A Nearly Normal Family(19)

“So do you believe Stella had something to do with it?” I asked.

“Of course not, but we’re talking about medical school here. Amina doesn’t know a thing about what happened last Friday.”

“But Stella doesn’t either, does she?”

“It’s just so typical, that this would happen now. It’s not like this is the first time Amina has gotten into trouble because of…”

He never completed that sentence. He didn’t need to. I hung up on him with a trembling index finger.

I stopped the car outside the Ball House and walked the last little bit. I found the playground behind a hedge alongside the allotment gardens. All that was left of the police barrier was a forgotten scrap of blue-and-white tape tied to a lamppost. Inside the playground, a girl full of bubbling laughter had pumped her swing so high that one shoe had flown off. Her dad was nearby, his arms outstretched before the slide, where the girl’s little brother was hesitating before taking the plunge.

A memorial had been set up along the hedge behind them. Candles, roses and lilies, photographs and cards bearing final greetings. Someone had written the word WHY? in capital letters, in red on a black background.

The girl made a flying leap from the swing, grabbed her shoe, and put it back on her foot all in one movement; she rocketed for her father with a joyful shout.

“Shhh,” he whispered, glancing my way.

I stood with my head bowed before the flowers and candles and said a short prayer for Christopher Olsen.

I had only seen his face on my computer and phone screens, a few photographs from an article and a corporate presentation. Now I saw him for the first time in a different way, in the context of a private life, as a human being of flesh and blood, a person whom others missed and grieved. In the largest portrait, he was looking into the camera with sparkling eyes and a smile that seemed a blend of happiness and surprise, as if he had been startled by the photographer. Death is seldom so tangible as when you can see how alive a person once was.

I was overwhelmed by a brutal feeling of helplessness. Everything felt so hopelessly terrible. A young man, a stranger, had been robbed of his life here in the crunching gravel. There were still signs of blood.

How could anyone believe for even a second that Stella could have been involved? I looked at the pictures of Christopher Olsen. An obviously attractive young man with happy eyes full of promise for the future. This was a senseless tragedy.

I hurried back to the sidewalk and peered down Pilegatan.

Why did that neighbor claim to have seen Stella here last Friday? Who was she, and how could she be so sure of herself? If she was lying on purpose, someone needed to inform her of the potential consequences.

And if she wasn’t lying? What if Stella had been here?

I found the yellow turn-of-the-century building Christopher Olsen had lived in at the end of the street. I gazed up at the beautiful windows and elegant balconies. Then I tried the door. It was open.

I didn’t know if there were any legal reasons I couldn’t talk to the witness. From a moral standpoint, of course, it was utterly reprehensible, even if I promised myself I wouldn’t try to influence the girl. I just wanted to understand what she had seen. And she had to realize that Stella was a real person with loved ones who were about to go to pieces with worry. Someone had to make sure she knew this wasn’t a game. She needed to see that I existed.





19


I slowly made my way up the stairs, stumbling a little as I went. I stopped on the first landing and read the nameplates. There it was: C. Olsen, in script on shiny metal. There were two more apartments across from his door. To the right lived someone called Agnelid, and on the left-hand door was a hand-written nameplate that said My Sennevall. I recognized the name immediately.

The doorbell jangled and I tried to think of what to say. I had to make her understand why I was here. Soon I heard scuffing footsteps on the other side of the door; the floor creaked, but then everything was as quiet as it had been before. I rang the bell again.

Was she standing behind the door listening?

“Hello?” I said, my voice low. “Is anyone there?”

I heard the lock turning, and very slowly the door opened. The crack was so narrow that I had to lean to the side to catch a glimpse of the figure inside.

“Hi. Sorry for just showing up like this.”

I couldn’t see much more than a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness.

“My name is Adam Sandell.”

“Okay…”

“May I come in?”

She cracked the door a little more and stuck out her nose.

“Are you selling something?”

Her voice sounded like a child’s.

“I just want to ask a few questions about Stella,” I said. “I’m her dad.”

“Stella?” She seemed to be thinking back. “That Stella?”

“Please, I have to know.”

With great hesitation, she undid the security chain and held open the door so I could step into the dimly lit hall. There was a cap on the hat rack, and a windbreaker and an umbrella hung from the hooks. Otherwise the hall was perfectly empty.

“You’re My, aren’t you?” I asked. “My Sennevall?”

The girl backed into the wall and fixed me with a jittery glare. She was small and dainty, with hair that hung like a veil to her waist. She couldn’t have been much older than Stella.