The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘How many times do you think she’ll come home to see me now Micke’s not there?’

  Sebastian remained silent; the conversation was getting uncomfortably close to home. A daughter at a distance. The yearning for closeness. The fear that it will never happen.

  ‘Never,’ Ursula said, answering her own question and shaking her head as she pictured the future. ‘She’ll call me on birthdays and at Christmas, then gradually she’ll forget the birthdays.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘We don’t really know one another,’ Ursula said, so quickly and with such a lack of sentimentality that Sebastian realised she must have spent a great deal of time analysing her relationship with her daughter. ‘I’ve kept my distance. That’s what I do. With everyone. I give away small parts of myself, that’s all. You can’t do that with children. They need you. All the time.’

  ‘Have you told her this?’

  ‘It’s too late. She’s an adult.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Sebastian said, with a mixture of conviction and optimism in his voice. ‘I really hope it’s not too late.’ He saw her reaction to his unusually sincere tone. ‘For your sake,’ he added, to be on the safe side.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sebastian nodded, and they sat in silence for a little while. Sebastian had nothing more to add, and Ursula obviously had nothing else to share. She emptied the second bottle, put it to one side, and rested her elbows on the table.

  ‘So what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What did you dream about?’

  Sebastian finished off the Coke as he quickly went through the options and the current circumstances in his head. Where did he stand in the team? Vanja was OK with him, and in spite of their little performance earlier, Billy liked him too. Torkel was Torkel. Ursula was still the one he might need to win over, although she had chosen to open up – and to him, not to anyone else in the team, although it was reasonable to assume she would be closer to them. He had hurt her badly once upon a time. He had asked her to forgive him, but she had refused. Perhaps he couldn’t be forgiven. For anything. Given their history, perhaps a little honesty on his part wouldn’t go amiss.

  And yet it went against the grain. He didn’t want to tell her. It was that simple. He just didn’t want to.

  He could lie, of course, but that wasn’t an option right now.

  ‘Some other time,’ he said with a casual shrug, hoping she would accept it.

  She did.

  * * *

  As soon as it grew light, Sebastian went out for a walk. His local knowledge was non-existent, so he decided to follow the stream or the river or whatever it was called. It had stopped raining temporarily, but the mist hovered over the sodden ground, and the clouds were dense and low. He couldn’t see far in among the gnarled, distorted trees when he occasionally looked up. The track was an uneven sea of mud dotted with roots, and he had to watch where he was putting his feet in order to avoid slipping and sliding.

  He and Ursula had stayed in the desolate restaurant for a little while longer, then gone back to their rooms. She had reminded him that he had promised to say nothing; he had nodded and promised again.

  Sebastian had sat down at the little folding table by the window in his room and switched on his mobile. Eight messages. All from Ellinor. In some she attempted to reason with him, in one she screamed and more or less threatened him, in one she begged for forgiveness and promised to fix everything if only he would get in touch. In the last one she sounded perfectly calm; she said that she understood, and would take care of everything. Sebastian switched off the phone. Perhaps he hadn’t gone about the situation in the best way, but it would have to wait until he got back to Stockholm. He had other, more important, things to think about now.

  He had sat there in his room, on a fairly uncomfortable wooden chair, trying to formulate a plan.

  Make a decision.

  He hadn’t succeeded. He couldn’t concentrate properly. The dream lingered like a veil over his mind. The memory took on an almost physical form; time and again he realised that his right hand was tightly clenched. He got to his feet, paced up and down, but that just made him more restless. He had to get out. Get away.

  Exercise, fresh air, nature, being alone without being shut in – perhaps that would help him to focus.

  So now he was walking alongside the rushing water, with his eyes on the ground. The track swung sharply to the left, leading to some kind of metal bridge with double planks of wood to walk on, and a cable handrail on either side. Sebastian walked to the middle of the bridge and stopped.

  A bird he didn’t know the name of was hopping around in and by the water where the river had eaten its way into the bank and was calmer, almost still. He followed the bird’s jerky, almost nervous movements and let his mind wander.

  From the dream to his conversation with Ursula to Vanja. Always back to Vanja.

  It was all connected.

  She was going to leave him. OK, he could go and visit her. But how many times before it started to look odd? Once? Twice? They could call one another, email, he could get that Skype thing if necessary. But all those were ways of maintaining a relationship that already existed, not starting a new one. It would be weird talking to her via a computer screen when they rarely spoke in real life. In five years’ time it might work, when they were friends. When he was someone whose presence in her life she valued. For real, for the person he was, not because he had saved her from Edward Hinde.

  That wasn’t the way things were now.

  Not yet.

  This was his chance to get close to her, to create something that would last, something living. But only if she was here. Not thousands of miles away.

  The little bird had obviously finished whatever it had been doing in the water, because it flew off among the trees above the bank and disappeared. Sebastian straightened up.

  It was actually very clear.

  Very simple.

  It was wrong, of course. Selfish, he knew that. There was no hint of fatherly concern in what he was planning to do, but that was the way it had to be.

  He turned back. By the time he stepped off the bridge, he had decided to act.

  He didn’t know how, but he was going to make sure Vanja didn’t leave.

  Make sure she stayed in Stockholm.

  Stayed with him.

  The morning walk was refreshing. Barnhusbron, Scheelegatan, past the Town Hall, then left along Hantverkargatan. Ellinor strode along, the plastic carrier bag clutched firmly in her left hand. She was on a mission not only to see justice done, but to save her relationship with Sebastian.

  She felt surprisingly alert considering the lack of sleep. Everything had seemed utterly hopeless when she got back to her old apartment late last night. She had called Sebastian. Repeatedly. Got nothing but his brief voicemail recording. Ellinor had said something every time, she couldn’t really remember what, there had been so many thoughts to deal with, so many emotions. Eventually she had slumped down on the sofa in the living room. She had no idea how long she had sat there.

  However, the realisation had come to her late last night, or early this morning, to be more accurate. What was going on. How it all hung together.

  Why hadn’t she worked it out before? After all, she knew her Sebastian. Strength comes from being alone, that was his motto. He had problems with emotions, found it difficult to express what he really wanted.

  He was too stubborn to ask for help.

  Too proud to appear needy.

  Too protective of her to burden her with his worries and concerns.

  Just think about the way he had got her to move in with him. He had come to see her with some tale of a serial killer who might be after her, told her she had to leave her apartment instead of simply telling the truth – that he wanted her. The same thing was happening now. Clearly there was something completely different behind his actions on this occasion too. The more she thoug
ht about it, the more certain she became.

  Once she had worked it out, the rest was very simple. Obvious.

  What reason could he possibly have for leaving her?

  He was afraid that she might come to some harm.

  Someone was threatening him.

  It was only natural that he didn’t want her anywhere near him. She had seen that kind of thing on TV, where the detective or the prosecutor or whoever it might be sent their nearest and dearest away so that they wouldn’t be in danger. That was why he had gone away. Gone to ground. That was why he wasn’t answering his phone. He was ready to sacrifice their love for her safety.

  But who was threatening Sebastian?

  The obvious answer was Valdemar Lithner.

  Anyway, she would start there and see if the situation changed when he was out of the picture. If not, she would have to make Sebastian open up to her, make him realise that they must share their troubles as well as their joys. That they could get through anything as long as they were honest, and together.

  She had called Sebastian one more time and explained in a calm, convincing tone of voice that she understood, and would take care of everything.

  At precisely eight o’clock she was standing outside the Economic Crime Authority on Hantverkargatan. Ellinor didn’t know much about architecture, but she she thought the six-storey building in Kungsholmen had something of the Seventies about it. There was a small green area across the road behind iron railings, and down at the bottom of the street she could see the tower of the City Hall. The sun had been up for a while, and it looked as if it was going to be a glorious autumn day after last night’s rain. Ellinor marched past a naked lady made of bronze, pushed open the door, looked at the information board in the foyer and took the lift to the right floor.

  * * *

  ‘How can I help you?’ said the young man who had come to fetch her from reception, showing her to a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘Well, as I told your receptionist, I’ve come to report a criminal.’

  ‘Someone involved in economic crime?’

  ‘That’s right, economic crime.’ She repeated the words with a certain amount of emphasis. It was exciting just to say them out loud. It was exciting to be here. Exciting and essential.

  ‘OK . . .’ The young man turned to his computer, brought up a form and placed his hands over the keyboard.

  ‘Who would you like to report, and what exactly has this person done?’

  ‘I’ve got everything here.’

  Ellinor dumped the plastic carrier bag on the desk. The police officer regarded it with a certain amount of suspicion.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An investigation. Evidence. Everything you need.’

  The man’s expression suggested he was anything but convinced. He peered inside at the bundles of papers, and couldn’t suppress a sigh. Ellinor realised it was time to put some weight behind her assertion.

  ‘It’s all above board – it’s not something I’ve come up with. A police officer carried out the investigation.’

  The young man’s curiosity was piqued.

  ‘A police officer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who is this police officer?’

  ‘His name is, or rather was, Trolle Hermansson. He’s dead.’

  The officer merely nodded politely at this information; he had clearly never heard the name before.

  ‘What happens now?’ Ellinor asked.

  ‘We’ll take a look and decide whether to carry out an investigation.’

  ‘It is an investigation,’ Ellinor insisted. ‘As I said, everything you need is in there.’

  ‘If we do carry out an investigation,’ the young man said, ignoring the interruption, ‘it will be a relatively speedy process. Our target is within fifty days in the case of less serious economic crimes.’

  ‘I don’t know how serious this is.’

  ‘Which is why we need to take a look at it.’

  Ellinor didn’t move. Had she forgotten anything? She had done what she came to do. Admittedly fifty days was a hell of a long time, but no doubt they were very busy. She got to her feet. The young man did the same and held out his hand. She shook it, then hesitated. Perhaps she could get them to prioritise the case.

  ‘The sooner this man is locked up, the better. I think he’s threatening my partner.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has your partner reported a threat?’

  ‘No, but he’s thrown me out. To protect me.’

  Ellinor noticed that the young man was nodding to himself in a way that might suggest he didn’t believe her, but of course he must be familiar with the problem. He was a police officer, after all. She had read that witnesses being threatened was a growing problem in society.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do . . .’

  ‘Good, but as I said, the sooner you deal with Valdemar Lithner, the better.’

  Ellinor turned and left.

  Peter Gornack watched her go. It had all happened very quickly. The call from reception, the meeting, the discussion. The usual. But then an ordinary report from an ordinary member of the public had turned into an ‘investigation’ in a plastic carrier bag, somehow involving a dead police officer and an ex-partner in danger. The second that bag had landed on Peter’s desk, he had instinctively felt this was going to be a waste of his time. He would dutifully flick through some of the documents, then quickly write off the case. He had no doubt about that at all. Until she said the name.

  Valdemar Lithner.

  He had attended the Police Academy with Vanja Lithner; they had even hooked up for a while during their second year. She had ended the relationship after a few months: nothing dramatic, no major problems. They had carried on training together, as friends. They had never become colleagues, because they had chosen different routes once their training was finished. He knew she was working with Riksmord now, but he hadn’t seen her for years. But Peter was pretty sure her father was called Valdemar, and there couldn’t be that many families called Lithner, could there? Was this a complaint against Vanja’s father? All the more reason to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

  Peter emptied the bag on the desk, opened the top folder and stopped dead.

  A copy of a police investigation.

  By the Economic Crime Authority.

  He closed the folder and turned to his computer. He typed in the name and the result came up immediately: a preliminary investigation from 2008. The prosecutor had decided not to take it any further due to a lack of evidence. Peter turned back to the pile on his desk. The police investigation made up only half of the documents; the rest was new material. New evidence.

  He put the original folder to one side, picked up the rest, leaned back and began to read.

  After less than a minute he came across Daktea Investments, a name that everyone on the team recognised only too well. He went straight to his immediate superior.

  * * *

  Ingrid Ericsson remembered Valdemar Lithner.

  Very well, in fact. Not the biggest fish they hadn’t managed to catch, but not the smallest either. A number of companies stripped just before they went bankrupt, the assets moved to Panama, a fall guy who took the rap in Sweden, and an account in Latin America where it was impossible to find out who had signed the documentation or where the money went from there. A couple of million kronor, that’s what they were looking at. The summer cottage, the daughter’s apartment, a new car. Valdemar hadn’t been afraid of splashing the cash; he had seemed sure nothing could be traced back to him. And he had been right. Ingrid had tried, worked very hard. As head of department she had been responsible for the preliminary investigation that Peter Gornack had just brought in. According to Peter, he had got it from a woman called Ellinor Bergkvist, along with a lot of other material. The most interesting thing was the link to Daktea.

  If Lithner had been involved in that particular tangled m
ess, then he was definitely one of the biggest economic criminals they had failed to bring to justice. Until now. If the material Ingrid had in front of her proved correct, they would bring Lithner down this time.

  Daktea Investments had been a huge Ponzi scheme, ostensibly a sound financial product, but in fact a pyramid scheme where those responsible disappeared without trace when the bubble burst. Thousands of small savers and investors lost everything. The Economic Crime Authority had put huge amounts of effort and resources into tracking down those behind the scheme, but they had been very adept at hiding their identity via a complex network of cross-ownership through anonymous foundations and holding companies in tax havens like Panama and the Cayman Islands. She didn’t believe that Lithner was one of the major players, this was too big for him, but he had been involved in the construction, and had handled some of the money; that was very clear from the new material. It was enough for Ingrid.

  It would be an over-exaggeration to say that she had taken it personally when they had had to shelve the previous investigation, but there was a certain satisfaction in the thought of bringing in someone of whose guilt she was so convinced. That was why she decided to act fast. Her department normally launched an inquiry within fifty days of being tipped off or otherwise informed of some anomaly, but this wouldn’t even take five hours if Ingrid had her way.

  She called the prosecutor’s office and spoke to Stig Wennberg, who had been in charge of the case last time. She explained why she wanted to re-open the preliminary investigation, faxed over the new information, and after less than half an hour she had been given the green light.

  Ingrid was delighted. Not only would this improve the department’s clear-up rate, she would get the media on board and it would send an unmistakable message to all those who, like Valdemar Lithner, thought they had got away with something. They would discover that even if it took a few years, perhaps even several years, many years, the Economic Crime Authority could strike at any time. They would never be safe.