Stig Ahlin wanted to inform the police. He realized it might be of interest.
Twenty-nine hours had passed since they’d hung up, and Bertil was still so enraged that he literally had white spots dancing in his vision.
He couldn’t comprehend what had happened. How Stig Ahlin could be so callous as to call up Bertil. Without even trying to lie. He wanted to brag. Show what an irresistible man he was. No woman could say no to him. He believed he was untouchable. Beyond suspicion. So superior that he could never be considered a suspect.
As a result, the first interview, which they’d actually been planning to postpone, was held with no drama whatsoever on Stig Ahlin’s own initiative. The next day. With no lawyer present. For informational purposes only.
It all would have been much easier to deal with if the killer had been Katrin’s age, Bertil thought. Someone with whom she’d had a typical teenage relationship. With the sort of problems you couldn’t do anything about anyway.
Any teenager can fall in love with the wrong guy, someone from the wrong side of the tracks. That’s the sort of thing you can warn them about. But how can you warn a teenager against falling in love with a full-grown doctor, a successful man, the father of a little kid? Someone who thought he was entitled to her. There was no protecting yourself against that sort of evil. It was impossible to anticipate.
Stig Ahlin had been allowed to leave the station and go home after his interview. They had shaken hands when he left. Stig had an appointment to keep.
“Call if there’s any other way I can be of help.” That’s what he’d said.
“We’ll do that,” Bertil had responded.
Two of his colleagues were assigned to watch Stig Ahlin. And just as Petra Gren had requested, they brought in Stig’s ex-wife Marianne.
Bertil was the one who’d spoken with her. At first, she hadn’t seemed surprised. But then he’d asked if Marianne knew a Katrin Björk. She didn’t. She’d assumed he wanted to talk about her daughter, Ida.
Katrin Björk was fifteen years old, Bertil told her, and had worked at the rehab facility where Stig’s mother lived. At this, Marianne’s face had turned even paler; she had seemed to grow absent. She recognized the girl’s name now, she was the one who was murdered, the one they’d written about in the papers. But she still didn’t understand why Bertil was talking about her. Marianne hadn’t known that Katrin knew Stig’s mother. Marianne herself hadn’t seen Stig’s mother for a very long time. They’d never been close, and Marianne had not visited her former mother-in-law since separating from Stig. She just never got around to it.
Stig hadn’t mentioned any Katrin, Marianne said. No, she explained, they didn’t talk much unless they had to. Stig had never mentioned other women aside from colleagues or the wives of acquaintances. This hadn’t changed after they separated. Why would it? Marianne had never wished to know if he’d met someone new. Surely no one ever did?
Did she know he visited prostitutes? No. Did she know how he’d gotten to know this Katrin? No. Did she know he had gone to the porno theater on Birger Jarlsgatan? No. Did she know? No. She knew nothing.
“I don’t know him,” she said. Several times. “I don’t know him. I don’t know anything. This has to be some other man, not the one I was married to. Are you absolutely certain?”
“This has to be a bad dream,” she said too. “A mistake.” It had to be, because she couldn’t take it anymore. But it never ended. She hardly had time to think this has to be over now before falling even farther into the abyss. The realization that had robbed her of her whole reality, everything she knew to be true, was not the last lie she would have to make fit into her new life.
“Can you explain?” she asked. “Can you tell me how it happened?”
Then Bertil asked if Stig had ever bitten her. Marianne didn’t understand that question either, not at first. It was just as absurd as everything else they wanted her to react to.
“No,” she said. At first. And then it was as if the blood drained from her body, as if she were having an out-of-body experience. Only then did she realize what Bertil was getting at. Or what had happened. Suddenly, so many pieces fell into place.
“I can’t think about it,” she said then. “Don’t make me.”
Because one Monday, when she picked Ida up from day care, after a weekend at Stig’s, her daughter had had a bite mark on her shoulder.
“I assumed she’d gotten it at day care,” she said. “Lots of kids are biters at that age. It’s common. It really is. And I know I talked to the day care about it. I wanted to make sure they knew that Ida’s not the only one who does things she shouldn’t. But they insisted it hadn’t happened at day care. Or at least that they hadn’t noticed it. She must have gotten it somewhere else. But where would that have been? That’s what I said to them. Ida didn’t want to talk about it. She said it was a secret. Oh my God. She said it was a secret.”
And then Marianne began to cry again. Quietly. Distanced, somehow, as if this tragedy were happening to someone else, on a movie screen or in a made-up story.
When she finally started talking, Stig’s ex-wife Marianne had a lot to say. About how Stig Ahlin had treated those he loved most. How he woke up before anyone else, went on his usual six-mile run, and then waited for Marianne and their daughter to wake up. How he complained — he started as soon as they got up. The dishwasher hadn’t been loaded the right way, the butter had been left out to go bad overnight, the laundry was in a growing mountain in front of the TV in the living room, and he couldn’t understand why he was expected to deal with it, even though he was the one who took care of everything else in their family, including earning every last krona the family spent.
He was never satisfied. He shouted. When Ida got scared and started crying, he shouted even louder.
Stig thought Marianne ate too much, and at the wrong times and in the wrong ways. That she made meals when he wasn’t hungry and that she never bought food he wanted to eat. She made too much food at once and not enough when it was actually needed. She dressed oddly and either used too much makeup or not enough. And no matter how hard she tried to stay one step ahead of him, he always found new reasons to criticize her. She held the clutch down too long when she drove, she pulled too hard on the cold-water tap, she used too much hot water, she forgot to turn off the lights when she left a room, she forgot to air their place out in the morning and turn off the radiators before doing so.
She hadn’t been the one to ask for a divorce; he had. But now, finally, after a year, she was starting to see things in a different light. Her mental health had improved these days. Or, it had been better. Until she’d listened to those first questions from the day care staff.
What had they said? In concrete terms? They thought Ida was acting strangely. She scratched her genitals, wanted to “play sex” with the teachers, and told extremely alarming stories about her dad’s pee. Ida’s genitals were often red; she masturbated during story time and used her tongue whenever she wanted to give a kiss.
The investigation was still ongoing. It had just begun. Marianne had petitioned for sole custody for the duration.
Marianne cried when she spoke about her daughter. Sometimes so hard that they had to take a break. And yes, there had been times when Stig bit her during sexual intercourse. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks. Did he do that? Surely, he had. Once or twice, anyway.
One time, Bertil had taken Marianne’s hand. He’d wanted to comfort her. To explain that it wasn’t her fault.
“You’re saving your daughter now,” he’d said. “Thanks to you, things will be different. Thanks to you, he will never again be able to hurt her.”
Bertil had regretted it immediately. You can’t say that sort of thing, he’d thought. I can’t put the onus on her. But he’d so badly wanted to say something. Wanted to relieve her pain, assure her that it would get better. In all likelihood, he wa
s really just trying to comfort himself. But it hadn’t helped.
His own daughter. And a fifteen-year-old girl. A goddamn doctor.
That’s what Bertil was thinking as he brought the interview to a close. For which time in a row? He couldn’t keep track. Little Ida. Little Katrin.
And that bastard of a doctor had called Bertil to brag about it.
8
Despite the cramped entryway and moisture damage, Sophia Weber loved her office in Gamla Stan. The alley, the ill-conceived floor plans, their poor finances, and her hardworking colleagues. There were four of them in total, including her, five when they took on an intern. And although her colleagues didn’t feel like family, the office felt as natural as if it were her actual home. And she didn’t think this was pathetic in the least. She was proud of the law firm of Gustafsson & Weber. She enjoyed her life there.
In reality, she couldn’t afford to help Stig Ahlin. All her time should be devoted to clients who paid their bills. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t help herself.
It’ll only be for this weekend, she’d tried to convince herself while reading the case file over breakfast. I’ll just find a tidy way to get out of this, she thought as she put the file in her briefcase. I’m allowed to do whatever I want on weekends, she said to herself as she plodded with it up Skeppsbron on her way to the office, where she planned to read even more about Stig Ahlin.
The firm of Gustafsson & Weber was located on the top floor, but they had access to the courtyard, where rays of the sun sometimes found their way in, and where a valiant but stunted little birch grew. When she needed a break, Sophia liked to sit in a plastic chair she’d put there and breathe different air than that in her office. There was a crack in the plastic, and her nylons always snagged on it. But she didn’t have the energy to get a new chair, so she kept using it year-round, no matter the weather, to drink her coffee and gaze at the ashtray that no one ever emptied. Everyone knew Anna-Maria was the one who filled it with nasty butts, but since she refused to admit she smoked, and since no one else wanted to deal with the dirty job, the ashtray and its evidence remained. It had been full for a long time, now.
Sophia Weber opened the door to Gustafsson & Weber and deactivated the alarm. She went to her office without turning on the lights; there she sat down in her chair and started up her computer. Both long walls of the small room were lined with low bookcases, where she kept her textbooks, her collection of case summaries, and the preparatory materials she used regularly. Four filing cabinets were crowded on either side of the desk. The tops of the cabinets and shelves were covered in files that hadn’t fit anywhere else. It looked like a mess, but Sophia knew exactly what was where. A document that couldn’t be located within two minutes — that was a lost document.
Hanging on the wall behind her desk was a watercolor she’d received as a gift from Grandma and Grandpa when she passed her Master of Laws degree. Beside it she kept three framed drawings Anna’s children had made for her. On the desk stood a single photograph of her, Grandma, and Grandpa. They’d been on vacation in Paris. Two weeks after they came home, Grandma had learned she had cancer.
Sophia looked down at her briefcase. Suddenly it felt insurmountable. Why was she subjecting herself to this? Why did she always end up at work? Every Sunday. No exceptions. She looked at her watch. A present from Grandpa. In a few hours, she and Grandpa would make dinner together. They did so every Sunday these days, ever since things had ended between her and Peter.
At least I have plans for dinner, she thought. I can’t stay at the office all day, so that’s good. And I can just as well read the newspapers here as at home. Plus there are cookies in the pantry. And food in the freezer, I can warm it up for lunch.
She started out on the love seat in the reception area, reading through the paper backward. When she was done, she picked up her laptop from the floor and started clicking through the documents. She wanted to get an overview of what they contained. And what was missing. She wanted to know what wasn’t there.
In the middle of the list of documents, she stopped short. It was too much. She put down the laptop again and closed her eyes.
There were other people she could talk to. Other searches. In her office was a list of phone numbers, direct lines to all the police officers she’d worked with, even those she’d removed from her cell phone.
He would know whom I should talk to, she thought. I could ask. That’s all. Nothing more. Sophia got up and found the list of numbers. She browsed through it until she found Adam Sahla’s. She had a direct number for his workplace and another for his cell. Without thinking, she dialed the cell number. It rang on the other end, again and again. No one answered. When the voicemail picked up, she ended the call. But first she listened to his voice. Then she called again. Just once more.
* * *
—
Adam had forgotten his cell phone at home. He couldn’t bring himself to wait for Norah to get ready, to do whatever it was she needed to finish up before she could even think of going out. So he had left, taking the bundled-up kids with him. Not until they reached the park did he realize he had left without his phone.
Now Norah wouldn’t be able to call and find out where they had gone.
He sighed. He would deal with that problem later. Right now, he had to distract his daughter, who was sprawled on the ground, sobbing. Another kid was using the park tricycle she’d wanted to ride. She was actually too big for a trike, and there were about a dozen other bikes available, but she didn’t want any of those.
His son had sat down on a bench. There was no doubt what he thought of being forced to join this outing. His back was hunched, he was resting his chin on his hands, and his eyes looked like they were about to trickle out of his skull.
Adam tried to suppress his anger. Smother his irritation. The feeling that it wasn’t the park that was the problem here — it was that his son never thought anything was fun. That his son never moved voluntarily.
I always have to prod him, Adam thought. Jog behind him and nudge him on. When I was little, I wouldn’t have been able to sit still in a place like this. Mom had to let me out after dinner, so I could run the energy off, or else I couldn’t fall asleep. I certainly would have thought up something to do. There’s tons of stuff to play with here.
Adam righted his daughter, who immediately ran off for the slide.
But my son just sits there gaping. He never shows interest. Unless it’s happening on a computer screen or is covered in chocolate.
Adam sat down next to the boy and placed a hand on his head. His earlobes were ice cold.
Or he’s sad, Adam thought. A kid with no spring in his step. Is he unhappy, something’s going on at school? Or at home? He lives with us, after all. With our issues, and with me. A dad who never comes home in time for dinner because there are far too many other kids who are worse off.
Adam put his arm around the boy and squeezed him as hard as he dared.
“We won’t stay long, I promise.”
His son groaned.
“Then what do you want to do? Tell me! Please. I’d really like to know what you want. I can’t guess, but I’d be happy to do something you would enjoy too.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“At home.”
“I want to go home.”
“We’re here for now. For a while. It’s not so bad. I’m sure we can find something to do. Are you sure there’s nothing you would enjoy? Want to play ball for a while? Or go in and check out badminton rackets? We could play badminton.”
“Can I play on your phone?”
Adam stood up just as he saw Norah walking toward them. He shouldn’t have worried. Of course, Norah had realized they had gone to the park. Adam walked over to meet her.
Norah had let down her hair and gave him a small smile as he picked up his daughter from the ground, where she had once again thrown h
erself after some defeat Adam hadn’t yet managed to identify. Norah’s coat was open. Underneath she was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He smiled back and tossed his daughter over his shoulder. His daughter began to laugh. Like a bird: bright tones, cascades of sunshine.
“You forgot your phone,” Norah said, kissing him on the cheek. He took her hand and pulled her close. She smelled as if she’d just gotten out of the shower. His daughter slid down into his arms; he held her between the two of them for a brief moment. She looked up at them.
“Mama,” she said. “You’re the prettiest mom in the world. Prettier than Sleeping Beauty and Snow White put together.”
Then they let go of each other. Norah went over to their son and Adam looked at his phone. Two missed calls. He brought up the number. Hidden. No message.
Must not have been important, he thought, then turned off the phone and stuck it in his pocket. Not important enough, at any rate. He took his wife’s hand. It was cool. She turned to him with a tentative smile.
We could go to Nordiska Museet, he thought. Everyone always thinks the museum is fun.
* * *
—
Three hundred and forty-three pages — that’s how much Sophia had copied from the microfilm archive at the National Library. It had cost her 1,390 kronor and she had taken the money from her private account. This wasn’t her case yet, so she didn’t want to treat it as a work expense. Because she hadn’t said yes.
Now she was trying to sort the articles into a binder to keep them from getting lost and so she would know what she had copied.
No one talked about this. Not at law school, not at the Swedish Bar Association, and especially not when you happened to run into a colleague out and about. The eternal sorting of documents, shuffling papers. All the hours spent stapling, copying, browsing, hole-punching, putting in binders.
Sophia had wanted to divide the articles into those about the murder, those about the incest allegations, and those about Katrin Björk. It hadn’t gone well. She’d had to put them in chronological order instead. Too often the articles dealt with everything all at once, especially the murder and the incest allegations.
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