A Nearly Normal Family Page 6

  “Just six months ago, charges were filed against Christopher Olsen for repeated instances of assault and rape. A preliminary investigation was opened, but after a few months the prosecutor decided to close it due to lack of evidence.” Blomberg paused for effect and eyed us. “The accuser was Olsen’s ex-girlfriend. According to her, Christopher Olsen was a violent tyrant who ruined her life.”

  I could see the change in Ulrika as everything brightened.

  “She never obtained redress?”

  “No,” Blomberg said.

  “She may be out for revenge.”

  Blomberg nodded.

  Ulrika turned to me.

  “Do you understand what this means?”

  * * *

  Blomberg’s plan was to present an alternative perpetrator in order to create reasonable doubt about whether Stella was guilty. The Polish pizza bakers were one option, but Christopher Olsen’s ex-girlfriend seemed to be much more relevant.

  “But she might not have anything to do with this,” I said to Ulrika as we sat on the sofa that night, unable to sleep. “Wouldn’t it be better to leave this sort of thing to the police?”

  She looked at me like I was nothing but a dumb pastor.

  “This is the kind of thing lawyers do.”

  “But isn’t it enough to prove that Stella is innocent? What if a different innocent person ends up in a fix? She’s been assaulted and raped, and now—”

  Ulrika stood up.

  “This is Stella we’re talking about. Our daughter is locked up in a jail cell!”

  She was right, of course. Nothing was more important than getting Stella out as soon as possible. I drank the rest of my whiskey and walked over to the woodstove. When I opened its glass door, the heat flew up into my face and I had to wait a moment before jabbing the poker into the ash, sending it whirling. Curls of smoke swirled up around my head.

  “Do you love me?” I asked without looking at Ulrika.

  “Why, honey, of course I do.” She reached for me and touched the back of my neck. “You and Stella, I love you both above everything else.”

  “I love you too.”

  “This is a nightmare,” she said. “I’ve never felt so powerless.”

  I sat down and put my arm around her.

  “Whatever happens, we have to stick together.”

  We kissed.

  “What if she…,” I said against Ulrika’s cheek. “Do you think she might…”

  Ulrika recoiled.

  “Don’t think like that!”

  “I know. But … her blouse.”

  I had to know what had happened to it. Ulrika must have taken the top. And if so, she would definitely have noticed the stains; they were impossible to miss.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “The stains on her blouse,” I said.

  “What stains?”

  She looked at me as if I were delirious.

  Hadn’t she moved the blouse? If not, the police must have found it. My heart was pounding as Ulrika placed her hand on my arm.

  “We know Stella was home when that man died.”

  And she left it at that.

  18

  I didn’t get a wink of sleep on Monday night. My mind went round and round. What had Stella done?

  I vacuumed, scrubbed the floor, and cleaned the kitchen cabinets until I was dripping with sweat and feeling more and more bewildered. Frightened of my own thoughts. Stella, my little girl. What kind of father was I, to breathe even a whisper of doubt about her innocence? The oxygen caught in my throat like phlegm and I had to go out to the garden to fill my lungs with fresh air.

  Ulrika had shut herself into her office. Several hours later I found her asleep, her head between her arms on the desk. Next to her was an empty bottle of wine and a glass that was still half full. I gently stroked her hair, inhaled the scent from her nape, and left her to sleep on.

  The next morning I sank down at the kitchen table, exhausted. I began to flip through the paper and came face-to-face with a picture of the playground where Christopher Olsen had died. Had Stella been there on Friday night? Had she … Why? I shook off my thoughts and went up to see Ulrika.

  “I’m going to go there. I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  “See what?”

  “The spot. The playground.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” Ulrika said. “It’s best for us to stay as far away from everything as we can.”

  Instead I looked around on the internet.

  Thus far there was only limited information about the murder, but it was clearly only a matter of time, probably just hours, before people would be posting about it in forums, before it would be chatter on social media. Stella would in all certainty be stamped as guilty. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, people would say. The gossip would be extra delicious given that a pastor’s daughter was involved.

  The power to condemn belongs to the people, no matter the opinion of the legal system, and the court of popular opinion hardly has the same evidentiary requirements as a court of law. I have only to look at myself. How many times have I felt doubt when a suspect is freed for lack of evidence?

  I kept googling, but words and images were not enough. I needed to see it with my own eyes, stand at the center of it.

  * * *

  I didn’t tell Ulrika where I was going. She seemed so certain that Stella had nothing to do with what had happened. I climbed into the car with my chest constricting.

  My phone rang when I was halfway into town; the screen told me it was Dino.

  “The police questioned Amina. I’m not happy that she is being dragged into this.”

  His words came quickly, and there was an unusual harshness to his voice.

  “What did they ask about?” I wondered aloud, but Dino wasn’t listening.

  “What if word gets out at the medical school that Amina is involved in a murder investigation? That won’t look good.”

  “Dino, stop! My daughter is suspected of murder! Amina isn’t the one we should be feeling sorry for here.”

  He abruptly fell silent.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to Amina because of something … something she has nothing to do with.”

  Naturally, he didn’t mean any offense. Tact and discretion are not Dino’s strong suits. I can’t even count all the times I’ve had to smooth things over after one of his hasty reactions or harangues on the handball court. But this time I was under stress as well. To say the least.

  “So do you believe Stella had something to do with it?” I asked.

  “Of course not, but we’re talking about medical school here. Amina doesn’t know a thing about what happened last Friday.”

  “But Stella doesn’t either, does she?”

  “It’s just so typical, that this would happen now. It’s not like this is the first time Amina has gotten into trouble because of…”

  He never completed that sentence. He didn’t need to. I hung up on him with a trembling index finger.

  I stopped the car outside the Ball House and walked the last little bit. I found the playground behind a hedge alongside the allotment gardens. All that was left of the police barrier was a forgotten scrap of blue-and-white tape tied to a lamppost. Inside the playground, a girl full of bubbling laughter had pumped her swing so high that one shoe had flown off. Her dad was nearby, his arms outstretched before the slide, where the girl’s little brother was hesitating before taking the plunge.

  A memorial had been set up along the hedge behind them. Candles, roses and lilies, photographs and cards bearing final greetings. Someone had written the word WHY? in capital letters, in red on a black background.

  The girl made a flying leap from the swing, grabbed her shoe, and put it back on her foot all in one movement; she rocketed for her father with a joyful shout.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, glancing my way.

  I stood with my head bowed before th
e flowers and candles and said a short prayer for Christopher Olsen.

  I had only seen his face on my computer and phone screens, a few photographs from an article and a corporate presentation. Now I saw him for the first time in a different way, in the context of a private life, as a human being of flesh and blood, a person whom others missed and grieved. In the largest portrait, he was looking into the camera with sparkling eyes and a smile that seemed a blend of happiness and surprise, as if he had been startled by the photographer. Death is seldom so tangible as when you can see how alive a person once was.

  I was overwhelmed by a brutal feeling of helplessness. Everything felt so hopelessly terrible. A young man, a stranger, had been robbed of his life here in the crunching gravel. There were still signs of blood.

  How could anyone believe for even a second that Stella could have been involved? I looked at the pictures of Christopher Olsen. An obviously attractive young man with happy eyes full of promise for the future. This was a senseless tragedy.

  I hurried back to the sidewalk and peered down Pilegatan.

  Why did that neighbor claim to have seen Stella here last Friday? Who was she, and how could she be so sure of herself? If she was lying on purpose, someone needed to inform her of the potential consequences.

  And if she wasn’t lying? What if Stella had been here?

  I found the yellow turn-of-the-century building Christopher Olsen had lived in at the end of the street. I gazed up at the beautiful windows and elegant balconies. Then I tried the door. It was open.

  I didn’t know if there were any legal reasons I couldn’t talk to the witness. From a moral standpoint, of course, it was utterly reprehensible, even if I promised myself I wouldn’t try to influence the girl. I just wanted to understand what she had seen. And she had to realize that Stella was a real person with loved ones who were about to go to pieces with worry. Someone had to make sure she knew this wasn’t a game. She needed to see that I existed.

  19

  I slowly made my way up the stairs, stumbling a little as I went. I stopped on the first landing and read the nameplates. There it was: C. Olsen, in script on shiny metal. There were two more apartments across from his door. To the right lived someone called Agnelid, and on the left-hand door was a hand-written nameplate that said My Sennevall. I recognized the name immediately.

  The doorbell jangled and I tried to think of what to say. I had to make her understand why I was here. Soon I heard scuffing footsteps on the other side of the door; the floor creaked, but then everything was as quiet as it had been before. I rang the bell again.

  Was she standing behind the door listening?

  “Hello?” I said, my voice low. “Is anyone there?”

  I heard the lock turning, and very slowly the door opened. The crack was so narrow that I had to lean to the side to catch a glimpse of the figure inside.

  “Hi. Sorry for just showing up like this.”

  I couldn’t see much more than a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness.

  “My name is Adam Sandell.”

  “Okay…”

  “May I come in?”

  She cracked the door a little more and stuck out her nose.

  “Are you selling something?”

  Her voice sounded like a child’s.

  “I just want to ask a few questions about Stella,” I said. “I’m her dad.”

  “Stella?” She seemed to be thinking back. “That Stella?”

  “Please, I have to know.”

  With great hesitation, she undid the security chain and held open the door so I could step into the dimly lit hall. There was a cap on the hat rack, and a windbreaker and an umbrella hung from the hooks. Otherwise the hall was perfectly empty.

  “You’re My, aren’t you?” I asked. “My Sennevall?”

  The girl backed into the wall and fixed me with a jittery glare. She was small and dainty, with hair that hung like a veil to her waist. She couldn’t have been much older than Stella.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said. “I’ve already told the police everything.”

  “I won’t stay long,” I promised, craning my neck to see into the apartment.

  The walls were bare, and a lone floor lamp cast a dull light over the otherwise dark room. In front of the window was a dark-blue wingback chair that could have used some rehabilitation. I couldn’t see a TV or computer. On the IKEA bookcase were a few mismatched porcelain figurines, the kind you find at flea markets. There was no desk, no chair, no other furniture. Just an unmade twin bed in the corner.

  “Okay, but tell me why you’re here,” said My Sennevall.

  I didn’t quite know why I was there myself.

  “Could you just tell me where you saw her? I need help understanding what happened.”

  My Sennevall blinked a few times.

  “I usually sit by the window there,” she said, pointing at the wingback chair. “I like knowing what’s up.”

  “What’s up?”

  “What’s going on.”

  That sounded odd. What sort of person was she?

  “When you saw Stella…,” I began, “are you sure it was last Friday?”

  She snorted at me.

  “The first time was at eleven thirty.”

  “The first time?”

  She nodded.

  “Stella came zooming up on her bike. She yanked open the door down there and ran inside.”

  My Sennevall took a few slow steps into the room, stood by the chair, and pointed out the window. She had an excellent view of Pilegatan.

  “Then I saw her again. About half an hour later. She was standing down there on the sidewalk, across the street. Under that tree.”

  Half an hour later? So My Sennevall had seen this person she believed to be Stella not just once, but twice on the same night.

  “How can you be so sure it was Stella you saw? Do you know her?”

  She bowed her head.

  “I know she works at H&M. I said so to the police right away.”

  She looked at me again. My Sennevall certainly seemed peculiar, but there was nothing to suggest she was lying. I was sure she had seen someone last Friday, and she was convinced it was Stella. I found myself thinking that she didn’t look like a liar. A bizarre thought.

  “Do you know everyone who works at H&M, or just Stella?”

  She snorted at me again.

  “I am uncommonly good at remembering faces,” she said, looking out the window. “I have a very good memory overall. I notice things that other people miss.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said.

  “I’ve seen your daughter at H&M lots of times. When the police showed me a picture, I was one hundred percent sure. They said it’s unusual for witnesses to be so convincing.”

  I stooped a little to re-create the perspective she would have had when sitting in the chair and found that it afforded a full view of the sidewalk across the street.

  “Then I woke up because a guy was screaming. Or howling. At least it sounded like a man.”

  “When was that?”

  “I had just gone to bed, so it must have been around one o’clock.”

  Just as Blomberg had said. One o’clock.

  “I always go to bed at one. Anyway, I ran over here to the window and watched for a while. I didn’t see anything, but I’m pretty sure the sounds were coming from the playground over there.”

  I tried to imagine what it would look like in the dark. To be sure, there were several streetlights along the sidewalk, but even so it couldn’t be easy to make out details in the middle of the night.

  “How can you be so sure it was her?” I asked. “You understand you might destroy someone’s life, several people’s lives, if you identify the wrong person, don’t you? You have to be totally sure.”

  “I am. I told you that.”

  It sounded so naïve, almost like she was out of touch with reality. It seemed completely insane that Stella was locked up in a cell based on a claim m
ade by this woman.

  I had to restrain myself. All I really wanted was to grab My Sennevall and give her a good shake.

  “You don’t know Stella! You’ve only seen her in the shop where she works. How can you say you’re so sure?”

  My Sennevall met my gaze. Her eyes were full of sympathy.

  “It wasn’t the first time Stella was here.”

  20

  One day, when the girls were fourteen, Amina came to see me in the church hall. She stood in the doorway on trembling summer legs, looking as if the world might swallow her up at any second.

  “Pastors have confidentiality, right?”

  As soon as she spoke those words, I knew that things were going to change. Her frightened doe eyes seemed to reflect life hanging in the balance.

  Amina has truly been a big part of Stella’s upbringing. There have been times when Stella was at the Bešićs’ house as often as she was at home with us. Amina didn’t have any siblings either, and although we never discussed it with Dino and Alexandra, Ulrika and I suspected they—like us—had never managed to get pregnant again.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, placing a hand on Amina’s shoulder.

  In many respects I consider myself something of an extra dad to her.

  “You have confidentiality, right?” she asked again. “Whatever I say, you can’t tell anyone else?”

  “That depends on what you’re going to say.”

  I asked her to have a seat and offered her orange juice and Ballerina cookies. Before we got to the point, we spent a few moments discussing everything and anything else: how school was going, about friends and handball, and about her dreams. Then she said she’d come about Stella.

  * * *

  I waited two days, and then I had to bring it up with Ulrika.

  “Drugs?”

  My wife just stared at me. She appeared to be waiting for me to take it back, say I was only joking.

  “That’s what Amina says.”

  “And why would Amina tell you something like that?”