Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  She felt better as soon as she got in the car. The sun was low, glaring off the white fields; it took effort to keep from driving too fast. First, she drove Sture home, helped him into his apartment and out of his shoes; she brought him his slippers. Then she drove into the city to return the car.

  The snow was starting to fall as Sophia walked through the afternoon gloom, from the rental office to the Mörby Centrum metro station. The escalator wasn’t moving; she walked down. Three people were waiting for the train. At the other end of the platform, a man was asleep on a bench, his back facing out, using a lumpy bag as a pillow.

  In a few days, Sophia would have to return to her usual work. There wouldn’t be much time left over for Stig Ahlin. She knew the risks: if she didn’t do all she could now, the file would lie untouched; it would end up buried under other tasks. To the best of her ability she must try to finish, or else she never would. Once Sophia took a seat on the train, she sent an email from her phone.

  “I need to ask a few questions about destructive teenagers. Can you help me?”

  That was all she wrote. She didn’t close with “xoxo.” No way. But she didn’t write “best wishes” either. She just couldn’t. She signed with an “S.”

  If only I were the emoji type, she thought. I could have added a smiley. A breezy, impish, smiling little face. A flourish that could have conveyed everything.

  It’s-all-forgotten-let’s-turn-the-page-obviously-I’m-not-spending-every-waking-moment-thinking-about-you.

  Then she changed her mind. First, she wrote “Sophia Weber.” Then she tried “Sophia.” Sophia. Not just “S.” He could know lots of S’s. But Sophia would do. She settled for that.

  And she was going to send this to his work email. This wasn’t a private communication. It wasn’t a way to start something, just a move she was making to help the case take a step forward. That was it. She needed to talk to a police officer; he was one. It would be useful for her to speak to an officer with his expert knowledge. She hit Send and turned to face the window. The tunnel outside was passing in brief flashes. The fluorescent lights snapped and popped.

  He’s off for Christmas break, she thought. He won’t read it until after Epiphany at the earliest.

  It must have been three minutes before she checked her email for the first time. She managed to bring up her in-box four times before she arrived at her stop. An hour later, when she opened her computer in her apartment, she found he had responded.

  “Call me tomorrow and we’ll find a time.”

  That was all. Not his name. Not even an initial. And certainly, no smiley.

  Sophia’s heart was racing.

  33

  At five minutes to six on January third, Stig Ahlin sat on the edge of his bed, waiting, fully dressed, for his time to run. The blinds were up, but the darkness outside was as dense as dull cloth. He could usually hear them approaching, their steps outside, the sounds as the key entered the lock were familiar; he knew them by heart. Sometimes he could tell which guard it was just by the sound of the click. But no one had come to let him out.

  Stig checked the time on his TV. Then he let ten minutes go by. In the meantime, he looked at his bookcase. On it were four books. The Sense of an Ending, the collected works of Tomas Tranströmer, Haruki Murakami’s book about running, and the Bible. It could have been an arrangement in a Spanish boutique hotel. If every single other detail were different.

  No one came. But he didn’t ring the bell. The other prisoners hated the racket. If you had to take a piss, you did it in the sink. Only emergencies or the stomach flu warranted unnecessary ringing.

  He had never had to wait this long. In the end, he couldn’t stop himself. He heard the ring from beyond his door, dully, coming from the guards’ room. Like a typical doorbell. He heard steps. The key. The door opened. Quickly, efficiently.

  “Do you need to pee?” the guard asked. His face was impassive. As if he cared.

  Stig shook his head. The air from the corridor felt damp and raw. Stig shivered. He knows why I rang the bell.

  “You have to wait until quarter past seven like everyone else.”

  The door closed again. Slowly, each sound drawn out to its maximum limit.

  Stig watched the closed door and raised his hand to ring the bell again. I have to run, he thought. You have to take me to the gym, damn it. You can’t just change your minds, change your attitude, punish me. Not without a reason. You have no right to treat me this way. You have no right. He lowered his hand.

  They might just be understaffed. The holidays weren’t over yet. It could go back to normal as soon as the holidays were over.

  Stig didn’t ask, just pulled off the prison athletic wear. Changed into his regular clothes. The winter pants and sweater, beige, the same color as the athletic wear, the same color as the summer pants and summer shirt. Then he sat down on his bed.

  * * *

  —

  A moving box stood on the floor in the lobby. Sophia noticed it right away as she entered. At first, she wondered what it was doing there, but then she remembered that Anna-Maria was packing up her belongings.

  She would be off on leave now, for a year. Sophia picked up the box, placed it behind the desk instead, and went to her office.

  Once she sat down, she took a piece of paper from her pocket. It was awkward to fish it out; the note was all crumpled. She knew what was on it — how could she forget? Four names, not hard to remember. Four names, their phone numbers all entered in her phone, and an email was written on the note. Yet she smoothed the paper out and placed it on the desk in front of her. She brought up journalist Tor Bengtsson’s number on her phone but called it from the landline. He answered on the first ring.

  “Speak. Or forever hold your peace.”

  Jesus, Sophia thought. What kind of dumb ass is this?

  “Sophia Weber,” she tried. “Stig Ahlin’s attorney.”

  Tor Bengtsson coughed. “Sorry. I thought it was someone else. I apologize. But, hey there! Hey, girl. Nice of you to call, did you miss me?”

  Girl? Sophia shook her head. Could this get any worse?

  “I’m calling because I promised to contact you today. And because you wanted to meet with me.”

  “That’s absolutely right. Have you talked to Stig? Does he want to meet with me?”

  “No. But I can tell you I contacted that friend of Katrin Björk’s you tipped me off about. And I’m going to use the information she gave me in our petition. Which will be submitted sometime in the next two months.”

  You’ll know why, she thought. You’ll watch the program, curse me for not telling you what I’m going to tell them, and you’ll know why.

  “Is he going to give an interview to someone else? You didn’t forget your promise, did you?”

  “I didn’t promise you an interview with Stig Ahlin — quite the opposite. He’s not going to give any interviews to the evening papers. He refuses to.”

  “I understand.” Tor suddenly sounded glum. “TV came calling.”

  Sophia didn’t respond. Let him suck on that for a while. It would only make the article about her petition for a new trial more interesting. He would devote even more space to her. Let her explain, tell the story, be visible. Tor cleared his throat before speaking again. Now he sounded more serious.

  “I spoke to Eija too. And I’m going to publish a long piece on Katrin. We’re doing a special insert about teenagers and self-harm, including a lengthy interview with a girl who asked for help back then and a girl who’s caught up in our sorry excuse for a mental health system as it is right now. I actually contacted Katrin’s parents as well.”

  He sighed.

  “They didn’t want to be involved, I assume.”

  “No. I had almost hoped the mom would be dead by now. I thought…but she wasn’t. She seemed fine. And she’s still married t
o Katrin’s dad. She didn’t even hang up on me. She listened to what I had to say. Was going to talk to her husband later on.”

  How could he bring himself to tell her? Sophia wondered. Did he really share everything?

  “I told her everything. At least, all of what I’m going to publish. Some of it I read out loud. There was quite a bit of sobbing, but it almost felt like…” He changed his mind and started over. “No. Most of that is just in my head. I guess I wanted her to be happy I was telling her. That she wanted to hear. But she did listen, anyway. And I promised it wasn’t going to be just a trashy gossip piece. Katrin was a good kid. A little girl too. I’m not going to make her out to be a whore who only had herself to blame. I promised her mother. That it wouldn’t be like that. And now she knows. For when the next journalist calls. Who was it you talked to, from television? Someone at SVT?”

  “You can come see me at my office, if you like.” Might as well get it over with. “I’ll be here all day.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. May I bring a photographer?”

  Sophia looked at her dirty jeans. I can wash my hair in the sink, she thought. Anna-Maria might have some makeup at her desk.

  “In that case, give me an hour.” She looked at the clock. No, I’ll never make it. That’ll never work. “No, wait. Half an hour, that’s fine.”

  It doesn’t matter if I look overworked. Unglamorous, exhausted, and ugly. It’s even a good thing. Stig Ahlin’s idealistic attorney. No silk tie or helmety Dallas hair for folks at home to get worked up over for lack of anything else.

  Her next call was to the forensic odontologist. She would be able to visit late the next week. The dinner she had promised to buy was rescheduled as a coffee break in the staff cafeteria. The doctor had a lot to do, she explained. Sophia thanked her.

  After that, Sophia called Stig Ahlin. It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes for him to return her call. Their conversation lasted no more than five minutes.

  He seemed off, she thought once they’d hung up. Certainly, he was never long-winded on the phone, but this had to be a new record. Stig has to understand we need these journalists. If he can’t turn public opinion around a little, drive a wedge of doubt into the general consciousness, he’ll end up staying put in prison. And this story on Katrin is problematic as well. Because even if it does end up demonstrating that there are alternative perpetrators, it’s hardly going to cast him in a sympathetic light.

  Patting the note in front of her, she let her thumb follow each crease in the paper. One item left. Just one. And Tor would be arriving with his photographer at any moment.

  She knew the last phone number by heart. She hadn’t tried to memorize it, and yet it was impossible to forget.

  She got a cup of coffee and read the news online for a few minutes, without really absorbing anything. She emailed Anna. Sent another to Carl and his parents to thank them for the visit. When those emails were done, she filled in the lines she’d already made, crossing out items on her brief list. There was only one thing left to do.

  Instead she rested her hand on the phone receiver.

  The journalist is going to be here any second. He should already be here. I have to call now.

  She lifted the receiver. The dial tone echoed urgently. I have to call this minute. Right now. I can’t be on the phone when they arrive; that will only make a mess of everything. She stared straight ahead for a minute, hung up the phone, and then lifted it again.

  Couldn’t I talk to someone else? Why does it have to be him? He doesn’t know anything about this suit. I could try to get in touch with one of the officers who actually worked on this case. Then she picked up the note. The phone number wasn’t on it, but it didn’t matter.

  When I sent that email he answered right away, she thought. It hardly took an hour for him to respond, so that must mean something.

  Her heart was pounding by now, and she could feel sweat tickling under her arms. The dial tone roared, and she hung up. I’ll call after Tor leaves, when we’re done with the interview. That’ll be better, I won’t have to stress out so much.

  Then the phone rang. Sophia jumped out of her skin and grabbed the receiver. It was him.

  It really was Adam. His voice sounded short, as if he were speaking in Morse code or staccato, biting off each word and editing his sentences to be as brief as possible.

  “Come by tomorrow. Not a soul at work. The holidays, and all. We’ll talk. After the holidays will be difficult. To find time. Just as well. To get it done. So? Can you? Or? Are you busy?”

  They spoke for under a minute. When she hung up, she stared at the phone in suspicion. They were going to meet at two o’clock. If something came up, they would call. But otherwise they would be seeing each other. Her and him. Alone in his office. She would see Adam.

  Sophia pressed her forearm to her ribcage. Her lungs felt knotted up; her lips were dry and chapped. Her head was pounding.

  We’re going to see each other tomorrow at his office. Just as well we see each other right away, he’d said. Is it really? Why? Doesn’t he have even more on his plate than usual, during the holidays, when the people he’s meant to protect are gulping down glögg and draining boxes of wine nonstop in order to go to work? Isn’t his team under a lot of pressure right now? Don’t kids call in more around this time of year than any other? Wouldn’t it be better to see each other in a week or two?

  We’re going to be alone. Why would he say that? Why would he point out that we’ll be alone? What does that mean? Why would he say so? Does he want us to be alone? Does he think I want to be alone with him?

  Her head swirled with questions; she felt dizzy.

  It has to mean something, she thought as the doorbell rang. She buzzed Tor and his photographer in and went out to the lobby to greet them. Once they’d lugged in all their equipment, Tor put out his hand.

  “Hey girl. Nice to meet you. What a cozy little spot you’ve got here.”

  34

  “So it’s true. You’re representing Stig Ahlin?”

  Adam Sahla was sitting on a chair that seemed far too small for him. He leaned back, tilting the chair with his legs spread wide and his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing short sleeves. Then he dropped the legs of the chair to the floor again. They banged against the laminate floor.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “But he’s an asshole.”

  Sophia was still standing. They’d let her through the security checkpoint and told her to go right on up. Adam hadn’t come down to meet her. Instead he had greeted her in the corridor. They ended up standing there, and he put his arms around her and she’d had to take a step back in order to get away, in order to breathe.

  Sure enough, the place was deserted. Aside from Adam, she hadn’t seen a single person since she’d left the lobby. But obviously Adam still didn’t think they should sit in his office; instead he had led her to a conference room. There were eight chairs around the table. He hadn’t invited her to take a seat.

  He smiled. “Gonna stand there long?”

  Sophia swallowed, cast her eyes down, regretted it, and looked back up again.

  I never should have come here, she thought.

  “It’s not against the law to be an asshole.”

  Sophia pulled out the chair farthest away from Adam. She sat down and put her bag on the table. It fell open and her phone slid out.

  “Tell me where you got this stupid idea,” he said. “Please tell me. And then you’ll have to explain how I can help.”

  It’s winter. He should be wearing a sweater. Why isn’t he? And what kind of weird hug was that, in the corridor? Are we friends now? Friends who hug because we’re relaxed around each other?

  Sophia tossed her phone back in her bag and took out a notepad instead. Her cheeks flushed, and she swallowed.

  Calm down, she thought, paging to
her initial notes from her meeting with Katrin’s friend Eija. Then she clicked the nib out of a pen. And clicked it back in. It can’t be normal for my chest to hurt this much. I should go to the doctor and get a chest x-ray.

  “I’ll start by telling you about Katrin,” she said. Her voice felt steady. “Then I can explain the basic pillars of justice in our society. A police officer really ought to be aware of them, but it’s never too late to learn.”

  * * *

  —

  Adam swallowed.

  I never should have agreed to this, he thought. What am I doing here? Norah and I are fine. Why is Sophia sitting here flipping through her notepad as if her life depends on it?

  She was angry; he could tell. He always made her angry, no matter what he did. Just like with Norah, he had time to think.

  She’s the one who wanted to see me. Why? If she’s so upset with me she can barely sit still? Offering her hand to shake, what was that?

  Adam shifted on his chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make his body feel too big. He hugged himself, rubbing his arms for warmth. It was too cold in there. It had been like a sauna in his office. The radiator was broken, stuck on high; his office was hardly inhabitable. But now he was freezing, and he really should go get his sweater, but he couldn’t walk past her; couldn’t get near her again.

  She wasn’t looking at him. It was more than anger; she hated him. Her entire being signaled that she wanted to get out of there. Away from him. He never got used to her chilliness, her distance, as soon as he tried to get close. It will never work. He repeated the mantra. Sophia’s not the one I want; Norah and the kids are my life.

  That pen — she was clicking it in and out, staring down at her notepad. He could see the back of her neck under her sloppy ponytail; her ever-present ponytail. Her hair grew downward and resisted being put up; she had a cowlick by one ear, he knew what it felt like to follow it with his index finger, with his mouth.