* * *
Late that Sunday afternoon, the police finally vacated our house. When I returned home, Ulrika was off being questioned by Chief Inspector Agnes Thelin, and my stomach crawled with discomfort as I unlocked the door and slowly walked through room after room. I could have no complaints when it came to the police’s degree of care; what traces they had left were few in number and hardly noticeable. But the feeling of having had my private life invaded gnawed at me.
I walked around the first floor and inspected the laundry room, the hall, and the living room; I even opened the woodstove and peered in. Then I went upstairs to Stella’s room. I stood in her door for a moment and was struck by how empty it felt. The police must have seized quite a lot of her belongings.
I stood before the window in our bedroom for a while, gazing at the photograph I’d broken. I let my index finger glide across the picture and it felt good in my heart. There’s nothing more important than family.
Outside the window, dusk was bathing the land in a thin layer of darkness. My eyes followed the glimmering string of streetlights off to the horizon and I thought about how mercy comes to the patient. The righteous hold to their way.
I noticed that a few neighbors were standing across the street and pointing at our house. I pulled down the blinds with a crash. Even as I did so, I decided to call the chairman of the parish council and take sick leave. He sounded honestly sorry for me; he shared a few words of comfort and advised me to stay home as long as I needed to and told me not to worry about the congregation.
When I called Ulrika, her interrogation had just come to an end.
“It’s not as simple as Blomberg first thought,” she said.
Her voice seemed to come in waves. I couldn’t tell whether the connection was bad or Ulrika was about to burst into tears.
“What do you mean?”
A few pops came over the line. I heard her gasping breaths.
“The police must have found something in our house. The prosecutor has just submitted a request for detention.”
15
Michael Blomberg’s office was three floors up in one of the fanciest buildings on Klostergatan, just a stone’s throw from the Grand Hotel. Come Monday morning, Ulrika and I were all but hanging from the lock. The lack of sleep was clearly reflected in my wife’s face. Although I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in the last forty-eight hours either, my exhaustion was the least of my concerns. There was too much else going on inside of me.
We were served coffee under the high ceiling with its plasterwork and flourishes, while Blomberg tucked his thumbs into his back pockets and shuffled his shiny leather shoes on the floor.
“The detention hearing will be at one.”
I felt butterflies. Finally, we could see Stella.
“The police found a footprint at the scene of the crime,” Blomberg went on, scratching his neck. “From a shoe the same size as Stella wears, with the same pattern on the sole.”
I squeezed Ulrika’s forearm.
“Is that all?” I asked. “The only evidence? Did they find anything when they searched our house?”
“It’s too soon to say. Some of what they seized from your residence has been sent to the lab for forensic analysis.”
“Doesn’t that usually take time?” I asked.
“It won’t take more than a few days to get answers,” Blomberg said. “What we’re dealing with here is what’s called investigative detention. In blunt terms, it means that they’ll keep Stella in jail while the police wait for an answer from the lab. It doesn’t take much to get someone detained for reasonable suspicion.”
“Just for a footprint?”
Blomberg looked at Ulrika as if he thought she should chime in. As if it was her job to explain things to her dim-witted husband.
“I think you need to be prepared for Stella to remain in jail.”
It sounded so fateful. So resigned. I looked at Ulrika, who just nodded in confirmation. What was going on?
“Who’s the prosecutor?” Ulrika asked.
“Jenny Jansdotter.”
“She’s supposed to be good. One of the best.”
It was hard for me to tell whether this was an advantage or disadvantage for us. I’d never needed to immerse myself in the legalities involved with deprivation of liberty. Most people, happily, never have reason to do so. Even though I’m married to a lawyer, my knowledge was basic at best. Now I know how little evidence it takes to keep a person under lock and key. I had heard the opposite many times—despairing police officers claiming that the suspect was set free before they had the chance for an arrest, the general view that the Swedish justice system was broken and would rather protect the rights of suspects and convicts than deal with the suffering of victims. Demands for tougher punishments and stricter measures. I’d worked in jails before and had shared these thoughts myself. There had never been a reason for me to shift perspective.