Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  No useful results, she thought, shaking her head. How did that damn prosecutor get away with it? For thirteen years. Sophia clicked the Print button. But it’s all over now. Because I’m going to show her just how useful it is.

  Katrin

  1998

  It had been ten days since Stig Ahlin contacted investigation headquarters to report his relationship with Katrin Björk. Bertil and district prosecutor Petra Gren had withdrawn from the rest of the investigation team. They were holed up in Gren’s office to review the state of their investigation.

  “I want to bring him in now.” Bertil stood up and opened the door into the hallway. It was stuffy in there. He could hardly breathe. “I want to lock him up. Tear apart his goddamn apartment and his goddamn car and his goddamn office.”

  “You may want to,” Petra Gren cut him off. “But you can’t. Surely you can see that for yourself.”

  Bertil turned to his colleague. She was sitting down, not even looking at him — she was inspecting her own nails, meticulously and attentively, as if they were her greatest concern in life.

  “Why should I see it?” Bertil could tell he was speaking far too loudly. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if the whole department could hear him, if only Petra would listen, because this was important. “We need to shift into higher gear. Not only is it past time to bring him in, it’s absolutely necessary. We’re talking about an acute situation here. You have to get us a search warrant. You have to. Now. Immediately.”

  Petra Gren looked up. “Explain to me why I have to do that.” She was spitting the words. “Explain yourself!” She raised one hand and pointed at him. “You’re the one, you told me that Stig Ahlin is on guard because of the other investigation. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called us. Ahlin has had all the time in the world to clean up. To think everything through. You see, Bertil Lundberg, I don’t have to do anything. Because if we aren’t certain that we can keep Stig Ahlin once we’ve got him, if we’re not careful…we’ll end up finding nothing and we’ll have to release him, and then…if that happens, this investigation will be DOA. We might sabotage everything, and I want you to understand that.”

  Bertil just stared at her. At Petra and her extended index finger. He could hardly believe this was really happening. She was sitting there pointing at him. Raising her righteous finger and shaking it at him as if he were her little boy. What was wrong with her? That damn woman must be crazy. Where should he start?

  “It’s not too soon,” he managed to say as she slowly lowered her hand. “Not a minute too soon. And I have no intention of sabotaging this. If only the office of the prosecutor would be so kind as to help out for a change. What are you waiting for? A divine revelation? We don’t have anything more. This is it. You have to let me put some pressure on him. Perform a search. Let him sweat in jail. Because my colleagues sure aren’t helping. No ma’am. They’re handling him with kid gloves and hardly asking any questions about all the shit he’s subjected his daughter to.”

  Bertil bit back the rest. He shoved his fist into his pocket and clenched his teeth, holding in everything he might have said about her ever-unreasonable demands that they must find what didn’t exist. His team had been working around the clock ever since the night of the murder. Around the clock, for a month. But District Prosecutor Petra Gren got to pick up her kids from day care at five o’clock and stay home to wipe their snotty noses one week a month, basically.

  “Put pressure on him?” Petra Gren snorted. She stuck her index finger in her mouth and began to gnaw at her nail polish, which was already half chipped off. “Do you seriously think your refined interrogation techniques are going to fix this for us? That you’ll get Stig Ahlin to break down like a half-alcoholic wife beater? Get him to confess? Forget it. It’s not happening. And what do you think you’ll find if you search his apartment? A video of the crime that he kept to jerk off to at night? Her bloody bra in a shrine in the bathroom?”

  Instead of responding, Bertil turned around and closed the door into the hallway again. Then he fell back into the visitor’s chair and rubbed his eyes. They stung; his eyelids were scratchy as sandpaper.

  “Stig Ahlin is no dummy,” Petra continued. “He does absolutely everything right. He’s cooperative, but only because it’s to his advantage. He talks, but he doesn’t say anything we don’t already know. Obviously, he will have gotten rid of anything that might help us in the investigation.”

  There’s no point, Bertil thought. There’s no point in trying to explain. She’ll never understand what I mean.

  Petra had started paging through the documents on the desk in front of her.

  “There’s no sperm, no blood, and no DNA we can use, no fingerprints we can’t explain — they’re sure of that?”

  Bertil sank farther into his chair. All he could do was shake his head. They’d discussed the test results a thousand times. They’d already been around that track. Several times. He refused to go back to square one. If Petra wanted to collect tickets for that ride, she could do it on her own.

  “What about this forensic odontologist?” Petra was still going through the documents. “What is there to say about him?”

  “Yes, what is there to say about that?” Bertil looked at Petra. “I called him. Explained the situation. That we have a victim with half-moon-shaped wounds on her body and a woman who says our main suspect bit her and their daughter both. That we have hookers who can testify that Stig Ahlin likes to get his teeth into the people he has sex with. What do you want me to say about that goddamn dentist? It should have been great for us. If only he’d done his job.”

  Bertil leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. He massaged his temples. Now it was Petra’s turn to be silent. Bertil went on.

  “I don’t know why I’m jumping on you like this,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m so tired. But that damn snob…I was as clear as could be. Compare the marks on Katrin’s body with Stig Ahlin’s teeth. Thanks. How hard can it be? But you know how they are. That smartass took half an hour to explain to me how busy he was. And a few days later, he came back with…with that.” Bertil gestured at the papers on Petra’s desk. “Couldn’t he have given us something? They’re usually so good at wrapping it up in scientific gobbledygook so they don’t have to say anything for sure. But no siree Bob. Not when we really need it. I suppose he was terrified of saying anything that might help us, because then he might have to drag himself away from his work to explain what he means in a crowded courtroom. And answer brand-new follow-up questions. And how would he have time for that? What a goddamn coward.”

  Petra smiled faintly. It didn’t reach her eyes. She had stopped chewing on her nails.

  “It’s not about cowardice,” she said.

  “I know.” Bertil nodded.

  “I want to see Ahlin locked up too. Just as much as you do. I keep lying awake at night thinking about her. Seeing that little girl…but I have to be able to charge him, get him convicted. And what we have isn’t enough.”

  “I know.” Bertil’s head kept moving for another few seconds, up and down. Deep down, he knew she was right. It wasn’t enough.

  When he had stopped nodding he stared instead, resigned, at the forensic odontologist’s report, which was still lying there between them on Petra’s desk. It was unusable. Neither of them said the word out loud, but both of them were thinking it. Resolved by the police; no charges filed. The worst kind of failure: to know who the guilty party was but with no way of doing anything about it. That was where they were headed.

  “I’ve been thinking about her too,” said Bertil. “And about Ahlin’s daughter. Does that goddamn odontologist know who pays his salary? Does he understand why he has that job in the first place?”

  The prosecutor didn’t respond. Instead she picked up the document and examined it. Read it.

  She must have read it more than a hundred times,
Bertil thought, just as he had. Searching for something between the lines, something they could use to justify a new request for a supplementary statement. An adjustment. A rewording.

  A wrinkle deep as a slash from a knife ran between Petra Gren’s eyebrows. The skin around her mouth was slack.

  She’s starting to look old, he thought. Older than just a few months ago. Then Petra began to speak in a different tone of voice.

  “I met a British forensic odontologist at a conference in Berlin a while ago. He seemed very knowledgeable. And…” — it took her a second to think of the right word — “…pragmatic in a way we’re hardly spoiled enough to see here in Sweden. He spoke like a real investigator, if you know what I mean. Considered himself part of the crime-fighting authority. He spoke about responsibility quite a bit.”

  Bertil nodded again. More slowly this time. He could feel a warmth spreading through his belly.

  “We need people who feel responsible,” he said. “Pragmatists. People who know how investigations work.”

  “You will be able to bring in Stig Ahlin. And I’ll get you your search warrant. But I’m going to do something else as well. We’re going to send those bite marks to a forensic odontologist who is better able to perform the sort of analysis we’re after. They’re more advanced in Great Britain than we are, on a number of fronts. It’s not as if our National Board of Forensic Medicine are the only ones who can do forensic dentistry. And their experts are far from the most sophisticated.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he said. “One of your better ones. And while you’re doing your thing, I’ll have a serious talk with Stig Ahlin. And go through his damn apartment with my very own fine-tooth comb. We’ll find something.”

  “Then that’s that,” said Petra Gren. She stood up and came around her desk. “And once you’ve brought him in we’ll get a proper dental impression. Make a good cast we can send to the foreign expert. That ought to make his job easier.”

  They shook hands. Petra’s was perfectly dry, and her grip was firm. Bertil smiled, and Petra smiled back. Something had come to life in her eyes.

  “Thanks,” said Bertil. “Thanks a hell of a lot.”

  19

  They were all out of wrapping paper. Norah had asked Adam to buy five rolls, but they’d already used it up. Of the last one there was only a four-inch scrap of unevenly cut red paper with a silver moose pattern. It wasn’t enough to wrap Thumbkin. Much less the items he’d actually purchased.

  He pulled out the kids’ craft drawer. At the very bottom, among dried glue sticks, blunt scissors, and glitter sand, was a sheet of blue construction paper. It could work to wrap one of his two presents for Norah. He’d bought her a flannel nightgown and a bottle of perfume, the same kind he’d bought last year — he assumed she would have used it up by now. If this didn’t work, he’d have to go to the twenty-four-hour shop on the corner to see if they had any wrapping paper. He could scarcely wrap his wife’s Christmas presents in old newspaper.

  He gazed sadly at the drooping bag with the newly purchased nightgown and turned the plastic-encased perfume bottle over a few times. What a lack of imagination. But Norah hadn’t asked for anything. What was he supposed to do?

  “It doesn’t matter,” she’d replied when he asked. And he knew what she was thinking. That everything turned out wrong in the end anyway. There was no point in trying; she was always disappointed by his gifts.

  Naturally, Norah had taken care of the kids’ presents on her own. She knew precisely what they wanted: the exact brands of jeans her son should have, the exact name of the latest tiny plastic animal with high-heeled shoes their daughter collected. Norah was in the know on everything. The Christmas list that was changed three times per day, which things they needed and which ones they wanted, which weeks Legos were in and when they suddenly became hopelessly out. He left her to it. Because he had no clue.

  Every year, Adam asked for the same thing. One single thing. Fewer Christmas presents. But Norah wouldn’t listen. Instead he ended up feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge, sitting there swearing over plastic packaging that protected the kids’ toys as if they had been constructed of Chinese porcelain rather than by Chinese children.

  This year would be just as repellent. Even the kids had to think this was too much. The apartment would fill to bursting with trash. All that paper Norah spent hours wrapping around the presents would be torn to shreds in a matter of seconds. The tiny plastic animals would be buried under mountains of empty packaging from stuff the kids had already forgotten they’d received.

  Adam tried to fold the sheet of paper around the perfume bottle. It didn’t work. Clearly, he should have asked them to gift wrap it back at the store. But the line had been so long that he didn’t feel like waiting. And he’d assumed, given how much wrapping paper he had bought, that there would be a roll left.

  He put the paper back in the craft drawer and went out in the hall. There was no helping it; he would have to do more shopping. And he had to calm down before tomorrow. He had to be in a good mood. He had to be cheerful. Anyway, it was too late to do anything about Norah’s Christmas shopping and he didn’t want them to fight on Christmas Eve too.

  The whole family would gather. Adam’s brother would be coming over with his kids. Adam’s dad would fall asleep on the couch with a box of Aladdin chocolates in his lap. Norah’s mom would start washing the dishes before they were done eating. Adam would give his presents to Norah. Norah would lean over the coffee table and let him kiss her cheek. Adam’s mom wouldn’t leave Norah in peace in her own kitchen, and Norah would be happy when the kids opened their presents and shrieked in excitement over what only she knew they wished for above anything else. It would be annoying and tense, cozy and pleasant. It would be as it always was. They just had to keep from fighting.

  I should go to a real store, Adam thought. Buy a decent present for Norah. A pair of earrings. Or a necklace. She would like that.

  Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. And in three days he would head to the trash-sorting station with their holiday garbage. Then everything would go back to normal. But tomorrow he had to be cheerful. Decently horny, extremely cheerful, and very grateful. Or at least considerate.

  Why didn’t he know what sort of present his wife wanted? After all these years? Why couldn’t he figure out how to make her happy?

  20

  “What will you and Sherlock be starting off with?”

  Sture was lying on his side on the sofa. The TV was blaring in the background. The Christmas tree was all lit up in its corner. Sophia had bought it the day before, had dragged it home from Östermalmstorg. She’d cut off the lowest branches to hang on the front door. The Christmas star, the red paper one that had hung in Grandpa and Grandma’s kitchen when she was little, was aglow in her kitchen window and all four cream-colored Advent candles were lit.

  Sophia’s mother would not be making an appearance. She’d called the evening before to say she was sick. She would be staying home for Sture’s sake; she didn’t want to spread her germs to her father. Only after she hung up did it occur to Sophia that her mother had never mentioned what was ailing her. But it certainly hadn’t sounded like she had a cold.

  The remains of their lunch were on the kitchen table. It was just past four o’clock; it was dark out, and they would eat the same meal for dinner. And for breakfast tomorrow. If they ever felt like eating again. Sophia had brought a pillow from her bed and was lying on the floor. In her mouth was a fresh piece of toffee with the paper still on. It was the only way she could get the candy loose.

  “What do you mean, starting off? What are you talking about?” Sophia spit a sticky glob into her hand. A wet chunk of paper had adhered to her tongue and another was stuck in a molar filling.

  “Stig Ahlin’s petition. The one that’s going to put an eternal shine on your name and end up listed under its own special heading in the National Encyc
lopedia. Along with your photograph. There you sit, Sophia Weber, Attorney at Law, leaning slightly over your grandfather’s mahogany desk, sword in one hand and tiny gold scale in the other. Where are you going to start, you and that disaster Segerstad? By dragging Katrin Björk through the mud?”

  Sophia put down the candy dish and flipped onto her side. She wrangled the button of her pants free and pulled her shirt down as best she could. She had to stop eating.

  “The bite marks. The ones that were found on Katrin’s body and matched Stig’s teeth.”

  Sture chuckled. “Is that so? And what will you do about them? Claim that he bit her in a friendly way, rather lovingly, a few minutes before some other random guy showed up to do her in?”

  “It wasn’t the National Board in Solna who did the tests,” Sophia mumbled. “It was a different lab. They sent the whole thing abroad. And besides, this type of test is extremely questionable.”

  “Aha! Of course. A conspiracy.” Sture raised his eyebrows. “I should have guessed. Naturally you can’t petition for a new trial without some conspiracy theory in your back pocket. I’m starting to see where you’re planning to go with this. You intend to prove that the bone fragments in the fire pit are really burned plastic.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not the same lab as in the Thomas Quick case. We didn’t get that lucky.”

  Sture laughed even louder. He heaved himself off the sofa and headed for the kitchen, snorting.

  “The brandy’s in the pantry.”

  Sture returned with two glasses and a bottle clamped under his arm. Sophia shook her head when he handed one of the half-full glasses to her. He poured the contents into his own and sat back down on the sofa.