The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  When they finally arrived at her room, she sat down and put her hand to her chest. It was understandable after the adventure she had described!

  “It sounds like you had a terrible trip,” shouted Carl. “Lucky you made it back alive.”

  She gave him a surprised look.

  “I always do,” she answered, fishing out a half-smoked cigarette from behind a cushion.

  “Greta Garbo doesn’t just die before the director tells her to,” she corrected him while she placed the cigarette in a cigarette holder.

  Carl looked bemused. Greta Garbo? That was a new one.

  “Vigga says you’ve been asking for me!” he shouted to change the subject.

  She lit the cigarette and took a couple of deep puffs, filling her lungs to the bursting point.

  “Have I?” She hesitated with her mouth open as the smoke swirled out. Then she nodded.

  “Oh yes. Vigga’s boy gave me this. What’s his name again?”

  Carl took the cell she handed him. A Samsung smartphone that was newer than the one Jesper had given him two years ago. Where would you be in life without your children’s cast-off electronics?

  “His name is Jesper, Karla,” he bellowed directly into her ear. “He’s your grandson. What do you want me to do with this?”

  “I need you to teach me to take selfies, just like all the young girls on the Internet.”

  Despite his shock, Carl nodded approvingly. “Selfies, Karla! You are becoming very modern these days!” he shouted. “Then what you need to do is press here, with the camera lens pointing toward you, and hold the—”

  “No, no, not that. That Jesper boy showed me already. I just need to know what to do.”

  Maybe her hearing really was failing her, so this time he decided to use a booming commando voice as if he was dealing with a difficult arrest. “What to do? You just point it at yourself and then press.”

  “Yes, yes, stop shouting. I’m not deaf. Just give me the basics. Should I take off my clothes now or afterward?”

  32

  Thursday, May 26th, 2016

  Jazmine was dreaming soundly. She was cocooned in lace fabric, the heat from strange men’s bodies, and the rays of the sun. Intoxicated by the scent of pine and lavender mixed with fresh seaweed. She could hear the sound of waves and music and feel gentle hands on her shoulders, which suddenly shook her so hard it hurt.

  Jazmine opened her eyes and saw Denise’s shocked face looking back at her.

  “She’s done a runner, Jazmine,” she said, still shaking her.

  “Stop that! You’re hurting me.” She sat up in bed rubbing her eyes. “What are you saying? Who has?”

  “Michelle, you idiot. There was a bundle of thousand-kroner notes on the table and now it’s gone. She took some money and packed all her stuff. She must have left in a rush because she forgot her iPad.” She pointed at the shelf next to the dining table, where they had also placed the hand grenade.

  “How much has she taken?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty, thirty thousand, I think. I haven’t counted all the notes.”

  Jazmine stretched. “Well, does it matter? If she only took thirty thousand, then that leaves more for us. What’s the time?”

  “Are you stupid or what? She isn’t coming back if she’s packed her things. She’s gone back to that shit, Jazmine. We can’t trust her. We have to go after her. Now!”

  Jazmine looked down at herself. She was in the clothes she had been wearing yesterday. She had sweat marks on her blouse at her armpits, and her scalp was itchy.

  “I need to shower and change first.”

  “Now, damn it! Don’t you get it? It’s already bloody late. We’ve slept through the day, and Michelle could already have fucked up everything for us. We’ve committed robbery and maybe killed someone. Who knows what Michelle might say to cover her own back. We could end up taking the rap for this alone if she tries to save her own ass. It wasn’t her who committed robbery and she wasn’t the one to stick a bullet in Birna.”

  Jazmine shuddered. “It wasn’t bloody well me either, Denise,” she blurted out, regretting it immediately.

  Denise’s face froze, and her expression became suddenly hostile. Jazmine couldn’t tell whether she was just angry at the remark or about to attack her, but it scared her. Hadn’t she seen what Denise was capable of?

  “No, sorry. That was a stupid thing to say, Denise,” she said with emphasis. “I didn’t mean it. I saw Birna attack you with that knife, and we didn’t know the pistol was loaded, did we? We’re together on this, I promise.” She made the sign of the cross on her chest. Not because she was religious but because she felt it made her promise seem more serious.

  Denise drew a deep breath. Her expression changed from aggressive to scared. “Jazmine, we don’t know if that Birna girl is dead,” she said. “We know nothing about what’s happened to her. If she’s dead, we’re fucked. If she’s alive, we’re also fucked. Why the hell did we get so drunk last night when we came home? How could we sleep so late that Michelle managed to sneak off? It’s totally fucked up.”

  “If Birna’s dead, they’ll mention it on TV2 News,” said Jazmine, dragging Denise with her.

  The sight that met them in the sitting room came as a shock. Not because the room looked like a herd of elephants had marched through it, or because of the candle wax and red wine stains on every surface, or the potato chip crumbs scattered all over the floor. No, they froze because the TV was already on and the screen was plastered with images of someone they knew all too well. It wasn’t Birna, as they had anticipated, but Michelle. And underneath on the yellow text banner, the breaking news was:

  Woman in Stenløse killed by hit-and-run driver. Same woman was hit in a separate hit-and-run on May 20th. Possible connection between this incident and yesterday’s shooting at Victoria nightclub in Sydhavnen.

  They started throwing things at the walls and shouting at each other, and then Jazmine almost went into shock, whereas Denise reacted quite differently. Every part of her being was screaming for action as she impressed on Jazmine what Michelle had said on two different occasions. Hadn’t she said that she thought she had seen Anne-Line Svendsen in a car across from the nightclub? And hadn’t she said the same thing when she had been hit the first time?

  “But when you were with that bitch and tried to make her admit that it was her Michelle had seen, you said afterward that you didn’t think it was her after all. What the hell do you think now, Jazmine?”

  “What do you want me to say?” she answered, sounding choked up. “Michelle has been killed, and the police might link her to us. And if it really was Anne-Line Svendsen who Michelle saw last night, she must have seen us when we came out of that alleyway. Who knows if she’ll talk to the police?”

  Denise sneered at her. “You really are an idiot, Jazmine. Don’t you think that’s the last thing she’d do? She’s a damn murderer, and we might be the only ones who could give her away. So don’t you think that’s what she’s considering just now?”

  Jazmine was taking the wrapper off a pack of Prince cigarettes with her long nails. When the pack was open she tapped a few cigarettes out onto the table and lit the first one. Now Denise looked at her with a seriousness Jazmine hadn’t seen before. It was hard to believe that this was the same Denise who had partied hard last night and who only the other day had been frolicking in her room with one of her sugar daddies.

  “Damn it,” said Denise. “I’m just as shocked by all this. That Michelle is dead and that everything on the news is to do with us. It’s just too much. And then all this stuff with Anne-Line Svendsen. It’s bloody scary. If I was her, I would be making sure that we were her next victims. She must know where we live. What else would she have been doing out here in Stenløse?”

  Jazmine could feel the fear in the pit of her stomach. Denise was right. Anne-Line
might be out there keeping tabs on them as they were speaking.

  “What should we do if she comes here?”

  “What do you mean?” said Denise angrily. “There are knives in the kitchen, and my grandfather’s pistol is on the balcony.”

  “I don’t think I can do it, Denise.”

  “I don’t think Anne-Line would dare to show her face here so soon after the thing with Michelle. There must be police all over the place. They are probably doing door-to-door inquiries right now. But we need to be extra-careful and keep our eyes peeled: for the police, Anne-Line . . . and each other,” she ended, looking directly at Jazmine.

  Jazmine closed her eyes. She wanted to return to her dream. “Denise, I think we have more than seventy thousand each. We can jump on a plane and get out of here. Shouldn’t we just do that?” She looked at her imploringly. “What do you say? We could fly to South America somewhere. That’s far away. Don’t you think that would be far enough?”

  Denise looked at her condescendingly. “Yeah, because you’re just so good at Spanish, aren’t you? You do know that you can’t really learn a language in bed, right? There’s more to it than just giving someone a good tit wank. And then you will end up having to earn a living flat on your back when the money runs out. Is that what you want?”

  A look of despair appeared on Jazmine’s face. Denise had hurt her feelings. “I don’t know. Isn’t that what we do already? At least the police and Anne-Line won’t be on our backs if we’re in South America.”

  “Anne-Line won’t be on our backs for long if I’ve got anything to do with it, because we’ll get to her first. We’re two against one. We’ll make a plan and get her. Maybe we could do it in her home late at night when she least expects it. We can threaten her and make her write a confession and then kill her and make it look like suicide. And if she has any cash lying around, which wouldn’t surprise me, we steal that too. Then we can discuss escaping somewhere.”

  Jazmine looked puzzled and shushed her. Denise stopped talking and heard someone knocking on the front door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  “What should we do?” Jazmine just managed to whisper before a woman staggered into the apartment, as pale as a corpse and wearing so much eye makeup that you could hardly see her eyelids.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the woman aggressively as she looked around the room.

  “None of your business,” answered Denise. “Where did you get those keys?”

  “I don’t know you. Tell me who you are or I’ll arrest you for unlawful entry.”

  Jazmine tried to catch Denise’s eye. Despite the state of the woman, she sounded like she meant it. But Denise didn’t seem fazed. Rather, she looked like she was ready to attack the woman.

  “The fuck you will,” she hissed. “I’m Rigmor’s granddaughter. I’ve got every right to be here, but you don’t, do you? So give me the keys and beat it, or I’ll punch you in the face and call the police.”

  The woman frowned, swaying on her feet, trying to find her balance. “Are you Dorrit?” she asked in a more neutral tone. “I’ve heard about you.”

  Jazmine was confused. Dorrit?

  “Hand them over,” said Denise, stretching out her hand toward the woman. But the woman just shook her head.

  “I’m keeping hold of these until I find out what’s going on here,” she said, her eyes scanning the apartment. “What are you up to? Rigmor has been murdered, and there’s money lying around everywhere. What do you think a police investigator makes of this? I’ll get to the bottom of this, mark my words. And you two stay here in the meantime. Understood?”

  She turned on her heel and staggered through the corridor out onto the walkway.

  “Damn it,” moaned Jazmine. “Did you hear what she said? And about the money?” Jazmine looked around, putting her hand to her mouth in shock. The way the money was lying all over the place was as good as a confession.

  Denise was standing with her hands on her hips, fists clenched. Her expression was withdrawn. She looked like a woman who understood the gravity of the situation.

  “My grandmother once told me that her neighbor was a police investigator. So that drunkard must have been her,” she said, nodding to herself.

  Jazmine was shaken. “What should we do, Denise? If she calls the police, they could be here any minute. We need to get out of here.” Jazmine looked around. They could gather all the money in ten minutes, and if she threw any old clothes on just now and packed the rest, they would be out the door within fifteen minutes.

  Denise shook her head. “No, we need to pay her a visit,” she said.

  “You mean go over to her place? Why? She saw the money. You won’t stop her from checking up on us. I can tell from the way she looked at us.”

  “Yes, exactly! That’s why we need to stop her instead, right?”

  —

  Is this chaos really how I want to be remembered? thought Rose, looking around at her apartment.

  She caught sight of the jacket covering the suicide note, plastic basket, donor statement, and razor blade, feeling sad about her wasted, lonely life. A few minutes ago she had caught a glimpse of hope when she heard voices from Rigmor Zimmermann’s apartment, and for a moment she had felt that she might be able to carry on living.

  This is what delusion does to you, she thought. It creates miracles and drags you into a false sense of security and illusion that immediately changes everything. And then the disappointment of reality always returns with a vengeance.

  Of course the two suspicious women were not supposed to be in Rigmor’s apartment, but when it came to it, what business was it of hers? Or that they were stealing from a dead woman? Or that they were living in her apartment?

  Rose hung her head and sat despondently on the only chair she hadn’t knocked over. Everything had become so messy.

  This must be what judgment day feels like, she thought, feeling the urge to throw up. Everything inside her was pleading to get it over with. To call the emergency services and say that she had slit her wrists and that they should come and save her organs. Never mind what was going on on the other side of the wall. If she got involved, she would just end up back where she started. The police would come and that was the last thing she wanted. She certainly didn’t want anyone from HQ to come and stop her. And the same went for her sisters and the doctors in Glostrup.

  “Screw them, and screw those girls next door. Screw the world,” she said out loud, grabbing the jacket and revealing what was underneath. A quick call and two clean cuts and it would all be over.

  She had already begun dialing the number for the emergency services when she heard a knock at the door.

  Go away! she screamed inside. And when the knocking continued even louder than before, she pressed her hands over her ears. She sat like that for a minute, but when she removed her hands and heard that someone was still knocking, she got up, put the jacket back over the paraphernalia, and staggered over to the door.

  “What?” she shouted through the mail slot.

  “It’s Denise Zimmermann,” answered the voice outside. “Can we come in for a minute? We just want to explain—”

  “Not now!” Rose shouted back. “Come back in half an hour.” Then it would all be over anyway.

  While she stood staring at the front door, she realized that it might take the paramedics too long to gain entry if the door was locked. That it would be too late for them to use her organs. How could she know how those things worked?

  She heard them saying “okay” and the sound of their footsteps as they moved away from the door. When it was silent outside, she unlocked the door to enable the paramedics to get in.

  She had not even turned around before the door was kicked in behind her—and a hard bang to the back of her head made her pass out.

  33

  Thursday, May 26th,
and Friday, May 27th, 2016

  Who are you, Anneli? she thought when she caught sight of her demonic reflection in the mirror. She had just killed someone, and yet she was smiling like someone in love. She had violated the strictest law of God and man, taking someone’s life, and yet she had never felt better than in the wonderful moment when Michelle Hansen disappeared under the car with a force that crushed her body and made the car jump half a meter in the air. Of course she had expected some form of pleasure like last time, but nothing like this all-consuming euphoria that ran through her whole body like an elixir of life.

  After she had stopped the car for a few seconds to make sure that Michelle’s twisted body would never get back up again, she had calmly put her foot down and sped off in the direction of Ølstykke, where she had decided to park the car. She had shivered with excitement all the way. Never before had she laughed so much with relief. The job was done.

  But almost as soon as she was home on the sofa with her feet curled up underneath her and a glass of cool white wine in her hand, she had to acknowledge that certain events sometimes developed more quickly and unpredictably than expected.

  After the murder of Senta Berger, the media had been divided. Was it an accident or a murder? Was there a concrete link between Berger and the previous hit-and-run attempt on Michelle Hansen? The TV stations and one of the tabloids had mentioned the possibility, but that was all it had come to.

  This time, things were different. Not only was Michelle Hansen’s death plastered all over the front pages of the online newspapers, but when Anneli turned on her TV she saw that it was being covered by all the TV news channels.

  Thankfully, the police didn’t seem to have much to go on about the driver, but as usual that didn’t stop the news anchors from peddling their theories, and as the day went on, their analyses and theories grew wilder and wilder. Eventually, Anneli was overcome by a rather irrational feeling of being overlooked. Weren’t they sitting in the studio linking the robbery the night before with the hit-and-run murder today? Were they completely blind?