The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Have you got anything more concrete?’

  Lennart nodded and handed over a sheet of paper summarising what he knew. She glanced through the brief notes while Lennart looked at the man in the polo shirt.

  Four and seven, forty-seven.

  Three and six, thirty-six.

  ‘Have you got a winning line?’ Anitha said, trying out a joke as she put down the piece of paper.

  ‘That depends on you,’ he quipped back.

  She didn’t smile. ‘I don’t know. Seems a bit thin to me. We’ve got enough immigrants, haven’t we? It makes no difference to me if a few of them disappear.’ She looked away.

  One and seven, seventeen.

  ‘But I do agree, there’s something odd about a refusal to grant asylum being marked classified,’ she said after a brief silence. ‘But it’s not enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not enough for me to get involved.’

  ‘Is there any way I can get you interested?’ Lennart said as he felt the hope shrivel and die.

  ‘I don’t think so. The thing is, I’m the one taking the risk, while you get all the credit if I find anything.’

  Lennart sighed. This wasn’t going well.

  Five and two, fifty-two.

  A woman with grey permed hair and a blue blouse shouted ‘House!’ two rows away from him.

  ‘I can’t pay you much,’ Lennart said, giving it one last shot. ‘But maybe there’s something else I can give you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Anitha smiled at him for the first time. He knew why; she was enjoying the power, revelling in the knowledge that she was needed.

  ‘You didn’t even offer to buy me a coffee,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You need to work on your powers of persuasion, Mr TV Big Shot.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Perhaps you’ll have better luck with the bingo. Bye now.’

  * * *

  Feeling irritated, Lennart walked towards the metro station at Fridhemsplan. With Anitha out of the picture, he would have to go down the official route. Threaten, turn up the heat, keep dragging up the principle of freedom of information, but unfortunately he would also be highly visible, which wasn’t a good thing. If there was something suspect about Hamid and Said’s disappearance, the message would spread like wildfire within the police, giving those involved plenty of warning, and time to prepare their counter-attack. Lennart had learnt the hard way that it was always better to apply pressure when he had concrete evidence to bring out as soon as the evasive answers started to come – incontrovertible facts that couldn’t be brushed aside, information that exposed the guilty and made the excuses look sleazy. That was how to make good TV.

  Right now all he had was a classified asylum refusal and some strange goings-on nine years ago. It was nowhere near enough. He had to try to get more out of Shibeka, and out of Said’s wife. There might be something if he did a little digging. It wasn’t much, but it was his only hope.

  * * *

  Shibeka was sitting at the kitchen table reading the instructions for her new mobile phone, page after page of information on how to save and synchronise contacts, download games and insert the SIM card. She didn’t need a fraction of all these functions; she wanted to be reachable, and perhaps to make a call or two – to her sons and the man from the TV, Lennart Stridh. She might give a couple of her friends at school and work her number as well, but that was it. She was well aware that no one in her immediate circle would think it acceptable for a woman on her own to have a mobile phone, so she had never bought one, even though she had sometimes thought it would be useful. She pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable as it was, she knew that. It would be stupid to cause unnecessary provocation, but she carried on reading the thick booklet written in twelve languages. It was exciting to contemplate all the possibilities, even if she was never going to need them.

  The landline in the hallway rang. It was Lennart, sounding tired.

  ‘Hi, Shibeka. Everything all right?’

  ‘Everything is all right, thank you.’

  ‘Great. Listen, I was thinking of popping over tomorrow if that’s OK.’

  Shibeka stiffened in horror.

  ‘Over here?’

  ‘Yes – I need to see you, maybe meet your kids, and I also need to get in touch with Said’s wife.’

  Shibeka went cold inside. She hadn’t expected this.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ she answered, almost reflexively.

  ‘What do you mean, impossible?’

  Lennart sounded completely bewildered.

  ‘I don’t know how to explain, but it doesn’t feel right,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Doesn’t feel right?’

  Shibeka hesitated. How could she make him understand? He was Swedish. Swedes could call round to see anybody, any time.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be alone with you,’ she said eventually.

  She heard him sigh, and realised his day wasn’t getting any better. But there were rules, even if they seemed strange to him.

  ‘OK, I get it,’ he said, much to her relief. ‘Is it all right if we meet in town?’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘But I am going to have to speak to your kids and Said’s wife at some point, otherwise this just won’t work.’

  Shibeka didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t really appreciated the scope of what she had started. She had thought if they just met up, it would be fine, that would be enough. The man from the TV programme would find out what had happened to her husband, and in some magical way that would solve everything. Now she understood that the journey had only just begun.

  ‘I need to think. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s not what I wanted.’

  ‘That’s the way it has to be, otherwise I won’t be able to get any further.’

  When she thought about it, it was obvious. She suddenly felt worn out. Gone was the joy she had experienced because what she had dreamt of for so long was actually happening; someone had listened to her, believed her. Now it was time for the reckoning.

  ‘I will speak to you tomorrow,’ she said eventually. ‘I will call you; I’ve bought a mobile phone.’

  ‘Great, can you give me the number?’

  ‘I haven’t set it up yet.’

  ‘You don’t need to set it up to get the number,’ Lennart explained patiently, as if he were helping a child. ‘It’s on a separate piece of paper.’

  ‘I know, but there are so many pieces of paper . . .’

  Another sigh at the other end of the line.

  ‘OK, you ring me – you’ve got my number, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s on the letter. I will ring you.’

  ‘OK, tomorrow at the latest.’ He sounded more tired than she felt. Then he was gone, and Shibeka was left standing there with the silent telephone in her hand.

  She hung up and went back into the kitchen. Sat down at the table and stared at the new mobile and the blue packaging which had seemed like a symbol of so many opportunities just a few minutes ago. Now it was nothing more than a false prophet.

  What had she imagined was going to happen? It was obvious that everything was going to collide sooner or later, and presumably that was unavoidable if she wanted answers to the questions that had been spinning around in her head for so long. She was going to have to stand up for her desire to know the truth, even if it was painful, and irrespective of what people around her thought. Personally she didn’t care; many already regarded her as much too . . . Swedish, she assumed. It was her boys that concerned her. They looked up to many of the elders, regarded them as a link to the old country and to their father. She didn’t want to destroy that relationship.

  What should she do?

  Shibeka tried to think what advice Hamid would have given her. He was always so wise, especially when she had doubts. She missed his words, his thoughts. She needed them now.

  The doorbell rang, and a second later she heard a key in the lock. Mehran. He always d
id that – rang first, then opened the door. Eyer kept his finger on the bell until she came and let him in, but not Mehran. It was as if he were saying: Hi, I’m here, but I can manage by myself.

  She went into the hallway and looked at her son. Tall, slender, glad to be home. He put down his bag and kicked off his shoes.

  ‘How was your sports day?’

  ‘OK. Me and Levan got lost.’

  ‘Did it take you long to get back?’

  ‘About an hour, but I’d left my lunch where we got changed, so I was starving.’

  He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked as he caught sight of the blue box on the table.

  ‘A mobile phone,’ Shibeka answered truthfully.

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Me.’

  Mehran gave her a look that she couldn’t quite interpret as he picked up the phone and examined it. Cheap, outdated model. He immediately lost interest and put it down.

  ‘Just be careful where you use it,’ he said as he went into the living room and switched on the TV. Nickelodeon as usual. Shibeka watched him go. He had grown so tall. He was becoming a man. Time passed so quickly; sometimes it frightened her.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of chai tea,’ she called to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he called over the sound of the television. Shibeka filled the kettle, switched it on, then stopped dead. What was she doing? She was behaving like a bad woman, keeping secrets and going behind the backs of those she loved.

  It wasn’t right.

  It wasn’t right at all.

  She couldn’t carry on like this. It was a dangerous road. The lies would grow, and with them the distance between her and the boys.

  She made a decision. Took a deep breath and went into the living room. The words came more easily than she had dared hope.

  ‘I’ve started something. Something I need to tell you about.’

  Mehran looked at her with curiosity, and it struck her once again how much he had grown. He was no longer a boy, and she lowered her eyes to show respect. She sat down beside him and took his hand. He needed to know, and she would listen to what he had to say.

  ‘It’s about your father,’ she said.

  She felt Mehran give a start. He had never liked talking about his father. That had worried Shibeka for a long time, but after a while she realised that he was grieving in his own way. As men should.

  Hamid.

  The man who had disappeared, but was always present.

  Shibeka began to talk. She told him everything.

  The television was still on, but no one was listening.

  Few things bothered Harald Olofsson. Almost everything that came his way, planned or unplanned, was dealt with steadily and systematically in a manner that most people would find impressive. Harald himself never even thought about it. He didn’t have to make an effort to stay in control, or to stop himself from getting worked up. He was simply a methodical, thoughtful, calm person. Therefore, it was an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation to feel his heart rate increasing and his breathing becoming more laboured.

  He couldn’t find the rucksacks.

  He was very meticulous about where he put things. The yard might look like a bombsite, but Harald knew exactly where each item was and where it had come from. Organisation was a must in his line of work. Nothing that was on view could be traced back to a previous owner, and the same was true of the contents of the outbuilding. Although it was filled to bursting, with everything apparently dumped in there at random, there was a plan behind it all. Items that were at the front and clearly visible were just as safe as the stock in the yard. The further in you got, and the more difficult it became to get at a particular item, the more likely it was that you would be able to find a previous owner, with a bit of hard work. Anything that definitely mustn’t be found in his possession was down in the Chamber. The two rucksacks from the car crash had spent some time in there to begin with, but over the years they had been moved upstairs. These days Harald didn’t think they belonged in the category of objects that needed to be hidden, so he shouldn’t have any problem finding them.

  But he had.

  A major problem.

  He had spent a considerable amount of time in the outbuilding, gone through the whole lot at least twice. He was sure the rucksacks weren’t in there. So where were they? Had he already got rid of them? They hadn’t contained anything of value, as far as he recalled, but he had no recollection of having thrown them away or burned them. So where were they? Perhaps it didn’t matter; if he couldn’t lay his hands on them, then the police wouldn’t be able to find them either, if they paid him another visit. Anyway, why would they come back? He had answered their questions, and they had seemed perfectly happy when they drove away.

  He came out into the yard, squinting into the setting sun. Zeppo got up and walked towards his master as far as the rope allowed. Harald went over and patted the dog, unclipping the rope from his collar at the same time. He hadn’t taken Zeppo out since this morning; a walk in the forest would do them both good. Harald went indoors to fetch the lead. He whistled and they set off along the narrow dirt track. After about a hundred metres they turned off among the trees. Within seconds Harald could feel the serenity around him doing him good. The silence. He could hear nothing but the sounds of the forest itself. He took a few deep breaths, and the last vestiges of any anxiety ebbed away. He had been getting worked up for no reason. He would forget all about the car crash and those bloody rucksacks. Harald rolled his shoulders as if to physically shake off the memory and exhaled with a contented sigh, almost expecting to see his breath. It was quite chilly in the evenings now, and the sun had lost some of its heat during the day. The weekend’s rain could be the last; the next time they might well see some snow.

  They carried on among the dense conifers. Zeppo stopped, sniffed, followed an interesting trail then came back. For long periods Harald neither saw nor heard the dog; they each did their own thing, and they were both happy that way. He suddenly realised that the light was beginning to fade; it was time to go home.

  ‘Zeppo!’

  The dog didn’t appear. He called again, but there was still no sign of Zeppo. Harald stopped and listened, but the only sound was the faint soughing of the treetops. He swore to himself. Occasionally the dog would pick up a scent and forget everything else, out of sight and out of earshot.

  ‘Zeppo!’ he yelled again, much louder this time. Listened for some kind of response, a bark or a rustling in the undergrowth. He was about to shout for a fourth time when it struck him.

  They were in the loft.

  The rucksacks were in the loft.

  He remembered exactly where he had stowed them, but he wasn’t sure why he had moved them into the house. It wasn’t something he usually did. Ever. If stolen goods were found in the outbuilding, against all expectation, there was at least a theoretical possibility that someone had put them there without Harald’s knowledge. However, if something was found indoors it became more difficult, which was why none of his deliveries ever crossed the threshold. He must have decided the rucksacks were safe. Nobody had missed them, presumably nobody even knew they existed. But if Riksmord were showing an interest, it was essential to get them out of the house. If only Zeppo would come back.

  ‘Zeppo!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Get back here, for fuck’s sake!’ he added as if to convey the seriousness of the situation. Nothing. Harald spent another ten minutes shouting and wandering around before he heard something crashing through the undergrowth. Zeppo appeared, wagging his tail and looking as if he had had a lovely time wherever he had been, thanks for asking. Harald clipped on his lead and set off as quickly as he could.

  Once they got home he tied Zeppo up in the yard and hurried indoors. He found the two slightly charred rucksacks in the attic, exactly where he had seen them in his mind’s eye. He didn’t really care how his brain worked, he was just glad
it had come up with the answer. Time to finish this. He dropped the rucksacks through the hatch, switched off the light and clambered down. A couple of things had fallen out of one of them, including the burnt handbag. Why had he kept it? Anyway, now it could go, along with everything else. Down in the kitchen he opened what, with a little imagination, could be called the cleaning cupboard, and took out a bottle of lighter fuel and a box of matches. He went back outside; it wasn’t properly dark yet, but definitely darker than twilight. Should he wait until morning? Would it look odd, lighting a fire now? He shook off the unwarranted anxiety; no one was going to see the blaze. He walked past the outbuilding towards the boundary at the back of the property. Zeppo was interested, and followed as far as the rope would allow. At the point where the drive’s mud and gravel turned to grass, he threw down the bags, opened the bottle and sprinkled the maroon waterproof fabric generously with the liquid. He replaced the cap and struck a match.

  Then everything seemed to happen at the same time.

  The blaze flared up as Zeppo started barking. A second later Harald was caught in the powerful headlights of a car turning in through the gates. He gazed uncomprehendingly at the car, then down at the rucksacks burning at his feet, then back at the car as the engine was switched off and the lights went out. Harald blinked and saw a figure walking towards him.

  ‘Harald Olofsson?’ said a woman’s voice. Suddenly someone, presumably the owner of the voice, came rushing forward and tried to put out the fire. Zeppo carried on barking and Harald backed away.

  So close.

  If the woman, who he assumed was a police officer, had arrived fifteen minutes later, she would have found nothing but soot and ash, and he would have got away with it.

  If he hadn’t remembered where the rucksacks were, he would have got away with it.

  If the dog had come when he first called, he would have got away with it.

  So many ifs. Too many.

  He knew he wasn’t going to get away with it.

  ‘Shall we start with the car crash?’