Each Sunday, Roger dutifully came to church with his mother, with whom he also lived. I quickly made it a habit to converse with him for a bit each time we met, since I suspected he wasn’t used to being noticed by anyone but his mother. There was no denying that Roger wasn’t particularly gifted, but he seemed to be a kind and timid person who deserved to be treated well.
Not once had Roger sought me out on his own, and when we spoke I often had to draw him out. So I realized straightaway that something was wrong when I saw that he was standing on our steps without his mother.
I asked if I could be of service in any way.
Next thing I knew, Roger was sitting in my office, still wearing his fur hat, his teeth chattering. His story hurt me, physically.
Roger explained that he had been visited by a young girl on two occasions. Both times, his mother had just left home to play bingo. He knew the girl wasn’t alone. He had seen her friend down at the front door, keeping a lookout.
The girl had asked if he wanted to invite her in for coffee, so Roger did. That was how he had been raised. When you had visitors, you offered them coffee. The first time, they just talked for a while and then the girl disappeared again. But the next time, she asked Roger out of the blue to take off his pants. He refused, of course. He had no idea what the young girl was up to, but he wasn’t dumb enough to believe she was horny for him. After some persuasion, Roger did allow the girl to sit on his lap. She photographed the two of them on her phone.
“Then she wanted a thousand kronor,” Roger explained. “If I didn’t give her a thousand kronor she would show people the pictures and report me to the police. She said everyone would think I was a pedophile. There are already rumors about me.”
So he had given her one thousand kronor. I found it difficult to blame him for that particular action, at least. He was hardly the first person to buy his way out of false allegations.
But now he had received a note in his mailbox—the girl was demanding another thousand kronor, or else she would give the photos to the police.
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to her,” he said. “It’s just as much my fault.”
I resolutely stood up and assured Roger that I would take care of it right away.
He didn’t even need to say her name. It was obvious whom we were discussing.
* * *
I told Monika, the deacon, that I had a migraine, then went home and banged on the door to Stella’s room until she let me in.
“What the hell have you done?”
And I never curse. Seldom had Stella looked so flattened. She made no excuses, just confessed and swore up and down that she would return the money immediately and apologize. It was just a stupid idea that had gone off the rails. Nothing like it would happen ever again.
I didn’t mention any of it to Ulrika. On one hand this felt like a deception—you’re expected to share this sort of thing with your spouse. On the other hand, I was sparing her; what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. In hindsight, I have to admit that much of my reasoning here revolved around shame. I couldn’t come to terms with what Stella had done, and I didn’t want anyone else, not even my wife, to know about it.
When I saw Roger in church the next Sunday, I took him aside after the service. Once again I had to drag the words out of him.
“Did you get your money back?”
“Oh, yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“And Stella apologized? Did she seem genuinely sorry?” I asked.
“Yes.” Roger nodded again and shifted back and forth. “But it wasn’t her.”
“What?”
He lowered his head.
“It wasn’t Stella who did it,” he said. “It was the other one, the little dark one.”
32
Amina and I walked side by side through City Park. We had nearly reached Svanegatan and could hear the hum of traffic.
“I was there the first time Stella met Chris,” Amina said. “It was at Tegnérs. He seemed like a perfectly ordinary guy. Nothing sketchy about him. Except he was pretty old, but we didn’t know that at first.”
“When was this?”
She shrugged.
“A few months ago.”
“But what was Stella doing at his place? The police found evidence that she was there.”
“She probably just went home with him.”
I regretted asking. I didn’t want to know any more.
“An after-party, maybe?” Amina said. “I don’t really know. I haven’t seen Stella for over a week, since the weekend before last.”