A woman from my congregation was out walking a puppy and stopped me.
“How are you doing?” she asked with mournful eyes. “It must be a mistake. The police are making fools of themselves.”
I usually have no trouble standing before a full congregation and leading a service or greeting every single person I meet. I’m happy to stop and exchange a few words, listen to a fellow human, and try to say something sufficiently polite and wise. But this was different. I felt suffocated.
In the end I panicked, hid my face, and hurried over to Bantorget, then under the viaduct and up to police headquarters.
* * *
Chief Inspector Agnes Thelin met me outside her office. She offered me coffee, but my hand was shaking so hard that the spoon fell to the floor when I tried to stir in the sugar.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“I finally got a little sleep last night.”
Agnes Thelin nodded and gave me a warm smile.
“I hoped you would be in touch, Adam.”
What did she mean by that?
“I thought you would be in touch,” I said with a certain edge to my voice. “It feels like we’re not getting any information whatsoever.”
Agnes Thelin poured milk into her coffee.
“The investigation is at a delicate stage. We’re working very hard to find out what happened.”
“Are you?” I said, crossing my arms. “Are you really? Are you working ‘broadly and without preconceived notions’? Because one might easily think you’d already made up your minds.”
For an instant my vision went fuzzy. I bent forward and brought my hands to my forehead.
“Are you okay?” Thelin asked. “I understand this must be wearing on you.”
I glanced up and tried to compose myself. I must not appear to be crazy.
“Linda Lokind,” I said. “Why aren’t you taking a closer look at her?”
Thelin sipped her coffee.
“Naturally, we are looking at everything that might be relevant in this case,” she said, running a finger over her lips.
“Are you aware that Linda Lokind has a pair of the exact same shoes as Stella’s? The same ones that left a print at the scene of the crime?”
The chief inspector nearly spat out her coffee.
“What? How do you know that?”
“How I know isn’t really the important thing here, is it? Someone told me. The question is, why haven’t you investigated it? Why haven’t you searched Linda Lokind’s place?”
Agnes Thelin wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“I am unable to discuss the preliminary investigation with you, but I guarantee—”
“Your guarantees aren’t worth much to me right now! I’m getting the impression that you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Agnes Thelin. “But it’s not true.”
I took a deep breath.
“Linda Lokind was abused and denigrated by Christopher Olsen for several years. When she finally dared to report it, you didn’t listen to her and closed the investigation. She had every reason to take the law into her own hands. She wanted to take revenge on the man who destroyed her life. Could there be a clearer motive? Furthermore, she owns the exact same shoes that the killer was wearing. Can you explain to me why she should walk free while my daughter is locked up and isn’t even allowed to talk to her parents?”
Agnes Thelin glanced at the door. It was clear she was having a hard time defending herself.
“This is starting to look an awful lot like corruption,” I said. “A miscarriage of justice.”
“I understand it may seem frustrating, but we know a lot more than you do, Adam. You have to trust that we’re doing our best to arrive at the truth.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what you know?”
She scratched her nose.
“I can tell you this much. There may be good reason not to give too much credence to what Linda Lokind says. We’ve done an exhaustive inquiry into the accusations she made against Christopher Olsen, and the preliminary investigation was closed for lack of evidence. There was nothing to suggest that she was telling the truth about what happened.”
“Are you suggesting that Linda Lokind is lying about all of this?”
Agnes Thelin bit her lower lip.
“I’m just telling you what was found in the investigation.”
29
Agnes Thelin waited as I stirred my cup of coffee.
Could it be true that I had been duped by Linda Lokind? Was she the actual crazy one here—had she reported Christopher Olsen for abuse and rape in order to get revenge?
“Isn’t it generally true that domestic abusers go free more often than not?” I asked.
“It can often be a challenge to find evidence that will hold up in court,” Agnes Thelin admitted. “But in this particular case, there were so many uncertainties that I advise you to take Lokind’s statements with some reservation. Unfortunately, I can’t say any more than that.”
She didn’t have to. She was sure that Linda Lokind had been lying about Christopher Olsen. I, too, was convinced that Linda was hiding something.
“But that doesn’t really change anything. If Linda Lokind was prepared to direct false accusations against her former partner, she might very well have resorted to violence as well. Can’t you see that?”
Agnes Thelin tried to hide a sigh behind one hand.
“I hear what you’re saying, Adam.”
I clenched my teeth. She heard what I was saying but wasn’t planning to do a thing about it.
“When did you last talk to Stella on the phone?” she asked.
What did that have to do with anything?
“I don’t really recall. We hardly ever talk on the phone. I’ve stopped calling; she won’t answer anyway. It has to be text or Messenger.”
“You said you had contact via text on Friday night.”
“No, not contact. I sent a text, but I didn’t get a response.”
“Are you sure of that?”
I kept my answer to myself. Had the police managed to re-create Stella’s texts? Or would it come to seizing my phone and searching it? There was certainly no reason to be caught in a lie that might not even turn out to be important in the long run.
“I don’t actually recall. Maybe she responded; maybe not.”
The chief inspector cleared her throat.
“When did you last see Stella’s phone?”
Huh? I turned away to keep from showing my surprise. Hadn’t the police found Stella’s phone? I’d assumed it was confiscated when they searched our house.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Agnes Thelin jotted down a note in her file.
“Have you seen the phone since Stella was apprehended?”
What did this mean? Where could Stella’s phone be, if the police hadn’t found it?
“No,” I replied.
Agnes Thelin let a sigh escape through her nostrils.
“This is important now, Adam. Do you remember what Stella was wearing when she came home Friday night?”
Sweat sprung to my underarms.
“Is this an interrogation? Do I even need to answer your questions?”
Thelin just looked at me.
“I’m useless at that stuff. My wife is always annoyed; I never notice when she buys new clothes.”
Agnes Thelin gave a forced smile.
“But you talked to Stella when she came home? You saw her clothes?”
“Yes, sure.”
“And you didn’t notice anything different? Stains, or something like that?”
I was sweating even more.
“It was dark. I don’t really recall…”
Not remembering, of course, is not the same thing as lying. I was trying to squeeze myself through every loophole I could find. Meanwhile, Thelin paged through her documents, her fingers tense.
“When did you first hear of
Christopher Olsen?”
“Last Saturday,” I said honestly. “When I found out you had taken Stella into custody.”
“So you’d never heard his name before?”
I rubbed at my eyes.
“Not that I know of.”
“It’s a simple question, Adam. Had you heard of Olsen before, or not?”
“No, I hadn’t.”
“So Stella never mentioned his name. Did she ever talk about someone who might have been Olsen? A boyfriend? Did you know that she was seeing someone?”
“Stella didn’t have a boyfriend. Ask anyone! As I understand it, she only met up with Christopher Olsen on a few rare occasions. Why would she want to hurt him? It’s not logical.”
“Human behavior isn’t always logical.”
“But mostly it is.”
Agnes Thelin took a sheet of paper from her desk.
“Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud. “I think about you 24-7. I want you so much. Or this: You are the handsomest, sexiest being on earth. So freaking glad I met you.”
A clump of disgust slid up my throat. Was she really allowed to do this? It felt so wrong, against the rules—immoral, to say the least.
“These are chat messages Stella sent to Christopher Olsen. We found several more like them on his computer.”
I made fists under the desk and pressed them against my thighs.
“How do you know Stella wrote those? Anyone could have hacked her account.”
Thelin ignored me.
“I know how this must feel, Adam. But it’s going to be okay; we’re going to get through this together.”
“What are you talking about? You don’t have to get through anything. You can go home tonight and hug your boys. My daughter is the one who’s locked up in a cell!”
“I know, I know. But the only way to move forward now is to be brave enough to tell the truth. Were you really awake when Stella came home?”
“Yes.”
I fought to keep my breathing calm and slow.
“What time was it then?”
I took a deep breath.
“Quarter to midnight,” I said with as much self-control as I could muster. “Exactly eleven forty-five.”
Agnes Thelin gave a brief nod and pushed her chair back from the desk. The legs of the chair scraped against the linoleum floor. She ended up about a meter away from her desk, where she leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Adam, Adam,” she said. “I understand why you’re doing this. Perhaps I would do the same.”
I didn’t say anything. She had no idea what it was like to be sitting here.
“Our children mean everything to us,” she went on. “Stella is your little girl. It’s horrible to find out you can’t protect your own child.”
Once again, I thought of Job.
“I’m not out to judge you,” said Agnes Thelin. “But I don’t think this is the right way to go about things. This isn’t right, Adam.”
I closed my eyes. Is it not right to protect your child? Your family? Can it ever be wrong?
“I think we’re done here,” I said, standing up to leave.
Agnes Thelin sighed and stared after me.
I had to get hold of Amina.
I looked up her number and called. After one ring, an automated voice informed me that the number was no longer in service.
30
I hurried toward the arena. The girls’ practice would be over any minute. With any luck I would find Amina there.
Normally, I love walking into the arena. This time, when I pulled open the door and my nostrils filled with the stuffy smell of late summer sweat, all I felt was discomfort. A few teenage boys in their workout clothes were hanging around in the cafeteria, and a woman breezed past me on her way to the parking lot. My discomfort suddenly became overwhelming. The looks, the questions—the fact that everyone knew. Because they did, didn’t they? Everyone had so many opinions, they thought they knew, they had ready-made theories. My brain was clouded and my heart was pounding all the way up in my throat. I couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to encounter people I knew.
I stumbled back out to the bike racks and hid behind a tree. There I stood, my back pressed against its rough trunk, shielded from the world and furious at the situation.
After a while, the girls streamed through the door. Amina’s teammates. I peered out without revealing my hiding spot.
At last Amina came toward the bike rack. She secured her gym bag to the luggage holder and was just about to bend over and unlock her bike when I said hello.
“You scared me!”
She leaped back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I tried to call, but…”
“My phone got stolen.”
She coiled the cable lock in her basket and backed the bike out of the rack.
“Can we have a chat?” I asked.
“I have to go home,” she said without looking at me. “I’m ridiculously busy and school starts in four days.”
“I can walk with you for a bit,” I suggested. “If you walk your bike.”
She sighed and guided her bike with both hands on the handlebars, moving so fast that I had to jog to keep up.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” I asked.
“What? We are talking.”
I followed her onto the pedestrian bridge over Ringvägen. Amina’s eyes were fixed on a point far ahead and she was still striding at full speed.
“Do you know something, Amina?”
She didn’t respond.
“Please, you have to tell me everything,” I said.
“I don’t know anything!” she snapped. “I told the police everything.”
I took a few quick steps and came up alongside her.
“You knew that Stella was spending time with Christopher Olsen, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said curtly as we walked into City Park.
“Were they a couple? Did Stella have a relationship with that man?”
We had just passed the café when she stopped and looked at me.
“No, nothing like that. They met each other out a time or two and knew each other sort of in passing. That was all.”
Her eyes flashed in the half darkness. She had taken one hand from the handlebars, and the bike wobbled.
“Had you met him too?” I asked.
She turned around again, took a firm grip on the handlebars, and pushed the bike ahead of her down the gravel path.
“Amina!” I said, my voice overly harsh. “Stella is in jail! Have you ever been in a jail? Do you know what one of those cells looks like?”
I almost got run over by a jogger with headphones who muttered “fuckin’ old people” at me as I tried to catch up again. Amina slowed down a tiny bit. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, and my heart ached. My first instinct was to embrace her like a child, like the child she still was to some extent. Instead I begged her to forgive me.
“I’m not doing so well, Amina. This is all driving me crazy.”
“I know,” she said between sobs. “I feel like shit too.”
“Please tell me,” I begged.
31
Amina and I have always had a special relationship. There have been times when Amina preferred to turn to me instead of her parents. I’m quite sure I know things about her that no other adult is aware of.
It was almost four years ago now. Late autumn, after confirmation; the girls were in ninth grade and we were on top of the regional standings for senior girls.
One morning, I discovered Roger Arvidsen standing on the steps of the church hall. He looked dejected and confused in his fur hat.
Roger Arvidsen looked older than he really was. He had recently turned fifty, but poor hygiene and bad genes combined with a sedentary lifestyle, smoking, and constant coffee-drinking had made him look old. He looked in poor shape, with brownish teeth, multiple chins, and dirty fingers. The neighborhood kids called him the Monster.
E
ach Sunday, Roger dutifully came to church with his mother, with whom he also lived. I quickly made it a habit to converse with him for a bit each time we met, since I suspected he wasn’t used to being noticed by anyone but his mother. There was no denying that Roger wasn’t particularly gifted, but he seemed to be a kind and timid person who deserved to be treated well.
Not once had Roger sought me out on his own, and when we spoke I often had to draw him out. So I realized straightaway that something was wrong when I saw that he was standing on our steps without his mother.
I asked if I could be of service in any way.
Next thing I knew, Roger was sitting in my office, still wearing his fur hat, his teeth chattering. His story hurt me, physically.
Roger explained that he had been visited by a young girl on two occasions. Both times, his mother had just left home to play bingo. He knew the girl wasn’t alone. He had seen her friend down at the front door, keeping a lookout.
The girl had asked if he wanted to invite her in for coffee, so Roger did. That was how he had been raised. When you had visitors, you offered them coffee. The first time, they just talked for a while and then the girl disappeared again. But the next time, she asked Roger out of the blue to take off his pants. He refused, of course. He had no idea what the young girl was up to, but he wasn’t dumb enough to believe she was horny for him. After some persuasion, Roger did allow the girl to sit on his lap. She photographed the two of them on her phone.
“Then she wanted a thousand kronor,” Roger explained. “If I didn’t give her a thousand kronor she would show people the pictures and report me to the police. She said everyone would think I was a pedophile. There are already rumors about me.”
So he had given her one thousand kronor. I found it difficult to blame him for that particular action, at least. He was hardly the first person to buy his way out of false allegations.
But now he had received a note in his mailbox—the girl was demanding another thousand kronor, or else she would give the photos to the police.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 10