They pressed the buzzer several times again before a drawling female voice finally answered.
“Police,” said Laursen. A clumsy introduction, but then communication had never been his strong point—he was a technician after all.
“Hello, Mrs. Zimmermann,” Carl said in a friendlier tone. “We’d appreciate it if you could spare us five minutes of your time.”
There was a crackling buzzing sound at the door, and Carl gave Laursen a knowing look as he pushed open the door to the entrance. Let me do the talking, his look had indicated.
She opened the door wide wearing a kimono that was opened almost just as wide, revealing her pale skin and wrinkled panty hose. It was already obvious from the stench of alcohol on her breath how she spent her days.
“Yes, sorry we didn’t inform you we were coming beforehand, Mrs. Zimmermann. I apologize. But we just happened to be in the neighborhood,” said Carl.
She stared at the three men as she swayed a little from side to side. She found it especially hard to take her eyes off Assad.
“Lovely to meet you,” said Assad, offering his hand with a twinkle in his eye. He had a way with women, especially if they were a bit tipsy.
“Excuse the mess. I’ve had a lot on my plate lately,” she said, attempting to clear some space on the sofa. A few indefinable objects fell to the floor, and then they sat down.
Carl began by offering his condolences. It must have been hard losing her mother in that terrible way.
She attempted to nod normally, struggling to keep her eyes open so that she could follow the conversation.
Carl looked around the room, counting at least twenty-five empty wine bottles as well as numerous liquor bottles spread across the floor, cabinets, and shelves. She certainly hadn’t been holding back.
“Birgit Zimmermann, we’d like to ask you if you have any idea why your mother chose to walk through the King’s Gar—” Carl looked at Assad. “. . . I mean through Rosenborg Castle Gardens instead of walking to the metro at Kongens Nytorv or up to ?sterport Station. Do you know?”
She cocked her head. “She thought it was nice in the park.”
“So she always did that?”
The woman smiled, revealing front teeth covered with lipstick.
“Yes,” she said, nodding excessively before composing herself enough to continue. “And she did her shopping in Netto supermarket.”
“At N?rreport Station?”
“Yes, exactly! Always!”
It took fifteen minutes before they admitted to themselves that the timing wasn’t optimal if they wanted to go into more complex questions.
Carl signaled to the others that it was maybe time to go, but then Assad jumped in.
“Why was your mother walking around with so much money? You said she was carrying ten thousand kroner, but how did you know that, Birgit?” Assad took her hand, which made her flinch, but he didn’t let go.
“Well, she showed me the money. Mother really liked cash—and she bragged about it.”
Nice one, Assad, Carl said with a look. “Did she also boast about her money to strangers?” he then asked.
Birgit Zimmermann lowered her head and let it bounce against her chest a couple of times. Was she silently laughing?
“My mother always boasted, ha-ha. To all and everyone.” She was now openly laughing. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
Touché, thought Carl.
“Did your mother also have money lying around at home?” asked Assad.
She shook her head. “Not as such. She wasn’t stupid, my mother. You can say a lot about her, but she wasn’t stupid.”
Carl turned to Laursen. “Do you know if the mother’s home was searched?” Carl asked in a hushed tone.
Laursen nodded. “They didn’t find anything to help in the case.”
“Was it Pasg?rd?”
Laursen nodded. Apart from B?rge Bak back in the day, there was hardly anyone Carl respected less.
Carl turned toward the woman. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra key to your mother’s apartment, would you, Birgit?”
She huffed a couple of times, as if he was putting her to a lot of bother. They needed to hurry things along before she fell asleep.
Then she suddenly lifted her head, answering with surprising clarity that she did because her mother was always losing her keys. She had once had ten sets cut, and there were still four sets in the drawer.
She gave them a single set but insisted on seeing their ID first. When she had scrutinized Carl’s, he passed it behind his back to Laursen so she would see the same one again. She seemed satisfied with this. She forgot about Assad.
“Just one final thing, Birgit Zimmermann,” said Carl when they were standing in the doorway. “Denise Zimmermann, is that a relative of yours?”
She nodded joylessly.
“A daughter?” asked Assad.
She turned awkwardly toward him.
“She isn’t home,” she said. “I haven’t spoken with her since the funeral.”
—
Back at HQ, Carl sat down heavily in his chair, staring at all the papers on his desk. Two piles were current cases that could wait, so he put them to one side. Then there was a case Rose wanted him to look at, so he threw that one in the corner. The rest of the papers were just notes and various printouts and other miscellaneous things people thought might interest him. Most of it normally ended up in the trash, but he couldn’t just throw Marcus’s notes away. It was apparent that the case was nagging away at him and that he was bound to see connections whenever the chance presented itself. That’s just the way it was with retired policemen. Carl had seen it all before. But did he want to get involved? Wasn’t he just going to end up down a blind alley like those before him? And wouldn’t he just disappoint Marcus, leaving the man without any hope of the case being solved, which would cause him to withdraw into himself? That was Carl’s biggest fear.
He reached for a color printout. “Stephanie Gundersen,” someone had written in block capitals at the bottom.
He noticed the eyes in particular. Slightly slanting, green, and without doubt piercing and enchanting.
Why would anyone kill a girl like her?
Was it because the eyes weren’t enchanting but rather bewitching?
That was probably the question.
18
Monday, May 23rd, 2016
It was deadly quiet in the S-train car because almost all the passengers were surfing on their smartphones and iPads. Some were enthusiastic and concentrated, while others were just scrolling their thumbs over the screen in the desperate hope for some form of contact.
Contact wasn’t the first thing on Jazmine’s mind when she looked at her telephone. She counted the days on her Google calendar since her last period, and everything indicated that she would soon be ovulating, so a decision had to be made.