The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  It was almost too much for Carl.

  “Do you think . . . ?”

  “I don’t think anything, Carl. I just know that it’s extremely intense and exhausting for Hardy to suddenly be in contact with parts of his body that have been dead to him for nine years.”

  “I turned on your phone, and now it’s ringing, Carl,” said Morten from the kitchen.

  Ringing at this time? What the hell did he care?

  “The display says Lars Bjørn,” continued Morten.

  Carl looked at his friend lying in the bed. It wasn’t easy seeing him there with his face contorted with pain even in his sleep.

  “Yes,” he said as he put the phone to his ear.

  “Where are you now, Carl?” asked Lars Bjørn curtly.

  “At home. Where else would I be at this time?”

  “I caught Assad at HQ. He’s with me now.”

  “Okay. Perhaps he’s already told you about our breakthroughs today? That’s a shame. I would have liked to—”

  “What breakthroughs? We’re at the junction between Bernstorffsvej and Hellerupvej looking at a certain Denise Zimmermann who everyone has been looking for. She’s sprawled across the hood of a black Golf and is very dead indeed. Do you think I could persuade you to get yourself out here, pronto?”

  —

  There was a mass of flashing blue lights at the intersection, and according to the police constable who helped him duck under the police cordon, they had been there for several hours.

  “What’s happened here?” he asked when he saw the group of people gathered by the car wrecks and the technicians everywhere. The group of people consisted of Terje Ploug, Lars Bjørn, Bente Hansen, and Assad standing close by. You’d be hard-pressed to find more competent colleagues grouped together.

  Bjørn nodded to him. “An accident of the more spectacular sort, I’d say,” he grunted.

  Carl looked at the entangled vehicles. The Golf had hit the Ka from the left, leaving the engine block exposed, before they had both spun around together. The windshield of the Ka was shattered, the airbags activated, and the woman lying dead on the hood of the Golf had apparently been flung out through the windshield of the Ka.

  “Looks like she died on the spot,” said Carl.

  Bjørn smiled. “Yes, you might say that. But not this spot. I can assure you that the bullet came first.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She was shot, Carl, and it happened some time before this accident, because the rigor mortis is complete. The accident happened about two hours ago and the doctor believes she’s been dead for at least seven.”

  Shot? Carl walked around the body and the crime scene technician who was taking her fingerprints. He could tell from the way her arm was sticking up in the air that it couldn’t possibly be the traffic accident that had killed her. He bent down to get a closer look at the girl’s open eyes. She really was very dead.

  “Hi, Carl,” said Assad. If he had looked any sleepier, he might well have been dead. He pointed over his shoulder as a form of warning, and Carl looked in the direction he was indicating. If it wasn’t Olaf Borg-Pedersen and his crew from Station 3 waving at him.

  “Yes, Carl,” said Bjørn. “That’s why I called you. You need to entertain that little group. And this time I think you should make an effort. Are you with me?”

  Bjørn smiled a little too broadly for an inveterate stick-in-the-mud like him. “And you can keep their interest by telling them that the most exciting thing about this case is that the car is registered to an owner by the name of Anne-Line Svendsen. And if you can’t remember who she is, then Pasgård, who is standing over there with a smirk on his face, can tell you that she was the caseworker for Michelle and Denise and formerly also for the other two hit-and-run victims. Talk to them and tell Borg-Pedersen that if they keep this to themselves for now, we’ll give them more information as it comes to light.” He gave Carl an unexpected pat on the shoulder. “When we get back to HQ, we’ll go down to your so-called situation room. The way you’ve linked these cases has really got me thinking. But first the TV crew, Carl.”

  Carl frowned. Was he really the man to talk to those idiots from the TV? Why not just refer them to Pasgård if he was the man of the hour? Carl certainly didn’t know anything.

  “One more thing, Lars. What have you told the press about the identity of the deceased?”

  “That she’s the woman we’ve been looking for: Denise Zimmermann.”

  Carl pictured Denise’s mother, Birgit Zimmermann, hearing the news that her daughter was dead. Would she still be prepared to sign her confession?

  Carl briefly greeted his colleagues and pulled Assad to one side.

  “What else can you tell me about all this?”

  He pointed into the Ka. “That there is a gun with a homemade silencer on the floor by the passenger seat. They’re not quite sure about the silencer, but it seems to be some sort of oil filter. They also believe the deceased’s fingerprints are on it, but we’ll have that confirmed in a minute.”

  “Where’s the driver?”

  He shrugged. “Some people in that building there saw a woman kick her way out of the driver’s side and disappear in that direction.” He pointed toward the corner.

  “Was it the caseworker?”

  “We don’t know for certain, but that’s what we’re assuming at the moment. We sent someone to her home half an hour ago, but she wasn’t there. We’re keeping the search internal for now.”

  “And the driver of the Golf?”

  “He’s been admitted to Gentofte Hospital. He’s suffering from shock.”

  “Okay. What’ve you told the others about Birgit Zimmermann and James Frank?”

  He seemed taken aback by the question.

  “Nothing, Carl. Absolutely nothing. Is there any rush?”

  —

  They managed a couple of hours’ sleep in their chairs at HQ before Lars Bjørn summoned them to his office upstairs. He was also clearly suffering from lack of sleep, but who cared about bags under the eyes and the fact that it was quarter to one in the morning by this stage, when a case was about to be solved and others were pending?

  “Have a cup of coffee,” he said in a surprisingly friendly tone, pointing at a thermos that probably had more coffee on the outside than the inside.

  They both politely declined.

  “Out with it, then. I can see it on your faces,” Bjørn said expectantly.

  Carl smiled wryly. “Then I don’t want to get a dressing-down for interfering.”

  “That depends on how far you’ve gotten.”

  Carl and Assad looked at each other. So they wouldn’t be getting a dressing-down this time.

  They took their time explaining, and Bjørn remained silent throughout. Only his body language revealed his excitement. Who had ever seen him with glaring eyes and his mouth wide-open, on the verge of drooling? He completely forgot about his coffee.

  “It’s absolutely crazy,” he said dryly when they were finished.

  He leaned back heavily in his leather office chair. “That’s good police work, you two. Have you told Marcus?” he asked.

  “No, we wanted to tell you first, Lars,” said Carl.

  Bjørn looked almost touched.

  “But you haven’t yet arrested Birgit Zimmermann and this James Frank?”

  “No. We thought you’d like the honor.”

  He looked as excited as a child at Christmas.

  “Okay. In return, you can have the honor of arresting Anne-Line Svendsen. One favor deserves another. Or two for one in this case, ha-ha.”

  “Do we know where she is?”

  “No. That’s what’s so great about it. It leaves you something to get your teeth into.” Was he really laughing unashamedly?

  There was a knock at the doo
r, and without waiting for an answer, Pasgård was in the doorway.

  “Oh, you’re here?” he said, sounding annoyed when he saw Assad and Carl. “Okay. But maybe it’s a good thing. Now you can see how a real detective wraps up a case.”

  Carl could hardly contain his excitement.

  “Here you are, gentlemen! This is the full confession of the murders of Stephanie Gundersen and Rigmor Zimmermann. Signed and everything. I transcribed it myself this evening.”

  He slammed an extremely thin report on the desk. Three pages at most.

  Lars Bjørn looked at the measly-looking report and nodded in acknowledgment at his inspector. “Brilliant, Pasgård. I’m impressed. So who was the perpetrator, and how did you find him?”

  Pasgård shook his head in false modesty. “Well, you could say that he found me. But I was quick to put two and two together.”

  “Well done. And the man’s name?”

  “Mogens Iversen. Currently living in Næstved but with close ties to Copenhagen.”

  He was completely bulletproof.

  Carl smiled and recalled the look on Mogens Iversen’s face when he had promised not to bother them anymore with false confessions. Then he smiled cheekily at Bjørn and Assad, who were already holding their breath, their faces slowly changing from morning pale to red and then purple.

  When the three of them couldn’t hold it in any longer, they exploded in a roar of laughter never before heard in this office. Pasgård looked more than puzzled.

  52

  Monday, May 30th, and Tuesday, May 31st, 2016

  Anneli cried in shock and frustration.

  The seconds during which she had freed herself from the car seat and made her escape were erased from her memory, and now only the sight of the unconscious young man and Denise’s lifeless body on the hood remained.

  She had sprinted from the scene like never before. It would be untrue to say that she had ever been particularly agile, but it was scary that her body could suddenly feel so heavy and limp.

  It’s the radiation therapy, she tried to convince herself while the sweat was dripping from her and her throat was burning.

  How could it happen? How could a momentary lapse of concentration completely shatter her future? It was beyond comprehension. Now all her precautions, intentions, and visions were all for nothing. Her own pride had come back to hit her like a boomerang. And here she was now, standing on a deserted suburban street, completely bewildered.

  Why did I use my own car for this? she scolded herself. Why didn’t I pull over and secure the body? Why did I lose my temper?

  She sat down on a grey hybrid network box, frantically searching for solutions that could save her. Explanations that could support her version of the events. Precautions that could lead to solutions.

  It was now fifteen minutes since the accident, and the sound of police cars and ambulances rose above the roofs of the houses. She had no time to lose.

  —

  She found an old beige van farther up toward Lyngbyvej, broke into it, and in less than three minutes had the engine running by inserting her nail file in the ignition. At least some of her detailed preparation wasn’t wasted.

  The canvas bag containing the hand grenade and the money on the passenger seat next to her brought her some consolation on the journey back to Webersgade.

  I’ll make my escape later, once I’ve been to the hospital. I’ll request my medical file and continue with my treatment somewhere else in the world. That was her first emergency plan. Take a flight and create a new life somewhere far away.

  Basking in the sun for the rest of my life, she thought, throwing her woolen sweaters back into the wardrobe when she was packing. Take only the very best with you. You can buy anything you need when you’re there.

  She was thinking about this while packing and up until the moment when she took her passport from one of the drawers, only to realize that it had expired.

  So many years without travel or adventure brought their own punishment. She couldn’t just leave.

  Anneli collapsed on her sofa and buried her head in her hands. Now what? As far as she knew, she couldn’t even get to Sweden without a passport. Denmark’s useless politicians had somehow ruined that option too.

  Then it will have to be prison, she thought, trying to mobilize her former indifference toward the prospect but without any real success. Sometimes reality appeared in a very different light when the time came.

  But was there any alternative? She didn’t even have the pistol or the gun so she could shoot herself.

  Anneli shook her head and laughed reluctantly. How comical it all seemed.

  Then she straightened up.

  She could keep the money for later. If she hid it in the van for now, along with the hand grenade, and then erased all traces in the apartment from the past few weeks when she had been plotting the murders, she might get away with it. She could report her car as stolen. Why not? And if she waited until tomorrow morning, it might seem more plausible. She could say that she was signed off sick and had been sleeping since yesterday because she was feeling ill. Only first noticing the theft in the morning when she looked out of her window.

  They would definitely ask her if she had an alibi. She would tell them that she had watched her favorite film for the tenth time that evening just to keep the pain at bay, and then fallen asleep. That she had the DVD and that it was still in the DVD player.

  She got up, carefully chose Love Actually, and put it in the DVD player.

  That was her alibi.

  Then she looked around. Put the clothes back in the wardrobes and the suitcase back where it belonged. She collected all the cuttings and printouts that could be linked to the hit-and-run incidents and car thefts, and placed them all in the back of the van with the canvas bag and the hand grenade.

  She changed her clothes and shoes, putting the things she had been wearing in a bag, and went out to put this in the van too.

  If she left the house as quickly as possible, she would have time to drive around and deposit all this undesirable evidence in trash bins all over the town and suburbs. And then she could make her getaway.

  Finally, there was her computer. She would have to sacrifice that too. And even if she were to toss it in a lake, she would still have to wipe all the evidence from it first. So she would have to go online one last time to find out how to do that.

  —

  When everything had been taken care of one hour later, and Anneli was convinced that there was nothing incriminating left in the apartment, she drove off.

  When they ask me if I suspect anyone, I’ll tell them the same thing I told the police last time they questioned me. That it is my hypothesis that it must be the girls and probably also their boyfriends trying to pin it all on me, she thought. She would tell them that she was aware that they hated her but not to that extent.

  —

  Anneli was already back at the house by twenty-five minutes past two and was now lying in bed thinking that from now on, it was only a matter of keeping it together and getting a few hours’ sleep so she could endure the challenges that awaited her tomorrow. She put her iPad down next to her on the quilt and repeated to herself: No, my PC died, unfortunately. That’s why I have to go into the office once in a while to update my case files. Otherwise I just make do with this.

  Anneli set her alarm for five thirty. That was when she would call and report her car stolen, and then drive the van far away and take the S-train back to town.

  She would rent a bike with a basket so she could bring the canvas bag with the hand grenade and the money around with her. There was a bike rental shop on Gasværksvej that opened at nine. And from there she would cycle around Copenhagen to ask every parking attendant she met if they had seen her car. She would give some of them fifty kroner and her cell phone number so they could call her if they saw
the Ka somewhere. And she would make sure to get some of their names and memorize them while she was cycling.

  I also need to remember to call work and tell them that my car has been stolen and I won’t be in until after my radiation therapy at one, she thought. Would the police be waiting for her in her office? It seemed rather likely.

  She smiled at the thought. The policeman who was on the case, and who had questioned her in her office, was certainly not worth worrying about.

  If she answered in the right way, he would lap it up. Not least the moving story about a woman with cancer who had cycled all around Copenhagen to find her beloved little car.

  53

  Tuesday, May 31st, 2016

  Carl and Assad were standing outside the main door to where Anne-Line Svendsen lived on Webersgade at twenty minutes past six, pressing the buzzer in the hope that someone would come down and let them in.

  It was ten minutes since they had been informed by HQ that Anne-Line Svendsen had reported her car as stolen, and that she was unable to provide any precise information about when it had happened, but that it was probably around eight or nine the previous evening. That was as precise as she could be.

  The question remained whether the car really had been stolen.

  —

  After Bjørn, Assad, and Carl had stopped laughing at Pasgård’s blunder with the false confession, Pasgård tried to save face by telling them that he had had his eye on Anne-Line Svendsen for some time and had actually already questioned her. And although it was true that several things linked her to the four dead girls, there definitely didn’t seem to be anything fishy about her. That was the expression Pasgård used, which was rather far removed from police lingo.

  Pasgård had recommended that they would do better to take a closer look at the girl who was reportedly connected to Denise Zimmermann and Michelle Hansen. Her name was Jazmine Jørgensen, and according to information obtained during their questioning, Patrick Pettersson had seen her with Michelle Hansen and Denise Zimmermann both at the hospital and in Michelle’s selfie.