Then she turned toward the mirror and saw a full-length reflection of herself.
There she was, Anneli Svendsen, a middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes and a gaping mouth. This was the second time she saw herself looking so cold, cynical, and indifferent. It made her shudder. Who was this woman calmly standing here as she watched a little creature bleeding to death? Was she actually going crazy like she had thought before? It certainly felt like it.
She looked down at Jazmine’s leg, which was twitching as her life ebbed away. It was only when she lay completely still, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, that Anneli turned toward the woman who was tied to the toilet.
Anneli reached around her and flushed the toilet. Judging by the smell, it was long overdue.
“There,” she said. “Now I’ve avenged you, whoever you are and whatever you’re doing here.” Then she stroked the poor woman’s hair, rolled a lot of toilet paper around her right hand, and went around the apartment thoroughly wiping everything she had touched.
Finally, she carefully picked up Denise’s pistol with a piece of toilet paper and went out to the bathroom to press it into Jazmine’s hand. But which hand should she choose? The blood-soaked left hand or the right hand, which still looked clean? Which hand did Jazmine even use? Had she thrown the grenade with her right hand?
Anneli closed her eyes and tried to picture the incident. She simply couldn’t remember.
Then she squeezed Jazmine’s clean right hand around the pistol grip and let her hand fall back onto the floor before turning off the light and pulling the door shut.
When she had packed her things in her bag, she rolled some paper towels around her hand, placed Jazmine’s suitcase on the bed in the bedroom, and opened it. If anyone had seen them with the suitcase down on the grass, which she didn’t think anyone had, they would probably just describe Jazmine as a weird girl who had been helped by an elderly lady. The police would ask who the lady was, and they would answer that they hadn’t seen her before.
The conclusion would be that she had been unpacking when she was interrupted by the showdown with Denise. Wasn’t that a story the police would buy? She thought so because it was sufficiently complex and simple at the same time.
Anneli smiled. Maybe she had watched too many crime shows, but wasn’t that an advantage in this situation? She thought so.
She was about to leave the apartment when she caught sight of the hand grenade. What luck it hadn’t detonated.
She carefully picked it up and scrutinized it.
“Vor Gebrauch Sprengkapsel Einsetzen,” was written in big letters on the metal end.
Insert detonator before use, she translated. But who said anyone had ever done that?
Not doing that cost you your life, Jazmine. What a pity, thought Anneli, laughing at the thought. The lazy girl had probably never bothered to learn German.
Anneli turned the grenade upside down and poked the ball and string back into the hollow wooden shaft. It didn’t work, but if it could scare her, it could scare others, too.
It might be a bit long, but it’s useful nonetheless, she thought while she screwed the cap back on and placed it in the canvas bag on top of all the money.
I’ll google the thing sometime if I ever need to know how to install the detonator, she thought. Who knew, maybe one day she would devise a murder plan that would be best served with a weapon like this.
When she stepped out onto the walkway and wiped down the key with a bit of paper towel before putting it back under the mat, she thought for a moment that nothing had been more successful than the mission she had been on over the past few weeks. Now all that remained was a little drive with Denise’s body, and then she really deserved a good long holiday.
She patted the canvas bag a couple of times in satisfaction and walked back to the car.
Once her radiation treatment was over, a couple of weeks’ cruising in the Mediterranean was a tempting thought.
49
Monday, May 30th, 2016
It took a minute before Carl explained to Gordon what they had found in Rose’s apartment. Poor Gordon was as silent as the grave at the other end.
Carl looked at Assad with a desolate expression. Assad couldn’t even muster the energy to put his feet up on the dashboard.
It was going to be a long night for all of them.
“Are you still there, Gordon?” asked Carl.
Was that a yes?
“I’m afraid we have no idea where Rose might be, but don’t lose hope, okay?”
Still no reaction.
“We’re considering filing a missing person’s report, but I think we need to look into possible whereabouts first.”
“Okay,” he answered almost inaudibly.
Carl brought him up to speed about the visit they had paid James Frank and their breakthrough with his confession in the Zimmermann case.
It didn’t seem to lift his spirits at all. Understandably, the news about Rose had hit him hard.
“Unfortunately, Assad and I have one more thing to see to, even though it’s hard the way we’re all feeling just now about Rose. We’re going to see Birgit Zimmermann again because there are a few things we need to check up on. How about you? Are you also ready to keep going?”
“Of course I am. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
It sounded like he was already recovering from the shock.
Carl imagined Gordon’s face. He knew full well what Rose meant to him. She was perhaps the only reason why he stayed working in the basement for Department Q. The effect of the one he was dreaming about dating but might never get.
“I want you to call her sisters and bring them up to speed, but don’t make it sound more dramatic than it is, if possible.” Carl doubted that it was. “Ask them if they have any idea where she might be. Does she have any connections in Malm? or Sk?ne, for example? Could she be staying at a summerhouse or with a former lover? Yeah, sorry to put you in this situation, Gordon, but the last thing is important too.”
Of course he didn’t comment.
“Keep me updated, Gordon. Let us know what you discover, and then we’ll make a decision about the missing person’s report.”
—
Although it was still fairly light outside, it looked like every single ceiling lamp in Birgit Zimmermann’s mezzanine apartment was lit. It probably meant she was at home.
They pressed the buzzer and were surprisingly enough buzzed in after a few seconds.
“I was actually expecting someone like you,” she said, looking dizzy, albeit this time not necessarily the result of alcohol. In fact, she came across far more levelheaded than when they had visited her earlier in the day to talk about Stephanie Gundersen. She invited them to take a seat before they had even said anything.
“Have you found Denise? Is that why you’re here?”
“So you know the police have started looking for her since we were here earlier today?”
“Yes, they’ve called me a few times. Have you found her?”