Bertil couldn’t help but shake his head. He had spoken to Katrin’s teacher, Katrin’s parents, Katrin’s riding teacher, Katrin’s best friend — that is, the best friend her mother considered to be her best friend. And that friend’s parents. And now this kid. At quarter past eight this morning he had met the first in a line of criers. Now it was past four. The school day was over. The students had gone home. All but this one. He should let her go too. This was going nowhere.
“I was the only one who…and she didn’t want to, she didn’t want to see me.”
Her crying turned to sobbing.
Bertil hummed. He waited for her to calm down.
“Is there anything you could tell me about Katrin? Like did she have a boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend?” The girl was sounding hysterical. “A fucking boyfriend? Is that what you think? You think it’s that fucking easy?”
Bertil made a vague motion with his head. There’s easy, and there’s easy, he thought.
The heavily made-up child across from him blew her nose again. A lone booger was left dangling from her nose ring. Bertil waved dejectedly at his own nose to encourage her to wipe her face. But it didn’t work.
“Katrin hated the guys at school,” she sniffled. “Hated them. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t…it didn’t…that’s not how it was.”
Bertil paged through his notes to keep from looking at her.
“Well, then tell me how it really was. I can’t guess. Can you tell me about Katrin and her relationships with guys? The ones she liked and the ones she didn’t? Which ones liked her? And their names, if you know them?”
Because he really wanted to know. Who Katrin had been with. And with any luck, he would also find out if she had been unfaithful to any of them, who had been upset with whom, and so on and so forth for all eternity.
“What guys?” She blew her nose again. This time it was into the sleeve of her black sweater, which was way too long. The booger got stuck there instead. “You don’t get it. Why the hell would I tell you that? How am I supposed to know? Katrin had tons of guys. Shit, I don’t have time to sit here all damn day. I have to go home. I want to go home.”
“I’m a fast writer. Tell me everything you know. Let me decide whether it’s important or not.”
But it didn’t take all day. It didn’t even take four minutes. She couldn’t give him any names; apparently it wouldn’t matter how many times he asked. It seemed she didn’t know anything. Then she blew her nose a few times more, swore, and was out the door.
Once the girl was gone, Bertil looked through his notes one last time and listened to parts of the recorded material. He made additional notes where he felt it was necessary. Soon he would have to go up to the station and form an overview of everyone’s work. He would have to come back another day. If she would only calm down, he could imagine talking to this girl again. Once things were more in balance, once the shock had worn off.
Bertil looked at the clock. He had better call the crime scene guys to see how far they had come. If he had any extra time he could head over and check it out for himself.
It wouldn’t be long before the parents demanded to be allowed back home. Not to move back in, just to look. Try to move that cog in the gear that might one day let them comprehend what had happened. One tick forward.
Bertil didn’t want Katrin’s mother and father to be allowed in too early. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why that was. It probably didn’t have anything to do with his investigation. He wanted to spare them something.
His colleagues often said the worst thing about their job was giving news of a death. Telling a mother her child had died — nothing could be more difficult. Bertil didn’t agree. The shock that hit those who received such news could be dealt with just like a cut to a major artery. You had to concentrate solely on the acute situation, on putting pressure on the open wound. There was screaming and panic. Doctors were called in, pills shaken out and swallowed, syringes filled and injected. It could be handled.
It was worse later on. Once the agony had turned to sorrow. When you came back, when you had to talk to them again. When the pills were gone and life went on. Bertil thought this was infinitely harder to handle. The sadness and resignation. The hatred and despair. The emptiness and knowledge.
Let them rest in this stage of initial shock, when nothing was real. He supposed that was what he wanted to do. Let Katrin Björk’s parents put off coming home, put off seeing what couldn’t be cleaned away: the fact that it wasn’t their home anymore. That beyond the blue-and-white tape, nothing would ever go back to the way it had been.
3
Stockholm Central Station was dimly lit, the morning still pitch black. The few commuters waiting on the platform were standing around with eyes downcast, necks bent, breathing into their scarves. “O Holy Night” was buzzing through the loudspeakers.
Sophia Weber went straight from the station to Fjärilsgården. An evergreen wreath hung on the door that led from the hallway into the assisted-living apartment. After a cautious knock she let herself in with her own key. When she opened the bedroom door, the old man looked up from what he was reading.
“What if I’d had a visitor? What if I had been brightening my morning by amusing myself with something other than the arts-and-culture section of Dagens Nyheter? What would you have done then?”
Sophia slipped to his bedside and put her arms around him.
“Dearest Grandpa. Obviously, I would have heard what was up back in the parking lot and turned straight around to go home. You’ve never liked quiet women, have you?”
Sture Weber gave her a small, reluctant smile.
“Hmm. You’re almost right. You would have. Heard the screams.” He cautiously wriggled out from under the covers and lowered his feet to the floor where his slippers were waiting. When Sophia placed her hand on his arm he pushed it away. “But I have nothing against a quiet nature. It’s just that with me, even the most reserved ones get loud.” He smoothed the ruffled hair on his crown and stretched. “Could my little girl fix a cup of coffee for her old grandpa? And a decent breakfast, perhaps?”
He patted her hand and she took his and squeezed it. She held on to it for a moment before he pulled it back and started to walk the short distance to his wardrobe.
His hands were all that was left of what he had once been. They were as large as when she was a little girl and he could lift her up with one hand around her waist. The rest of him had shrunk. Those blue eyes had grown watery. His chest had become sunken. His legs were twisted in a serious mutation.
Sophia went to the kitchen and filled the espresso maker with water and freshly ground coffee, screwed the two parts together, and set the contraption on the stove. Then she opened the fridge and took out eggs and bacon, a few tomatoes, and cream. She whisked the cream into the eggs, melted extra-salted butter in one frying pan, and laid the bacon in the other.
She had long since stopped interfering in what Sture ate. He was old enough to make his own decisions about that sort of thing. What was more, she thought his weight loss was much more concerning than the specter of high cholesterol. Her grandfather had lived a good life — he deserved to enjoy bacon for breakfast in the years he had left. That was what Grandma had always made him, and that was what he wanted to eat.
Sophia heard Sture close and lock the bathroom door. The sound of the Mora clock’s swinging pendulum was in the background, like a shadow of what their life had once been like in the run-down villa in Djursholm. The open fireplace, the swollen window casings, overloaded bookcases in every room, and black specks of mold in the basement. As the bathwater flowed and Sture got into and out of the handicap-accessible bathtub, Sophia set the table with Grandpa and Grandma’s wedding china.
Sture hadn’t kept much from the house. Sophia had a few things in her apartment: a set of teacups, a bureau with a bulging bel
ly and brass fittings, a pair of threadbare rugs, a display case with warped glass, and Grandpa’s desk. Grandpa had been surprisingly unsentimental. He seemed relieved when the house was sold. The desk was the only thing he’d had trouble leaving behind. He was so happy when she said she would love to have it, and now it was in her bedroom. It was ridiculously large, but that didn’t matter. Every time Grandpa came over he would stand by the old desk and stroke its scratched surface. His fingers lingered on the lines in the wood.
Sture came into the kitchen in his robe and slippers and caught his breath before sitting down across from Sophia, then picked up his glass and drank all of the freshly squeezed orange juice at once. When he noticed that Sophia had frothed milk he smiled in satisfaction and portioned it into the two ceramic mugs of coffee she’d set on the table.
“I’ve been asked to handle Stig Ahlin’s petition for a new trial.”
“I’ll be damned.” Sture took a cautious sip of his coffee and cut a strip of bacon in half. He had just shaved, so his wrinkled cheek was silky soft. With the bacon speared on his fork, he went on. “That bastard. Stig Ahlin. Isn’t he tired of trying to get his appeal?”
“You’d think so.” Sophia finished chewing. “But he’s actually never appealed to the Supreme Court before. Hans Segerstad has got it into his head that Ahlin is innocent and he wants me to help him.”
“Segerstad.” Sture nodded in amusement. “How is that whippersnapper? Still just as lazy and unkempt, I assume. I’m sure if you asked him he’d say he’s doing you a favor, and not the other way around.”
Sophia nodded.
“So what are you going to do?” Sture wondered.
“I don’t know. I started reading on the train from Uppsala. I’m not going to lie, I’m not particularly tempted. But I have to look at the material first. Before I say no.”
Sture coughed and set down his silverware.
“Little Fia.” He sank his thumb surprisingly deep into one nostril and scratched his nose thoroughly. “You’ll never get Stig Ahlin a new trial.” Sture withdrew his thumb, wiped it on his robe, and shook his head. He smiled as if she were too young to understand. “Put your efforts into trying to get his sentence time-limited,” he said. “If you feel like you absolutely must help that man.”
“Thanks,” said Sophia. “For those encouraging words.”
She tried to smile, tried to tamp it down, but it was so hard to fend off. As always, it hatched somewhere under her skin. Swarming, crawling: the feeling that he never thought she was good enough, that he didn’t believe in her.
“And stop pretending you’re going to say no to Hans Segerstad. We both know you’d never do that.” Sture shoved his plate away. “You’ve never been able to say no to older men. Father complex and all that. It’s because you have this special relationship to me.” Sture patted Sophia’s hand. “And because you never met your dad. And because your mom never cared enough. How is she, by the way? How is your miserable mother?”
“I have no idea how Mom is,” Sophia said curtly, pulling her hand away and ratcheting up her anger instead. That was easier to deal with. “But thanks for the lecture. I would guess she’s fine. If you’re so sure I can’t manage it, then what do you think I should do about Stig Ahlin’s appeal? Shouldn’t I say no and hand the job over to someone more capable than I am? What should I tell Hans Segerstad? He thinks I can be of use, anyway. It’s not as if he’s completely clueless about my qualities as a lawyer. But you think Hans Segerstad is mistaken? He’s only considered to be one of Sweden’s best procedural law experts of all time.”
“According to whom? Besides Segerstad himself?” Sture shook his head. “And do you really think I would be so stupid as to tell you what to do? I have no desire to be responsible for your mistakes. But once you’ve accepted the job, you’ll keep me updated, right? Call it consulting. As you know, when it’s little Sophiasson doing the asking, my services are free, and besides, I’ve always been fascinated by that case. We could go out to eat. You and me and that professor. Hans Segerstad likes that. Being invited to a restaurant that he can’t pay for with his miserable salary.”
The color rose in Sture’s face and he reached for a napkin. He seemed to have abandoned his meal.
For a moment, there was silence. Sophia waited for him to continue.
“It was a hell of a thing, that no one looped me in back when it was all happening. I would have loved to take a look at that Stig Ahlin. Seldom have so many journalists assigned so many diagnoses of ‘psychopath’ to a single man. Who was later found to be perfectly normal when the actual investigation was over. Perfectly normal, Sophia. Do you hear what I’m saying?” Sture pinched his nose and managed to fend off a sneeze. “Not only was he healthy enough to be sent to prison, they didn’t even find a hint of a single personality disorder. That’s extremely unusual when it comes to that type of violent crime. Of course, one might ask if there’s anyone in our two circles of acquaintances who doesn’t suffer from a tasteful amount of narcissism. Not everyone is in as bad shape as your friend Segerstad. But still.”
Sophia shook her head in resignation.
“I want you to know that being diagnosed as perfectly normal is extremely abnormal,” Sture went on. “There weren’t even any signs of substance abuse, if I recall correctly. If you ask me, the people who investigated him were screwups. Around that time, it was starting to be old-fashioned to assign diagnoses. At least to criminals. Because then you would have to spend money on caring for them. Depressing. Awfully depressing.”
He began to cough. Sophia’s stomach twisted. She hated that cough; it never faded. It came on suddenly and wouldn’t let up. In the middle of a sentence or just before Sture fell asleep. It was persistent — he couldn’t even speak when it was at its worst. The doctors said it had to do with his heart. His body couldn’t manage to get rid of fluids properly, so they collected in his lungs and made him hack.
“Why do you think it would be a mistake to represent him?”
Sture took out a handkerchief.
“Are you listening to yourself? When did I say it would be a mistake? I’m not getting involved. But you should probably prepare yourself — you’ll have to take a lot of crap. From people you don’t know and hopefully don’t care about. Because it may have been years since Stig Ahlin was convicted, but people have hardly forgotten him. People like Professor Death are never forgotten — they only get more and more famous. And people, whoever they are, they hate him and anyone who’s on his side. No matter why they’re there. There will be a hell of a fuss. Especially if you do a good job. Whether you want to or not.”
He left his plate on the table and walked back to his bedroom, his legs stiff.
“Will you clean up, honey?” he called from the doorway. “I need to lie down for a bit. I’m getting a cold.”
The bedroom door closed.
He always does this. Sophia began to load the dishwasher. How the hell does he manage it? Every time. He makes me feel as if I’ve already failed. I haven’t even done anything yet. I haven’t had time. So how come he already knows I’m going to make a mistake?
She closed the dishwasher with a bang. Sture’s snores were already coming the bedroom; he sounded like a panting animal, his breathing irregular and aggressive. She felt like she had been pounded black-and-blue.
He falls asleep too fast, she thought. It’s not normal to drop off so quickly.
Katrin
1998
I shouldn’t be driving, thought Chief Inspector Bertil Lundberg.
He parked outside Stortorp rehab facility. Just over a hundred hours had passed since Katrin Björk was murdered. In that time he had gotten nineteen or twenty hours of sleep. On the way over he had nodded off in the car, only waking when he swerved onto the wrong side of the road. He couldn’t keep going like this.
It felt as if they were stuck. The overwhelming
help they’d received from the general public since the press coverage started wasn’t helping. Because in this investigation, everything else was missing. The witness statements were vague, contradictory, and unreliable. The crime scene investigation had turned up very little, if anything. The investigation wasn’t over yet, of course, but Katrin hardly seemed to have resisted. Yes, there were some defensive wounds, but there was no skin under her nails, no pulled-out hair in the girl’s clenched fists, nothing they could use.
He climbed out of the car and stretched his neck; it crackled. Stortorp was a peaceful place. Beautiful, even. Katrin had had a side job in one of the units and Bertil was there to speak with her coworkers.
We can’t lose momentum, he thought. The days are just flying by. And I have nothing to go on.
He let his eyes wander over the avenue he’d just passed. Knotty trunks and pale green crowns. The water was in the other direction, pale blue and still.
The building greeted him with corridors full of freshly ironed cotton curtains, flowers in shiny vases, rooms that drew the mind more to a manor house hotel than illness. It was lovely in a way you would hardly connect to health care or teenagers being brutally murdered.
It must be hard to get a spot here, he thought. To be allowed to lie here and rest up on the taxpayer’s dime.
* * *
—
A few conversations later, he had only a few scattered notes in his book. Katrin had been popular with her colleagues. They had considered her a responsible girl, quiet but kindhearted, sweet and good with the patients.
Kindhearted, Bertil thought as he gathered his belongings. Now there’s a word people only use about the dead.
But beyond how everyone had spoken as if they were in a turn-of-the-century novel about virtue and conscience, it was clear that this tragedy was only growing more incomprehensible. Katrin had exemplary grades, her bedroom was plastered with rosettes for jumping and dressage, and she always helped her mother empty the dishwasher when asked. As if that wasn’t enough, she had also worked part-time wiping the bottoms of the elderly.
Beyond All Reasonable Doubt Page 4
