“I’ll wait in the car,” Marianne had told her daughter on the way to the cemetery. “I’m happy to drive you there, but you’ll have to bury him yourself.”
Ida hadn’t reacted.
“I didn’t say anything to the lawyer,” she’d said instead. “I went up to her office. But I didn’t tell her. Because I don’t want you to be charged with perjury.”
Marianne couldn’t help but smile. Her clever daughter with her complicated words. She meant well, but she knew nothing about that stuff. Marianne would not be convicted of perjury; she had never lied. Not to the court, not in interrogations. She had never said anything she didn’t know to be true. Because no one had asked her. Why would they have?
Yet she was glad Ida hadn’t said anything. Because now Ida believed she had rescued her mother from prison and dishonor. Marianne thought this might make Ida feel better. As if she were guilt-free. Because she was — Ida and everyone else. No one knew what Marianne knew. Not even Marianne herself, at first.
That night. Marianne remembered it all in great detail. The early-summer light. And the hatred. It had settled in her body and infected her blood.
Ida was picked up right after lunch. Marianne had taken a sick day and had packed Ida’s bag the night before. Ida had her own backpack as well, with her blankie, a doll’s baby bottle, and her favorite puzzle. It was missing four pieces.
When the social worker rang the doorbell, Ida began to cry; she usually did, when they had guests. Marianne couldn’t bring herself to comfort her. She just handed her daughter over, prying her sweaty little hands from her body.
“Bye, sweetie,” she had said. “See you very soon. You’re going to have a nice time. And Mommy will pick you up in two days. Two days will go by very, very fast.”
Ida would be away for two nights, and once the social worker had strapped her into the car and driven off, Marianne was struck by rage. A fury that resembled nothing other than, possibly, birthing pains. With that rage coursing through her body she got in the car to see Stig. She wanted to confront him. She would force him to confess. And if he didn’t confess what he had done to her daughter, if he didn’t take responsibility, she would kill him.
This was the first time she had hated another person. And the consequences were self-evident.
But Stig hadn’t been home. Instead she sat outside his house, on the street. She stared straight into his apartment with its large picture windows. When they divorced, he’d gotten himself a showpiece apartment. Twice the size of the one Ida and Marianne lived in.
When Stig got home from work she allowed him to park in the garage and go into the building and up the stairs and into his apartment. He didn’t see her. I’ll go in in a minute, she had thought. But that’s as far as she ever got. Her body betrayed her. Her hatred didn’t make her brave, only weak.
As if paralyzed, she stayed in the car, watching Stig turn on the ceiling lights, watching him as he sat in front of the TV, as he went to bed and turned out the lights. Filled with contempt at her own fear, she stayed there until after six in the morning, when the bright summer night turned into a brand-new day. Then he woke up. When he left the building to get in his car and go to work, she too started her car and drove off.
Marianne had sat in her car, just like now, watching Stig. She hadn’t slept; how could she have slept? She hadn’t dozed off. Not for a second. She was there the whole time. And Stig never left. He ate in front of the TV and went to bed early.
The second night Ida was gone, Marianne slept like a log. The sleeping pills she’d been prescribed suddenly worked, and then she picked up Ida and the investigation went on. The night outside Stig’s apartment faded to an uncomfortable reminder of her own weakness.
Each week it was something new. Conversations with the police. Doctors’ visits. Talking with the psychologist. Talking to the day care. Nothing else mattered. In Marianne’s world, this was all there was.
But it didn’t help. One day when she was called to the station, it wasn’t to be questioned. She was told the police would not be devoting any further resources to her daughter. The investigation would be closed. But Marianne shouldn’t worry, because they would make sure Stig was sent away for murder, that he would never be set free.
Marianne understood what they meant. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t throw him in jail for what he’d done to Ida. But as long as he was convicted of murder, he would never be able to harm Ida again and she would be spared more interrogations, more examinations. Their new life could begin.
Only then did Marianne take an interest in the murder of Katrin. Because what the police didn’t say was that if Stig couldn’t be convicted of killing Katrin Björk, he would be a free man, and no one would be able to stop him from demanding joint custody.
It took a few days for Marianne to understand. For her to put the two events together and realize what they meant.
Why would the police have wondered, What were you doing when Katrin Björk was killed? What was your husband doing that night? Tell us what you witnessed. Tell us how you happen to know that there is no way your husband could be responsible for that murder.
Of course, no one asked Marianne. No one knew. Not even Stig knew what she’d seen.
But they did ask Stig.
“What were you doing the night Katrin Björk was murdered?”
“I was at home,” he replied. “Home alone in my apartment, watching TV. Eating leftovers. I went to bed early.”
The police didn’t believe him.
Marianne stepped out of the car. Tall cumulus clouds dotted the sky. A breeze whistled through the treetops and everything smelled like freshly mown grass. She sat down on a bench farther on that afforded a view of the cemetery. The neat lines of gravestones, arranged like mathematical tables, tidy paths, raked smooth.
The prim and proper organization of the cemetery reminded her of a grid-patterned city, the city where she grew up. That evident sterility. With rules everyone could understand. When Marianne was a child there were no accidents, no crimes, no dirty old men. Until one day, when Marianne was thirteen. A girl was found dead in the basement of the apartment building where they both lived.
Marianne had played with her a few times, even though the other girl was younger. Before she was found she had been reported missing. It was in all the papers, along with a photo of the girl. And a description of her clothing. She was wearing red jeans from Gul&Blå at the time of her disappearance, the very same ones Marianne had asked for for her birthday. When the girl was found, it said in the paper that she had been violated. Marianne understood only vaguely what this meant. A few days later, the girl’s father was arrested. He had done it.
Marianne stood up. The cemetery was large, the biggest in Stockholm. She couldn’t even see where it ended. Gently sloping rises, flowers gathered in identical vases, stuck in the ground so they wouldn’t blow over. Each gravesite was marked by a granite headstone. Dark gray, red, black, blue. Polished, raw, matte, smooth. Marianne couldn’t see the open grave where Ida would put Stig’s urn.
So many people had told her Stig had abused Ida, that they’d found signs of assault. Ida said things to suggest it was true. And Marianne had felt like it could be so.
Had she known for sure? No. Had Ida begged her, Mama, save me? No. But the possibility, the risk, had determined each action she took moving forward.
Yet she wasn’t ashamed; how could she be ashamed of this? There was no way she could have done anything different.
The other part, though — that haunted her. This was her punishment. Because when Marianne closed her eyes, it wasn’t Ida’s body she saw but Katrin’s. The girl Marianne had sacrificed. And the unknown man who had taken her life. The killer could still be alive; he could have harmed someone else. And Marianne was the one who’d made that possible.
A hole in the ground. Lined with plastic so it wouldn’t collapse. A pile of symbolic earth beside it. Ida would place Stig’s remains there. An employee would fill the hole with dirt, cover it with grass, mask the opening. No stone had been ordered for Stig. The grave would be marked with a number. It hadn’t been said out loud, but both Marianne and Ida understood what it would mean if they wrote out his name.
No one had asked Marianne what she’d been doing while Katrin Björk was dying. Why would they have? And she had no choice. It was not an option to tell them what she knew.