“It’s totally messed up,” cried the youngest.
Vicky was more composed, nothing like the wild and witty girl Rose always spoke about. “Dad bullied her,” she said calmly. “We don’t know exactly what he did when it was at its worst because she never told us, but we’ve always known that she hated him for it. So much that it’s difficult to imagine.”
Carl frowned. “Bullied her, you say? Do you mean he abused her? Sexually, I mean.”
They both shook their heads. Their dad wasn’t like that. He was all bark and no bite. At least that was what they claimed.
“I just don’t understand why it didn’t stop when Dad died. But here are all the notebooks. And now all the writing on the walls.” Vicky nodded at the walls. The writing was so dense that there was hardly an empty surface.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Lise-Marie sniffled.
“Come out here, Carl!” Assad shouted from the hallway.
He was standing in front of the mirror looking at the bureau. Despite its diminutive size, it was piled high with books. Wide and flat like atlases—though that wasn’t what they were.
“I looked through the pile, Carl, and you won’t believe it.”
He picked up the one on the top, a medium-size book with a hard cover.
“Copenhagen Police HQ,” it was called, and Carl knew it well. It was an overview of the police headquarters in Copenhagen, and rather detailed apart from the glaring absence of Department Q in the basement.
It left no doubt about their status in the grand scheme.
“Look!” Assad pointed at the next book in the pile, approximately one and a half centimeters thick and bound in shirting like the many others piled underneath in different colors.
He opened the book to the first page. “Look at the title. She’s called it ‘Bag Lady.’”
Assad turned the page and pointed at a photo of a young woman.
“She’s created a personal ID card for all those involved in the case,” he said, pointing at the writing underneath: “Kirsten-Marie Lassen, alias Kimmie.”
Carl read further.
“Summary: lives in a small brick house by the train line parallel to Ingerslevsgade. Has lived on the street for eleven years. Gave birth to a stillborn child some years back. Father lives in Monte Carlo. Mother, Kassandra Lassen, lives in Ordrup. No siblings.”
He scanned the page. It contained all the important information about the person in the first case Rose had been involved in.
He leafed quickly through the following pages. No one was forgotten, with photos, biographies, and newspaper clippings of the most important events in their lives.
“There are more than forty cases in the pile, Carl. All cases that Rose has worked on in Department Q, and she’s given them names. For example, ‘Message in a Bottle,’ ‘Scandal on Sprog?,’ and ‘Marco,’ just to name a few.”
He pulled out a rust-red scrapbook from the bottom of the pile.
“I think this one will interest you more than the others, Carl.” Carl opened it. “The Hanging Girl,” she had named it.
“It’s the Habersaat case, Carl. Have a look at the next page.”
Carl turned the page and saw a face he didn’t recognize.
“It looks like Habersaat, but I suppose it isn’t,” he said.
“No, but read the text underneath, and go to the next page.”
“Arne Knudsen—12.12.1952–5.18.1999,” was written under the photo. “Okay,” said Carl and turned to the next page, where there was a photo of Christian Habersaat.
“Turn the page back and forth; then you’ll see it.”
He did and it was true. Seen one after the other, the resemblance was striking. The eyes were almost identical, except that Arne Knudsen’s were totally expressionless.
“I think Rose’s dad was a very unpleasant man,” said Carl.
—
“She must’ve been really crazy to cut up all the furniture and tear everything to bits,” said Assad, sitting as usual with his feet up on the dashboard.
They had been driving for ten minutes without saying a word, but someone had to break the silence.
“Yes, more crazy than we could’ve imagined,” admitted Carl.
“Now I’m wondering what her dad did to her,” continued Assad. “Why only her and not the other daughters?”
“I asked Vicky about it, but you probably didn’t hear. If there was any sign that he was about to bully her sisters, Rose stopped him in his tracks.”
“How? Why couldn’t she stop him when he was going for her?”
“Good question, Assad. None of the sisters could answer that either.”
“It’s like camels. No one has any idea why they do what they do.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate the comparison, Assad.”
“That’s because you don’t respect camels enough, Carl. But they are the ones who get people safely across the desert, remember.”
Respect for camels? He shook his head. He’d need to find some respect for them even if just to get some peace.
They were silent for the remainder of the journey, struggling with their own thoughts and self-reproach. Why the hell hadn’t they been more involved in Rose’s life?
Carl sighed. Now he had three cases to focus on: the murder of a woman twelve years ago, a three-week-old murder case, and now the death of what they knew as Rose’s personality.
He no longer knew which of these cases to prioritize.
16
Friday, May 20th, to Monday, May 23rd, 2016
Anneli undressed in a daze and lay down on the bed, still shaking from the cocktail of exhilaration and adrenaline from murdering Michelle out in the North West district. It was really an unknown sensation for this nice girl who for almost fifty years had been something of a Goody Two-shoes, having never hurt anyone or anything. How could she have known how good it would feel to play judge and jury over people’s lives? It was like uninhibited sex that you hadn’t expected. Like eager hands on your body that awoke latent desires that seemed otherwise forbidden. She had once refrained from rejecting a man next to her in the cinema who had put his hand on her thigh uninvited. Just let him do what he wanted while she lost herself in the on-screen embraces that would never be hers anyway. And now, as she lay there touching herself, recalling the effect he had had on her when he pushed his hand all the way up to her crotch and how she had controlled her orgasm in silent ecstasy, her body was struggling to cope with the inconceivable fact that she had killed another human being.
Michelle Hansen had been exactly the easy victim that Anneli had expected. She had plodded across the street without looking and naively tried to defend herself with her arm, but it was already too late.