered an icy-cold corridor lit by fluorescent lighting at least ten feet above them on the ceiling. And then they were stopped.

  The security guard, who in stature was a clone of Patrick, barred their path and asked what they were doing there, much as they had anticipated he would.

  “Hi, mate! Lucky we found you.” Denise pointed at his walkie-talkie. “Didn’t you hear that Patrick needs help out there? There’s some bother with a group of immigrant guys.”

  He looked skeptical, but the serious expression on Denise’s face made him reach down for his walkie-talkie anyway.

  “Get a move on, big guy!” shouted Jazmine. “Do you really think he’s got time to chat on the phone just now?”

  He put his overly pumped body in motion and set off.

  Jazmine nodded toward a metal staircase at the end of the corridor.

  “Just now there’s at least one person in the office watching the security cameras, so there’s no doubt that we’ve been spotted,” said Jazmine. She indicated with her head toward the ceiling. “Don’t look up, but there’s a camera there. I waved at it last time I was here.”

  Denise held on to the iron banister, and, copying Jazmine, she pulled her neck scarf up around her lower face.

  As they opened the door to the office, they were hit by a wall of sound. A couple was standing making out by the far wall, the woman with her hands all over the man without the faintest hint of shame.

  Denise looked around quickly and then moved with the stealth of a cat over to the couple. The row of monitors on the side wall looked like flickering wallpaper, and one of them clearly showed that the situation at the entrance was already under control. Right there in the middle of the screen stood Michelle with a guilty expression next to her ex-boyfriend while he divided his professionally threatening attention between her and the constant stream of arriving guests.

  Despite a minor scrap, it appeared that Michelle was managing to play her part, thank God.

  Now the monitors revealed that the guard they had encountered before had reached the entrance. He shouted something to Patrick, who shook his head in confusion and pointed at another security guy standing nearby.