He had been stabbed just over two months ago, in the calf and the stomach – by Edward Hinde, psychopath and serial killer. Sebastian had undergone surgery immediately, and things had looked good, very good in fact, but then there had been complications. A drain had been attached to his punctured lung for just over a week, and when it was removed he was told that it would only be a matter of time before he was fully recovered. However, he then developed pneumonia and a build-up of fluid on the lung, so they made another hole in him. Drained off the fluid and stitched him up. He was given instructions on what to do and what not to do, and exercises to do at home. Too many, too difficult, too boring. Anyway, he was better now; yesterday he had been officially declared fit and well.
His body might have recovered, but the Hinde case was never far from his thoughts.
This was partly because Hinde had taken his revenge by having several women killed, women with whom Sebastian had had a sexual relationship. He hadn’t been able to carry out the murders himself, of course, because he had been locked up in the secure unit at Lövhaga since 1996, thanks to Sebastian, but with the help of a cleaner in the unit he had still managed to achieve some aspects of his revenge.
Four women dead.
One thing in common.
Sebastian Bergman.
The feeling that the deaths of the four women were his fault was irrational, but he still couldn’t completely shake it off. When the National Murder Squad, known as Riksmord, had picked up the cleaner, Hinde had escaped from prison and abducted Vanja Lithner.
It wasn’t a random kidnapping. It wasn’t because she worked with Sebastian. No, Hinde had somehow worked out that Vanja was Sebastian’s daughter.
Edward Hinde was dead, but sometimes Sebastian thought that if the serial killer had been able to suss out the truth, perhaps others could do the same. He didn’t want that to happen; his relationship with Vanja was good now, better than it had ever been.
He had saved Vanja’s life out there in that remote house with Hinde, and of course that played its part. Sebastian didn’t give a damn whether Vanja put up with him out of gratitude; she was doing it, and that was what mattered. It was more than putting up with him, in fact. She had sought his company twice over the last two months. First of all she had visited him in hospital, and then, when he was discharged but before the pneumonia laid him low, she had suggested they should meet for a coffee.
He could still recall the feeling that flooded his body when he heard her voice.
His daughter was on the phone, wanting to meet up with him.
He hardly remembered what they had talked about. He wanted to commit every detail to memory, every nuance, but the occasion was overwhelming, the situation too much for him. They had sat in a café for an hour and a half. Just the two of them. Her choice. No harsh words. No arguments. He hadn’t felt so alive, so present in the moment, since Boxing Day 2004. Time after time he went back to those ninety minutes they had spent together.
It could happen again. It would happen again. He could go back to work. He wanted to go back to work. Sometimes he even found himself longing – for some kind of context, certainly, but the most important thing was to be near Vanja. He had come to terms with the realisation that he would never be her father. Any attempt to take that role from Valdemar Lithner would end with Sebastian destroying everything. He hadn’t managed to build up very much so far – one hospital visit and ninety minutes over coffee, but it was something.
Acceptance.
A certain degree of thoughtfulness towards him.
Perhaps even a burgeoning friendship.
Sebastian threw back the duvet and got up. He found his underpants on the floor and the rest of his clothes on the chair where he had thrown them nine hours earlier. He ran his fingers through his hair, and after a quick glance in the mirror he opened the bedroom door and stood there for a moment. Sounds from the kitchen. Music. A spoon clinking on china. It seemed that Jocke was having breakfast without him. Sebastian slid into the bathroom and locked the door. He really wanted a shower, but the idea of stripping off with Gunilla’s son just metres away made the idea considerably less appealing. He used the toilet, then washed his hands and face.
On his way to the front door he realised he would have to walk past the kitchen and that was exactly what he intended to do. Walk past. Jocke would see nothing but Sebastian’s back if he happened to look up. Sebastian headed into the hallway, found his shoes and put them on, then started looking for his jacket. No sign.
‘Your jacket’s in here,’ a deep voice announced from the kitchen. Sebastian closed his eyes and swore quietly to himself. He had wanted to seem in a bit of a hurry last night, as if he might not be able to stay, even though they both knew that was exactly what he was going to do. He had taken off his jacket in the kitchen while Gunilla was opening a bottle of wine.
He sighed deeply and went into the kitchen. A young man aged about twenty was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and an iPad in front of him. He nodded at the chair opposite without taking his eyes off the tablet.
‘There.’
Sebastian had no choice but to walk over and pick up the offending garment.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. Do you want anything?’
‘No.’
‘Got what you came for?’
The young man still hadn’t taken his eyes off the iPad. Sebastian looked at him. No doubt the easiest thing for both of them would have been to let the last remark pass without comment, and for Sebastian to turn around and leave, but why go for the easy option?
‘Is there any coffee going?’ Sebastian asked as he put on his jacket. If Gunilla’s son didn’t want him there, then he would stay a while. It made no difference to him. The young man glanced up in surprise.
‘Over there,’ he said, nodding in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian turned around. There was no sign of a coffee machine or a percolator or a cafetière, but then he spotted a black semi-circular object that looked like a futuristic motorcycle helmet, with a grid under some kind of tap. Buttons on the sides. Metal on top. There were three small glass cups next to it, so Sebastian assumed it delivered some kind of beverage.
‘Do you know how it works?’ Jocke asked when Sebastian made no attempt to approach the machine.
‘No.’
Jocke got to his feet. ‘What do you want?’
‘Something strong. It was a late night.’
Jocke glanced wearily at him, took a capsule from a rack that Sebastian hadn’t even noticed, opened the lid of the machine, put the capsule inside, closed the lid, placed one of the glass cups under the tap, then pressed a button.
‘So who are you then?’ he said, sounding completely uninterested.
‘I’m your new daddy.’
‘Cool. A sense of humour. She ought to hang on to you . . .’
He went back to his seat. Sebastian suddenly had the feeling that Joakim had experienced slightly too many mornings with slightly too many strange men in his kitchen. He picked up the cup in silence. The coffee was certainly strong. And hot. He burned his tongue, but finished it off without saying a word.
Two minutes later he was out in the grey September morning.
* * *
It took him a few seconds to get his bearings and work out the shortest route home. To the apartment on Grev Magnigatan.
To Ellinor Bergkvist.
His lodger, or whatever she might be. How she had ended up living with him was still something of a mystery to Sebastian.
They had met when Hinde started murdering his former sexual partners. Sebastian had gone to see Ellinor in order to warn her, and she had moved in with him. He should have thrown her out right away, but she was still there.
He had spent a great deal of time trying to work out his relationship with Ellinor. There were some things he was absolutely sure of.
He definitely didn’t love her.
Did he even like her? Not really. But part of him appreciated
what she had done to his life. She gave it some level of normality. Against all the odds, he found himself enjoying her company. They cooked together. Lay in bed watching TV. Had sex. Often. She whistled. She giggled. When he got home she told him she had missed him. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, because he didn’t want it to be true, not with Ellinor, but her presence had meant that, for the first time in many years, he had started to think of his apartment as home.
A home. Dysfunctional, but still a home.
Was he using her? Absolutely. He didn’t really give a shit about her. Everything she said went in one ear and out the other. She was like background music. But she had been fantastic during his convalescence. In all honesty, he couldn’t imagine how he would have coped without her during the weeks when the pneumonia knocked him for six. She had taken time off from her job at Åhlén’s department store, she hadn’t left his side. But however grateful he might be for her efforts, it just wasn’t enough.
Ellinor was an admiring, almost self-effacing, not entirely sane home help with whom he had sex. Even if his life had become easier and more comfortable in every way, it wouldn’t work in the long term. The normality of everyday life that Ellinor had introduced was no more than a construct. A chimera. He had appreciated it for a while, encouraged it perhaps, but now he was certain he didn’t want it to go on.
He had recovered, he had slowly begun to establish a relationship of sorts with Vanja, he assumed he had a job. The seeds of something that could become a life.
He didn’t need her any more.
She had to go.
It was going to be anything but straightforward.
Shibeka Khan was waiting. As usual. She was sitting by the kitchen window on the third floor of the run-down 1960s apartment block in Rinkeby. Outside the leaves had begun to turn yellow and red. Pre-school children were shouting and screaming in the open spaces between the blocks. Shibeka couldn’t remember how many years she had sat watching the children play. Same window, same apartment, different children. Time passed so quickly out there. In her kitchen it felt as if time had stopped.
She loved the hours after her sons had left and before the day got under way. She was active, she had many friends, she worked as a care assistant, she was making excellent progress in learning Swedish, and the previous year she had gained a place on a training course to become a nurse. But, for a couple of hours on those mornings when she was free, she would sit and watch the outside world. It was her other life, somehow. A time when she could show her respect and love for Hamid.
If she thought back, she knew she would be able to work out exactly how many years she had been sitting here, but right now she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t cope with remembering. Her boys were the clearest sign of the time that had passed. Mehran was in his final year at secondary school now, while Eyer was struggling a couple of years below him; he didn’t find things as easy as his older brother. Eyer had been four when Hamid disappeared; Mehran had just turned six. Shibeka recalled his smile when his daddy gave him a new bag, black with two blue stripes, ready for starting school in the autumn. His smile, his dark eyes shining with pride because he was growing up. The warm embrace between father and son. A week later Hamid was gone, just as if the ground had opened and swallowed him up. It was a Thursday. A Thursday a very long time ago.
Oddly enough, she almost missed him more as the years went by. Not in that intense way she had felt at first, but in a more sorrowful, painful way.
Shibeka was suddenly angry with herself. She was back there again, with her memories. Those memories were exactly what she couldn’t cope with, but her mind took no notice of what she wanted. It slipped past her attempts to control it, found its way into the past. Found the friends who helped in the search. The children’s questions and tears. Hamid’s best suit, the one she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s, waiting for him in vain. A carousel of images and individual moments, driven by the hope that her mind might find something she had missed, something that would make sense of it all. But she was always disappointed. She had examined every detail thousands of times, every face was already familiar to her. It was pointless.
In order to get away from her whirling thoughts, Shibeka got up and walked to the window. It was Friday and soon he would come, she knew that. After today it would be two days before he came again. Not that she believed he would bring anything, they had stopped replying long ago, but she refused to give up. She had carried on sending them. Practised her Swedish, her handwriting, using the right words, the official language. She had become so skilled at writing to the authorities that many of her friends now asked for her help.
Then she saw him. The postman. As usual he cycled up the path, then began his round in block two, then four and six, then he would come into block eight. Her block.
She waited until she saw him emerge from number six before tiptoeing into the hallway, trying to be as quiet as possible. Not that it was necessary, but she hoped that her silence would somehow increase her chances.
It hadn’t helped so far.
She positioned herself by the door, listening. After a while she heard the dull metallic click as the main door opened downstairs. She pictured him walking to the lift, pressing the call button. He always went up to the top first, then worked his way down. That was his routine. Hers was to stand in silence in the hallway.
She pressed her body against the door. Two different sounds. One from outside, far away. One very close – her own breathing and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Two worlds, separated by wood and a metal letter box. The steps came closer. For Shibeka, there was something religious about this moment.
Either Allah wanted it to happen, or he did not.
It was that simple.
With a noise that seemed almost deafening the letter box flicked open and a number of colourful flyers fell to the floor in front of her. Everything around her faded away as Shibeka bent down. Beneath the latest special offers from the local supermarket lay a white envelope.
From SVT, Swedish Television.
This time Allah wanted it to happen.
It wasn’t her fault.
Well, it was, but it was a mistake. Anyone could make a mistake, couldn’t they? Maria was being totally unreasonable. OK, she was tired, but who wasn’t? And it wasn’t as if Karin had deliberately taken them on a detour.
It was a mistake.
It had all been going so well until a few hours ago, in spite of the rain.
Maria had celebrated her fiftieth birthday in July, and Karin’s present had been a trip to the mountains. The Jämtland triangle.
Storulvån – Blåhammaren – Sylarna.
She thought the names alone made the trip seem more exotic than it actually was. The plan was to do some fairly easy walking, nothing too adventurous. Short, manageable routes each day, then a shower, sauna, food, wine, and a proper bed when they reached the various mountain stations. Karin had done some walking in the area with Fredrik many years ago, and thought it would be just perfect. A restorative encounter with nature, with a little luxury thrown in.
Plenty of time to talk.
It was a lovely present. An expensive present. With the journey up there, and four overnight stays, including dinner for the two of them, the cost ran to five figures, but Maria was worth it. She had been Karin’s best friend for many years. She had been there for Karin when others had backed away a little. Breast cancer, divorce, the death of her mother. They had gone through it all together. They had also had a lot of fun, of course, but they had never been walking. In fact, Maria had never been north of Karlstad. Now it was time.
Karin had chosen the last weekend that the mountain stations were open: the end of September. This was partly to avoid the relatively busy summer period, and to give Maria time to plan and book a few days’ leave from work, but also because Karin was hoping that the autumn would have kicked in, bringing high, clear air and a colourful display provided by the natural landscape. She wanted the mountai
ns to show themselves at their very best to her beloved friend.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might pour with rain almost non-stop from the minute they got off the train in Enafors.
‘They say it’s going to be much better at the beginning of next week,’ the bus driver taking them to Storulvån mountain station assured them when they asked if he knew anything about the weather prospects.
‘Is it going to rain all weekend?’
There was a certain amount of resignation in Maria’s voice.
‘That’s what they say,’ the driver said, nodding sagely.
‘Things can change very quickly up here,’ Karin said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
And their stay had started well. They had arrived at the mountain station, found their room to be simple but pleasant, gone for a walk in the surrounding area, taken an afternoon nap, had a sauna and bathed in a mountain spring, and in the evening they had enjoyed a delicious meal in the restaurant, treating themselves to wine and then a liqueur with their coffee.
This morning they had got up at seven. After breakfast they made a packed lunch and filled a Thermos with coffee before setting off shortly before eight thirty. The sky was clear, but they knew there were no guarantees, so they both had wet-weather gear, sturdy boots and a change of warm clothing with them.
They crossed the river and made their way along the lush valley, which, according to the map in the hotel, was known as Parken. They took their time, chatting and stopping to take photographs or simply to enjoy their surroundings. They were in no hurry. It was only twelve kilometres from Storulvån to Blåhammaren, which was their next stop. After three kilometres they left the mountain birch forest and carried on along a plateau, heading up towards the shelter at Ulvåtjärn. By the time they arrived, they had almost forgotten it was raining. They could see a long uphill climb beyond the shelter, so they took plenty of time over their lunch and coffee. They agreed that the appalling weather was something they would remember and laugh about later. Much later, probably, but one day . . . Eventually they set off again, sometimes chatting away, sometimes walking in silence.
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 2