“Stella has been unable to explain these discoveries. Furthermore, she has not provided any cohesive account of her activities during the night of the murder.”
Ulrika had my hand in a tight grip, but I didn’t dare look at her.
The prosecutor said that they were still awaiting information from the medical examiner in order to map out the sequence of events in detail.
It felt like watching a TV show being filmed. Despite my wife’s legal career, I’ve only ever visited a courtroom a few times, and in those instances, too, I felt like I was at some sort of performance, something taking place on a stage before an audience, something that would be over at a given time. Sort of like a wedding or a funeral. It’s not until you’re personally involved in the story that it stops being theater. When it’s about your own life. Your family.
“The investigators have also discovered evidence on Christopher Olsen’s computer,” the prosecutor said, paging through a stack of documents. “Here we have a great number of chat conversations between Olsen and Stella Sandell. Conversations indicating that Stella and Christopher knew one another and likely had an intimate relationship.”
I felt ill. Horrible images flashed through my mind.
Blomberg hardly raised a single objection when he took the floor, and with that the judge stated that the court would deliberate. This time, the security personnel followed Stella straight down to the underworld. There was a passage that led from the courtroom down to the basement of the jail, and the door closed behind them without a backwards glance from Stella.
“Why doesn’t she say something?” I said to Ulrika. “Why…？ Why is she just letting them do this?”
It almost appeared that Stella was buying everything that was said. As if she were merely part of the act.
“There’s not much she can do,” Ulrika said. “She’s probably as shocked as we are.”
I didn’t even want to consider any other alternative.
After just ten minutes we were summoned back into the courtroom and the judge declared that the court had decided to detain Stella with probable cause on suspicion of homicide.
* * *
We headed straight for Michael Blomberg’s office on Klostergatan. The celebrity lawyer walked across the groaning hardwood floors with heavy steps and a wild expression.
“It’s scandalous how worthless this investigation is. Both Jansdotter and the police seem to have blinders on; all they can see is Stella.”
“Why didn’t you say anything in court?” I asked.
Blomberg stopped short.
“What do you mean?”
He turned to Ulrika, as if she were the one with opinions, not me.
“Why are you just accepting this?” I said. “Shouldn’t you be protesting? She has an alibi! Why didn’t you say anything about her alibi?”
Blomberg waved dismissively.
“That wouldn’t be of any use right now. There’s too much circumstantial evidence against Stella, and the ME hasn’t determined an exact time frame for the murder yet.”
“But the witness,” I said. “My Sennevall. She heard fighting outside her window around one o’clock.”
Blomberg looked at Ulrika.
“Well, that’s true,” my wife said. “What have you learned about this Sennevall woman, Michael?”
Blomberg sank down at his desk.
“She might not be the most competent witness. My Sennevall lives her life in a window. Literally. She only goes out to buy groceries or see her therapist; otherwise she sits there spying on her neighbors. She’s totally in the know about what goes on in the neighborhood.”
“That sounds like a really good witness,” I said.
“Not really—this girl is the very definition of mental illness. She has every phobia and neurosis you’ve ever heard of.”
I could just about have predicted as much.
“But that doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Both Blomberg and Ulrika squirmed.
“You might not think so,” said Blomberg.
“What about Olsen’s ex-girlfriend?” Ulrika asked. “Have you dug up anything more on her?”
Dug up? I didn’t like the sound of that. I associated it with gossip and slander, bad journalism in celebrity magazines. As if we wanted to find a scapegoat at any cost.
“I think we should put all our money on the ex-girlfriend,” said Blomberg. “Linda Lokind.”
“Is that her name?”
Blomberg snapped up a piece of paper from his desk to check.