More Bitter Than Death: A Novel Part 21

Roger studies me, in his eyes a mixture of compa.s.sion and condescension. I feel small, vulnerable. Aren't the police supposed to be helping people like me? To serve and protect? Or is that just on American TV?

"It's a group for women who have been the victims of violence, not just domestic abuse. And as for Malin, I actually can't discuss her. Information about my patients is confidential. Nor can I divulge who my patients are."

"Confidential, I see. But Malin herself said that she is in therapy with you and that we could talk to you. We know that she is. We questioned her after the fatal shooting of . . ."

He hesitates, as if he can't remember Hillevi's name.

"Of the female patient in the same group. Anyway, we would like you to confirm some information. Could you maybe tell me a little about the group?" He gives me an encouraging look.

"Yes, well . . . It's a sort of support group for women from the munic.i.p.ality of Varmdo who have experienced violence. The idea is for the partic.i.p.ants to gain strength from working through their problems on their own, even after the group ends."

"Ah, yes, that sounds uh . . . good, I guess. We here at the police rarely have time to give crime victims the attention they deserve."

I see a spark of something in his eyes. It's weak and yet there's something there, pathos maybe. Empathy? And I suspect that behind the cop facade and the oversized mustache, he actually is committed to helping.

"Malin Lindbladh was raped in Gustavsberg two years ago. Are you aware of this?" he asks.

"Absolutely, that's one of the things we've discussed in the group."

"So she told you what happened?"

"She explained in detail what happened to her, yes. She also told us that you let the perpetrator go free."

"Well now, we're not the ones who decide whether criminals are guilty or not and what consequences they receive. The court acquitted him."

"Because some of his buddies gave him an alibi, yes."

Roger shrugs and says, "Stuff like that happens. You can't catch everyone. I'm sure you understand that. If you're so familiar with what happened to Malin, perhaps you also know that Susanne Olsson was one of the five people who gave her accused rapist an alibi?"

"Yes, she told me that. Not the others in the group, but me," I say.

"What did she say about it?"

"That's all she said. That Susanne gave him an alibi and that you had questioned her. She was upset."

"Upset, why?" Roger asks.

"Well, surely that's not so unlikely, what with everything that happened. Your questioning her stirred up memories of the rape and the trial, and that upset her."

Roger nods and runs his hand over his graying mustache.

"And what is your take on Malin Lindbladh? Is she sane, clinically speaking? Is she credible?"

I picture Malin, how she looked when she showed up at my cottage, her tired face, her hunched posture, the fear, the dejection.

"I absolutely think she's sane, a little peculiar perhaps, but absolutely sane."

"Peculiar? In what way?"

I squirm a little on the uncomfortable visitor's chair, afraid of putting it the wrong way and arousing unnecessary suspicion of Malin.

"I think she had a really tough time after the rape. She subjects herself to rigorous training, dieting, and other types of self-discipline to control her anxiety. That's my impression, my clinical impression," I say, and c.o.c.k my head to the side.

Roger smiles.

"And what about her reliability, do you think? Do you trust her?"

I contemplate Malin's story for a bit. Nothing she said seems to have been a lie or an exaggeration. I don't see any reason not to believe what she says.

"Yes, I think she's reliable. I mean, you can never know for sure, of course, but I still think . . . yes, I believe her."

Roger grins.

"Interesting that you say you can never know for sure. You have a bunch of forensic psychology colleagues who are willing to swear under oath to all manner of things. Just think about all the testimony in Thomas Quick's murder trials, talk about incompetence."

Roger shakes his head, as if he pities me for belonging to such a pathetic profession, full of naive know-it-alls and quacks.

"My a.s.sessment is that she is reliable, and that you can never know."

He nods again, looks at me, and slams his little black notebook shut. Our conversation is over.

Excerpt from Investigative Notes, in Accordance with the Provisions of the Social Services Act Regarding Young People

The 14-year-old boy was charged with the aggravated a.s.sault of a 34-year-old shop owner after the shop owner accused the boy of shoplifting in his store. The event was reported to the police and is under investigation. The boy claims that he did indeed hit the shop owner but that the shop owner was holding on to him and threatening to call the police, and that he panicked and struggled to escape. He also admits that he entered the store, which sells athletic clothing, with the intent to steal a heart rate monitor, but refuses to comment on what happened.

The boy's parents say the boy has had a very troubled history at school throughout his entire adolescence. In recent years he has only been attending school sporadically and has instead been hanging out with a gang of older boys downtown. There is suspicion of both criminality and drug use among these teens. The family had previously been working with Pediatric Psychiatric Services but didn't feel like that was going anywhere. The guidance counselor did not have any success either in changing the boy's destructive behavior or getting him to return to school.

The parents say they're desperate and no longer know what to do. They are very worried about their son's trajectory. They also say that all the conflict about their son has taken a toll on their relationship and that they are now considering separating. However, they believe this might cause even more trouble for their son since he has a hard time dealing with change. The mother also admits that she is afraid to be alone with her son since he sometimes has awful angry outbursts if he doesn't get what he wants. He attacked her physically a few days ago when, after repeatedly warning him to stop, she switched off his computer because he had been playing computer games for longer than the agreed time. On that occasion he shook her and called her a b.i.t.c.h. The parents think their son might need some alternative living arrangement.

Jovana Stagovic, social secretary, Youth Group

Office meeting.

Elin has a stack of invoices in her lap and doesn't look happy. She came to work this morning with hair that was suddenly red instead of black, and her usual black clothes had been replaced with a retro 1950s-style dress and Doc Martensstyle boots.

"Well, but then who needs to approve these invoices?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter," Sven says tiredly. "As long as it's one of us. You can't just pay them. You're simply going to have to understand this."

Elin blushes and looks down at the table without answering.

Aina shoots Sven a chilly look and puts a motherly hand over Elin's. Aina soothes, "Come on, Elin. It was only a thousand kronor. Let's forget about it now."

Sven starts in again, "Swedish Address Registry Inc.? How could you be so freaking stupid that you paid that? Anyone with half a brain can tell that's a scam."

Sven runs his hand through his unwashed, graying hair and I smell the scent of sweat spreading through the room. Both Aina and I are nervous that Sven is in a tailspin, that he's drinking too much.

I think about the conversation he and I had a few weeks ago when he said he was done with love and alcohol, that he wasn't going to touch the booze again. I note that he didn't keep that promise very long. But that's how it goes, right?

"Sven," Aina warns.

"We should take it out of your pay," he continues.

Elin drops the stack of papers on the floor with a thud, flings her hand up to her mouth as if she wants to stop herself from saying something, and then rushes out of the room.

"Well, that didn't go very well, did it? Just because you have problems doesn't mean you can take them out on other people," Aina says calmly, but there's a harshness to her voice, a sharp tone that reveals she's on her way to getting really upset.

"My problems have nothing to do with this," Sven protests.

"Your problems have everything to do with this, and you know that," Aina replies.

"Oh, really? Well, I'm not the one attracting crazy people with guns to the place!" Sven exclaims.

"Hey," I say, since even I am growing weary of Sven's bad moods. "It's not like that was our fault."

Sven mutters something about Vijay.

"What was that?" Aina says. "If you have a problem with us working for Vijay, then just say so instead of sitting there mumbling."

"If you hadn't stubbornly insisted on helping him with this study, then all this stuff would never have happened. If you ask me, he's only working with you guys to make himself feel important." Sven's voice is quiet but hostile, and yet again I can smell his sweat from all the way across the oval table.

"You know as well as we do that we need this money," Aina says.

Sven shuts up and clenches his jaw, then picks up his moss-green corduroy jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair, and walks out just as suddenly as Elin had.

Aina and I exchange looks.

Ever since Hillevi was shot, Sven has been openly hostile toward Aina and me. It's as if he blames us for what happened.

He never liked Vijay. Vijay is successful, a full professor even though he isn't even forty yet. Vijay is everything that Sven wanted to be but never became, a constant, nagging reminder of his own shortcomings.

"He reeks," Aina says.

"Yeah, I noticed that. We have to talk to him. This isn't working anymore. He isn't even keeping up with his own personal hygiene."

Then the phone rings. I pick it up and glance at the display but don't recognize the number.

"Answer it," Aina says. "It's not like we're going to be able to have our meeting now. Everyone is so emotional today."

"Do you mind getting it?" I ask. "I want to go talk to Sven."

Aina shrugs and nods.

Sven is sitting in his desk chair in his office. His light is off and in the darkness I can see the glow of the cigarette he's smoking, even though we agreed he couldn't smoke in the office.

Slowly the outlines of his furniture become clear in the darkness. Stacks of paper are scattered across the floor. Plastic bags and empty McDonald's wrappers cover his desk. A chair is lying on its side in the corner, presumably tipped over by the weight of his blue coat, which is lying on the floor nearby.

It smells of cigarette smoke and something else, rotten food? Old cheese?

"Oh my G.o.d, Sven-" I say at the sight of the squalor.

He doesn't respond, just takes a drag from his cigarette, brightening the orange cinders.

I squat down beside him and put my hand on his arm, feel it tremble through his damp wool sweater.

"I had no idea that . . . it was this bad," I tell him.

Slowly he leans forward, lowers his chin onto an empty Big Mac wrapper. Sniffles loudly.

"I miss her so much. Why does love have to be so hard?"

And I don't answer, because what is there to say? Instead I run my hand over his thick, wavy hair and leave the room again, just as quietly as I entered.

Aina is sitting across from me in one of the cramped booths at the Pelican. A big, frothy beer sits in front of her on the dark, scratched wooden tabletop. I'm having a soda, which I actually wish was a beer, or better yet, a gla.s.s of wine.

Aina greedily downs her drink while I sip cautiously.

"I've called everyone in the group-" she starts.

I nod and look around the room. A mixture of hip, young Sodermalm residents, ordinary workers grabbing a drink on the way home, and the obligatory drunks who devote themselves quietly and purposefully to their drinking.