Beyond All Reasonable Doubt Read online

He doesn’t think about you that way. Not anymore. Probably he never did. It was a mistake, something we did because we were sad and drunk. He’s still with his family, there’s no reason for me to write him an email.

  But he could help me. I could ask him to unearth old documents that might be useful. That’s it. I’m sure he’ll want to help me. He knows he can trust me. We could meet. If we keep it professional. Talk about work. Just work.

  * * *

  —

  Adam’s last interrogation for the day started early, at one o’clock. He should have had eons of time. To bring it to a close, to consider all the many ways events could have unfolded. As a detective inspector, Adam Sahla was a special investigator for the Stockholm police in cases that involved children. One of his tasks was to question children who were suspected of having been victims of a crime. It was a delicate undertaking and didn’t have much in common with typical interrogations.

  The girl had been removed from her home and placed with a foster family a few weeks prior. This wasn’t the first time her family was under investigation, but she had never been taken from her parents before. She had only been six months old when Social Services received the first report about her and her brother. Now she was six and she didn’t want to say much about what had happened, if anything had happened. This was only the second time Adam had met her and they were still getting to know each other.

  How could Adam have predicted that she would suddenly start to talk? That he would hardly make it into the interrogation room before she climbed into his lap, grabbed his index finger, and told the story, hardly stopping to take a breath?

  It was a unique breakthrough; it would probably never happen again. An opportunity like this would make it possible for the courts to save the girl’s life. To create a new, more secure future for her and her siblings.

  Adam’s boss met him in the stairwell when the interrogation was over. They were waiting for a prosecutor to give the order that would allow them to pick up the father. His boss paced back and forth in front of the elevator.

  “You stay with that kid. Understood? Have some juice with her, offer her cookies, as many as she wants. That kid isn’t leaving here until we know we’ve got that bastard behind bars where he belongs.”

  Adam didn’t protest the sentiment. But he wasn’t the only one who could eat cookies and drink juice.

  His boss tried to keep his voice under control.

  “I shouldn’t need to explain myself here. That girl feels safe with you. We have to allow her to feel safe. Do whatever you want, but do not leave. Well done, by the way. That was a damn good job. You’re the best we’ve got for this stuff. You have to stay. You know how important it is. Order in lunch. McDonald’s? All kids like hamburgers. Ice cream? Does McDonald’s have ice cream? Can ice cream be delivered?”

  Adam didn’t bother to point out that both he and the girl had eaten lunch before the interrogation began. He also chose not to point out that there was hardly money for ice cream delivery in the budget.

  “It’s not enough if I just link the phone to my cell?”

  “No, that’s not enough.” By now his boss was speaking so loudly he was almost shouting. “For Christ’s sake, Adam. That kid will have no more…that child must not be subjected to any more…anything we can avoid subjecting her to. It’s not enough for the caseworker to stay, and it’s not enough for you to take off and bring your cell, because if that was enough, I would have said so.”

  * * *

  —

  Adam stepped into the auditorium just as a group of jazz dancers in neon legwarmers were receiving their applause. His daughter was already in the audience, still wearing her tutu and stage makeup. She didn’t say a word when Adam arrived; instead she slid off her mother’s lap and sat as far away as she could, cross-legged on the floor in front of the first row.

  For the first time that day, Adam’s wife made eye contact with him; she didn’t blink once. Her blue eyes were dark, but she didn’t say a thing. And Adam felt a sudden rush of anger.

  I need you now. I need your help to make her understand that I didn’t do this on purpose. You know how hard it is. You know it as well as I do, and if you’re not on my side our kids will never understand that I’m not deserting them. I’m not off playing golf with bank buddies. I’m not standing there trying to pick out a matching tie in the morning instead of taking my kids to school. I’m doing my job because it would be unthinkable for me not to do it. And you know that. I need your help.

  But Adam didn’t say a word either. Instead they watched the performance. A hazy mass of children dancing to a hazy piece of music with no melody. They were the wrong kids; it was the wrong music. Adam wasn’t listening and couldn’t focus his gaze. He looked at his daughter’s straight back; her tight bun revealed her skinny neck. She was too far away for him to pull her close. Hug her until she could no longer protest. He stood up and walked out. He had only gotten as far as the stairs before he noticed a text had come in.

  It wasn’t from her. It was never from her. He had given up hope. So many times he had tried to get in touch. He had called, written, gone to her work. She didn’t want to; she never wanted to talk; she didn’t even want to tell him why not.

  Almost. He had almost given up hope that it would be her.

  Katrin

  1998

  Chief Inspector Bertil Lundberg was sitting in Stig Ahlin’s mother’s room at Stortorp rehab facility. The woman had dozed off again. As he waited for her to wake up, he paged through some papers that had been on her nightstand. It looked like a curriculum. Could it be something Stig Ahlin had left behind at his last visit?

  A mediocre dissertation is nearly always a result of the researcher making up their mind too quickly. When you wish to find a particular outcome you become blind to alternative explanations. This does not necessarily happen consciously, but it is still devastating to the research. To obtain optimal results you must maintain an initial phase of open-minded investigation. Only after certain factors have been identified and confirmed can you begin to formulate your thesis.

  Bertil put the document back. The text actually reminded him of his own work. An investigation demanded caution. And a fine-tuned sense of intuition. It could be devastating in the end to settle on any conclusions too rapidly.

  He drummed his fingers on the edge of the mattress.

  Should I wake the old lady? he wondered. Will she be frightened if I do?

  Bertil had not made up his mind. There was nothing to make up his mind about. So far it was easy to keep his eyes up, because there was nothing to focus on. But he had to do this. He had to question an old woman with dementia who fell asleep every five minutes. Anything else would have been a breach of duty.

  Because there was something odd about Stig Ahlin. That much was clear. He had tracked down Bertil to reassure himself they wouldn’t speak with his mother. But why?

  Bertil had to admit it was slow going, though, interrogating this old lady. When he asked about Stig, she only remembered who he was half the time. If he reminded her that Stig was her son, her forehead wrinkled in concern. Once she had picked up the framed photo on her nightstand.

  “Yes,” Bertil said encouragingly, waiting for her to continue. Then she patted the photo a few times, placed it on her chest, and fell asleep. The name Katrin only gave rise to an extremely foggy gaze and nervous picking at the hem of the bedspread.

  Bertil intended to leave soon. He’d found it necessary to come, to give it a shot. But he couldn’t spend his whole day here; he had other things to do. He should go home and sleep. “Take the chance when it comes,” his colleagues liked to say. “Sleep while you can, because you’re not likely to get much later.” At least there was one part of parenting he was already prepared for, he liked to think.

  The old woman had awoken. She looked him straight in the eye. Her eyes were cloudy, a shad
e of brown like spilled coffee. Her eyelashes were short and stubby, and her skin was like yellowed parchment. Suddenly, she smiled wide.

  “Dear little Katrin! Of course, I remember her. Katrin takes very good care of me. She washes my hair, picks out my clothes, and helps me trim my nails. Sometimes she paints them too.”

  The woman extended one hand to show him.

  “We talk to each other, that little girl and me. She asks about me and then she tells me everything. About her young life. It’s not always easy to be young. You don’t realize how happy you were until later. How could I forget Katrin? She’s very lovely. Once she kissed my son. I think they’re in love.”

  5

  Sophia had no more than seven Christmas presents to buy, maybe eight. Two for Grandpa, one for her secretary, and something for Anna’s kids. She usually tried not to bother with a present for her mother, but she always bought something in the end. It was never particularly well received. The clothes Sophia chose made her mother feel fat; the perfumes Sophia thought smelled nice gave her mother a headache. She had no idea what kinds of books her mom liked. They never talked about that sort of thing.

  Anna picked Sophia up at Skeppsbron. The winter sun was slanting through the windshield and the leather seat creaked as Sophia got in. She peered into the backseat.

  “Is there a cap on how much cleaning is tax-deductible? Is that why you don’t let the maid do the car?”

  Anna glared at her and pulled onto the street. An empty juice box slid across the top of the dashboard and landed in Sophia’s lap. Anna had a minor army of people to help her with everything from cleaning, gardening, and pool maintenance to child care and everything else Anna felt like she should have been able to manage on her own, since her own mother always had. It didn’t ease her guilty conscience that her mother had not been responsible for her own firm with twenty employees. Rather the opposite.

  Now Anna was going in the wrong direction.

  “We’re not going this way,” Sophia said. “You need to turn around. The other way.”

  Once — she must have been twelve or thirteen — she had joined Anna and Anna’s mother on their annual Christmas shopping day. They’d gone to NK, the fancy department store. When it was time for lunch they each had a shrimp sandwich at the café on the top floor. In line for the register Anna’s mother had brushed the hair from the back of Anna’s neck and kissed her just behind the ear. Anna had sighed, craned her neck away, and rolled her eyes. But Sophia had slowed down and stopped just beside them to wait. And when Anna’s mom did the same to her, she didn’t pull away. Instead she felt a pleasant warmth spread through her body. When they were done eating, Anna’s mom ordered coffee for all three of them. Anna and Sophia stirred so much sugar into their cups that the liquid turned dirty yellow, but Anna’s mother didn’t say a word; she just smiled and let them get refills.

  Later they looked at the shop windows all done up for Christmas and tried out perfumes. When one of the shop assistants wondered if Anna’s mom would like to buy a bottle — they would be happy to wrap it up — she just shook her head as her cheeks turned pink. The assistant didn’t say a word, only turned around and said something to a colleague. When the colleague rolled her eyes, Anna stalked up, sneered something about their ugly-as-shit aprons and German hairstyles and dragged her mother and Sophia away.

  Anna’s mother hadn’t chastised her daughter. She didn’t tell her not to curse. Instead she linked arms with both girls, left the department store, and headed for the subway. But her cheeks didn’t cool until they were back home again.

  One week later, Sophia had gone back to NK. She bought a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and had it wrapped in white paper with red ribbon and a sticker with the NK logo on it. Her plan was to give it to Anna’s mother, but the package remained in Sophia’s school bag. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take it out; hadn’t dared to hand it over. She was afraid of embarrassing Anna’s mom even more.

  Instead, she gave the perfume to her grandmother. Which was only fair, given that it was her grandmother’s money she’d stolen to buy it. Grandma had thanked her, but on Christmas Eve she crawled into Sophia’s bed and scratched her back, as she usually did when Sophia had trouble falling asleep. Grandma had whispered that Sophia didn’t need to buy expensive gifts; she already knew they loved each other.

  The next year, Anna and her mother bought their Christmas presents at Åhléns. And Sophia was invited too.

  Swearing, Anna made a U-turn across the solid lines of the lane.

  “How are my kids?” Sophia wondered. “I mean, your kids?”

  Sophia received the usual response. An incoherent tirade about lice, piano lessons, math homework, and how even though they had two hundred children’s shoes in various sizes, there was never a single child who managed to find a pair that fit both their feet and the season. Anna had four children; the oldest would soon be thirteen and the youngest was almost four. When she talked about them, it sounded like there were fourteen of them.

  Sophia tried to laugh in the right places, nod sympathetically or indignantly, sigh or protest, depending on what seemed right. Then she squeezed Anna’s hand, which was resting on the gear shift. That familiar warmth spread through her body.

  “I miss those kids,” she said. “It’s been way too long since I saw them.”

  When Sophia’s phone rang, she picked it up, looked at the screen, and turned off the ringer. It didn’t say who was calling. But it didn’t matter. This was social time. With Anna, who was Sophia’s sister in every way that counted. They wouldn’t be going to the perfume counter at NK.

  Katrin

  1998

  “You’re asking what I believe happened?”

  Bertil shrugged. Red splotches were spreading across District Prosecutor Petra Gren’s neck. She had stepped into his office, closed the door behind her, and explained that she wanted to “discuss the state of the investigation.” So Bertil had asked her a question, for a change. It didn’t make her happy. Instead, the district prosecutor seemed to have caught a case of severe restlessness. She stood up and sat back down, crossed her right leg over her left, uncrossed it, and started over again. Up and down, again and again, never stopping. Bertil had settled for watching. Now she was up, legs planted wide, presumably to keep from tipping over on her high heels.

  “You want to know what I think happened?” The district prosecutor’s voice wavered. “How would I know? The only thing I know is this: I’m going to scream if we don’t get somewhere soon. Give me a new view, a fresh idea, or at least a cinnamon roll. Stop asking stupid questions I can’t answer.”

  Bertil didn’t think his question had been stupid. They were on day sixteen, and he just wanted to find out what the head of his preliminary investigation could bring to the table. Something constructive, for a change. Because the only thing she’d done so far was make demands. Demands that he pull a simple solution out of thin air, along with airtight evidence and preferably a believable confession. She wanted a tidy indictment, packaged in glossy paper with colorful, curly wrapping ribbon. And now she was raising her voice.

  “If you want answers no one has, you’ll have to turn to the county police commissioner. He knows everything. Especially about things he’s never actually tried working on. Unfortunately, he’s not in charge of the preliminary investigation in this case. That’s me. And you know, I have neither a crystal ball in my office nor feminine intuition, if that’s what you were hoping. And I’m truly sorry to disappoint you.”

  Bertil looked down at the table. A cinnamon roll, hmm? he thought. Pastries and cakes seem to be her thing. Could she be one of those secret bulimics?

  When Bertil had returned ten days ago and reported that a woman at the rehab facility where Katrin worked said her thirty-five-year-old son had been with Katrin, Petra Gren certainly had become agitated. She had brought a pink princess cake to the briefing. Sure, s
he said there might not be much to celebrate, but she thought they deserved a treat anyway. She had eaten two pieces. But the sugar high hadn’t lasted long. Petra Gren had not allowed herself to be swayed by the interrogation of Stig Ahlin’s mother.

  “Do you really want me to trust an old woman with dementia?” Petra Gren had asked. “She doesn’t remember who her son is, but you think she knows who he’s sleeping with? Stig Ahlin is a respected physician and university lecturer — we can’t just run around spreading rumors about someone like that willy-nilly.”

  Bertil hadn’t bothered to respond.

  Petra Gren had been the one to bring cake. Not him. He was well aware of how bad off they were. Because the crime-scene investigation was a catastrophe. They hadn’t found any trace of semen, no blood that didn’t belong to the victim. Nothing to match to a potential perpetrator. Certainly they were still waiting for other test results, but they weren’t going to get any breakthrough. They had no boyfriend gone bad, no father who refused to watch his daughter grow up for real. No neighbor on furlough from serving time for a violent crime. Nothing.

  If something didn’t happen soon, Petra Gren would dial down their resources. And in about a week they would have to scale back the team. She would allow them to plod on through another summer vacation month, but then the case would end up on the desk of some part-time chick with small children. And by Christmas the investigation would be completely forgotten. But Petra Gren would place responsibility for the bungled investigation squarely on him. That was always the way. In the end, it was always Bertil’s fault.

  At last Petra Gren calmed down. She sank into her chair, brought her hands to her forehead, and leaned on Bertil’s desktop.

  “I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispered. “Katrin deserves better.”

  Right. It was a struggle for Bertil not to snort aloud, Poor you. Having to bear this on your drooping shoulders.