Only silence awaited her. Her coffee cup was still in the entryway. On the hall table, exactly where she’d left it a little over twenty-four hours earlier. Sophia Weber stared at it, almost in surprise. Well, why shouldn’t it be there? Who would have moved it?
She took it with her to the kitchen and placed it in the sink. There was already a small plate, a butter knife, and a fork in there. The frying pan was on the cold stove, full of water. The grease had solidified into a layer on top and glistened in the light.
Just as she’d left it.
There was no point in using the dishwasher anymore. It took so long to fill it up that the whole apartment started smelling sour before it was time to run it.
She stood there for a moment, rubbing her arms. It was cold and damp — she had left the kitchen window ajar again. The chill crept under her skin. She turned on the hot tap and the water sputtered out. The sink quickly filled with suds.
Suddenly she felt uncertain. What was it she was about to do? The dishes, sure, but then what? She turned off the tap, took a bottle of cleaning spray from the cabinet under the sink, and began to spray all the surfaces in the kitchen. Not because they were dirty, but because it smelled good.
When she was done she went to her bedroom, crawled into the unmade bed, and pulled a bundle of papers from her briefcase. She was representing a young man who had been denied entry into a pub in downtown Stockholm. When the man asked why, the bouncers responded by lifting him up and depositing him in a trash can. Her client claimed he was a victim of racism, that the guards had treated him badly because they didn’t like “people like him.” Sophia wasn’t looking forward to trying to convince the court that this medium-blond Swede of Walloon descent was right. Especially since he had climbed back out of the trash can unharmed and gone back with two empty bottles which he broke against the forehead of one of the two dark-skinned bouncers.
Later, she thought, dropping the file on the floor. The thumb drives from Hans Segerstad were at the bottom of one of the interior compartments. She closed her hand around them. It doesn’t mean I’m going to take this on. I’m just going to read a little, the parts I would want to read anyway.
Sophia turned on her computer, inserted one thumb drive, and began to scroll through the documents. She clicked her way through various situation reports and case notes drawn up by the lead investigator during the first few days after the murder.
The tips that had come in from the public were the usual kind: all over the place, made up and unlikely. Four of the most detailed sightings of a very much alive Katrin even took place after she was found dead.
Katrin had been seen on a beach outside Mölle, at a bar in Gothenburg, at a bus stop in Sundsvall. She and a masked man had purchased cigarettes at a gas station in the vicinity of Karlstad, and along with four female friends she had robbed a bank in downtown Stockholm. An older woman called her local police precinct to report that she had been drinking her afternoon coffee on the balcony when she saw Katrin dragged into a white van, yes, she insisted, it really was a white van. The man yanking at her was wearing a black balaclava, yes, she insisted, it really was a black balaclava. One of Katrin’s classmates, a teenager described in the notes as a “girl with serious social issues, many absences from school, and frequent encounters with both social and legal authorities,” had said Katrin had a number of boyfriends.
Sophia took out her cell phone and opened her notetaking app. “Find out the classmate’s name,” she tried to type. Autocorrect changed “classmate” to “classified.” “Find out the classified name.” She tried to fix it: “Classmate? Interrogate?” Her phone changed it to “Classified? Interrupt?” She added “Boyfriends?” Her phone wrote “Boycott?” It was hopeless. Instead she pulled up her secretary’s number. Then she remembered it was Saturday.
I should take a nap, she thought. Rest a little. I can’t work all the time. I need my rest too. She put her phone aside entirely and closed her eyes. Think about something else. Sleep for a while.
She immediately thought about him.
There was no task that could take her mind off him. Her thoughts were so intense that they became physical. They clawed their way into her flesh and got caught there. She closed her eyes and there he was, standing right next to her. And her body responded as it always had in reality. Her pulse increased, her throat constricted, her palms grew damp. It was like her muscles got the flu. Her thoughts of him were like a thunderstorm. She couldn’t control them.
She swallowed, scratched at her eyes, and pressed her hand to her chest. It hurts so much, she thought. What if I’m having an aneurysm? Does that make your heart hurt?
Just minutes later, she was asleep.
Detective Inspector Adam Sahla was eating breakfast. His wife Norah was in her usual spot at the sink. Her face was almost gray and her hair looked dirty. He wondered if she was getting sick but decided not to ask. She would only take it as an insult. Or a chance to inform him that he didn’t help out enough, always did things wrong, and never lived up to expectations.
Norah had crossed her arms. She hadn’t even made herself coffee. She never did anything for herself as long as the children were still eating. Anyone as sensitive to low blood sugar as Norah was should have food even before getting out of bed. But the worst thing he could do was suggest she should eat, because somehow it was always his fault she didn’t have time, because he sat down to eat while her headache got worse.
“You remember she has a ballet recital today?”
His wife did still talk, in a monotone, about things that had to be done. About things she expected him to do. But she seldom looked at him anymore.
Norah left the sink and retrieved a hairbrush and two hair ties from one of the drawers under the stove. She had a special drawer for items she needed for getting the kids ready each morning. Extra toothbrushes, bandages, their son’s schedule. Adam had no idea what-all she stuck in that drawer. Nor could he understand how it could be so inconceivably difficult to brush the children’s teeth in the bathroom that such a drawer was necessary; it was less than thirty feet from the kitchen to the bathroom. But he seldom bothered to point this out either.
“I’ve already flagged my afternoon for flex time. They know I have to go.”
She didn’t have to say a thing. It was Saturday; Adam already knew what she was thinking, what she was always thinking when he left her with the children, when she thought he should be off duty, should take responsibility. But she wasn’t saying anything, at least. And she wasn’t looking at him. I even remembered to change the batteries in the video camera, he thought.
“Promise you’ll come, Dad? Do you one hundred percent promise?”
Adam bent down to his daughter and swept her up. She was so light, a string bean, and she wound her skinny arms around his neck. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his nose into her collarbone. I’ll be there. And I plan to sit in the very first row of that stuffy auditorium with the camera in front of me like a safety net to save me from free-falling through time.
He had to fix things with Norah. They should be able to find a therapist they could talk to, someone who could help them.
Hopefully, it would get better over Christmas break. He’d given notice that he would be taking two weeks off. With any luck he wouldn’t have to drop by the office more than one afternoon. That would surely help. They could find their way back — it hadn’t always been like this. He swallowed and whispered in his daughter’s ear.
“Of course I’m coming.”
When his daughter was younger, so little she could hardly walk, maybe a year old, she would steal his phone when he came home from work. She always hid it; each day she found a new hiding place. Adam had once found it vibrating, its battery almost drained, in a paper bag full of empty bottles waiting to be returned. Back then she had been convinced it was the telephone that took him away, that made her mom clench her teeth so hard you could see the muscles in her jaw. It was no wonder his daughter tried to do what she could to avoid that.
He’d never known how he was expected to react, not that time either. But they had recently purchased their row house, and Norah was working from home and earning only a fraction of her former salary.
The only other option besides working more to make ends meet would have been to move to another suburb, but no one wanted their children to grow up in those parts of the city. And even though Norah wouldn’t have admitted it, she didn’t either. So why should he feel guilty for making sure they had enough to live well?
But Adam thought it had gotten better since then. They were living in the city again, and he didn’t have to work overtime as often. These days he didn’t come home as late and he wasn’t gone every weekend. Once a week he was the one to pick the kids up at day care. At least, the weeks when nothing unexpected happened. He truly didn’t need to have a guilty conscience anymore.
“Sweetheart.”
Adam cupped his hand around his daughter’s head, stroked the bridge of her nose with his index finger, and looked deep into her eyes without blinking.
“My darling baby. Of course I’m coming. I promise.”
The box of Christmas decorations was in the basement storage area. Along with a rolled-up yoga mat that had gone stiff, a pair of hiking poles, and four pairs of jogging shoes Sophia no longer used.
She would bring the decorations up to the apartment. She was planning to convince Grandpa to come stay with her over Christmas. He could sleep in her bed and she would take the sofa. If he refused, he could take the mobility service back home at night, but at least her place would look nice for Christmas Eve.
I should invite Mom too, she thought before she could stop herself. There was no reason to ask Grandpa; it was a given that they would be together. But her mother needed those formalities. The polite questions that kept a lid on their many conflicts.
Sophia extended invitations. Her mother said no. The year before she had blamed taxi services. It would be too difficult to come, she’d said. It was impossible to book a taxi on Christmas Eve, not to mention expensive.
As politely as she could, Sophia had said she understood. She hadn’t pointed out that Grandpa had already booked a taxi there and back. This would have been to abandon their agreement. Nor had Sophia offered up her bed. And her mother hadn’t said that she could sleep on the sofa. Or on a mattress on the floor.
They both knew that their lies depended on not questioning each other. But it also required each to leave space for the other to lie. The potential for a theoretical truth had to remain, or else the facade would crack. That was how they got through their relationship.
I’ll call her next week, Sophia thought. Otherwise it will be too far in advance. No one would buy that it’s impossible to get a taxi if you call and order one three weeks before Christmas. I’ll have to apologize for not calling sooner. I can blame work. Say I didn’t have time.
Back up in her apartment she looked at the bed. The photographs and her notes had spilled across the messy bedspread.
I could ask Adam for help, she thought. He could help me with information, with contacts, with asking around. What would it matter? A phone call doesn’t mean anything. I need to be able to talk to him. He’s a good contact to have. Better than most, actually. Or an email. I could email him. It’s not the end of the world. If he was anyone else I would call.
Sophia pressed her palm to her forehead.
He doesn’t think about you that way. Not anymore. Probably he never did. It was a mistake, something we did because we were sad and drunk. He’s still with his family, there’s no reason for me to write him an email.
But he could help me. I could ask him to unearth old documents that might be useful. That’s it. I’m sure he’ll want to help me. He knows he can trust me. We could meet. If we keep it professional. Talk about work. Just work.
Adam’s last interrogation for the day started early, at one o’clock. He should have had eons of time. To bring it to a close, to consider all the many ways events could have unfolded. As a detective inspector, Adam Sahla was a special investigator for the Stockholm police in cases that involved children. One of his tasks was to question children who were suspected of having been victims of a crime. It was a delicate undertaking and didn’t have much in common with typical interrogations.
The girl had been removed from her home and placed with a foster family a few weeks prior. This wasn’t the first time her family was under investigation, but she had never been taken from her parents before. She had only been six months old when Social Services received the first report about her and her brother. Now she was six and she didn’t want to say much about what had happened, if anything had happened. This was only the second time Adam had met her and they were still getting to know each other.
How could Adam have predicted that she would suddenly start to talk? That he would hardly make it into the interrogation room before she climbed into his lap, grabbed his index finger, and told the story, hardly stopping to take a breath?
It was a unique breakthrough; it would probably never happen again. An opportunity like this would make it possible for the courts to save the girl’s life. To create a new, more secure future for her and her siblings.
Adam’s boss met him in the stairwell when the interrogation was over. They were waiting for a prosecutor to give the order that would allow them to pick up the father. His boss paced back and forth in front of the elevator.
“You stay with that kid. Understood? Have some juice with her, offer her cookies, as many as she wants. That kid isn’t leaving here until we know we’ve got that bastard behind bars where he belongs.”
Adam didn’t protest the sentiment. But he wasn’t the only one who could eat cookies and drink juice.
His boss tried to keep his voice under control.
“I shouldn’t need to explain myself here. That girl feels safe with you. We have to allow her to feel safe. Do whatever you want, but do not leave. Well done, by the way. That was a damn good job. You’re the best we’ve got for this stuff. You have to stay. You know how important it is. Order in lunch. McDonald’s? All kids like hamburgers. Ice cream? Does McDonald’s have ice cream? Can ice cream be delivered?”
Adam didn’t bother to point out that both he and the girl had eaten lunch before the interrogation began. He also chose not to point out that there was hardly money for ice cream delivery in the budget.
“It’s not enough if I just link the phone to my cell?”
“No, that’s not enough.” By now his boss was speaking so loudly he was almost shouting. “For Christ’s sake, Adam. That kid will have no more…that child must not be subjected to any more…anything we can avoid subjecting her to. It’s not enough for the caseworker to stay, and it’s not enough for you to take off and bring your cell, because if that was enough, I would have said so.”
Adam stepped into the auditorium just as a group of jazz dancers in neon legwarmers were receiving their applause. His daughter was already in the audience, still wearing her tutu and stage makeup. She didn’t say a word when Adam arrived; instead she slid off her mother’s lap and sat as far away as she could, cross-legged on the floor in front of the first row.
For the first time that day, Adam’s wife made eye contact with him; she didn’t blink once. Her blue eyes were dark, but she didn’t say a thing. And Adam felt a sudden rush of anger.
I need you now. I need your help to make her understand that I didn’t do this on purpose. You know how hard it is. You know it as well as I do, and if you’re not on my side our kids will never understand that I’m not deserting them. I’m not off playing golf with bank buddies. I’m not standing there trying to pick out a matching tie in the morning instead of taking my kids to school. I’m doing my job because it would be unthinkable for me not to do it. And you know that. I need your help.
But Adam didn’t say a word either. Instead they watched the performance. A hazy mass of children dancing to a hazy piece of music with no melody. They were the wrong kids; it was the wrong music. Adam wasn’t listening and couldn’t focus his gaze. He looked at his daughter’s straight back; her tight bun revealed her skinny neck. She was too far away for him to pull her close. Hug her until she could no longer protest. He stood up and walked out. He had only gotten as far as the stairs before he noticed a text had come in.
It wasn’t from her. It was never from her. He had given up hope. So many times he had tried to get in touch. He had called, written, gone to her work. She didn’t want to; she never wanted to talk; she didn’t even want to tell him why not.
Almost. He had almost given up hope that it would be her.