Torsten is a creep.

Maybe all lawyers are, I guess stereotypes have to come from somewhere.  He’s not a car salesman slimy American lawyer type, but – I don’t know.  There’s something dead in his eyes,  Like his smooth charm and flawless style is a huge mask and underneath he is some kind of reptilian alien.  Or maybe I just hate him irrationally because he is completely useless.

He doesn’t seem to know any more about the investigation than Anders and I already do.  I guess his client is free so he no longer cares, if he ever did.  The only thing he could add is that apparently there was some bruising on Hanna’s shoulders suggesting that she could have been pushed and held under water, but it wasn’t conclusive and one of the witnesses remembered noticing bruising earlier in the evening.

It wasn’t me, though I dimly recalled the police asking me to describe Hanna physically the last time I saw her.  At the time I figured it was for identification purposes, but I guess if I had noticed something like that I would have said.  I didn’t at the time, and when I tried, for the thousandth time, to draw up a clear mental picture of Hanna that night, I couldn’t.  I wondered if it was Tove that had said it.

I left Torsten’s office with a vague sense of dissatisfaction.  I had hoped that he would tell me something that I could be like, “aha!  That doesn’t fit!  That’s the key… I will… investigate it… somehow.”  Who the hell am I kidding with this?  I’m not smart, I don’t notice details that other people don’t, I’m not exactly going to overhear some incriminating conversation that will blow it all wide open. I can’t even Google Hanna without reading it through a translate program which reduces any information that there might be to nonsense.  But then, as the bus pulled away – maybe it was thinking about searching for Hanna online – something occurred to me.

Hanna’s Facebook.  Somebody has access to it, Fritjof I guess, and whoever it is posted details of the memorial.  I wasn’t invited that way, but once Tove told me about it I took a look, and I suddenly had a recollection of noticing something a little off when I clicked on her profile.  As soon as I got home, I confirmed.  She and Tove are no longer Facebook friends.

They definitely weren’t in any kind of fight that night.  In fact it was because I felt it so left out and hopeless I would ever penetrate their best friendness that I had slunk off to bed early.  So was Tove deleted once Fritjof had taken over the page?  Was he lashing out at her friends who had been close by, in the same way he blamed Anders for Jenny’s death, and had missed me because he didn’t know who I was?  I checked – she was still friends with Daniel and Anders.

To distract myself before I got too far down a rabbit hole, I decided to get out of the apartment and take a walk.  I wandered for a while, then found myself drawn to the little square  with the fountain and the hipster toddlers where I spent so much time this summer.  I stopped outside the coffee shop I used to love, and I remembered the day that Tove blew me off when I tried to talk to her.

Was she just awkward because she was afraid she would say something about Jenny?  Or was she just being Swedish and didn’t feel like she could have a whole conversation with me without Anders present so soon in our acquaintance?  Looking back over those first few times I met them, I couldn’t remember why I focused so much on Hanna’s coldness.  Hanna was awkward and reserved and weird, but in fact it was Tove that was outwardly antagonistic to me.  Way back at the Midsummer party, when she lectured me on my lack of feminism, I remember thinking that I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.

But Hanna didn’t, and that’s all that matters right now.  They were doing a freaking dance routine together in the hour or so before she disappeared.  So why can’t I stop thinking like this?