Carl smiled. All according to plan.
“But they left too soon, because I bumped into a guy in a café on Store Kongensgade. He lives on Borgergade, and I’d spoken with him earlier. Since then, he’d discussed our talk with his girlfriend, who had her birthday on the day Zimmermann was murdered. She remembered seeing a big guy on Borgergade on that specific day who was shuffling along the street and seemed a bit . . . she couldn’t really describe it but said he seemed very intense. As if he was agitated or worked up about something or other.”
“So why didn’t they contact us?”
“They intended to but just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
Carl nodded. Every investigator knew the situation all too well.
“Did she remember what time of day it was?”
“She did. She was on her way to see a friend who had invited her for a birthday celebration around eight o’clock.”
“And what was this man doing?”
“He was just standing on the sidewalk a couple of doors down from where Birgit Zimmermann lives. And it was odd because it seemed like he didn’t notice that it was pouring down.”
“Was she able to give you a description?”
“She described him as relatively well dressed but dirty and with long greasy hair. Perhaps that was why she noticed him. The combination seemed a bit off, she said.”
“Does she remember him well enough to give a description to our sketch artist?”
“Not his face, but she can describe his body posture and clothes.”
“Okay. Sort that out, then, Gordon.”
“I already have, but there’s more, Carl. I found another witness. Someone who saw Rigmor Zimmermann just before the murder. In fact, he had spoken to the investigators in homicide but hasn’t heard back since.”
“When did he contact them?”
“The day after the murder.”
“Is that in the report?”
“No. I can’t find his witness statement.”
Assad rolled his eyes, and Carl was with him. If would be a miracle if Pasg?rd’s team managed to solve this case.
“What did this witness see?”
“He saw Rigmor Zimmermann stop at a street corner and look over her shoulder before suddenly starting to run.”
“Where exactly?”
“It was on the corner of Klerkegade and Kronprinsessegade.”
“Okay. That’s only a hundred meters from the King’s Garden.”
“Yes, and she ran off in that direction. But he didn’t see any more because he was walking in the opposite direction down Kronprinsessegade. He lives in Nyboder.”
“What did the man make of it?”
“That maybe the rain was too much for her or that she’d suddenly remembered that she was late for something. He didn’t know.”
“Where did you find him?” asked Assad, putting his feet up on the dashboard in a position that would anger any yoga instructor.
“He found me. He heard me questioning some people where he works.”
“Good job, Gordon,” said Carl. “Bring him in so we can go through it all one more time, okay? We can be back within thirty minutes. Do you think you can get him down to HQ by then?”
“I can try, but I don’t think you have time, Carl. The commissioner himself has just been down in the basement snooping about. He said you have to report to him as soon as you’re back. He looked pretty serious, so I think you’d better do it. Something about the TV crew needing something to be getting on with.”
Carl and Assad looked at each other. Suddenly it might take much longer than thirty minutes for them to get back.
“Tell him we had a puncture and drove into a ditch.”
There was a long pause. Apparently Gordon wasn’t down with that.
35
Friday, May 27th, 2016
The first thing Rose noticed when she regained consciousness was a cutting feeling on the backs of her thighs. Jumbled sounds and images rushed through her head in snatches. A blow, hands struggling with her body, piercing voices, and a ripping sound as if something was being torn.
She slowly opened her eyes and saw a faint white glow creeping in from under a door next to her.
She didn’t recognize the room and couldn’t work out what she was sitting on.
Then the throbbing pain and pressure from the back of her head kicked in. Was it because of the alcohol, or had something else happened? She didn’t understand it. She tried to call for help, but no sound came out because something had been tied around her face, stopping her from opening her mouth.
With one attempt at maneuvering her upper body, she immediately knew her situation. She didn’t know how it had happened, but she had been tied up in a sitting position with her arms pulled up above her head and her hands fastened to something cold. Her ankles were tied together, her back was pressed up against something smooth, and something or other around her neck was stopping her from moving more than a few centimeters forward.
She had no idea what had happened.
From the other side of the door, she could hear the sound of two clear voices arguing. The women sounded young and shrill, and there was no mistaking what they were saying. They were arguing about her. About whether she should live or die.
Just kill me, whoever you are, she thought. It didn’t matter how it happened. The result would be the same: She would find peace.
Rose closed her eyes. As long as her headache was so intense, she could keep the persistent thoughts in her head at bay. All the unavoidable images of her father’s mangled body. The arm sticking out from the huge slab, still with an accusing finger pointing right at her. The deep red blood flowing toward her shoes. And she recalled the smile on her mother’s face when the paramedics dropped her off later that same day. The police were already outside the house, so she had obviously been informed about what had happened. So why was she smiling? Why did she only have the energy to smile? Why was there not a single word of comfort?
Stop! she screamed inside. But these thoughts were inside her. And Rose knew better than anyone that if she wasn’t careful, this would just be an overture to even worse images and words that could come at her like a flood any minute.
Darker images than before, words that hurt more than the previous ones, and unstoppable memories.
She fought against whatever it was restraining her arms. Moaned behind the material that was covering her mouth and making her mute.
Then she pressed forward as hard as she could against the restraint around her neck, but even these few centimeters choked her. She stayed like this until the pressure caused her to lose consciousness again.
When she came around, the two women from earlier were standing watching over her. One of them, Rigmor Zimmermann’s granddaughter, had a penetrating expression and was holding a sharp object that looked like an awl in one hand, while the other one was holding a roll of duct tape.