The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  The guy looked frustrated. He would soon be back at his post in the corridor, presumably to try to prevent his boss from being disturbed.

  “Open the safe!” shouted Denise suddenly into the ear of the lovesick man, causing both him and the woman he was kissing to jump in the air, with the unfortunate result that she bit his tongue. He spun around fuming, the blood running from the corners of his mouth.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He seemed to be hissing inarticulately as he lunged in vain to grab the neck scarf covering Denise’s lower face.

  “Did you hear what I said?!” she demanded. “Now!”

  The girl behind him was laughing hysterically but stopped immediately when Denise pointed a black pistol at the face of her guy and made a point of releasing the safety.

  “Unlock the safe and my helper will take the money. We’ll tie you up before leaving, so if you do as you’re told you’ll survive,” she finished, smiling behind her perfect disguise.

  —

  Five minutes later they were standing in the corridor again with their neck scarves down around their necks and the bag so full of bills that it made all this worthwhile.

  The guard, who was back at his designated spot, must have known something was up, but Denise remained cool.

  “Your boss told me to tell you that you’re one hell of a guy. Did you manage to help Patrick?”

  He looked confused but still nodded.

  When they arrived back at the entrance, Patrick and Michelle had stopped bickering. One look between Denise and Michelle and the message was clear. Michelle could wrap things up.

  “You’re right, Patrick,” said Michelle ingratiatingly while Jazmine and Denise slipped behind her and out toward the road. “I’ll pop by tomorrow and give you the rest of the money, all right, honey?” she cooed.

  The three of them had agreed to meet in the alleyway between Victoria and the next building. Denise and Jazmine waited ten meters down the alleyway in the gloomy, hazy light and the stench of piss.

  Relieved, Denise leaned the back of her head against the concrete wall, which was vibrating from the beat of the music. “That was fucking crazy!” she gasped with her blood pumping full of adrenaline. Not even scoring her first sugar daddy and lying in bed with a strange man had given her this rush.

  She put her hand to her chest. “Is your heart pounding like crazy too, Jazmine?” she asked.

  Her friend replied with an ecstatic grin on her face: “Fuck yeah! I think I pissed my pants when he lunged for your scarf.”

  “God, yeah, that could easily have gone wrong, but it didn’t, Jazmine,” she said, laughing. “Did you see his face when I released the safety on the pistol? Fuck, he looked stupid. And now they’re lying up there with duct tape all over their faces with their hands and feet tied, trying to figure out what the hell just hit them.” She held her stomach. The whole operation had taken five minutes.

  It couldn’t get better than this.

  “How much do you think we got, Jazmine?” she asked.

  “No idea, but I totally emptied the safe. Thousands, I think. Wanna check?”

  She stuck her hand down in the bag and pulled out a handful of crumpled notes. Most of them were two-hundred-kroner notes, but there were also five-hundred- and one-thousand-kroner notes.

  Jazmine laughed. “Fuck! I think there’s over a hundred thousand. Look!”

  Denise shushed her. In between the buildings out toward the road, a sharp black silhouette appeared against the background of the streetlight. Someone had spotted them, and it was someone who was both slimmer and shorter than Michelle.

  “What the fuck are you bitches up to?” shouted a voice with an accent as a female figure stepped toward them.

  Denise had seen her before. It was Birna.

  Jazmine gasped for air and Denise could understand why, because Jazmine had not had the composure to put the money back in the bag and was standing there fully exposed, a criminal caught red-handed.

  Birna’s eyes were glued to the money.

  “That’s not your money, is it, now?” she said threateningly, taking a single step forward. “You can just hand it over now. Now!” she said, gesturing with her hand that she meant business.

  Does she think I’m stupid? thought Denise, provocatively putting one hand behind her ear. “Sorry, I can’t really hear you through all the noise. What are you saying, punk?”

  “Is this bitch hard of hearing, Jazmine?” said the punk. “Or do you think she’s trying to provoke me?” She turned toward Denise. “Bloody hell, you two look more like me than I do myself with all that coal around your eyes. Are you trying to make sure no one knows who you are?” She smiled sarcastically. “But now I know, so if you don’t want any trouble, just hand it over.” She pointed at Denise. “Listen up, bitch, if you give me any cheek again, you’ll regret it. Hand over the money.”

  Denise shook her head. This was definitely not part of the plan. “I don’t know what it is you think you know, but don’t be a fool, Birna. Isn’t that your name?” Denise put her hand in her pocket. “Haven’t I told you to stay away from us?”

  The smile on the punk’s face vanished in a split second. “Okay, if that’s how you want to play. It’s your funeral.” She turned toward Jazmine. “Come on, Jazmine, you know me. Tell that cunt that she’d better show me some respect.” Then she slowly and calmly produced a switchblade from her pocket and released it. “Otherwise she’ll regret it. Tell her, Jazmine.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but stepped up to Denise and waved the blade directly at her abdomen. The blade was sharp and double-edged and Denise quickly realized that it would sink in deeply without any resistance if she carried out her threat.

  “What are you even doing here, Birna? You’re not the clubbing type, are you?” asked Denise coldly without taking her eyes off the knife.

  “What do you mean, shit face? This is our patch and we rule here. Jazmine knows that, don’t you, Tinker Bell?”

  Denise looked up toward the road. Was Birna expecting reinforcements from her gang? Hell no. The punk was all alone. And Denise would be damned if she was going to put up with her threats. They had planned and executed everything to the letter, and there was no way an ugly genderless nobody was going to ruin it now.

  “I’m sorry, but this doesn’t appear to be your day, Birna,” she said, slowly pulling the pistol out of her pocket. “If you want to save your sorry life, I’ll give you a thousand kroner here and now, and then you need to beat it. And if you so much as utter one word to anyone, I’ll come and find you, okay?”

  The punk drew back against the wall, weighing up what it was Denise was holding in her hand. Then she smiled and raised her head as if she had figured out that there was no way whatever it was could pose a real threat.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” sounded a horrified voice from the top of the alley. It was Michelle, innocent and out of place with her handbag over her shoulder.

  “Nice! Is she also in on it? You fucking surprise me,” the punk said with a laugh. And then without warning she lunged toward Denise with a roar, pointing the knife directly at her.

  “I’ll shoot,” Denise tried to warn her, but it didn’t stop Birna. And instinctively, Denise pulled the trigger, as if that would help.

  The bang, which echoed between the concrete walls and resulted in a cloud of residue and a hole the size of a coin in the Icelandic girl’s chest, was drowned in the noise from the club even before the punk had collapsed.

  Denise stood with her hand pointing up from the recoil. She didn’t understand. Had there been a cartridge in the magazine, and why hadn’t she checked? She could have looked at the drawing to see how it all worked.

  Jazmine and Denise stood gobsmacked, looking at the motionless body and the blood seeping out onto the dry asphalt.

  “What the hell is going on? You said
it wasn’t loaded, Denise!” sobbed Michelle in horror, staggering toward them.

  “We need to get out of here!” shouted Jazmine.

  Denise tried to shake off the shock. This was bad, really bad. The hole in the wall, the blood on her shoes, the smoking pistol in her hand, and the girl who was still breathing while the blood was flowing out from under her armpit.

  “The bullet went straight through her,” she stammered.

  “Come on! Can’t you see she’s still breathing? We have to drag her out onto the sidewalk or she’ll just bleed to death,” pleaded Michelle.

  Denise put the pistol back in the bag mechanically and bent down to grab one of Birna’s feet while Jazmine grabbed the other. Then they dragged her up to the end of the alleyway so that the streetlight just hit her legs.

  They didn’t look back over their shoulders as they disappeared up toward Sydhavnsgade.

  The last thing Michelle said before they got into the taxi was that the whole thing was terrible, and that the queasy feeling in her stomach made her feel like she was going to be sick. That everything was spinning in her head and that she even thought she had caught a glimpse of Anne-Line.

  26

  Wednesday, May 25th, 2016

  It’s more the rule than the exception, thought Carl.

  The sheet underneath him had come off the mattress. The pillow was on the floor. Everything that had been on his nightstand had been knocked off. He had been sleeping badly for a long time now, and last night was Mona’s fault.

  She just wouldn’t disappear from his head. Not least the meeting with her at HQ, and the visible changes in her appearance had hit a nerve with him. The soft, loose skin around her neck and mouth. The way her hips had become broader. The visible veins on the backs of her hands. All this had aroused him and kept him awake. This was about the tenth time she had caused him to break down, and despite his repeated attempts, he just couldn’t get her out of his mind. He had had short-lived affairs with women he had met in bars and cafés, at conferences and training courses. Even monthlong attempts at more serious relationships. But all of these experiences had been meaningless as soon as he thought about Mona.

  He thought over and over about what she thought of him. He would have to find out once and for all.

  —

  “I found more of Jesper’s stuff in the basement. Can I put it up in the attic?” asked Morten while he was feeding Hardy at the breakfast table.

  Carl nodded, but inside he was shaking his head. Despite his pleas, his stepson still had a pile of shit down there. The guy had turned twenty-five a couple of months ago. He had graduated high school and was now nearing the end of his business degree. So what the hell was wrong with wanting to know how old your kids should be before you could expect them to really move out?

  “Have you found anything to link the Zimmermann case and the murder of Stephanie Gundersen, Carl?” said Hardy, slurping.

  “We’re working on it,” he answered, “but Rose’s case and condition are taking up a lot of our energy just now. It seems we’ve become quite attached. You often only realize things like that when disaster has struck.”

  “That’s true. I just thought it was important for you to solve those cases before Pasgård.”

  Carl allowed himself to smile. “As long as Pasgård is wasting energy looking for a man who pissed on the body, we can take it easy.”

  “If you ask me, you need to start making some headway, Carl. Marcus Jacobsen called yesterday to ask how far you’ve come. He’s betting on both teams, you should understand. Solving the Stephanie case is all that matters to him just now.”

  “That’s the thing, Hardy. Isn’t it just a little bit too critical for him? I can’t get that thought out of my mind.”

  Hardy thought for a moment, whispering to himself. He always did this when he was unsure about something. The quiet argument for and against. “You know what? I think you should call Rigmor Zimmermann’s daughter,” said Hardy. “You mentioned that Rigmor had withdrawn ten thousand kroner before she was murdered. I think Birgit Zimmermann can shed a bit more light on what the victim wanted with so much money. Catch her off guard this morning. As I understand from Marcus, she doesn’t hold back from visiting the bars every night these days.”

  “Where does Marcus know that from?”

  Hardy smiled. “Even an old circus horse needs a shot in the ring once in a while!”

  Was he talking about himself now? Anything else would be weird.

  Carl gave him a pat on the shoulder. Not that the paralyzed man could feel it, but all the same.

  “Ow! That hurt,” said Hardy unexpectedly.

  Carl froze and Hardy looked shocked.

  It couldn’t be. Apart from a couple of fingers, Hardy had been paralyzed from the neck down for almost seven years. How—

  “Just kidding, Carl,” Hardy said, laughing.

  Carl gulped twice.

  “Yeah, sorry, mate. I couldn’t resist.”

  Carl sighed. “Don’t do that again, Hardy. You actually gave me a shock.”

  “Life is only as much fun as you make it,” he said dryly, while Carl looked over at Morten, who was struggling up the stairs from the basement carrying Jesper’s junk. It was true enough. There wasn’t much to laugh about in the house at the moment.

  Carl took a deep breath. For a split second he had been so happy, because wouldn’t it be amazing if Hardy . . .

  He took out his phone. It was probably optimistic to believe that he could catch Birgit Zimmermann with a clear head this early in the day, but at least he did what Hardy had recommended.

  There was an answer at the other end surprisingly quickly, albeit the only giveaway at first was the sound of bottles clinking in the background.

  “Yeees, hello,” came a drawling voice at the other end.

  Carl introduced himself.

  “Yeees, hello,” she said again. “Anyone there?”

  “I think the idiot is holding the receiver upside down,” he said dejectedly to Hardy.

  “Hey, who are you calling an idiot? Who are you?” came the grumpy reply.

  Carl calmly hung up.

  “Ha-ha, that was a stupid remark to make, wasn’t it?” Hardy said, laughing. It was nice to see him laugh. “Let me try,” he continued. “You dial the number, put it on speakerphone, and hold it for me.”

  Hardy nodded when the woman answered with a torrent of abuse that was so outdated the phrases were extinct.

  “Oh, I believe you must be mistaken, Mrs. Zimmermann. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re speaking to Head of Department Valdemar Uhlendorff from the probate court. We are handling the will of your deceased mother, Rigmor Zimmermann, and have a few questions to ask you in that connection. Is that something you could help me with?”

  The silence made it clear how confused the woman was and how hard she was struggling to appear composed despite her hangover.

  “Of course, I’ll . . . try,” she said affectedly.

  “Thank you. We know that your mother withdrew ten thousand kroner shortly before her sad demise. And according to you, she still had the money when she visited you shortly before the fatal attack. Do you have any idea at all what she needed the money for, Birgit Zimmermann? We’re always concerned about making sure we don’t overlook any claims, and we wouldn’t want anything concerning your mother to arise and have to be settled at a later date. Did your mother owe money to anyone as far as you know? Maybe a private individual who she intended to pay the same day? Or could she have been considering a special purchase that she didn’t manage to make?”

  This time the silence was significantly long. Had she fallen asleep, or was she simply searching her dimmed brain?

  “A purchase, I believe,” she finally answered. “Perhaps a fur coat that she had been talking about.”

  It definitel
y didn’t sound convincing. Where would you buy a fur coat that late?

  “We know that she often used her Visa card, so we find it odd that she would have such a large amount of cash on her person. But maybe she just liked to have ready cash on her. Is that the case?”

  “Yes,” she answered quickly.

  “But ten thousand kroner? That’s quite a lot.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you further,” she said in a quivering voice. Had she started crying?

  She hung up.

  They looked at each other.

  “Good work, Hardy.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes and drunkards, as the phrase might as well be. She was lying, but you know that, I assume?”

  Carl nodded. “Buy a fur coat with cash? The daughter is creative, I’ll give her that.” Carl smiled. He had spent two minutes of blissful nostalgia watching the man do what he did best like back in the old days.

  “You called yourself Uhlendorff. Where the heck did that come from?”

  “I know a guy who bought a holiday house where there had once lived an Uhlendorff. But can we agree that you need to scrutinize both Rigmor and Birgit Zimmermann’s more recent bank history? There could well be correlations between withdrawals and deposits.”

  Carl nodded again. “Yes, she might have brought the money for her daughter. But then why would she still have it on her after leaving her daughter’s apartment? Can you tell me that?”

  “Tell me, is it you or me who’s being paid for police work, Carl? Just asking.”

  They both turned their faces toward Morten, who was standing on the staircase to the first floor gasping for breath, barely visible underneath the black rubbish bags he was carrying.

  “I found some of Mika’s old gym clothes down there. Can I put those in the attic too, Carl?” asked Morten, his face bright red from walking up and down the ladder.

  “Yes, if you can find any room.”

  “There’s enough room. Apart from all Jesper’s belongings and a lot of boxes with Vigga’s jigsaws and that sort of thing, there’s only a pair of skis and a locked suitcase up there. Do you have any idea what’s in it, Carl?”