After another hour or so they saw Blåhammaren station up on the top of the mountain. They decided that their top priority was a shower and a sauna, and marched across the barren, sodden landscape with renewed vigour.
With only a kilometre left to go they stopped, took out their plastic cups and drank from a stream gushing down the mountainside. Afterwards Karin couldn’t remember why she had pulled out the plastic folder containing the booking confirmation. She had opened her rucksack to get a packet of nuts and raisins, and for some reason she had glanced at her documents.
She couldn’t make any sense of what she was seeing. None at all. She looked again, realised what had happened and slid the folder back into her rucksack while she worked out the best way to tell Maria what she had just discovered. There was no good way. There was only the truth.
‘Shit,’ she said, making it clear that she too was disturbed by what she had just read.
‘What’s the matter?’ Maria asked, her mouth full of cashew nuts. ‘If you’ve forgotten something you can go back on your own. In my head I’m already in the sauna with a beer.’
‘No, I’ve just looked at our booking details . . .’
‘And?’ Maria dipped her cup in the water, took a sip then threw the rest away.
‘We’ve . . . we’ve gone a bit wrong.’
‘What are you talking about? It’s up there. Did we miss something along the way?’
Maria attached the cup to her rucksack and got ready to move on. Karin gritted her teeth.
‘Blåhammaren is up there. We’re supposed to go to Sylarna today.’
Maria stopped dead and stared blankly at her.
‘But you’ve been saying Blåhammaren all the time. From Storulvån to Blåhammaren to Sylarna. That’s what you’ve said all along.’
‘I know, that’s what I thought, but we’re booked into Sylarna tonight and Blåhammaren tomorrow night, according to the booking confirmation.’
Maria was still staring at her. Not now. Not when they were so close. Karin was joking. She had to be joking.
‘I’m sorry.’
Karin met Maria’s gaze, and Maria realised immediately: she wasn’t joking. But maybe it wasn’t the end of the world? They’d gone a bit wrong; hopefully they would only have to go back about a kilometre.
‘So how far away is Sylarna?’
Karin hesitated. She could tell from Maria’s tone of voice that she was about to lose her temper, but saying ‘not too far’ or ‘just a bit further’ wasn’t an option. Once again, only the truth would do.
‘Nineteen kilometres.’
‘Nineteen kilometres! You’ve got to be kidding!’
‘It’s nineteen kilometres from Blåhammaren to Sylarna. We haven’t quite reached Blåhammaren, so eighteen. Maybe seventeen.’
‘That’s another four fucking hours!’
‘Sorry.’
‘How long does it stay light?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Karin! We’ll never get there! Can’t they take us up there tonight, and we’ll move on to Sylarna tomorrow? Surely we can rebook?’
For a moment Karin felt a wave of relief. Of course, that was the solution. Sensible Maria. Secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be all right, she took out her mobile phone and the booking confirmation.
No, it wasn’t possible to rebook, apparently. Everywhere was full. The last weekend they were open was extremely popular. If they had an inflatable mattress or a sleeping mat they could bed down out in the shed, and they could book a table for dinner after 21.30. Karin and Maria had considered the offer, but Maria made it very clear that she wasn’t going to sleep in a fucking shed. She grabbed her rucksack and strode off.
To begin with it seemed that Maria didn’t want to talk, but after a while Karin came to the conclusion that she was probably beyond speech. In spite of the fact that it was raining and the headwind was biting at their cheeks, Maria’s face was greyish-white, and her skin seemed loose, as if she had no facial muscles.
She looked utterly exhausted. She hardly answered when Karin spoke to her; Karin was trying to keep their spirits up, but it was becoming more and more difficult.
It wasn’t her fault.
Well, it was, but it was a mistake.
‘Hang on, let’s have a little rest,’ Karin said after they had been walking for an hour and a half.
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. We might as well keep going, then at least we’ll get there at some fucking point.’
‘Have some nuts, they’ll give us an energy boost. I need to fill up my water bottle anyway.’ She nodded in the direction of the rushing water a few metres below.
‘You’ll never get down there.’
‘Yes I will.’
Karin sounded more convinced than she felt; she was determined to keep up the positivity rather than moaning and giving in to Maria’s bad mood. She hoped that dinner and a night’s sleep would make her friend feel better so that the whole trip wouldn’t be ruined. She walked towards the edge of the plateau. Maria was right, it was going to be difficult to get down; it was pretty steep. Difficult, but not impossible.
Karin took a step closer to the edge and the ground disappeared beneath her feet. She fell, screamed, tried to grab something to hold on to. Her left hand found a grip on the way down, but it broke off and she rolled down the slope along with earth, mud and debris. She banged her right knee and just had time to think that it wasn’t going to stop her from reaching Sylarna when she landed about a metre away from the stream. A few small stones followed her down, scattering in the mud.
‘Oh my God! Are you OK? What happened?’
Maria sounded worried.
Laboriously Karin hauled herself into a sitting position. Her light-coloured waterproof looked as if she had undergone ten rounds of mud wrestling, but her body seemed to have survived. Her knee was hurting a bit, but that was all.
‘I’m fine.’
‘What are those sticks you’re holding?’
Was she holding something? Karin looked and threw it away with a horrified shriek.
It was a hand.
A skeletal hand.
What Maria had thought were sticks were the bones of the forearm, snapped off at the elbow. Karin looked up at the slope where she had fallen. A metre below where Maria was standing she could see the rest of the arm protruding, and next to it there was a skull embedded in the mud.
Karin had the distinct feeling that their trip was ruined anyway.
Ellinor Bergkvist.
Valdemar Lithner sighed. She had turned up for the first time just over two months ago. Called the company and booked an appointment. Insisted on seeing him, apparently. The point of her visit had been less than clear, and the subsequent meetings hadn’t exactly helped. Something to do with a business she was hoping to start; she needed advice and assistance. He had done his best, but nothing had happened. Ellinor was no closer to running her own business today than she had been the first time he met her. He had asked her why she wanted to see him in particular, and she told him he had been recommended by an acquaintance of hers. Valdemar had wondered who that might be, but she had been extremely vague. It turned out that she was extremely vague on a number of issues, such as what kind of business she was thinking of and what she was going to do.
But today was to be their final meeting, and then he could forget Ellinor Bergkvist for good. On his way to the door he pressed his hands against his aching back and stretched his spine as best he could. Ellinor was waiting in the small reception area and got to her feet as soon as she saw him.
‘Good afternoon, Ellinor. Welcome.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled at him as they shook hands. He showed her into his office and she took off her red coat before sitting down opposite him with her oversized handbag on her knee.
‘I’ve brought the papers you gave me,’ she began, reaching into her bag.
‘Ellinor,’ Valdemar interrupted
, and there was something about the way he said her name that made her stop rummaging and look up. ‘I don’t think you should continue to be our client.’
Ellinor stiffened. Had he become suspicious? Had she made a mistake? Had he somehow worked out that she wasn’t there for financial advice, but because . . . why was she there, actually? She had just wanted to see who he was. What he was. It had been exciting, sitting there opposite a criminal who was guilty of fraud, who had threatened her man and possibly been involved in murder.
When she had moved in with her beloved Sebastian, she had found a carrier bag full of papers. Sebastian had seemed stressed when she mentioned the bag, and had told her to throw it away. Destroy it.
She hadn’t done that.
She had read the contents. Recognised a name – Daktea Investments – and realised that Valdemar Lithner was definitely a criminal. She was convinced that no one who had been involved in the tangled affairs of Daktea could be innocent; there had been so much about it in the papers a few years ago.
When Sebastian was at home suffering from pneumonia, she had once asked him about Valdemar. She had just wondered who he was, nothing else. Sebastian had been furious, demanded to know where she had heard the name, what she knew. She had told the truth, said she had looked in the carrier bag. Then she had lied in response to his next question. Assured him she had thrown it away.
At the same time, she had been pleased. Sebastian’s strong reaction proved that she was on the right track. He seemed to be afraid of Lithner. She really was helping Sebastian by investigating Valdemar Lithner under her own steam, with the aim of eventually bringing him to justice. But now it was over.
‘Why not?’ Ellinor asked, shuffling towards the edge of her chair, ready to flee if Valdemar turned violent.
‘Because I don’t think I can help you. This is our fourth meeting, and you haven’t even started your business yet.’
‘A few things have got in the way . . .’
‘Let me make a suggestion. You get your business up and running, then, when you’ve got all the paperwork in place, come back and we’ll see what we can do.’
To his amazement Ellinor nodded and got to her feet.
‘You’re right, that’s a good idea.’
Valdemar didn’t move. For some reason he had expected resistance. After all, she had spent more than six hours in his office. She had paid for his time, and got nothing out of the experience. He had assumed she would try to cling on. He didn’t really know why; she just seemed to be that type.
However, she was picking up her coat and heading for the door.
‘Thanks anyway. I’ve learnt a lot,’ she said.
‘Thank you – I’m glad you think so.’
Ellinor smiled at him as she left the office. She stopped in reception to put on her coat, her thoughts in a whirl. Had he seen through her?
She took a deep breath. Steadied herself. Looked calmly at the situation. She was still registered at her old address, there was no link between her and Sebastian unless Lithner had followed her, which seemed unlikely. There was probably nothing to worry about; he really didn’t think he could help her. She wasn’t going to get any further; it was time for the professionals to take over. Sebastian would never need to know that she was responsible for Valdemar Lithner’s disappearance. It would be her secret gift to him. A token of her love.
Then nothing would ever threaten their happiness.
Shibeka was pacing around the apartment. She was excited, yet at the same time she had waited so long for something like this that now it was actually happening, she was almost afraid. She sat down, picked up the letter that she had carefully placed on the kitchen table, and read it again. The text covered only the middle of the page. It seemed strange that something so important could be so short.
Dear Shibeka,
Thank you for your letter – sorry it’s taken so long to reply. The production team have evaluated the information you gave us, and would very much like to get in touch with you. It would be great if we could meet, with no obligation on either side of course; this would give us the opportunity to gain a better understanding of your story and to decide how to proceed on the subject of your husband’s disappearance.
Please call me.
Lennart Stridh
Reporter
Investigation Today
At the bottom of the page there was an address and a couple of telephone numbers. Shibeka put down the letter. Should she tell her sons about it? Probably not. As far as she was concerned, the spark of hope could flare up and die away, it had happened many times over the years, she was used to it. But her children had to be protected. It had been painful enough for them, growing up without a father. But she wasn’t sure. Could she really do this on her own? She read the letter again, as if to see if it could provide any answers, but it led back to the same questions. What did ‘with no obligation on either side’ mean? Was it just a way of not taking responsibility? What would they think of her story? It was true, but would that be enough? Could she really meet this man alone? Her family and friends wouldn’t approve. They would be right, in principle, but she didn’t want anyone with her. They would hold her back, speak on her behalf, make her sit in silence, and then everything would have been in vain. She didn’t want that. She wanted to hear her own voice this time, make it count. Her friends knew how she had struggled, refused to give up, but would they understand that this was Sweden, a country where women could meet men without a chaperone? Unlikely.
So no one else could know. She went into the hallway and sat down next to the black cordless telephone. It was on a small table, and she remembered when she and Hamid brought it home. A telephone. They had bought it in the big department store down by the area that was now known as Bromma Blocks; she had never seen so many television sets in her life, and at first she couldn’t believe her eyes. An entire wall of moving images. Row upon row of boxes containing everything from headphones to DVD players. The excess. She and Hamid had looked at one another and smiled at the thought of all those people who thought they had lots of money, but in fact had so little.
They had bought a telephone and the cheapest TV they could find. Said had given them a lift home. She remembered sitting in the back of the car, eagerly turning over the white box with a picture of a telephone on it. She couldn’t wait to get it open. Hold the phone in her hand.
They had spent many evenings trying to reach friends and relatives in Kandahar. It had always been difficult. Their mobiles rarely worked, and if Shibeka and Hamid did get through, the connection could be broken at any moment. However, she still remembered those times with a warm glow.
The link to home.
The cheerful voices in the background.
They had sat there, side by side, she and Hamid. She made tea, he tried the different phone numbers and together they hoped. More often than not there was no answer, but when they did get through they would shout for joy, and she would get as close as she could just to hear the words from their former home. He allowed her to do that. Allowed her to listen. Smiled at her. Stroked her hand as she sat there in silence, listening.
Hamid. Her husband.
She picked up the telephone and stared at it. She rarely used it these days. Her contact with the old country was restricted to those occasions when she was visiting friends, sitting in the kitchen with the women while the men did the talking. It wasn’t the same thing, not at all. But she couldn’t make the calls herself; they wanted to talk to a man. Not to her. That was just the way it was.
She dialled one of the numbers at the bottom of the letter. A mobile number. She knew that Swedes mainly used their mobiles, so she tried that one first. It rang twice, then a male voice answered.
‘Lennart Stridh.’
At first she didn’t dare speak. She had almost hoped he wouldn’t answer so that she would have more time to think through the conversation rather than face the reality, but the man on the other end was expecting a response.
‘Hello? This is Lennart Stridh.’
She felt compelled to speak, but there was no strength in her voice.
‘Hello, my name is Shibeka Khan, I got a letter from you.’
‘Sorry? I can’t hear you very well.’
She took a deep breath. She didn’t want the man to lose interest in her.
‘A letter. I got a letter from you. My name is Shibeka Khan.’
‘Hi, thanks for calling,’ he said with renewed energy in his voice. ‘As I said in the letter, we’re quite interested in your husband’s disappearance. I can’t promise anything, but we think it’s worth looking into.’
The man spoke quickly, and she couldn’t follow everything he said, but she definitely recognised the word ‘interested’, so she tried to sound as if she understood perfectly. She felt that was important so that he didn’t simply dismiss her.
‘Good.’
‘Can we meet up?’
‘Now?’
‘No, not now. But . . .’ There was a silence, and Shibeka thought she could hear him leafing through a diary. ‘Monday at eleven – is that OK?’
Suddenly she was scared.
‘I don’t know.’
The man on the other end was silent for a few seconds, then he went on: ‘You don’t know, or you can’t make it?’
‘I don’t know. I think.’ Shibeka wasn’t sure how to explain herself. She wanted to meet him, but it felt wrong. ‘Would it be just the two of us? At this meeting?’
‘Unless you need an interpreter, but it doesn’t sound as if you do. Your Swedish is very good.’
‘Thank you, I do try.’
She hesitated. In Lennart Stridh’s world there was nothing strange about a woman on her own meeting a man she didn’t know. In this country it was perfectly acceptable, and she lived in this country now. Shibeka took a deep breath and seized her courage in both hands.
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 3