“Stop,” I said. “She’s the victim here.”
“I know that. Everyone knows that. But in court, who did what is crucial—what sort of initiative Stella took, how she behaved before and after the incident. Anything that can sow even a kernel of doubt will be dissected by the defense attorney.”
I went over to the window and placed my arms around her waist.
“We can’t let that happen. That can’t be what happens.”
Ulrika stroked my arm.
“I don’t know if it can happen any other way.”
Later that night she shared with me some of the many horrid details the girl was pushed to share during the gang-rape trial. It was shocking. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly na?ve, but the fact is, I felt physically ill once I learned how this sort of trial unfolds. Sure, we’ve all read and heard about lawyers who ask rape victims how short their skirts were and how much alcohol they’d had to drink, but still, I had dismissed these instances as extreme exceptions. Only now did I understand it was more or less the standard practice in such cases.
I’d never thought I would advise anyone, much less my own child, not to file a police report, not to trust the system, not to let justice take its course, but now that I was starting to understand what would be demanded from Stella, what she would be forced to endure, I found that I had to reconsider.
“What’s the most important thing here?” Ulrika asked before we fell asleep. “That Stella makes it past this relatively unscathed, or that Robin doesn’t go unpunished?”
As if those outcomes were in direct opposition. Why couldn’t we have both? Today I wish I had challenged the black-and-white picture Ulrika had painted for me, that I had stood my ground and made sure that justice was served.
We failed Stella unforgivably.
27
I walked up to the first door I found on Tullgatan. I just wanted to check.
Perhaps Linda Lokind was sitting there inside even now. Christopher Olsen’s former live-in girlfriend. Blomberg seemed certain that she had something to do with the murder.
My heart beat faster as I read the last names next to the intercom. Jerbring, Samuelson, Makkah. No Lokind.
I walked to the next door.
If nothing else, Linda Lokind could help me understand. She could tell me about Christopher Olsen. Maybe she had some idea about how he and Stella had met and what had transpired between them.
At the third door, I found it. Lokind, second floor. I stared at the name for a long time and my heart pounded even faster. What was I doing?
I tried the door. Locked. Leaning forward, I peered into the stairwell. What would I say? How could I introduce myself without scaring her? Without seeming crazy? What if she called the police?
I glanced through the names on the intercom again and settled on I. J?nsson. It sounded friendly, somehow. I pressed the button, and when a croaking voice said “Hello?” I explained that I had a delivery of flowers for a neighbor who wasn’t home. I. J?nsson buzzed me into the stairwell right away.
I stopped two floors up and rang the bell.
I recalled my visit to My Sennevall and wondered how I could make things go more smoothly this time. It had already been crossing a line to visit Sennevall, but this was an even greater overstep. If it came out that I’d tracked down Linda Lokind … was it possible that she was dangerous? In the worst case she was a revenge-fueled killer; in the best case she was a psychopath liar who had falsely accused her ex of the most horrifying things. I had every reason to be cautious.
When a surprised woman opened the door, I recoiled. This could hardly be her. The woman before me looked like a model.
“Linda?” I said.
“Yes?”
She peered at me, suspicious.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Who are you?”
I pointed at my clerical collar.
“May I come in for a moment?”
She gasped. “What happened? Is it Mom?”
“It’s about Christopher Olsen.”
Right away, Linda Lokind’s expression relaxed.
“Okay,” she said, letting me in. “But I’ve already said I don’t want to get involved.”
Her apartment was bright and spacious. The wall of the corridor that led to the bedroom was covered with a world-map decal, and on the floor below it stood a meter-high glass vase in the shape of a bottle with a single lily in it. The bookcase held a few fitness books held up between colorful decorative elephants. It was all bathed in the light of a giant, modern chandelier.
“Could we have a seat?” I asked, pointing at the dining table in front of the French balcony.