Black Lies, Red Blood

Thirty-two

“Magdalena Davidsson,” said Lindell, after recording the mandatory interview information, and then waited in silence for ten seconds-a pause that she used to read from her notes what she already knew-before continuing.

In the meantime the attorney, Petter Oswaldsson, a forty-something well-coifed sort, as Fredriksson characterized him, and a friend of the Davidsson family, was staring at her, which she noted in the corner of her eye.

She then raised her eyes and gave the attorney a blank look. She sensed that the struggle would be between the two of them, in any event if he had his way.

“I have a son, Erik, who’s going to start school this fall. A spirited kid”-she used an expression she had not heard since her father used it a very long time ago-“who, like your son, is just starting out in life.”

Magdalena Davidsson took a deep breath.

“We have a great responsibility, as mothers,” Lindell continued.

“Really!” the attorney exclaimed.

Lindell turned her head very slowly, as if her neck were hydraulically controlled and the oil very cold and turgid, fixing her eyes on Oswaldsson, before she again turned to Andreas’s mother, and continued.

“And through your lies you are letting him down. It’s that simple. He’s made himself guilty of a crime, you are protecting him, or you think you’re supporting him, but in reality it’s the exact opposite: You are shoving him away.”

She waved her hand and realized to her surprise that her strategy was holding up. Oswaldsson was grimacing, but remained silent.

“He has no one but you. Your lies are transmitted through him. Give up while there is still time.”

“What constitutes the crime?” the attorney asked.

“Obstruction of a murder investigation and in the worst case manslaughter, perhaps homicide,” said Lindell calmly, as if she were discussing something very ordinary, without taking her eyes off the woman.

Magdalena Davidsson flinched as if she had been hit when she heard the word “homicide.”

“Yes, it’s that bad,” said Lindell. “And you are the only one who can fix that. Andreas will not manage this on his own.”

“What do you mean ‘fix’?” Andreas’s mother said hoarsely.

Lindell took a photo of Klara Lovisa from the folder before her, and set it on the table. The attorney stared at the picture of the young, smiling girl.

“If it is the case, and there is a lot that suggests it, that your son is involved in Klara Lovisa’s death, he must have support to manage. He’s only fifteen. His whole life is waiting. Right now he is suffering terribly, and he will be for a long time, if you don’t help out. He will never really be free from anxiety, because he is not a hardened criminal who lacks empathy, but he must be able to go on.”

“What should I do?” Magdalena Davidsson whispered.

“Talk with him! Now, right here, the rescue of your son’s mental health and life begins. Let him understand that he has your support, no matter what happened, and that for his own sake, and for Klara Lovisa’s and her parents’ sake, he must be honest.”

Lindell let the words sink in. It was not surprising that she was broken down; what was surprising on the other hand was Oswaldsson’s passivity. She gave him a quick look and did not know what to believe. Either he was unusually dense or he agreed with her, whatever he thought about her emotional overacting.

“You lied about his alibi the day Klara Lovisa disappeared,” Lindell resumed. “I think he’s lying when he says he didn’t see her that day. It was her birthday, and he gave her a present, a necklace.”

Lindell recounted her theory of how Klara Lovisa phoned Andreas and how he went to Skärfälten on his moped, and how they quarreled, a dispute that ended in violence.

The woman listened with bowed head, and when Lindell stopped talking she had nothing to say. Nor did attorney Oswaldsson, who put his notes in his briefcase and thanked her for an interesting lecture.

Lindell felt a twinge of desperation. She had hoped that Magdalena Davidsson would break down and that a story would gush out of her that would be the beginning of the end of the drawn-out investigation.

None of this happened. The woman’s silence and Oswaldsson’s only slightly camouflaged scorn made her depressed, and she concluded by saying that Magdalena Davidsson could either stay there, sit in, and listen during the questioning of Andreas, or go home.

Both of them knew that Andreas would not want his mother to be there, he had made that clear, but Lindell could not refrain from mentioning that alternative, with the dim thought that in some way she wanted to get back for the woman’s compact silence, by pointing out how Andreas distanced himself in this way from his own mother. Cheap revenge, and it bothered Lindell that she treated the poor woman so basely.

“I think Magdalena can wait here in the building,” said the attorney. “Then I’ll drive her home later.”

Lindell wondered whether it was Oswaldsson who had encouraged the mother to keep quiet, which obviously was her right, and whether he had advised the boy to do the same. That would soon be seen.

It was a given that Oswaldsson would sit in and assist Andreas. If the outcome of that interview was the same, they would be forced to release Andreas, which the attorney very nicely pointed out.