The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s a coffee shop outside Åhlén’s at the central station. Café Bolero.’

  A coffee shop. Of course. Swedes met up for coffee. Shibeka realised she should have had a pen and paper ready to write it all down, but she ought to be able to remember Café and something beginning with B.

  ‘What was the name of the place again?’

  ‘Café Bolero. Just by Åhlén’s City.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock, fine.’ She felt a bit stupid, simply repeating everything he said, but the man didn’t seem to think it was odd.

  ‘See you there,’ he said, ending the call.

  Shibeka sat quietly for a moment before she put down the phone. Things had gone better than she could ever have imagined.

  It was the same apartment, and yet it wasn’t. Everything was in its usual place. The wooden floor still creaked just outside the kitchen when she took her breakfast outdoors. Even the plants on the windowsill were still growing, just as if nothing had happened. But Ursula no longer felt at home. It was as if she was in an unfamiliar setting, even though she knew every nook and cranny, every square centimetre. Perhaps it was the sounds she missed, the fact that his jacket was no longer tossed on the brown armchair, or that the coffee machine wasn’t on when she got home. She didn’t know. Feeling like a stranger in her own home annoyed her, and her logical self tried to fight back, to make the situation comprehensible by playing it down.

  Things weren’t so different after all.

  Most of the noise in the apartment had gone when Bella moved to Uppsala and it hadn’t bothered her then, she tried to tell herself. Her relationship with Mikael had been running on empty for the last few years anyway. They had drifted apart, to be honest. Couples separated, got divorced, found new partners all the time. What had happened was perfectly natural.

  But all the logic in the world couldn’t hold back the painful realisations whirling around inside her. It wasn’t the loneliness that bothered her; she could handle that. It was the way it had happened. The fact that he had left her. It was impossible to grasp. He was supposed to fight for her.

  Not just disappear.

  Not Mikael.

  She had always thought that if one of them was going to walk away, it would be her.

  And yet it had been Mikael. Without even trying to salvage their relationship. With no regrets, apparently. Quickly and decisively in a way she hadn’t known he was capable of.

  He had said that he had broken off his relationship with the other woman. Broken off, not ended. Taken a break because he wanted to sort everything out with Ursula before he moved on. That hadn’t actually been true. He didn’t want to sort anything out, he just wanted to tell her, make the odd excuse, then leave.

  He had gone to her.

  To Amanda.

  He had been reasonable, gentle but determined. He hadn’t given her the slightest chance to find her way back into his heart; that door was closed. He had taken her hand to comfort her as he broke the news. She knew that he was avoiding details that might hurt her, but at the same time he wasn’t afraid of the truth.

  Ursula loved him at that moment.

  At least she thought she did. It was a feeling she had never experienced before, powerful and contradictory. As if the alphabet had suddenly acquired a new letter she had never seen before.

  She had wanted to scream, throw things at him. Kiss him. Plead with him. She did nothing. Love, anger and surprise formed an absurd and totally debilitating combination. She had simply sat there and nodded. Let go of his hand and said she understood, although in fact she didn’t understand at all.

  He had stayed on in the apartment for a while, but more and more of his things disappeared, and his visits became shorter and shorter, until one day they stopped altogether. He had moved out.

  Left her.

  The two of them had faced many challenges over the years. His dependent personality and her inability to cope with a close relationship had been the two biggest obstacles they had had to overcome. In the past they had always sorted things out, found their way back to one another, discovered that their differences somehow became pieces of a puzzle that fitted together.

  Not this time.

  He was in love, he said.

  For the second time in his life. This time with someone who gave back as much as she got.

  Ursula knew she would never be able to compete with that.

  So she let him go.

  * * *

  In the days that followed her conversation with Mikael, Ursula didn’t leave the apartment. She just couldn’t do it. After the initial shock there were so many questions, so many things to take care of. Her main concern was how, and above all who, was going to tell Bella. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that it ought to be her, otherwise she could easily lose not only her husband, but her daughter too. Bella had always been Daddy’s girl. The two of them had built up an easy, close relationship over the years. Obviously Ursula had been there, but slightly to one side. Sometimes.

  When she wasn’t working.

  When she and Bella didn’t get into one of their frequent arguments.

  When Ursula wanted to make the effort. Then and only then.

  On her terms.

  She had tried to avoid facing up to this final truth for as long as possible, but it came to her in the empty, alien apartment.

  Ursula suddenly realised that she needed to create a new relationship with Bella, one that was more real, something of her own, not a remnant left in Mikael’s wake. She couldn’t lean on him any more.

  She was alone now.

  Perhaps being the one to tell Bella the truth would be a promising start. At least she thought it might. She called Mikael and asked if she could explain the situation to Bella. He said yes right away, thought it was a sensible idea.

  So, at the age of fifty she was facing a task she had never been any good at.

  Meeting her daughter as a person.

  As a mother.

  Properly.

  It took almost twenty-four hours before she plucked up the courage to call her.

  * * *

  They had met at a coffee shop within walking distance of the university, at Bella’s suggestion. It was one of those American-inspired places where the cookies and muffins were gigantic and the coffee was served in cardboard cups. Ursula arrived early, ordered a latte and sat down by a window. She watched the cars and the people hurrying by. It was before lunchtime, and the place was half empty. Ursula sipped her hot coffee and tried to focus, to stop her thoughts flying off in all directions. But when she succeeded, there was only one issue on her mind. Was she going to lose Bella? Was it her fault? Why couldn’t she be like every other mother? Why couldn’t she . . .

  Suddenly Bella was standing behind her. Ursula hadn’t even seen her walk in.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  Ursula tried to smile, but probably failed, judging by her daughter’s reaction. Bella sat down, her expression serious.

  ‘What’s happened? You’re very pale.’

  Ursula told her. Tried to be fair, not to blame Mikael. It was a joint decision, she said. Something they had both agreed. It sounded less than convincing, but she felt it was the right thing to do. It was essential to strike a balance. She mustn’t force Bella to take sides, because she knew exactly who her daughter would choose.

  They walked back to the station together. Mother and daughter. Ursula couldn’t remember the last time they had done that. Bella was tall now. An adult, sensible and talented, with a capacity for closeness that enveloped Ursula. The tension had left her body, and she was enjoying the moment. She felt as if they were closer than they had ever been.

  The feeling was still there as they stood on the platform next to Ursula’s train back to Stockholm. Bella had asked if she wanted to stay overnight; she could easily make up the spare bed in her room. For a second Ursul
a considered surprising Bella by saying yes, but then she decided against it. Things had gone much better than she had expected, and she didn’t want to risk seeming too pushy. She said she had to work, but promised to come and see Bella again soon. Very soon.

  ‘Will you be OK?’ Ursula asked, resisting the urge to stroke her daughter’s cheek.

  ‘Of course.’

  Bella leaned forward and gave her a hug. Ursula couldn’t remember the last time that had happened either. A long time ago, anyway.

  ‘I’m not as surprised as you might think,’ Bella said as she moved away.

  Ursula stiffened. A little voice inside her head was yelling at her, telling her just to smile in response. Smile and get on the train. Hold on to that good feeling. She didn’t listen.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It’s just . . . well, I talk to Dad pretty often, and . . .’

  Bella looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Ursula tried to work out the significance of what Bella was saying; she could come up with only one explanation.

  ‘You knew he was seeing someone else?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Absolutely not.’

  ‘But you knew he was intending to leave me?’

  ‘No, not at all. I promise, I had no idea.’

  ‘But you said you weren’t all that surprised. So you must have been expecting it.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘I suppose you understand why he’s left me, because I’m . . . what, someone it’s impossible to live with?’

  ‘Mum, this is all wrong.’ Tears sprang to her daughter’s eyes. Bella held out her hand, and to her astonishment Ursula saw herself take a step back, then turn and walk towards the train. ‘Don’t go!’ Bella shouted after her. ‘Catch the next train, let’s talk about this!’

  But she hadn’t listened. Hadn’t dared to stay. Somewhere deep down inside, that little voice was telling her that Bella had been absolutely right.

  Ursula had carried on going to work as normal, but hadn’t told anybody what was going on. What was she supposed to say? That her husband had left her? No chance. She had never been the kind of person who shared her thoughts and problems over coffee and cake. Among her colleagues she was closest to Torkel, her boss and her lover, but she couldn’t tell him anything. He would misinterpret the situation, would start hoping that their on/off sexual relationship could become something more. As long as Mikael had been part of her life, Torkel himself had closed the door on anything deeper, but with Mikael out of the picture, that would change. So she didn’t say a word. It was easier than she had expected simply to play along, pretend nothing had changed.

  She had tried to concentrate on the job, which had proved to be more difficult than usual. The team was on standby, but she came in early every day. Sorted out her desk. Went through case material, catalogued old documents. That saw her through about a week, then she was at something of a loss.

  Vanja normally shared Ursula’s frustration when things were like this; she wasn’t made for a quiet life either. However, she had just applied for a three-year advanced training programme in profiling offered by the FBI in the USA, and she was spending all her time preparing for the tough tests involved in the application process. Ursula hardly saw anything of her, and when she was around she had her nose stuck in a book, or was glued to her computer screen.

  Billy was back at work following the fatal shooting of Edward Hinde, but he didn’t spend much time in the office. There were rumours of a new girlfriend.

  Salvation came in the form of Sven Dahlén, one of her ex-colleagues from SKL, the National Forensics Lab in Linköping, who had been recruited to the recently formed Cold Case Group within the National Crime Unit. A team of six investigators, including Sven, had been working in Skåne for some time, but now the plan was to reproduce their success on a national level, with a high public profile, and Sven had been asked to take charge of forensics.

  His office was on the floor below Riksmord, and they shared lab space.

  Ursula started to find reasons to go downstairs. Happened to walk past Sven’s room. Asked if he’d like a coffee.

  Chatted.

  Took an interest in the details, offered advice.

  Made sure she was around at regular intervals.

  It wasn’t long before the first question was asked.

  The team was looking into a murder in Haninge, eight years ago. Could she help?

  She could.

  Torkel realised what she was doing, but said nothing. An Ursula who had something to do was far preferable to an Ursula pacing around like a tiger in a cage that was much too small, waiting for someone to sink her teeth into. So he said nothing when she more or less started working in Sven’s department, without even running it past him.

  Late nights. Early mornings. All the time.

  Sven told her to go home, take care of her family. Ursula lied and said everything was fine.

  It was just her and Mikael, and her husband understood. He always had done, she assured Sven with a smile.

  So she kept on working, well aware that she was using her job as a shield to keep everything else at bay.

  Alexander Söderling got up from his expensive, ergonomically designed desk chair and went over to the window. A few people were strolling along Drottninggatan in spite of the late hour. He glanced at his watch. The children were fast asleep, and so was Helena. He hadn’t seen any of them while they were awake today.

  The whole day had been nothing but a long series of meetings. Things were going well, and had been for a while. The company was growing, but so was his workload. He had got back to the office at six and thought about just ignoring the lot of it and going home. He could give Selma a lift to her riding lesson for once. Stay and watch. Spend an hour with Helena before it was time for bed. It was an appealing prospect, but he settled on a compromise. He would disregard the pile of paperwork his PA had placed on his desk before she left, but he would go through his email inbox. Half an hour. He would probably miss the riding lesson, but he would have the hour with his wife.

  Forty-five minutes later he was done, and feeling very pleased with himself. He decided to skim through the latest news before he went home.

  It was at the top of the very first page.

  MASS GRAVE IN THE MOUNTAINS.

  The article didn’t provide much more detail. A couple of walkers had stumbled upon a grave. Several bodies that had been there for a long time. Alexander had checked out other sites: the same information, nothing more. Not a word about who they were, how many bodies, how long they’d been there. Alexander sat back and dropped his shoulders, which he had subconsciously drawn up to somewhere around his ears. Exhaled, tried to relax, think clearly.

  They had been found.

  Or had they?

  It must be them, surely. How many mass graves could there be in Jämtland?

  He made himself a cup of coffee. He couldn’t go home now. Drank his coffee standing by the window gazing out over Drottninggatan, then went back to his computer. He spent another hour or so surfing the net, checking whether the articles had been updated, whether any further information had been released, but there was nothing. Tomorrow, presumably. The question was, what should he do now? Make a call? They probably knew already, but if he didn’t make contact it might look as if he wasn’t on the ball. Careless. Getting in touch might be the wrong thing to do, but failing to do so would be even worse, he concluded.

  He got up and went over to the window again. It had started raining. The few people who were out and about began to hurry, hunched against the strengthening wind. Alexander picked up his mobile. Made the call. It was answered on the third ring. Music in the background.

  ‘Yes?’

  Nothing more from the woman on the other end. Alexander recognised the music: Lykke Li, ‘Possibility’. They played a lot of Lykke Li in the office.

  ‘This is Alexander Söderling,’ he said, just to be on the safe side. It had been a long time
since they spoke.

  ‘I know.’

  In any other conversation, Alexander would have politely enquired how the other person was, asked how things were going, but the curt responses so far suggested that this wouldn’t be appreciated right now. He got straight to the point.

  ‘Have you read the papers?’

  ‘What am I supposed to have read?’

  ‘They’ve found a mass grave in the Jämtland mountains.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s on the Internet.’

  ‘Right.’

  Alexander stood in silence, watching the raindrops racing down the window, forming a pattern that looked like veins. He was expecting a follow-up question, what was in the reports, for example, but it didn’t come.

  ‘I think we can assume it’s them,’ Alexander clarified, pointlessly. As he had said to himself earlier, how many mass graves could there be in Jämtland?

  ‘Right.’

  Nothing further this time either. It was clear that the woman on the other end of the phone had no intention of driving the conversation. She didn’t even seem particularly interested; Alexander was beginning to get the feeling that the call had been a mistake.

  ‘I’ll try and find out whether the police know who they are,’ he went on, trying to show some initiative.

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘I don’t think we have much to worry about. Everything was extremely . . . professional.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ The woman paused briefly. ‘Or rather you, not we.’

  ‘Nothing at the moment.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I think that’s the best approach.’

  ‘So why did you call me?’

  ‘I just wanted to . . . I thought you’d want to know that they’d found the grave.’

  ‘I want to know if we have problems. Do we have problems?’

  ‘No,’ Alexander replied.

  ‘Then I don’t want to know.’

  Silence again. Total silence. Even Lykke Li had disappeared. The conversation was over. Alexander put down his mobile and gazed blankly at the street below.

  Did they have problems?

  Not yet, but Alexander was fairly sure they soon would have.