Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  But at least she had managed to produce one separate category. She marked it with a tabbed divider and put it at the very back: a section of articles on Katrin. The preliminary investigation didn’t contain much about her, other than what came out of the interviews with Katrin’s parents, friends, and teachers. Sophia had hoped the media could give her a more nuanced picture. Information that would help her understand what sort of person Katrin had been. Up to now, she hadn’t found what she was looking for. Quite the opposite. Not a single negative word seemed to have been written about Katrin. Good grades in school, clever, pleasant, kind, and conscientious.

  Sophia punched holes in yet another article, an interview with Katrin’s riding instructor, crying in front of the horse they said was Katrin’s favorite. She inserted it into the binder and closed the metal rings as gently as she could.

  The next article in the stack was no more than half a page long. Some male journalist had spoken to an anonymous friend of Katrin’s. Sophia glanced through the text. This one would also end up behind the divider. She read the ending more thoroughly and felt her forehead crease. The article certainly didn’t say anything expressly out of the ordinary, but it had been written in a different sort of tone.

  She started over from the beginning. There was something there. A hint that it wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows in the suburb where Katrin grew up. That Katrin’s grades hadn’t been as good as the year before, that she was often absent, and that her riding instructor hadn’t seen her in four months; that there were a lot of parties at school and that Katrin typically attended them. The journalist ended with a paragraph about a school psychologist who talked, in general terms, about how easy it was to make mistakes as a teenager.

  Sophia took a yellow sticky tab and affixed it to the page, then got a pen and circled the journalist’s name. It was never hard to get in touch with members of the press. She took out her phone and looked at the screen.

  Shit, she was going to be late to see Grandpa. They’d agreed to prepare dinner together, but she would never make it now, not if Sture was going to eat at his usual hour. He hated it when she was late. An inability to be on time was a sign of weakness. He also considered it evidence of disrespect. In some ways, the failure to respect Sture’s time as a retired person seemed worse than any other fault.

  Sophia called a cab. As the phone rang, she scooped up the papers on the floor, placed them loosely in the binder, and put the binder on the desk. The journalist, she thought. I have to remember to call that journalist.

  Katrin

  1997

  When Stig stepped into his mother’s room that day, a young woman was stroking her wrinkled, silky-skinned hand with its ridged nails and liver spots.

  The woman was holding the hand he used to hold. The hand that had patted him, clipped his sharp baby nails, washed his own hands before meals, and wrestled his little fingers into gloves when it was cold out. She was warming the hands that had touched him long before he was old enough to remember.

  Stig paused in the doorway, stood at the threshold, didn’t want to step in. Instead he watched as his mother smiled happily at a memory, one she didn’t, in that moment, need to anchor to anything else. It felt strangely intimate.

  The young woman stood up and he straightened his back and put out his hand. Katrin was her name; she worked there. They spoke for a moment. Katrin said something about his mother, that the power had gone out earlier that day. That Katrin had propped the doors open so she could hear in case any of the patients needed help. And in doing so, she’d heard Stig Ahlin’s mother crying in her room.

  Stig nodded. Her illness was merciless that way, he said. It allowed his mother to remember the war and the years surrounding it, when she was a little girl, but closed off everything that had happened since. Her memory had capsized, had become a place filled with cloudy water and swampy ground.

  Katrin kept talking and Stig looked at her. Black tights, ballerina flats, a freshly ironed white shirt under the scrub jacket all staff wore over their street clothes. Katrin hadn’t buttoned her jacket, and her shirt was open at the collar; it cast a shadow on the thin skin at her collarbone.

  Then she moved on. She had other patients to see to. Stig followed her with his gaze; she’d left the door open.

  When he left the facility an hour later, Katrin was standing just down the road, waiting for the bus. The bus didn’t come very frequently, this far off the main roads. There was no reason to let Katrin stand around waiting. Stig picked her up; it was no trouble for him to give her a ride. No trouble at all.

  Katrin took off her jacket before getting into the car. She laid it over her lap and fiddled with her purse. She had put on fresh makeup; her hair was down now, and she had brushed it out of her face. Stig drove her to Sergels Torg, where she said she had an errand to run. When he stopped at a red light, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said before getting out. Less nervous now. Stig was holding the gearshift; she turned toward him and placed her cool hand over his. Her index finger found its way in and brushed his palm. He could feel her blunt fingernail. Then she was gone.

  9

  Sture was almost done making dinner when Sophia arrived at Fjärilsgården.

  “You’re late.”

  Forty minutes. That was all. And we never said an exact time. I said I’d try to come early. Try. I never promised anything.

  “Sorry.”

  She slipped off her jacket, hung it up, and rinsed her hands.

  “You can set the table.”

  Sophia quickly gathered plates, glasses, and silverware. She looked around to see if anything else needed doing. But the potatoes were already boiling. The meat was seasoned and lying on a wooden cutting board. Sture lifted the lid and stuck a knife into one of the spuds.

  “They’re done,” he snapped. “You can drain them.”

  Sophia accepted the pot and glanced around for the lid. Sture was still holding it as he sampled the sauce. When the butter stopped hissing in the frying pan he put the lid down on the other side of the stove, took the meat, and set it to fry. It sputtered. Sture turned on the fan. Sophia took one of the forks from the table instead. She held the potatoes in with it while she drained the water.

  Three of the potatoes ended up in the sink. She picked them up, burning her fingers. Then she set them on the table and took a package of tomatoes from the fridge.

  “I don’t want any goddamn tomatoes,” Sture said. “Sit down. Eat while it’s hot.”

  For all my life, she thought. At least it used to be both Grandma and me. Back then we could deal with these overreactions together. Exchange glances in understanding.

  Sophia placed the tomatoes on a plate. They glistened.

  These days I just sit here alone with my questions. Tiptoeing my way quietly around them to keep from making things worse. To wait for the right time. To wait for the professor’s mood to improve.

  Suddenly her rage was upon her. She angrily took a big gulp of the wine Sture had poured. Well, now is a good time for me. She didn’t even need to collect herself first.

  “There were a few things I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you listening?”

  Sture chewed his food.

  “If I can get hold of Stig Ahlin’s daughter, and I can convince her to talk to me…”

  Sophia tried to catch Sture’s eye. He was looking down at his plate, mashing his potatoes into the gravy and cutting his steak.

  “If I can get her to answer my questions about the incest allegations her mother made against Stig, can I trust that whatever she tells me is the truth? What does she remember for real, and what will be stuff she’s learned from her mother, the newspapers, the investigation?”

  Hello, she wanted to cry out. Listen to me. I’m talking.

  “How shoul
d I know?” Sture said.

  Sophia fell silent. She felt tears burning in her eyes. Fucking tears. How come she could never tamp down her anger? Why did it always betray her? She was so angry at him, for so many things. If she could just keep from crying, she could have told him so. She could have spoken up. How should you know? Because it was your job. You are better versed in the human psyche than anyone I know.

  But Sophia didn’t say anything. What was the point of starting a fight? Grandpa would just end up upset as well. Instead she took another bite and tried to swallow down the words that wanted out.

  You always say it, she thought. Let me know if you need help. Do you want some money? Do you need anything? Anything at all? I would do anything for you. But you never do anything, Grandpa. You never do anything. When I really need you, you won’t even listen.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Stig’s daughter was four years old. I’ve read the interviews with her and as far as I can tell, she never said flat out that her dad abused her. I’d like to ask her whether he did. But I’m not sure she’ll remember. What really happened. Will she? Remember it?”

  When I was four, Grandpa. Do you remember what that was like? Because I think you do. A little bit, anyway. I remember the hall in our apartment, the one we had before we moved to Djursholm. I couldn’t have been very old then. It might be my very first memory. Was I three? Or four? It’s not a real memory; it’s more like a photograph, a blurry image. A felt rug, a hall, a brown velvet chair.

  But I remember how it felt when you looked at me. I must have been awfully small, I remember I had to reach up high, for you to hold my hand. It made my arm stiff. And I remember you helping me balance, I don’t know what I was walking on, but you held both my hands way up over my head and still I stumbled. Water ran into my boots, you laughed and picked me up.

  You carried me home, the whole way, with water sloshing around my feet. All the way home to Grandma, who put both my socks and the boots on the radiator. That radiator, I can still picture it, remember what it sounded like, how the water gurgled in the pipes when Grandma turned it on. I remember that, I think. I want you to help me, to tell me if those memories are real. It has to be a real memory, doesn’t it? But why do I remember that, and nothing else?

  I want you to explain, to help me understand if what I think I remember comes from something you told me or if it comes from something that happened to me. I want you to explain if it is the same for Stig’s daughter.

  Or is it different with trauma? Do you remember the really bad stuff, but not the okay parts? Or do you repress it? Why do I remember so little of Mom, why do I remember her hair but not her eyes? Have I repressed the things she did, or was she never there?

  Sture still wasn’t speaking. Sophia cut a piece of meat and ate it. The tomatoes on her plate were greasy, swimming in gravy and butter. She’d meant to make a salad, with garlic and parsley. Grandpa usually liked that. Even if he was bad at eating vegetables. She stuck the tomato into her mouth whole.

  She cut the next one in two and ate it with potatoes and gravy. Grandpa was glaring down at his plate. He refilled his glass of wine and pushed the bottle across to Sophia. She ignored it.

  Grandpa ran his thumb over his plate to capture the last of the gravy.

  “Are you going to eat that?” He pointed at Sophia’s meat.

  “Go ahead.”

  Sture pierced the half piece of steak with his fork and shoved it in his mouth. He kept chewing as he went to the den.

  Sophia ate two potatoes and the last tomato. Then she hand-washed and dried the china and put everything back in the small cabinets.

  “Are you leaving already?” Grandpa wondered from the sofa. Unconcerned now. His voice was bright again.

  “I have to work,” Sophia said. Next time, she thought. I can’t deal with this right now. I’ll bring it up with him on another day. She went over to the sofa to bend down and kiss his cheek.

  Sture took her hand and pointed at the armchair right next to him.

  “What kind of foolishness is that, little Fia? You shouldn’t spend all your time working. What is this nonsense? It’s Sunday, and you should take care of yourself. Have a seat and stare at the television with your old grandfather. Have a little more wine. Keep me company for a while. We can have a chat. How’s it going with your sex offender? Have you decided what to do? Are you going to make sure he’s released so he can violate more young girls? There was something you wanted to ask me about. Better ask now, before I fall asleep.”

  Just leave instead, she thought. Get out of here. He needs to understand that he can’t just treat you any way he pleases. But she sat down. Sture gave a small smile, took her hand, and placed it against his skinny chest. Somewhere in there his heart was beating.

  “We should talk another time, I think,” she said at last, pulling up her feet and tucking them underneath her. Sture tossed her a folded blanket. It landed on her head. He cleared his throat, turned off the TV, and set the remote aside.

  “So Stig Ahlin’s daughter Ida was four when her dad went to prison?”

  “Yes.”

  Sture leaned back.

  “Four is a complex age. There’s a lot going on. We start to get a grip on the world around us. Many of us have our first memories from that age. But memories are always tricky, especially the ones we make when we’re really small.”

  Sophia turned toward Sture and spread the blanket over her lap.

  “In her case, it’s even thornier than for the great majority of people,” he said. “I have a hard time believing that this kid — she’s eighteen? — I imagine she’s done whatever she could to find out all about her father. That she has looked up articles, requested documents, read everything she could get her hands on.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Does she have contact with Stig Ahlin?” Sture pulled an impressively long booger out of his nose, observed it for a moment, and then rolled it into a hard ball between his fingers.

  “No. He forced his way to a couple of supervised visits during the first few years. But then I suppose he got tired of demanding them.”

  “Was it the mother who accused him of incest?” Sture flicked the booger ball away.

  “Yes.”

  “The loyalty aspect makes it more complicated. So, no. God knows.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you mean by ‘no’?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted to know?” Sture rubbed his palm beneath his nose. “If you were to ask her today what really happened. I don’t think you’d get a sound answer. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother asking. Plus, it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if it has anything to do with the murder.”

  Sture leaned forward and took the remote from the table.

  “No,” said Sophia. “But you remember what you want to remember, isn’t that what they say?”

  “Right.” Sture violently blew his nose into his sleeve. “And repressed memories result in bodily, physical reactions that can only be managed through invasive psychotherapy to bring the dark-eyed trolls into the light?”

  “Yes. Don’t you agree on that?”

  Sture turned on the TV.

  “Sometimes you’re exhausting, Sophia. It’s not that hard to realize that what we experience as children can affect us later in life. But that’s not what you asked me. You want to know whether the daughter recalls what happened to her, what her dad did, now that she’s grown.”

  “Yes. Something along those lines.”

  “It’s almost impossible to say. Maybe. Maybe not. But what’s worse, there’d be no way for you to know if she’s telling the truth, even if she did want to talk to you. The best you can do is go back to what they said when they were little. Although in principle you can get a kid to say anything. And what’s more, they often express themselves so strangely that we can interpret their storie
s just about however we like.” Sture sighed so deeply that he got short of breath and began to cough. “How should I know about her situation? What is her agenda today? Why would you want to dig around in that? Charges were never brought against him for those accusations.”

  But it still feels important. I don’t quite know why, but I would like to know.

  “If you like, I can take a quick glance at those old interrogations. I can find out whether it was an idiot who interviewed the kid, or someone who knew what he was doing. If you want my help, all you have to do is ask, you know that. I’m happy to be of service.” He turned up the volume. “But right now, I want to watch this. We’ll deal with it later.”

  What if I don’t want to know after all? Sophia thought. What I need to know has to do with Katrin Björk and Stig Ahlin. I should not allow myself to be swayed by stuff that has nothing to do with them.

  Katrin

  1998

  The water came from Lake Magelungen by way of the Fors River. It rushed through crayfish traps and zander nets, striking the canoes that were resting ashore, bellies up. The bay filled from many lakes: Flaten, Dammträsk, Lissman, and Kvarnsjön. Its outflow went through the streams toward Lake Ådran; it made its way through Gudö River, through Gammelströmmen and Nyfors, all the way out to the Kalvfjärden inlet and the Baltic Sea.

  Yet Lake Drevviken was perfectly still. The breeze moved gently through the tops of the pines and the tufted branches of the juniper bushes. Moss and boulders took over at the forest’s edge. Where the moss stopped growing, the slabs of stone plunged straight down to the water.

  A hundred yards away, in the park outside the convalescent home, Stig Ahlin was out for a stroll with his mother. Her legs were still strong, and she liked to take walks, even if she couldn’t remember where she was going or who was holding her arm. Stig walked slowly. He was in no rush. Now and then he made a comment about the impressive view. But otherwise, the two of them were quiet.