The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Marcus laughed hoarsely and coughed a couple of times on the other end. So he was still feeling the effects of quitting smoking.

  “You’re not as stupid as you look, Carl. The two couples were both parents to boys who were completely besotted every time they came home from school. One of the couples had even caught their son masturbating over her school photo and were of the opinion that Stephanie ought to tone down her feminine charms.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “Yeah, what indeed? In more than half of all homicide cases, sex plays a direct or indirect role, as you know. And Stephanie’s mere existence was something of a challenge in that area, as I understand it.”

  “So you think I should look for someone who either had or wanted to have sex with her?”

  “No idea. But now it’s out there.”

  “But she wasn’t raped, was she?”

  “No, she was hit from behind and murdered. Full stop.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t ask more when you gave me the notes, Marcus.”

  He laughed. “I’ve had them for twelve years now. So one week wasn’t going to make a difference, was it? I knew we’d get to it at some point, Carl.”

  After their conversation, Carl rummaged a bit more on his desk. Where the hell was the other note?

  “Gordon! Assad! Come in here!” he shouted. He heard grumbling from the corridor before they appeared.

  “Marcus Jacobsen gave me two notes the other day, and now I can’t find one of them. Do you know anything about that? It was written on the same kind of lined paper as this one.”

  He held up the list with four points in front of them.

  “You know what, Carl? I think you should come with us to the situation room and see something,” said Assad. “Gordon’s been very busy.”

  The lanky guy apologized that he had been in Carl’s office to make copies of some of the papers on his desk. But he had no idea where the original was for the other note.

  “But don’t worry, there are copies of everything in here.”

  Carl followed them, and when he stepped into the room he immediately saw the five sheets of paper lined up on the big notice board.

  “Here are the five cases we’re working on at the moment,” said Gordon.

  Had he said five? How could it be so many?

  Carl looked at all the sheets.

  On the far left, Gordon had pinned up a sheet entitled “The Rose Case.” The only thing written on that page was “Rose’s dad died on May 18th, 1999.” Then came “The Zimmermann Case,” “The Stephanie Gundersen Case,” “The Hit-and-Run Case,” and “The Nightclub Case” involving the robbery and the shooting of the Icelandic woman. On all the sheets there were notes about the victims’ times of death and a little additional information.

  “What the heck are the hit-and-run and nightclub cases doing there?” asked Carl. “They’ve got nothing to do with us.”

  Gordon smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But since I’ve ended up dealing with the TV crew and answering all their strange questions, I reckoned those cases could also hang here just so I could keep up to date.”

  Carl grunted. That man was a piece of work. If he was so keen to take part in the investigation of those two cases, why didn’t he just move up to the second floor? It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the offer.

  “Well, as long as Bjørn doesn’t get the wrong idea, I suppose it’s okay. Where are Marcus’s notes?”

  “I’ve pinned the two sheets of notes under ‘The Stephanie Case,’ you’ll notice,” said Gordon proudly.

  Assad couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Before you look at the list of names, Carl, take a look at this photo.” He placed a blown-up color photo in front of him. “Look. We’ve just received this school photo. It’s a photo of the ninth-grade class at Bolman’s Independent School from 2003. Have a good look at it.”

  Carl did as he said. It was one of those usual class photos that one hated a few years later and that many years later one regretted having thrown out. What was special about it?

  “Stephanie Gundersen is standing lined up behind the students with the other teachers,” said Gordon, pointing at her.

  Carl nodded, now recognizing her. “She was really the prettiest of them all,” he said. “But where are you going with it?”

  “It’s not her you need to look at just now, Carl. It’s the girl in front of Stephanie—with Stephanie’s hands on her shoulders.”

  Carl squinted. It was a girl wearing her hair up, blue lipstick, and with an expression that was both cheeky and happy at the same time.

  “Her name is Dorrit Frank, as far as I can make out from the names underneath.”

  “Exactly.” Assad smiled.

  What was he smiling about? “Out with it. I can’t quite . . . Do you mean that . . . ?”

  “Yes, Dorrit is Denise. She changed her name at some point.”

  Carl felt a shiver down his spine. “Really? But what about the surname?”

  “Denise is called Denise F. Zimmermann. The ‘F’ stands for ‘Frank.’ We’ve checked. And now look at the list of these kids’ parents on Marcus’s note.”

  He quickly scanned the list. There it was. Not Birthe Frank, as Marcus remembered it, but Birgit Frank. Birgit Frank Zimmermann.

  “I noticed it on the buzzer for her apartment when I was doing my rounds of the Borgergade area, Carl. A single initial for a middle name can be more important than it seems.”

  Gordon was right. This was a real game changer, possibly linking two seemingly unrelated cases. Motive, people, and murder weapon. But to what and how?

  “I need to tell Marcus about this immediately.”

  He dashed to his office and already had Marcus on the other end of the phone after three rings.

  “Marcus, listen to this! The single mother who had an argument with Stephanie Gundersen at the parent-teacher meeting wasn’t Birthe Frank but Birgit Frank, and her daughter was called Dorrit before she later changed it to Denise,” he said without so much as a hello. “So the mother’s full name was and remains Birgit Frank Zimmermann, regardless of whatever mysterious reason lies behind her only using Frank back then—it might even have been just in the context of the school that she only used Frank.”

  There was a sigh at the other end. The relief was audible.

  “So now you have the connection between the three women: Stephanie Gundersen, Birgit Zimmermann, and her mother, Rigmor Zimmermann. Satisfied? All three women had some sort of connection with each other. And two of them end up being murdered years apart in exactly the same way. Do you think we should just call that a coincidence, boss?” asked Carl.

  For a moment it was deadly quiet at the other end, and then came the outburst.

  “Birgit Zimmermann has a middle name that begins with ‘F’; of course she bloody does. How did we miss it back then? So in some way she was already in our sights when we investigated the Stephanie Gundersen case.”

  37

  Sunday, May 29th, and Monday, May 30th, 2016

  Anneli had had luck on her side once again. She had managed to commit yet another atrocity without being seen by witnesses or passing cars in the neighborhood.

  With a ferocious thud, the heavy-footed girl had banged her head against a lamppost and clearly broken her neck, because the angle of her head didn’t look like it should.

  In many respects, Bertha, alias Roberta, Lind had proved to be a creature of habit. Her bicycle route and the twice-weekly circuit training she no doubt hoped would help her squeeze into a size fourteen were as routine as always, just as Anneli had anticipated.

  It had been hot that Sunday, and everyone in Denmark felt the heat. Accordingly, Bertha had worn a minuscule top that slid up her sweaty back, revealing a figure that wasn’t the result of good eating habits. At least ten times while cycl
ing, she had alternated between sending text messages and pulling down her top at the back, and the eleventh time proved to be once too many. Taking a wide left turn, she completely lost concentration and overcompensated with the handle bars, making her turn too sharp.

  Anneli had driven in second gear, maintaining a speed of eighteen to twenty kilometers an hour to ensure that she didn’t get too close to Bertha and remained out of earshot. But when Bertha’s bike unexpectedly veered off course a little, she really put her foot down and swerved into Bertha with the side of the car.

  Strange, how far a body that heavy can fly, thought Anneli as she hit the brake and watched the helpless course of the body in the side mirror.

  “I didn’t see her eyes, but mission accomplished, all the same,” she said to herself immediately after. Then she parked the little red Renault in a deserted side street off Amager Boulevard, abandoning it after wiping down the interior and taking her rubbish with her.

  As Anneli had expected, the TV news didn’t describe this hit-and-run incident in the same way as the others. But there was still quite a lot of publicity, because once again it had involved a driver who had left a victim to die. However, in this case, it was believed that the woman may have been hit by a larger vehicle whose driver probably hadn’t noticed what had happened.

  The morning after, Anneli heard on the radio that the police technicians believed that Bertha had swerved too far off the bicycle path onto the road and been knocked off by a passing truck, and that the strength of the impact when she landed, combined with her body weight, had caused her death rather than having been hit by the truck. As with all accidents occurring when someone was making a turn, it was tragic but couldn’t be compared with the more frequent right-turn accidents that were a constant risk for cyclists in Copenhagen.

  Anneli was immensely pleased. Up until now, she had stuck to her plan and remained steadfast to her mission to rid the world of human scum. Of course, the novelty had worn off, as had the immediate intoxication and exhilaration. After all, she was a seasoned killer now. And three strikes in just eight days gave a certain confidence.

  This Monday morning, it seemed like everyone had decided to leave her alone. Nobody spoke to her, but it was obvious that they all knew how ill she was and that she had come to work directly after her radiation therapy. So much for her manager’s discretion.

  Anneli didn’t care. The most important thing for her was to dedicate herself to her upcoming missions and assess their risk.

  Just now, when parliament was about to break for its summer recess, the media quickly found other news to write about. Apart from the hit-and-run case, which took up several pages in all the newspapers, the main story was Birna’s death last night at Copenhagen University Hospital. The hunt for who was being called the Nightclub Killer was already in full swing.

  Even though it might feel tempting and logical, there were two things that stopped Anneli from immediately turning in the girls who had killed the young woman. More than anything, she wanted to kill them, but she wouldn’t be able to if they were in prison. On top of that, she would run the risk that if the girls ended up in police custody, they might voice their suspicion about Anneli’s involvement in Michelle’s murder in order to secure a reduced sentence. So no matter what, Birna’s death could tighten the rope around Anneli’s neck. During the questioning of Michelle’s boyfriend, Patrick, the police would ultimately put two and two together and link the three girls. And once the police caught up with them, Anneli would be in potential danger.

  Anneli looked at the clock. She had just finished with a nice client who had asked for a modest amount to help her through the next ten days until she was back to work and so had been granted a crisis loan. And now Anneli awaited this client’s complete opposite. It had become something of a habit for this client to just turn up roughly every five days with new requests, all of which, strangely enough, cost fifteen hundred kroner, and which Anneli had no authority to grant her. It wasn’t that she was a bad person, but at the moment Anneli had more important things to deal with. The developments in the cases concerning the robbery and Birna’s murder were unpredictable and had to be stopped. So she had to direct her focus on ridding herself of these two loose ends: Denise and Jazmine.

  She didn’t think a car was a suitable murder weapon any longer. The girls were probably already on their guard, so it was unlikely that she would have the opportunity to get close enough to them. Lucky for her, there had been quite a few shootings in Copenhagen and those suburbs most ravaged by gang crime. If she could get her hands on a gun and make the executions look like a gang shooting, the police were bound to begin looking in directions other than hers. And if everything went sideways anyway, at least she would have a weapon she could use to kill herself quickly and painlessly.

  Anneli went to the reception area and informed the two clients waiting for her that she would unfortunately have to ask them to reschedule their appointments. They looked dissatisfied and disappointed, especially the one who had probably come to beg for the usual fifteen hundred kroner. Anneli didn’t care.

  “I have someone threatening suicide on the phone,” she just said, and turned on her heel before slamming the door to her office. She searched for a minute before finding the number of a client who had an appointment later in the week. His name was Amin, and he was one of the many Somalians living in the Vesterbro district of Copenhagen who had found a way to supplement his benefits in order to provide for his hastily growing family.

  Amin had been in jail a couple of times for being in possession of an illegal weapon, theft, and dealing cannabis, but he had never displayed any violent tendencies. When he attended his appointments with Anneli, he exuded only happiness and gratitude for the little help she could offer.

  He turned up just after lunch and placed two well-worn guns on her desk so she could choose. She took the one that looked newest and easiest to use, as well as receiving a whole box of bullets. He apologized that he couldn’t get ahold of a silencer but gave her some useful tips on other ways to muffle the sound. After a short introduction to releasing the safety, loading the gun, taking out the cartridges, and cleaning the barrel, they agreed that on top of the six thousand kroner in cash, she would also grant him money for clothes for his entire family, and Anneli would try to postpone the compulsory work placement that was looming over him. They swore that this meeting had only been about his family’s need for clothes and that the true purpose of the meeting would remain between them.

  She had hardly managed to hide the gun before her manager waltzed into her office to offer her crisis counseling.

  “I’m devastated that you’ve had to deal with this on your own, Anne-Line. Not only the terrible cancer diagnosis, but also losing two clients in such awful circumstances over the course of a few days.”

  Had she said “crisis counseling”? thought Anneli. Who the hell needed crisis counseling when the reality was that what she needed the most was a silencer?

  When the manager left again, having given reassurances of her support, Anneli informed the secretary that she had unfortunately discovered that quite a few of her case files needed to be updated after her absence and so she would have to dedicate the rest of the day to admin work.

  Knowing that she wouldn’t be disturbed, she spent a couple of hours surfing the Internet, reading articles about gang executions. When she felt she had read enough, she decided how she would imitate them. Most important, a gang execution was about moving in and out as quickly as possible. One shot to the back of the head of each girl and then ditch the gun in the harbor. That was all there was to it.

  The problem of the missing silencer would be more difficult to deal with, but the Internet even had advice about that.

  —

  Webersgade was noted for its small, charming association houses, which had formerly accommodated two to three working-class families. But over the past few de
cades they had become increasingly attractive, and their prices had soared to ridiculous heights because the middle classes found them appealing despite the fact that they were small in size and had tiny rooms and impractical staircases between the floors. The reality, however, was that the Webersgade houses were badly located due to the busy traffic that connected the center of town with Lyngbyvej and North Zealand. Anneli knew all about these houses, which were so patinated from pollution that they could easily have been mistaken for dusty houses in English mining towns. She had rented a damp attic and half the first floor of a house like this for half her life. She never saw the owner, who lived on the ground floor. He was a mechanical engineer and preferred tropical heat, which had the unfortunate result that he didn’t invest any money in the upkeep of the house.

  When Anneli got home later today, she would let herself into the mechanical engineer’s apartment, where he stored all his boxes of junk and long metal shelves covered in all manner of engine and machine parts. In this treasure chamber, she would look for an oil filter whose construction made it well suited as a silencer, according to the Internet. Of course, an oil filter didn’t have an exit hole, but once she had pushed it down on the barrel and fired the gun, the bullet would find its own way out. At least that was what had happened in the video she saw online.

  When she was finished there, she would drive to Stenløse, park her Ka in the usual parking space, and keep a close eye on the girls’ apartment to see if there was any sign of life behind the curtains. If there was, she would ring the doorbell, force her way in when they answered, make them kneel, and quickly finish them off.

  38

  Monday, May 30th, 2016

  They were sitting in front of a woman who in the space of only a few days had gone from being on the verge of going to the dogs to actually completing the transformation.

  The stench of tobacco and alcohol was brutally invasive. If the alcohol didn’t get her soon, then all the cigarettes she had smoked would.