A Nearly Normal Family(11)

He sounded far too confident, just as I remembered him, and that worried me. Anyone so free of doubt is certain to lack attention to detail and engagement as well.

“But why such a rush to bring her in?” I asked. “If they don’t have anything else to go on?”

“This case is a real hot potato.” Blomberg sighed. “The police want to act quickly. The fact is, the victim isn’t just anyone.”

He turned to Ulrika and lowered his voice a notch.

“It’s Christopher Olsen. Margaretha’s son.”

Ulrika gasped.

“Mar … Margaretha’s son?”

“Who’s Margaretha?” I asked.

Ulrika didn’t even look at me.

“The dead man is named Christopher Olsen,” Blomberg said. “His mother is Margaretha Olsen, a professor of criminal law.”

A professor? I shrugged.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Margaretha is very well-known in legal circles,” Blomberg said. “Her son has also made a name for himself in a number of circles. A successful businessman, he owns real estate; he sits on lots of boards.”

“Why would that matter?” I said, my irritation mounting.

At the same time, I recalled my own words, that this sort of thing only happens to alcoholics and drug addicts. That had certainly been an assumption full of prejudice, but it was also based on empirical evidence and statistics. Sometimes you have to close your eyes to the exceptions to keep from going under.

“Maybe it shouldn’t matter,” said Blomberg. Reading between the lines, it was clear that it did matter, and that he wasn’t sure there was anything wrong with that fact.

“Margaretha Olsen’s son,” Ulrika said. “How old is … was he?”

“Thirty-two, I think. Or thirty-three. Deadly force with a bladed weapon. The police are being very tight-lipped with the details. During the interrogation, they were mostly interested in Stella’s whereabouts yesterday evening and last night.”

Yesterday evening and last night?

“When was this man murdered?” Ulrika asked.

“They’re not sure, but the witness heard arguing and shouting just after one o’clock. Were you awake when Stella got home?”

Ulrika turned to me and I nodded.

There I’d been, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. The text I’d sent, without receiving a reply. So my worry hadn’t been unfounded. I thought of how Stella had come home and clattered around in the bathroom and laundry room. What time had it been?

“There must be someone who can give her an alibi,” I said.

Both Ulrika and Blomberg looked at me.





11


Michael Blomberg offered to give us a ride home. The late-summer evening was offering up short-sleeve weather and people were strolling around the streets of Lund as if nothing had happened. Dogwalkers and party people; people on their way out or home or nowhere at all; night-shift workers and insomniacs. Everyday life wasn’t about to stop just because our lives had been knocked off balance.

As we pulled up at our house, Blomberg wondered if there was anything else he could do. He said it would be no trouble for him to stick around for a while.

“There’s no need,” I assured him.

Ulrika remained standing in the driveway for a moment to talk to him as I hurried into the bathroom. My whole body felt warm and my mouth was dry as sawdust. I drank straight from the faucet and sponged my forehead with water.

It was way past midnight when I went to the kitchen to find Ulrika sitting with her head in her hands. Despite the hour and my protests, she was soon calling around to every contact she had with the police, some journalists, and lawyers, anyone who might know something or be able to help. I sat across from her, scouring the internet for information about the incident on Pilegatan, about Christopher Olsen and his professor mother.

Time and again I looked at the clock. The minutes were dragging by.

Once a whole hour had passed, I could no longer sit still.

“Why aren’t we getting any answers? How long could this take?”

“I’ll call Michael,” Ulrika said, standing up.

There was a creak on the stairs and I heard her closing the door to her office. I brooded, my thoughts gnawing at my brain, all the creepy-crawlies of anxiety under my skin.

I walked aimlessly through the kitchen, out to the entryway, and back again. I was holding the phone in my hand when it rang.

“It’s Amina.”

She sobbed and cleared her throat.

“Amina? Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I lied.”

Just as I’d suspected. She hadn’t seen Stella on Friday after all. They had talked about hanging out, but it never happened.

“I didn’t know what to say when you asked,” she said. “I lied, but only for Stella. I thought maybe something … I wanted to check with her first.”

I understood. There was no reason to get upset with her. It was a white lie.

“But there must be someone else who can give her an alibi,” Amina was desperate to add. “This is totally insane!”

It truly was surreal. At the same time, it was becoming more and more clear that this was reality. I pictured Stella locked up in the cold, squalid cell where they put murderers and rapists.