I missed her childhood. Missed watching her grow up. And I’m far from sure that she’s had it easy.
Alice deserves to find out the truth. Both of us deserve it.
What does Kerstin know? What’s her explanation for raising my daughter?
My phone vibrates on my desk. I don’t recognize the number. I answer. One of Henrik’s assistants informs me that Henrik will be picking up Milo from tennis today, so I don’t need to. I thank her and hang up.
Milo. How will he take it? How am I going to tell him his sister is alive?
There’s a knock at the door. Renate sticks her head in: “Stella, your patient is waiting.”
“My patient?”
“Are you okay?”
I smile. “Just fine, thank you.”
“Kent is in the waiting room. He says his appointment was supposed to start a quarter of an hour ago.”
I totally forgot about him.
I tidy my hair, grab my coat and my purse, and go to the reception area. I stretch out my hand and greet Kent with a quick handshake, then tell him I have to cancel our appointment today. Didn’t he get my message? How unfortunate that it didn’t reach him. I ask him to book a new time with Renate.
I should be ashamed of my lie. But all I feel when I leave the office is relief.
Stella
I park on Engelbrektsgatan. I take the path through Humlegården park that leads to the National Library. The ground is covered with red and yellow leaves. High above me, the treetops look like they’re on fire. The building itself is quite beautiful, and two rows of large windows cover the main building. I walk up the front stairs, enter a small marble hall with pillars and two large statues. I turn to the right, deposit my coat in a locker next to the café, turn the sound off on my phone and put it in my purse.
I go back to the front desk, say hello to the young man sitting there as I pass through a turnstile. I go down five flights of stairs covered by a glassed-in extension. The microfiche room is located at the very bottom.
A slim, slightly bent woman in her sixties is sitting behind a high desk. Her glasses hover at the tip of her nose, about to fall off. She pushes them up as I approach her, but they slide down again.
I ask for help finding articles from Småland that appeared between August and October in 1994. She accompanies me to the other side of the room, toward large shelves of Swedish newspapers in microfiche. She bends her head back, peering through her glasses, and finds the shelf we need to access. When she finds it, she cranks a large knob on the side, moving it laterally. An aisle opens up between the shelves.
We go in, and she takes out a box from a Småland newspaper marked Autumn 1994. She shows me how to mount the film in a reader and scroll between pages.
I thank her for her help and get started.
There aren’t many articles about the disappearance. They occur more frequently those first few weeks, and all basically contain the same information.
A one-year-old girl disappeared from Strandgården around noon on the 13th of August.
The stroller was found overturned near the beach.
A Stockholm family were on holiday over the weekend.
The teen mother left the child unaccompanied.
The father was seen in Oskarshamn around the time of the disappearance.
The teen mother was interviewed by the police.
The teen mother has been cleared of suspicion.
The police have no leads; the public is asked to report any possible tips.
One theory was that an animal might have overturned the stroller. Maybe someone saw a child by herself and took care of her. Or the child rolled it over herself and crawled away. Speculation, all of it more or less likely. Every theory except that Alice was taken. No one thought that sounded believable when I said it. Not even Daniel. Who would take our child? It was too far-fetched, the police said. I hadn’t witnessed anyone showing any excessive interest. They investigated whether or not any of the guests had a criminal record, but no one did. A search was organized, but led to nothing.
Since no animal tracks were found, and no one came forward with information on where she might be, it was assumed that the child had crawled into the water and drowned. There’s a steep drop-off, and the area is known for its strong currents. The police searched the water despite little likelihood of finding such a small body. A tragic accident. The parents interrogated. No suspicion of a crime.
After a few weeks, the articles dwindled to a final short notice. Child still missing. No tips have led to discovery of the one-year-old. She is assumed drowned, her body removed from the scene by the current.
The police investigation has been discontinued. The girl has been declared dead.
I think about what would have happened today. My possible guilt, my negligence, all of it would have been dissected and debated online. Just the fact that we had a child at such a young age would have been considered irresponsible. Unflattering images of me would have appeared all over the Internet. The tabloids would have dug into our private lives, reported on our breakup a few months later. Everyone would have wallowed in our tragedy.
I keep moving forward. Find nothing. Still nothing. Until a headline catches my attention.
Strandgården has closed for business immediately, no new management will be taking over.
This was what Elle-Marja told me about. Roger Lundin, manager and owner of Strandgården, passed away suddenly due to complications from diabetes. Elle-Marja said Strandgården shut down permanently in August of that year.
I go to the shelves and search for another local newspaper. Load the film and start to scroll. The same articles again. A missing one-year-old. A young mother questioned, but never formally under suspicion. The girl assumed drowned. Case closed.
I see a familiar face. The police officer responsible for the investigation. Sven Nilsson was his name. I remember him as compassionate and understanding. The scent of the steaming coffee cup he gave me, the blanket he wrapped around my shoulders. His younger colleague was more insensitive. I find his name farther down in the article. Per Gunnarsson. He thought I was guilty. He was sure I’d killed my own child and tried to cover it up by reporting her missing. He was the first one who interrogated me at the police station.
We have a witness who puts your boyfriend, Daniel, in Oskarshamn at the time in question. What were you doing?
Why did you leave your baby alone?
Why were you not there?
How long were you away?
If you were so close by, why didn’t you hear anything?
Where exactly were you?
You’re so young. Do you like being a mom? It must get pretty tough sometimes. Hearing the kid scream all the time. Sometimes you wish you could escape.
Have you suffered from postpartum depression?
Was there an accident you don’t want to tell us about?
You can talk to us. We’ll understand if something happened.
The truth always comes out in the end. It’ll go better for you if you’re the one who tells us what really happened.
What did you do to your child?
Hard eyes full of suspicion. I was not formally a suspect. But I was suspected. Sven Nilsson interrupted the interrogation and explained that they had no reason to keep me there. He’d talked to a woman who backed up my version of events. She’d seen me rock Alice to sleep in the stroller under the trees. Soon after, she’d seen me walk down to the beach.
I take out my laptop. Search for Oskarshamn’s police station. Sven Nilsson must have retired a long time ago. I have no idea how police work is archived, but old investigations have to be kept somewhere. It’s worth a chance.
I walk out through the front entrance and stretch my back. I call the police, am connected to the police station in Oskarshamn. I’m thinking about what to say and I’m just about to hang up when a woman answers.
My words rush out. August 1994, Strandgården, on a visit from Stockholm over the weekend, an abducted girl, she was only one year old, the police, an old investigation, closed, of course, Sven Nilsson, Per Gunnarsson—
“Per Gunnarsson? He’s gone home.”
Silence on the line.
“Hello?” I say and wonder if she hung up.
“Wait, you’re in luck, he’s still here. You can speak to him. Please hold.”
“Hello. Per Gunnarsson.” His voice is raspier than I remember. But I recognize it.
“My name is Stella Widstrand. Johansson is my maiden name. You were at Strandgården in August 1994. When my daughter disappeared. She disappeared from her stroller.”
“Ninety-four? What the hell is this?” Impatient and irritable. He was back then, too.
“At Strandgården. In Storvik, north of Oskarshamn. You came there with Sven Nilsson and then—”
“Now, just calm down for a minute. Speak slower. And a bit louder, too, please.”
I clench my teeth, then start over. “You and Sven Nilsson. You were the officers who investigated the disappearance of my daughter. She was only one year old. You interrogated me and my daughter’s father at the police station.”
“Okay, I think I remember that,” Per Gunnarsson mutters. “What’s this all about?”
“I’d like to take a look at the investigation. What you did, who you talked with, those sorts of things.”
A tired sigh. “Honey. It’s been, what, more than twenty years? That case has been closed a long time. Don’t you think we have more important things to do than root around in old files?”