Silence fell and I found myself caught between the piercing glares of the two lawyers.
“What is wrong with you?” Ulrika burst out. “You went to her house?”
“I had to do something. Stella is in jail! I can’t just sit around and watch as our lives come crashing down!”
Ulrika didn’t say anything. Blomberg looked at her, and then the two of them dropped their eyes. Naturally, they understood me.
35
I took another walk through the neighborhood, this time with a cap on my head, eyes on the ground, scared I might have to stop and chat with someone. I dashed around the corner and into the driveway and closed the door behind me.
Ulrika was hunched over her desk, wielding a highlighter over a heap of documents.
“What is that you’re working on?” I asked.
“The Stockholm case Michael gave me. It helps me take my mind off things.”
I didn’t know if that was such a good idea. Why should we think about other things when Stella was in jail?
“Close the door behind you, please,” said Ulrika.
I curled up on the sofa and took out my phone. My hands were shaking. I could hear Ulrika’s voice from upstairs. She was on the phone.
I poured a whiskey, drank it down, and poured another. Back on the sofa I googled for new information about what the media was now calling the “playground murder.”
I started with the websites of the evening tabloids, but soon allowed myself, against my own better judgment, to be led into the gladiator arenas of the internet, where I was forced to acquaint myself with the most horrid types of speculation about Stella. Someone who claimed to have had a brief relationship with her declared in all seriousness, for the entire world, that Stella Sandell was “a perverted sleazeball” and there could be no doubt that she had murdered the thirty-two-year-old. Others writing in the same forum clearly knew Stella personally, which made the whole thing that much creepier. One contributor, who went by the screen name Grrlie, gave a detailed account of things that had happened during Stella’s school days. According to Grrlie, Stella was an ADD kid who thought she owned the whole world, but this person still considered it highly unlikely that she would have killed anyone.
It was horrifying to read and yet I couldn’t tear myself away. Against all odds, it was possible that something useful would turn up. On several occasions I felt like I was a bystander, my hands tied, watching as my little girl was carted off to slaughter.
There wasn’t much gossip about the victim. Someone declared laconically that he had been both rich and attractive. Another called him a “typical psychopath,” which made me think of Linda Lokind. Was this where she’d picked up Stella’s name?
I drained the last few drops of the whiskey and leaned my head against the armrest. I really needed to get some sleep. I blinked a few times and tried to close my eyes even as I kept paging through the feed on my phone.
It started with an anonymous comment.
Bet her dad did it. The pastor. He probably found out his daughter was fucking Chris Olsen.
I sat up and eagerly scrolled down with my thumb.
My thoughts exactly. The dad! wrote one user who called himself Meow76. He soon found agreement in several others.
Everyone in Lund knows what type of person Adam Sandell is, wrote Misspiggylight. He’s always been weird.
In his next comment, Meow76 had copied and pasted my personal information. My full name, address, and phone number. Age and birthdate.
My chest was roiling. This was slander!
I grabbed my computer and hastily composed an email to the contact address of the forum in which I threatened to take legal action. Then I took screenshots and began to formulate a police report.
Ulrika came downstairs and I heard her open the wine fridge.
“Come here, honey!” I called.
After she read my email to the forum, I showed her the screenshots.
“This is slander, isn’t it?”
I pointed at the screen.
“Doubtful,” said Ulrika. “And whether it is or not, it hardly falls under public prosecution.”
“What does that mean?”
“That your report won’t lead to anything but a closed preliminary investigation.”
* * *
On Friday morning, two weeks after Chris Olsen’s murder, I woke up later than usual, disoriented and unsure what time it was or whether I’d slept for an hour or a whole night. When I hobbled down the stairs, Ulrika was leaning against the kitchen island in a terrycloth robe, her hair freshly washed. Two cups of coffee were steaming in front of her.
“The ME’s report is in,” she said. “They have established the time of Christopher Olsen’s death as between one and three A.M.”
My heart leaped.
“That means…”
Ulrika nodded.
“Cause of death, blood loss from penetrating trauma,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Two lacerations and four stab wounds.”
Whoever killed Christopher Olsen hadn’t just stuck him with a knife. It could hardly have been self-defense. Someone had stabbed him multiple times. There must have been tons of blood.
I thought of Stella’s stained blouse. Sure, Stella could become angry when she lost control. And it could happen quickly. But surely she couldn’t kill another human being.
“This kind of excess violence typically indicates that it was personal,” Ulrika said. “It’s likely that the perpetrator felt strong hatred toward the victim.”
“Like a vengeful ex-girlfriend?”
“For example.”
Ulrika blew on her coffee.
“Michael and I also talked about the apartment.”
“What apartment?”
“The one for overnights in Stockholm. We can move in next week. We won’t have to bring anything but the necessities.”
I burned my tongue on the coffee.
“Already? But … shouldn’t we think this all the way through?”
“I’ve made my decision,” she said curtly. “I can’t turn down this case.”
“But surely you’re not saying that we should leave Stella?”
“We’re not allowed to see her anyway! There’s nothing we can do before the trial.”
“You’ve already given up!”
“On the contrary, Adam. I’ve devoted my whole life to criminal justice. You’re going to have to trust me.”
I approached her. I got so close that I could feel the warmth of her breath.
“Let me go!” she said.
I looked down and discovered that my hands had grabbed her by the forearms.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Ulrika backed away.
“You’re becoming … I feel like I don’t know you.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“We have to stick together, honey. We’re a family.”
I squeezed my fists against my thighs.
“I’m doing everything I can to keep this family together. You’re the one shutting me out.”
“Michael is a skilled defense attorney,” said Ulrika. “He’s got a strategy, but he can’t reveal all the details to us. We have to trust him. He’s already broken his vow of confidentiality, don’t you understand that?”
“I don’t trust Blomberg.”
“We have to, Adam.”
She was close to tears.
“What if she did it?” I said. “What if it was Stella?”
Ulrika turned her face away and I stepped close to her again.
“You got rid of her phone. And her top. Why did you do that? Do you think Stella killed that man?”
She placed both of her hands on my chest. Tears were streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Ulrika shook her head.
“You’re crazy. You went to her house. Linda Lokind. You went into her apartment, Adam.”
“Well, the police aren’t doing anything. Someo
ne has to do something!”
“I’m doing something too. Lots of people are doing things, Adam. But not like this. There are better ways.”
She dried her tears. I hadn’t seen her cry very many times, and guilt was tearing up my insides.
“Alexandra texted me yesterday,” she said. “Is it true that you waited for Amina outside the arena?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Did you follow Amina and ask her a bunch of questions?”
“That’s not what happened.”
I couldn’t believe Amina had told her mother. At the end of the day this was good news, because now she would have to confess everything, whatever she was keeping from us. There was no way Alexandra would let her keep mum. It was obvious that Amina was sitting on information that could determine Stella’s future.
“You can’t keep on like this,” said Ulrika.
“What am I supposed to do? My daughter has been accused of murder!”
I thundered out to the entryway and tore my coat from the hook. I flung open the door and let it slam behind me.
36
I walked through town like a boiling cauldron. Staring at my shoes, my feet pounding the ground. I was starting to feel afraid of myself.
Late that afternoon, Ulrika called. I was standing on a gravel path in Lundagård Park with no idea of how I got there or where I was heading.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “We can’t let this ruin things between us too. It’s hard enough as it is.”
She had made reservations at Spisen and wondered if we could meet for dinner.
My pulse calmed and I walked slowly past the cathedral. The park benches were full of students sipping Frappuccinos in the late summer sun. Japanese tourists with cameras around their necks and pigeons around their feet were pointing up in fascination at the spires straining toward the sky.
* * *
It was sheer coincidence that I ran into Jenny Jansdotter a bit later outside Market Hall. She would later claim that I had followed her somehow, but that was utter nonsense. In fact, I was on my way to Spisen when I caught sight of Jansdotter in front of me. Those twiggy, bowed legs; that springy walk, like she was bouncing forth on her high heels. She was so petite that if it weren’t for the heels, the blazer, and the expensive purse over her shoulder you might have mistaken her for a child.
Michael Blomberg’s words echoed through my head—Jenny Jansdotter was leading the preliminary investigation. She was the one who guided the actions of the police, who, according to Blomberg, had focused all the attention on Stella as the perpetrator. Why? Was she so absorbed in her work that she’d forgotten real people with real emotions would be affected by her decisions? How could she refuse us the opportunity to see our own child? What kind of person would do something like that? I was honestly curious, and when I saw her crossing Botulfsplatsen I couldn’t stop myself. I caught up to her just outside the west entrance to Market Hall.
“Excuse me. Excuse me!”
She whirled around. I think it took a second or two for her to realize who I was.
“This is highly inappropriate,” she said.
“I just wanted to ask you something.”
She didn’t even respond. She whipped back around so quickly that her purse was flung out from her body, and she headed once more for the glass doors of Market Hall.
“Why aren’t you investigating Linda Lokind?” I asked, starting after her. “Did you know Lokind has a pair of shoes just like the ones you’re looking for?”
She hurried into the building and I had to raise my voice.
“Why can’t we see our daughter?”
The prosecutor stopped short and eyed me, cold and impartial.
“You’re making yourself guilty of unlawful influence.”
“Not at all. I just want to understand why you’re doing this.”
Jenny Jansdotter shook her head and turned around. In the police report she subsequently filed, she claimed that at that moment I grabbed her arm and tried to stop her. Naturally, this is not true. In reality, I only reached out my hand in one last desperate attempt to make her listen. I did brush her arm, I won’t deny that, but I would never have dreamed of preventing her from leaving.
“You’re ruining our lives!” I called after her.
People nearby had stopped what they were doing. A forest of curious faces, breathless murmurs, and burning eyes. I put up one hand to hide my face and hurried back out to the sidewalk, toward the cinema.
Later on, the police would question at least ten people, but not a single one of them could corroborate Jenny Jansdotter’s story.
37
Ulrika was waiting for me at a window table at Spisen. I sat down right next to her and she rested her head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry.”
“We’re not ourselves.”
“I love you,” I said.
I felt it so clearly throughout my body. The slightest thought of a future without Ulrika burned painfully.
“Come to Stockholm with me,” she said. “There’s nothing more we can do here right now. You know I would never, ever abandon Stella, but we’re not even allowed to see her. It makes no difference to her if we’re here in Lund or somewhere else. We have to think of ourselves as well. I’ve seen lots of parents in our situation, families ripped apart by this sort of thing.”
She was right. As long as Stella was locked up with full restrictions, there was nothing we could do. The worst thing that could happen was if Ulrika and I were driven apart.
“What do you think will happen to Stella?”
“I don’t know, but the prosecutor seems determined to bring an indictment.”
I pictured Jenny Jansdotter. Should I mention to Ulrika that I’d run into her?
“What do you think happened that night?” I asked.
Ulrika stiffened.
“I don’t know … I can’t…”
“Haven’t you even considered it?”
“Considered what?” she asked, even though she must have known exactly what I meant.
“The thought that … it might have been … that Stella did … something?”
Deep down I wanted her to say no. It would have been fine with me if she’d flown into a rage and demanded to know how I could allow myself to think such a thing. Better that I was losing my mind than to find that there might be good reason to doubt.
“Of course I’ve entertained those thoughts. Of course I have—but I refuse to allow them to take root.”
It sounded so simple. Too simple.
“There is quite a bit of circumstantial evidence,” she said. “But overall, the evidence is weak.”
As if it were merely a matter of jurisprudence.
She put a hand on my knee and I stroked it slowly. After all these years together, I could feel her skin as I felt my own.
“I just don’t understand what Amina is hiding,” I said. “There’s something she’s keeping from us.”
Ulrika’s hand jumped.
“Why would Amina lie? She’s Stella’s best friend.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know she hasn’t been completely forthcoming.”
“But you seriously believe that Amina is involved somehow?”
“I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to believe.”
* * *
A bit too full and tipsy, we decided to walk to the train. We strolled through town without saying much. People looked at us—some said hello; others turned their backs as we passed and I could hear their whispers. Ulrika had linked her arm in mine and was walking with purpose; she didn’t slow down.
I think it was Ulrika’s idea to pay a visit to Alexandra and Dino. Since we were in the neighborhood anyway. She thought a little company would do us good and sent a text to let them know we were on our way.
Alexandra met us in the doorway on Trollebergsvägen, her eyes wide.
“Oh, it’s you!”
A cert
ain reluctance was hiding behind her surprise. Perhaps Ulrika missed it, because she didn’t hesitate to step into their apartment with a big hug for Alexandra.
“We took a chance that you’d be home. I sent a text, but you didn’t respond.”
Alexandra looked at me over Ulrika’s shoulder.
Dino came rambling over, wearing only knee-length shorts and with a beer in hand. When he caught sight of us he smiled and assaulted us with hugs.
“How are you?” said Alexandra. “How is Stella?”
Once we’d given a rundown of the past few days’ worth of events, or nonevents, Dino herded me into the living room where an agitated soccer commentator was huffing from the wall-mounted flat-screen as peaceful music streamed from the speakers. The balcony door was wide open and the night air drifted in, carrying the mild scents of Indian summer.
“Two to one,” Dino said, gesturing at the screen.
“Okay.”
I couldn’t care less.
“You look tired. No shock there, I suppose,” he said. “Here, have a beer.”
The cap hissed and I accepted the cold bottle.
“Do you remember we always said Amina was the book-smart one, and Stella was street-smart?” Dino asked. “They complemented each other so well, both on the court and out in the real world.”
“Mmhmm.”
It was hard to focus when the music was playing and the voice of the commentator was bombarding me even as our wives’ voices crowded in from the kitchen.
“Stella’s a survivor,” said Dino. “A fighter.”
I mumbled a response and went over to the speaker with its docking station.
“Is it okay if I turn this off?”
“Sure,” Dino said, and I stopped the music.
In the kitchen, our wives were talking about Stockholm. Alexandra said it sounded like a good idea to get away for a while.
I glanced toward Amina’s room.
“Is she home?” I asked.
Dino shook his head.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 12