Bertil took a step away from the wall. It was time to get started.
“Good morning,” he managed. “Thanks for coming. A homicide, in case anyone somehow missed the news. Our victim’s name is Katrin Björk. She was fifteen years old and home alone for the weekend. Her parents are in Skagen. I’ve spoken with Malmö, who in turn talked to the Danes, who woke Mom and Dad up in a room at Brøndums Hotel. So, we can be pretty sure it wasn’t the dad.” Bertil attempted a smile, forcing the corners of his lips to turn up. It didn’t go well; his head was still buzzing, now even louder. He went on. “Or the mom.”
One of his colleagues stood up and headed for the exit with his back hunched. At the door he turned around and brought an imaginary mug to his mouth.
What is he doing? Bertil thought. He shook his head in wonder. Couldn’t he have gotten coffee before the meeting? Bertil frowned and turned to those who remained.
“The murder weapon? He really went at her. It’s hard to tell, but he did use some sort of implement. We’ll have to see what they say, but she doesn’t appear to have been shot. I don’t think he cut her with a knife. It didn’t look like it, anyway. But did he strike her with something? We’ll have to wait and see. Meanwhile, we’ll start with the usual. The neighbor who called in underwent initial questioning on-site. He said the parents asked him to keep an eye on their daughter. To make sure she didn’t throw any big parties. Naturally we’ll have to talk to him again. Find out what he saw or didn’t see. And check him out thoroughly. Eva, will you make sure to do that as soon as we’re done here? Give him a vigorous workup. And you, Lena.”
Bertil waved a hand at another of the women.
“You find out where Katrin attended school. I’ll visit there on Monday morning. I may try to speak to her closest bereaved friends today. If we can identify them. We’ll see what the parents say. As I’m sure you all understand, I’d really like to find a boyfriend. And fast. It looked like the victim had invited someone over for dinner. It’s not as if this dinner guest is such a long shot. I want to know who he is. Preferably an hour ago. Because we’ll be bringing him in. We have to talk to her friends. It’s not out of the question it was someone who attends her same school.”
Lena nodded.
“And don’t be sloppy! Run every name that pops up. I want to know everything about everyone. If one of her teachers was hauled in for exposing himself in the park. If her mailman rents pornos at the same video store she goes to. I want you to find out if her neighbor looks into her windows with binoculars. You know what I mean. Eva, like I said: you stay here and do what needs doing on this end. And for God’s sake, make sure to answer the phone if it rings. If I call, I don’t want to end up with the operator because you’re on a smoke break. Smoke at your damn desk if you have to. You must be reachable. Understand? Send someone out for your lunch. Pee in a cup. Just don’t leave the goddamn phone.”
Eva rubbed her eyes and nodded. Two others yawned.
“The parents are returning home this morning. They’ll be driven straight here. I’ll take care of them. Lena, you can come with me. I need someone to hold their hands and listen, if they need it. Danne and Klas, you go back to the house, knock on doors, talk to everyone you see in the vicinity. Someone must have seen him arrive. Or leave. Be sure you talk to everyone who lives there, not just the ones who happen to be at home and answer the door.”
Another two colleagues stretched their jaws. Lena picked up one of the morning papers, leaned back, and began to read.
Bertil Lundberg looked around. No one was returning his gaze. The man who had left to get coffee had not come back. Eva was digging through her purse.
Lena turned a page in the paper. Bertil had already glanced through it in the car on the way to the station. There was nothing about last night’s murder. TT, the news agency, had already put out an item about it, but a dead girl found at home was not the kind of story that would stop the press or force the news editor to redesign the day’s front page. Not, at least, until it was clear that the girl hadn’t taken her own life.
A dead fifteen-year-old girl. She would end up among the incident reports: a few lines in a column alongside crashed trucks, a wounded wolf, and a stable of neglected horses on Gotland. This was the seventh teenager found dead in their own home this year, and if you believed what was and was not in the papers there was no reason to get worked up. It wasn’t even an honor killing in the suburbs. In some sense, it was a bagatelle. Just another number in the statistics.
Bertil yanked the paper away from his colleague. Lena looked up from her empty hands in surprise. Her cheeks turned pale pink. Everyone else did their best to pretend they hadn’t seen what had just happened.
These prize idiots, Bertil thought, carefully rolling up the paper. His hands grazed over the thin newsprint. They think I’m just nagging. That they’ve heard this a thousand times. That they already know it all. Exactly what to do and how to do it. Now they’re sitting there rocking on their chairs. Tough as nails. Chewing gum and thinking about other things. Leaving their emotions at home, sure that a simple notepad and some polite attention can get rid of all the feelings.
“I’m sorry,” said Bertil, “you may find this boring. You think there’s nothing exciting about a dead kid if the story doesn’t end up on the front page. You’re disappointed that Katrin wasn’t found dismembered in the forest or on the steps of City Hall.”
He had their attention now.
Suddenly Bertil had the urge to hit something. Throw a mug against the wall to watch it explode in a cloud of white porcelain shards. Or smack someone with the rolled-up newspaper. Instead he placed it on the table and took a seat.
His rage vanished as quickly as it had come. In its place came weariness, almost exhaustion. Why would I go after them like that? They haven’t had time to do anything, not yet. What do I know about what they’re thinking? His knees trembled. He made a fist and hit himself softly on the thigh. In just four months he would be a dad. In four months Sara would be a mom. A hundred and twenty days. A new life. A better future. The meaning of life?
After a moment, Bertil spoke again. His voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Our victim’s name was Katrin Björk. She wasn’t even sixteen. The only child of two parents who are sitting in a police car on their way here. The parents didn’t do it and we didn’t find any remorseful boyfriend on the front steps. As it stands now, the case is completely open. I would appreciate it if you made an effort. At least until Midsummer.”
Someone scraped their chair on the floor.
“Can we agree on that? That we’ll work this out. Whatever miserable little parts of it can be worked out.”
Bertil looked up. Someone nodded cautiously.
“What I’m trying to say,” he said at last, “is that I would appreciate if we did our very best.”
2
Sophia woke up way too early. She lay with her cheek pressed to the wall, squeezed into a twin bed with a pine frame and a foam mattress. Next to her, on his back, lay the squinting man from the night before. She had no idea what his name was, Johan or Stefan or Mattias. He’d told her; she had forgotten.
She’d been dreaming. When she was little she used to dream of being given a pony. Dark brown, with a black mane and tail, brushed to glossiness, it pressed its silken nose against her neck, blew warm air into her hair, and snorted with happiness to see her. But then she woke up, every time, and had to go to school. After her last class she went straight to the stables and at most was allowed to pick the hooves of Prince, who refused to stand still. Instead he turned around and bit her with his chattering yellow teeth. The same thing was happening now.
In her dream she had slept with someone else. With him. She really shouldn’t, she thought, even in her dreams, but she couldn’t help it. He was big, bigger than she remembered. Almost grotesque. Thick and long, he pressed into her, one hand around h
er neck, kissing her, and she never wanted to wake up. But she did. As usual. Right before she came, relentlessly, because one arm was asleep.
Sophia managed to turn over by pushing the bed away from the wall a few inches. She wriggled her way out, cautiously — she didn’t want Johan-Stefan-Mattias to wake up. If he did she would have to call him something. To whisper in her morning voice: Good morning, Stefan-Mattias-or-maybe-Fredrik. There was no way. She would be forced to call him “honey.” And she really wasn’t prepared to take things that far.
Sophia wrangled her way into her panties and shirt, then grabbed her purse, briefcase, and the rest of the clothes that were folded on the desk. Her arms full, she sneaked to the bathroom. The man in the twin bed was in his third year of legal studies. She recalled him having said that much. Which had to mean he was at least twenty-two, right? Or twenty-three. That was pretty much an adult.
She dug a painkiller out of her purse, swallowed it, and avoided any further thoughts of the day before. How she had squeezed both her eyes and her genitals closed when he entered her. How his squinting eyes suddenly went perfectly round and his mouth became a rectangle with the strain. How she had come fast, faster than him, and how it had felt like scratching an already bleeding mosquito bite. She washed up as fast as she could, peed without flushing, and walked into the hall and down the stairs carrying her shoes. Not until she had crossed the street and reached the cemetery did she tie her shoelaces and button her coat. The moon was high over the cathedral, lemon yellow against the inky blue. It would be at least two hours before night loosened its grip, and no snow in the air yet.
At least I didn’t get a stiff neck, she thought, winding her scarf around her throat an extra time.
Yesterday’s wind had died down a bit. She turned onto Trädgårdsgatan and walked down to the swan pond. It smelled like baked goods there: saffron, cinnamon, melted butter. Sophia knew where to knock when the place was closed, and just one minute later she was holding a paper bag, all greasy from hot buttercream. With the bag in hand, she ran down toward Kungsgatan and Central Station.
Outside the main entrance a young man was sitting on some unfolded newspapers having a smoke. Sophia made eye contact with him; he was still a teenager. Her determined pace, which was meant to take her away from there, faltered. Like the man she had left on Studentvägen just now, this beggar resembled someone she knew, or had known, or should know. She stopped, fumbling through her purse, and found a five-hundred-krona bill. It was a ridiculous amount, but now it was too late so she handed it to him.
I should pat him on the shoulder, she thought. I could say something casual about the weather, the morning, the darkness — or anything at all. Would he want my pastry?
“Thanks,” he said, swiping his hair from his forehead to keep from having to look at her, and she felt even more ashamed. He didn’t even seem surprised, just folded the bill and stuffed it in his pocket.
Sophia fled. Only ten yards on did she become angry. Five hundred kronor. How could I be so stupid? Am I trying to buy my way out of this cold sweat? And if that is what I’m trying to do, shouldn’t I pay the right person?
Her heart pounded in her chest. Should I have left a bill on the nightstand back at Magnus-Mattias-Johan-Anders’s? Is that what I should have done? Or should I have looked at his door to find out his name?
The train would leave at four minutes past six; Sophia stepped onto the station stairs nine minutes early. She bought a ticket from the machine on the platform, used some hand sanitizer, climbed aboard, sat down, and placed her briefcase on her lap. Then she took out the folder of photographs. The seats around her were empty, so she didn’t have to worry that someone might notice what she was reading.
She rested her temple against the cold windowpane and stared at the first photograph in her hand. It was an enlargement, printed in color on a sheet of A4. The crime scene. The victim was in the center, naked and with one leg drawn up slightly to the side, her arm at an impossible angle. Her mouth was agape. Her eyes were open too, veiled by a pale yellow film. Her clothes were folded up on a chair.
Nothing about the room where the girl lay seemed to fit what had happened to her. It was too neat. She must have disrobed voluntarily; Sophia recalled the newspapers having reported as much.
The second photo was a close-up. Sophia glanced around quickly; she was still alone in the train car. Sixteen years old, or had she been fifteen? It was impossible to tell.
Her heart rate began to slow. Sophia sank deeper into the seat. Her hands stopped trembling.
Naturally she would look through the file, even if she wouldn’t take the case. It couldn’t hurt — it was an exciting case. Back when the crime occurred, she had read everything she could get her hands on. The papers had written about it as though they expected this to be the last homicide they would ever get to cover. There were stories about the dead girl, her parents, her interests, her friends, her teachers, and her school. About her good grades and her short life, a little girl’s dreams and a young woman’s plans for her life. About the end-of-term ceremony at her school just a few days after her death. And about the sick doctor who had taken her life.
Above all, they had written about him, the doctor. Sophia had devoured every story, ravenously, intently.
Of course she would go through the documents Hans had given her. The misfortunes of others were much easier to deal with. But only the sort that were written down on paper. Not the kind of misery that sat on chilly front steps, holding out a hand.
She opened her laptop, inserted one of the thumb drives, and opened the folder marked “FöU Supplements 1–30.” The preliminary investigation. It took a moment for the documents to load, and as she waited she really felt her exhaustion. It was always that same feeling, the same dizziness. Her failing will as she faced a new assignment.
This isn’t a new assignment, she thought. I don’t need to get to know this man; I don’t have to steel myself. I can empathize with the victim or simply ignore her if I want to. I don’t have to protect the perpetrator or explain why. He isn’t my responsibility and whatever he’s done it can’t rub off on me.
It doesn’t have to mean anything to me. These people are nothing to me. Nothing at all.
Her heart fluttered. And then she began to read.
Katrin
1998
Katrin Björk’s parents were staying with good friends. They had to make do with the overnight bags they had brought to Skagen. Their house would be off limits for another few days before the technicians finished their work.
Chief Inspector Bertil Lundberg had asked what they wanted to do about the dog. The neighbor had said he couldn’t take it, but they couldn’t leave it up at the house, either. A friend of the family, the same one the parents were staying with, had dropped by to pick it up. A woman. She had gathered the animal into her arms, stumbled back to the hastily parked car, and driven off.
Bertil had noticed her prolonged glances at the house. At the blue-and-white police tape waving in the summer breeze. Those glances told the story of what had happened. The house where Katrin had grown up was no longer a home. Just the scene of a murder.
Now Bertil was up at Katrin’s school. He was sitting in one of the rooms near the principal’s office. It was rather reminiscent of his own bosses’ offices. For some reason, this surprised him. With the exception of a short visit to a teachers’ lounge, he had never been behind the scenes of a high school before.
Once, many years ago, Bertil had responded to a call about a teacher who had hanged himself. But the hanging had taken place in the boys’ locker room, not in the secret spaces that belonged only to the teachers. That teacher might have wanted to make sure that the students understood what he had done, that his misery would not be hidden away in the administrative area.
Bertil was only familiar with the students’ everyday routines, which hadn’t changed much since hi
s own school days: lockers, bathrooms full of graffiti, gymnasiums that reeked of sour sweat and nonslip gym socks, classrooms that smelled like pencil lead and dust, the noisy cafeterias where kids stuck their sandwiches to the undersides of the tables, butter side up.
This was the second day he was spending at Katrin’s school. He had spoken to no fewer than six different teary-eyed teachers, one school nurse, two janitors, and four girls who all claimed to have been Katrin’s best friend. Now, he was interviewing a girl the nurse had suggested he talk to. Katrin and this girl had been friends at one point. For reasons the nurse wasn’t privy to, they had broken off contact.
The school nurse had also said that the young woman sometimes seemed hostile, that she had “problems,” but that Bertil should try to look past her nose ring, clunky shoes, and odd makeup.
I’d love to, he thought. I’d love to see past everything. If only she would say something. Hostile or otherwise. Then I could be as understanding and open as anything.
“You were friends with Katrin?” he tried.
The girl shook her head.
“You weren’t friends with Katrin?”
She shook her head again.
Bertil sighed and tapped his pen against his notebook. He took a tissue from his pocket and handed it to her. Her tears had snaked trails through her thick white makeup. The girl clenched her hand around the tissue and looked him straight in the eye.
Blow your nose, Bertil thought, looking down. For God’s sake, blow your nose.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that to me,” he said. “I’m having trouble understanding what you mean. Did you have a fight? Did something happen?”
A guy? Someone she’d just broken up with? Or who had just broken up with her?
“Eh!” The girl blew her nose.
Finally, Bertil thought.
“How the hell should I know?” she said. “She didn’t talk to me anymore. She hated me.” The tears intensified. “She didn’t want to hang out with me.”
Beyond All Reasonable Doubt Page 3
