Bertil Lundberg had said he would pick Sara up at work, so they could drive to the clinic together. But he hadn’t had time. They’d had to meet there instead. When he finally arrived, she was annoyed. But she didn’t say anything. The waiting room was full. In one corner, a woman was perched on the edge of a chair and crying. Next to her, a man was leafing through a magazine. Page after page, loudly and firmly.
It wasn’t Bertil’s fault he was late. How could he have predicted that a batch of results would arrive from SKL? He had to go through them before he could leave and ended up needing further information on certain points. He’d called SKL to discuss one of the results. It had taken some time to reach the right person.
The dog, said the guy at SKL. It was the dog that destroyed the evidence. That mongrel had disturbed the body too. There was nothing to be done about it — it was what it was. No traces of Stig Ahlin were left.
When Bertil hung up, he threw away the notes he’d jotted down. They didn’t have to become part of the investigation. He didn’t have to annotate everything. All the pointless analyses would be sufficient. Plus, he was in a hurry.
Just a few minutes after Bertil rushed into the prenatal clinic, Sara’s name was called. Now they were in an exam room. The midwife smelled faintly of sweet perfume and Sara had taken off her shirt and unbuttoned her pants. She was lying on the paper sheet of the slightly inclined table and breathing nervously. Her shoes were still on, covered in blue shoe protectors identical to the ones Bertil was slipping around in.
The midwife raised a plastic bottle over Sara’s taut abdomen. Sara took Bertil’s hand. When the pale blue gel landed on her belly she jumped. Her hand was warm and damp.
Using something that looked like a fat razor, the midwife spread the gel across the lower part of Sara’s belly and then pointed at the screen.
The image was grainy, but Bertil could make it out perfectly clearly. It was the head of a child, already too large to fit on the small screen in its entirety. The midwife pressed a button and the room filled with the sound of a steady drumroll, the rapid heartbeat of his child.
It’s going to be okay, Bertil thought. We’ll get Stig Ahlin anyway. That goddamn whoremonger. He bit his wife. He bit his daughter. He bit Katrin and he’s the one who killed her. We don’t need any DNA. We will not let those science types in their ivory towers ruin this. The rest of what we know will be enough. Stig Ahlin is guilty. The court will realize it too. No one wants that man running loose on our streets.
“And you’re sure you want to know the sex?” the midwife asked.
Sara nodded. She was already crying. Bertil leaned toward her, placing his lips alongside her cheek.
“Then I’d like to congratulate you both,” the midwife said, smiling. She pressed a button on the machine. The image froze. “On your perfect, beautiful little girl.”