Sophia woke up way too early. She lay with her cheek pressed to the wall, squeezed into a twin bed with a pine frame and a foam mattress. Next to her, on his back, lay the squinting man from the night before. She had no idea what his name was, Johan or Stefan or Mattias. He’d told her; she had forgotten.
She’d been dreaming. When she was little she used to dream of being given a pony. Dark brown, with a black mane and tail, brushed to glossiness, it pressed its silken nose against her neck, blew warm air into her hair, and snorted with happiness to see her. But then she woke up, every time, and had to go to school. After her last class she went straight to the stables and at most was allowed to pick the hooves of Prince, who refused to stand still. Instead he turned around and bit her with his chattering yellow teeth. The same thing was happening now.
In her dream she had slept with someone else. With him. She really shouldn’t, she thought, even in her dreams, but she couldn’t help it. He was big, bigger than she remembered. Almost grotesque. Thick and long, he pressed into her, one hand around her neck, kissing her, and she never wanted to wake up. But she did. As usual. Right before she came, relentlessly, because one arm was asleep.
Sophia managed to turn over by pushing the bed away from the wall a few inches. She wriggled her way out, cautiously — she didn’t want Johan-Stefan-Mattias to wake up. If he did she would have to call him something. To whisper in her morning voice: Good morning, Stefan-Mattias-or-maybe-Fredrik. There was no way. She would be forced to call him “honey.” And she really wasn’t prepared to take things that far.
Sophia wrangled her way into her panties and shirt, then grabbed her purse, briefcase, and the rest of the clothes that were folded on the desk. Her arms full, she sneaked to the bathroom. The man in the twin bed was in his third year of legal studies. She recalled him having said that much. Which had to mean he was at least twenty-two, right? Or twenty-three. That was pretty much an adult.
She dug a painkiller out of her purse, swallowed it, and avoided any further thoughts of the day before. How she had squeezed both her eyes and her genitals closed when he entered her. How his squinting eyes suddenly went perfectly round and his mouth became a rectangle with the strain. How she had come fast, faster than him, and how it had felt like scratching an already bleeding mosquito bite. She washed up as fast as she could, peed without flushing, and walked into the hall and down the stairs carrying her shoes. Not until she had crossed the street and reached the cemetery did she tie her shoelaces and button her coat. The moon was high over the cathedral, lemon yellow against the inky blue. It would be at least two hours before night loosened its grip, and no snow in the air yet.
At least I didn’t get a stiff neck, she thought, winding her scarf around her throat an extra time.
Yesterday’s wind had died down a bit. She turned onto Trädgårdsgatan and walked down to the swan pond. It smelled like baked goods there: saffron, cinnamon, melted butter. Sophia knew where to knock when the place was closed, and just one minute later she was holding a paper bag, all greasy from hot buttercream. With the bag in hand, she ran down toward Kungsgatan and Central Station.
Outside the main entrance a young man was sitting on some unfolded newspapers having a smoke. Sophia made eye contact with him; he was still a teenager. Her determined pace, which was meant to take her away from there, faltered. Like the man she had left on Studentvägen just now, this beggar resembled someone she knew, or had known, or should know. She stopped, fumbling through her purse, and found a five-hundred-krona bill. It was a ridiculous amount, but now it was too late so she handed it to him.
I should pat him on the shoulder, she thought. I could say something casual about the weather, the morning, the darkness — or anything at all. Would he want my pastry?
“Thanks,” he said, swiping his hair from his forehead to keep from having to look at her, and she felt even more ashamed. He didn’t even seem surprised, just folded the bill and stuffed it in his pocket.
Sophia fled. Only ten yards on did she become angry. Five hundred kronor. How could I be so stupid? Am I trying to buy my way out of this cold sweat? And if that is what I’m trying to do, shouldn’t I pay the right person?
Her heart pounded in her chest. Should I have left a bill on the nightstand back at Magnus-Mattias-Johan-Anders’s? Is that what I should have done? Or should I have looked at his door to find out his name?
The train would leave at four minutes past six; Sophia stepped onto the station stairs nine minutes early. She bought a ticket from the machine on the platform, used some hand sanitizer, climbed aboard, sat down, and placed her briefcase on her lap. Then she took out the folder of photographs. The seats around her were empty, so she didn’t have to worry that someone might notice what she was reading.
She rested her temple against the cold windowpane and stared at the first photograph in her hand. It was an enlargement, printed in color on a sheet of A4. The crime scene. The victim was in the center, naked and with one leg drawn up slightly to the side, her arm at an impossible angle. Her mouth was agape. Her eyes were open too, veiled by a pale yellow film. Her clothes were folded up on a chair.
Nothing about the room where the girl lay seemed to fit what had happened to her. It was too neat. She must have disrobed voluntarily; Sophia recalled the newspapers having reported as much.
The second photo was a close-up. Sophia glanced around quickly; she was still alone in the train car. Sixteen years old, or had she been fifteen? It was impossible to tell.
Her heart rate began to slow. Sophia sank deeper into the seat. Her hands stopped trembling.
Naturally she would look through the file, even if she wouldn’t take the case. It couldn’t hurt — it was an exciting case. Back when the crime occurred, she had read everything she could get her hands on. The papers had written about it as though they expected this to be the last homicide they would ever get to cover. There were stories about the dead girl, her parents, her interests, her friends, her teachers, and her school. About her good grades and her short life, a little girl’s dreams and a young woman’s plans for her life. About the end-of-term ceremony at her school just a few days after her death. And about the sick doctor who had taken her life.
Above all, they had written about him, the doctor. Sophia had devoured every story, ravenously, intently.
Of course she would go through the documents Hans had given her. The misfortunes of others were much easier to deal with. But only the sort that were written down on paper. Not the kind of misery that sat on chilly front steps, holding out a hand.
She opened her laptop, inserted one of the thumb drives, and opened the folder marked “FöU Supplements 1–30.” The preliminary investigation. It took a moment for the documents to load, and as she waited she really felt her exhaustion. It was always that same feeling, the same dizziness. Her failing will as she faced a new assignment.
This isn’t a new assignment, she thought. I don’t need to get to know this man; I don’t have to steel myself. I can empathize with the victim or simply ignore her if I want to. I don’t have to protect the perpetrator or explain why. He isn’t my responsibility and whatever he’s done it can’t rub off on me.
It doesn’t have to mean anything to me. These people are nothing to me. Nothing at all.
Her heart fluttered. And then she began to read.