While she was gulping down the contents of the vase, her eyes wandered from the plastic basket to the computer screen, and paradoxically her thoughts became momentarily clearer.
She looked around the chaotic sitting room with a smile, knowing that now at least she had spared her sisters the trouble of deciding what to get rid of and what to keep.
She took the first sheet of paper and wrote:
Dear sisters,
There has been no end to my curse, so don’t despair over my death. Now I’m in a place where peace can no longer be disturbed. A place my thoughts have longed for. And that’s a good thing. Make the best of your lives and try to think of me with a hint of love and friendship. I loved and respected you all, and still do even in this moment of transgression. Pardon my solemnity, but after all it isn’t every day I have allowed myself to say these things to you. I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done. Please humbly accept all my worldly possessions and divide them between you. Farewell.
I love you. Rose
She dated the good-bye letter, read it over a couple of times, and placed it in front of her. What a pathetic letter, she thought, crumpled it up, and threw it on the floor.
Rose brought the vase up to her mouth and gulped down a few more mouthfuls, which seemed to sharpen her perception.
“It has to be this way.” She sighed, picking up the crumpled piece of paper and smoothing it out.
Then she took the second piece of paper and this time wrote in large letters:
Stenl?se, Thursday 5.26.2016
I hereby donate my body to organ donation and research. Best regards, Rose Knudsen
Rose’s hands were shaking when she wrote her national health number, signed, and placed the sheet in a visible spot on the dining table. Then she took her phone and dialed the number for emergency services. While the number rang, she inspected the veins on her left wrist, considering how far up the arm she should cut. Her pulse was strong, so it probably didn’t matter where she did it. And when she finally got through to the operator, she was as determined and ready as she could possibly be. She was just about to tell the operator what the situation was—that in a brief moment she would be dead—so they had to hurry up if they wanted to use her organs. She wanted to finish by saying that they should bring freezer bags with them, and then hang up and make a deep, clean cut in both her wrists.
At this precise moment, when the operator’s voice repeated the question of who she was and where she was calling from, Rose heard a loud bang against the wall in Rigmor Zimmermann’s apartment.
Rose gasped for air. What was going on? And why now?
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” she stammered and hung up. Her heart was beating so fast it made her head hurt. Her calm and resolve had been disturbed. She was in shock, but Rose the investigator took over. What was going on next door? Was she already so intoxicated that her mind was playing tricks on her?
She covered all the pills and her two farewell notes with her jacket and stepped into the entryway.
From here the unexpected sounds were also clearly audible. Was it laughter or screaming?
Rose frowned. In all the years she and Zimmermann had been neighbors, she had only once heard another voice from in there. Slightly raised voices; that was all. As far as Rose knew, no one in the building apart from her had bothered to have any contact with Rigmor Zimmermann. When they had gone to the supermarket together, Rose had noticed how people actually tried to avoid contact with her.
But if it wasn’t Rigmor Zimmermann in there, who was it?
Rose opened the drawer to her entryway cupboard and took out Zimmermann’s key. Rigmor had had to get help from her daughter a few times when she had locked herself out, but six months ago she had given Rose an extra key to avoid that situation.
She staggered out of her front door without closing it behind her, and tiptoed over to Zimmermann’s apartment. She stood outside for a moment listening quietly. She could hear voices inside. A couple of girls, she thought, based on the way they spoke.
In a haze, she knocked on the door a couple of times. When to her surprise no one answered, she put the key in the lock and turned it.
31
Thursday, May 26th, 2016
Gordon looked weary, but then again the type of repulsive tasks Carl made him do were probably not what his nice upbringing and background made him most suited for.
“And you’ve got all the information the Simon Wiesenthal Center could dig up?” asked Carl.
“Yes, it seems so. And I’ve showed Tomas Laursen a couple of photos of how Fritzl Zimmermann executed prisoners with a club to the back of the head, like you asked me. Tomas confirmed that the method was probably similar to the way Stephanie Gundersen and Rigmor Zimmermann were murdered.”
“Okay, so far, so good. Thanks.”
“Stephanie Gundersen was murdered in 2004. Do I need to point out that Fritzl Zimmermann was still alive at that time?”
“Mmm!” grunted Carl, leafing through the atrocious photos. “No, you don’t. But he wasn’t when his wife was murdered a month ago.”
Gordon pointed a chalky finger at him. “No, and hurrah for that,” he said. Not an expression Carl would recommend that he use in this context—or any context for that matter.
Carl turned down the volume on TV2 News. “Gordon, the question remains: Who did it, then? Are you thinking about Birgit Zimmermann or her daughter, Denise? They are the only suspects with a motive so far. As far as I’m concerned, you can take your pick.”
“Er, thanks. I don’t know anything about the granddaughter, but the daughter may well have done it. She certainly has a more than healthy taste for alcohol, according to Assad, and that doesn’t come cheap.”
Carl nodded. “True. Maybe you think it’s likely that she came running down the street in the pouring rain to bash her mother over the head with a club? And that the terrified Rigmor Zimmermann hid from her daughter in a bush full of dog shit? A peculiar scene when you put it like that, don’t you think?”
Gordon looked dejected. That was just part and parcel of police work. Paradoxes, euphoria, disappointment, and pure doubt galore.
“Where do I go from here, Carl?”
“Find Birgit Zimmermann’s daughter, Gordon. What was her name again?”
“She was baptized Dorrit Zimmermann but goes by the name Denise Zimmermann.”
“Look for both of them.”
Carl felt sorry for Gordon as he watched him walk out the door. As long as the situation with Rose remained as it was, things probably wouldn’t go his way.
“What’s up with Gordon, Carl?” asked Assad a few seconds later. “He looks like cold death.”
Carl shook his head. “Death warmed over, Assad. The phrase is ‘death warmed over.’”
Curly looked puzzled. “Are you sure? Warmed over? That doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t you be cold if you were dead?”
Carl sighed. “Gordon’s feeling a bit down, Assad. This Rose business has really hit him.”
“Me too.”