“No, jokes aside, things are the same with Hardy,” he continued. “He’s still living with me and it’s going great. He’s actually become quite mobile. It’s almost miraculous what he can manage with the two fingers he’s got a little sensation in. But why are you asking about that?”
“Back at the time of the Stephanie Gundersen case, Hardy came to me with some information about her and the school where she was a substitute teacher. Apparently, Hardy had met her before. Maybe you didn’t know?”
“Er, no. He wasn’t investigating it anyway, because in 2004 he was with me and . . .”
“Hardy was never afraid to give his colleagues a helping hand. A fine man. Really sad what happened to him.”
Carl smiled, tilting his head. “I think I understand, Marcus. Your purpose is clear.”
He smiled and stood up. “Really! That genuinely pleases me, Inspector Carl M?rck. Very much so,” he said, pushing a few pieces of paper with notes over toward him. “I hope you have a good Whitsun.”
11
Wednesday, May 11th, to Friday, May 20th, 2016
What no one around Anneli knew was that the Anne-Line Svendsen they thought they knew, for better or for worse, had, in reality, not existed for quite a few days.
Her usual day-to-day life had recently been altered by both worry and excessive anger, during which time she had repeatedly begun to reevaluate her current life and self-image. From having been a conscientious citizen and employee whose ideals included being community-minded and having a positive work ethic, she had become a genuine Mr. Hyde, lost in her most base instincts as she decided on the course of events that would determine her future and possibly short-lived life.
Following her diagnosis with cancer, she had experienced a couple of days weighed down by a fear of death, which had manifested itself in a sort of passive anger that was once again directed at those damn young women who totally cheated society, wasting both their own and other people’s time. With that and the way they had mocked her in mind, Anneli defined her simple mantra:
Why on earth should they be allowed to live when I can’t? And it helped.
Anneli was almost smiling on the way to the hospital to receive her sentence, because the decision had definitely been made.
If she was going to die, then they would damn well die too.
The consultation was one long blur because Anneli was unable to concentrate on all the unreal and real words. Terms such as “sentinel lymph nodes,” “scintigraphy,” “X-ray,” “electrocardiography,” and “chemo” passed by. She just waited for the final and ultimate sentence.
“Your malignant tumor is estrogen-receptor-negative, so we can’t treat you with hormone therapy,” the doctor had said, adding an explanation that the tumor had a malignancy level of three, which was the most dangerous type, but that the tumor was small because it had been found so early and that with an operation everything would probably be fine.
Such a long sentence ending with “everything would probably be fine” was ominous.
Probably! What the hell was “probably” supposed to mean?
Everything went very quickly on the day of the operation. Wednesday morning at eight o’clock she had called in sick to work with influenza. The anesthetic was at nine, the operation was over a few hours later, and she was home by late afternoon. Altogether radical changes in the quiet life she had otherwise led up until this point, and Anneli couldn’t quite keep up.
The results were ready on Friday the 13th of all days, a couple of days after the operation.
“It wasn’t cancer in the sentinel lymph node,” she was told as her heart raced. “The evidence suggests that there is a good chance you’ll have a long and healthy life, Anne-Line Svendsen.” The doctor couldn’t help but smile a little. “We have performed breast-conserving surgery and you can expect a speedy recovery if you follow our advice carefully. Then we’ll have a look at your future treatment.”
—
“No, I’m still not quite myself; it’s a really bad case of influenza, this one. Of course I can come into the office, but I’m worried I’ll give it to everyone else. Why don’t I wait until sometime next week to come back? At least then I ought to be over the worst.”
The answer from her line manager was a little hesitant; it wasn’t a good idea to put other people at risk, so she should try to get herself as well as possible; they would look forward to her being back again after Whitsun.
Anneli hung up, feeling the beginning of a smile. She had been marked for death and had therefore decided to take her revenge on those girls who were of no value to society, and now she might not die after all. She would go to radiation therapy, get dry skin, and expect to be utterly exhausted, but what did that have to do with her vendetta against women like Jazmine and Camilla and Michelle, and whatever the hell they were called? Nothing!
A vendetta is a vendetta, and as she saw it, she should stick with it.
That evening, against the advice of the doctors, she emptied most of the contents of a cognac bottle, which some merciful soul had left at her place after the only get-together she had ever had.
Intoxicated by fermented grapes from a dusty bottle, she regained all her indignation and anger. From this day forth, she was finished with playing the victim. She would attend her treatment without mentioning anything at work, and if anyone asked, in the event that she arrived late in the morning after her treatment, she would say that she had been to the psychologist to deal with latent stress issues. At least it was something every center manager would be able to understand.
She laughed again, holding the half-empty glass up to the light emanating from the hanging lamp.
No, no, from now on she would think of only herself and her own needs. No more nice girl who hardly ever lied or went against the rules. Gone was the woman who thought she would collapse under the strain and who had already been thinking about a place to be buried. From now on, she was going to live life and take no nonsense from anyone.
Beautiful scenes danced before her in her drunkenness. She saw them in front of her—the girls and their idiotic mothers, who had neglected their offspring, making them useless, and whom she would now cause to fall down in shock.
“They’re absolutely worthless!” she shouted, making even the storm windows shake.
She lay on her side on the sofa, doubled up with laughter cramps, stopping only when the scar from the operation began to throb. She swallowed a couple more painkillers and wrapped herself in her old quilt.
Tomorrow, she would quietly and calmly come up with a way to wipe out those broads, and then she would get ahold of an address list of the most superfluous and useless girls in greater Copenhagen.
—