The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

Torkel looked at Harald Olofsson, slumped on his chair, hands clasped, head drooping, eyes fixed on the floor. He nodded.

  ‘You need to answer my questions,’ Torkel said, pointing to the mobile lying on the table between them. ‘For the benefit of the recording,’ he clarified when he realised that Harald hadn’t seen the gesture. Harald nodded again.

  When Ursula called and told Torkel what had happened, what she had found and that she was bringing Harald Olofsson in for questioning, they had decided that the simplest and closest option was to use the mountain station, which was why Harald was now sitting at the folding table in Torkel’s room, opposite Ursula and Torkel. Ursula would have preferred to go through the remains of the rucksacks right away, before they were sent to the National Forensics Lab in Linköping, but Torkel had insisted that he wanted her to sit in on the interview. Under normal circumstances it would have been Vanja, but with Vanja gone he wanted . . . what did he actually want? The next best thing, presumably. Jennifer was a promising and conscientious addition to the team, but much too new to be thrown into a situation that depended on an almost instinctive ability to work together, and Billy . . . Billy was Billy. He and Vanja were a good team, but Torkel wanted Ursula, even though she clearly had no desire to be there. Torkel understood this would probably mean he could look forward to another night without company, but he had to set personal considerations aside; the investigation came first.

  ‘Could you tell us about that morning?’ Torkel said, in an interested tone which he hoped would give Harald the sense that they were just having a chat. Harald shrugged.

  ‘I was driving along,’ he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ Torkel interrupted him. ‘Do you think you could speak up a bit?’ Harald looked up.

  ‘I was driving along,’ he repeated.

  ‘From where?’ Ursula snapped.

  Harald turned towards her. ‘What?’

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘I’ve got a . . . friend who lives just over the border in Norway. I stay there sometimes.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Henny. Henny Petersen.’

  Torkel extracted an address and telephone number; whatever happened, they would probably contact her, even though she was unlikely to remember whether Harald Olofsson had stayed over on the night between 30 and 31 October 2003.

  ‘I was on my way home in the morning,’ Harald went on when Torkel had finished writing. ‘I saw smoke rising from down by the river, so I stopped. Then I saw the car.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ Torkel thought he knew, but it was always better if the interviewee told the story in his own words as far as possible.

  ‘I went down to see if anyone was hurt, and I could tell that the driver was dead.’

  ‘So what did you do then?’ Ursula said, like an echo of Torkel. Harald swallowed. The woman’s eyes were harder than the man’s. Piercing. Merciless. She had come to his yard. She had found the rucksacks. Her question was purely rhetorical; Harald was well aware that the two police officers already knew what he had done.

  ‘I found her handbag, or what was left of it at any rate. It was lying by the door and the window was broken so I . . . I took it.’

  Ursula nodded to herself, confirming Harald’s assumption that they had already worked out most of what had happened that morning.

  ‘Go on.’

  Harald hesitated, played for time by taking a sip from the glass of water Torkel had fetched from the bathroom.

  ‘I went back up to my car to fetch a lock pick. I managed to get the boot open, and I took what was inside,’ he said, carefully putting down the glass so that he wouldn’t have to look them in the eye.

  Ursula stared at him, contempt bubbling up inside her. After all these years she had stopped being surprised at what people were capable of doing to one another, but there was something about this scruffy individual that sickened her. He had found a woman’s body in a car, and his first thought was to feather his own nest. Looting, that was what Harald Olofsson had done. On a small scale, admittedly, but it was still looting. In Ursula’s book there was no excuse for profiting from someone else’s misfortune in that way. None whatsoever.

  ‘So what did you find?’ Torkel asked. If he felt the same as Ursula about the man opposite, he was hiding it well.

  ‘Two rucksacks.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No tent?’ Ursula chipped in.

  ‘No.’

  Torkel understood what she was getting at. They still didn’t know where the four people in the grave had been staying.

  ‘The rucksacks sustained a certain amount of fire damage earlier today,’ Torkel went on.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  Harald looked at them, his expression matching the sincerity in his voice. If it hadn’t been for the looting, Ursula would almost have felt sorry for him.

  ‘Were there any address labels on them when you found them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think. Or any badges or flags, anything that might indicate who owned them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ursula leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. She waited until Harald met her gaze, which took a few silent seconds.

  ‘Let me explain,’ she said once they had eye contact. ‘The forensic examination suggests that the accident didn’t cause the fire. That it was started deliberately, possibly to hide evidence.’

  She saw Harald give a start as the implications of her words sank in. His expression shifted from apologetic to frightened in a second.

  ‘Or perhaps to silence the woman who was driving,’ Ursula went on. ‘If we think she was alive when the fire started . . .’

  She didn’t finish the sentence; instead she allowed the image and its consequences to sink in. She could see that it was working. Harald’s face lost all its colour, and when he picked up the glass of water, his hand was shaking. Ursula had no idea whether what she had just said was true; the woman probably hadn’t been alive. There was nothing in the post-mortem report to suggest that she had had smoke in her lungs, but Harald Olofsson didn’t know that.

  ‘If she was alive when the fire started, we’re looking at murder,’ she concluded, leaning back on her chair.

  ‘I had nothing to do with that!’ Harald instinctively turned to Torkel. Even though they hadn’t discussed it or even thought about it, he and Ursula seemed to have developed a good cop/bad cop strategy. Ursula seemed determined to keep it that way.

  ‘Perhaps she was sitting there when you started taking her stuff; she came round and you realised she’d seen you, and . . . I don’t know, maybe you panicked?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you take anything else from the car?’ Torkel asked calmly. Harald had been co-operative all along, but now he was scared too, so they might as well make the most of it.

  ‘No, nothing, I swear. The handbag and the two rucksacks. Then I called the police.’

  ‘We’re going to turn your place upside down, and if you’re lying to us . . .’

  Torkel fell silent, but Harald knew exactly what he meant. Just as he knew it was over. It was all over. They would find the Chamber. He wasn’t going to get away with it this time, but he had no intention of getting mixed up in a murder that was nothing to do with him.

  ‘I’m not lying!’ He looked from one to the other, but settled on Ursula; she seemed to be the one who needed the most convincing. ‘I didn’t take anything else! The handbag and the two rucksacks. And the car had already been on fire when I found it.’

  Torkel and Ursula didn’t say a word.

  ‘I swear,’ Harald said again.

  They believed him.

  It felt strange, walking into the Kronoberg custody suite as a relative. Vanja had been there so many times through work, never imagin
ing that one day she would be here in a completely different role. She felt as if the stone walls in the reception area were closing in on her. Weighing her down. Making every step towards the duty officer more difficult than the one before. Eventually she made it. Janne Gustavsson was sitting behind the glass. He nodded in recognition.

  ‘I didn’t know Riksmord had anyone in here?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  Vanja fell silent. Janne looked enquiringly at her. There was something about her voice; she didn’t sound as confident as she usually did. In fact, she didn’t look herself at all. Something had obviously happened.

  ‘I want to see my father,’ she went on in a weak voice. ‘He’s supposed to be here.’

  Janne stared at her, and suddenly everything fell into place.

  Lithner.

  It hadn’t even occurred to him, although the name should have set alarm bells ringing. Lithner.

  How many people had that surname? Hardly any, apart from an attractive blonde police officer from Riksmord, and the guy in number twenty-three.

  Valdemar Lithner.

  He had arrived a few hours earlier, booked in by Ingrid Ericsson from the Economic Crime Authority. She was one of the few who actually knew what Janne was called, and addressed him by his first name. He wondered whether Vanja knew. Probably not.

  ‘Is Valdemar Lithner your father?’

  Vanja nodded, nervously fiddling with a strand of hair. Janne suddenly thought that she looked like a little girl. A little girl lost. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  ‘Would it be possible for me to see him?’

  ‘Unfortunately that’s a bit difficult,’ Janne said as sympathetically as he could, glancing at the clock. ‘The thing is, it’s after five, and I’m not sure what’s allowed.’

  ‘Have any restrictions been imposed?’

  Janne leafed through his papers, although he already knew what he was going to find. Ingrid Ericsson had said no to everything.

  Telephone calls [NO]

  Letters [NO]

  Computer access [NO]

  Visitors [NO]

  Ericsson always said no.

  Janne carried on checking for a little while longer just to be on the safe side, then looked up at Vanja.

  ‘I’m afraid so. No access.’

  ‘Do you really think I would compromise the investigation?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t matter what I think,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You’ll have to speak to Ingrid Ericsson or the prosecutor.’

  Vanja glanced around looking vaguely confused, as if she expected Ericsson or the prosecutor to be sitting in reception. Janne might have gained a certain amount of satisfaction from the situation; Riksmord were usually so perfect, so unstoppable. They didn’t have to sit behind a glass screen dealing with people the way he did. But there was something about her helplessness that was hard to resist. It didn’t suit her, and it made him feel uncomfortable rather than supercilious.

  ‘Have you got Ingrid’s number?’ she asked eventually.

  He nodded and jotted it down on a Post-it note. ‘I’ll give you the prosecutor’s number too – Stig Wennberg. He’s usually easier to deal with than Ingrid.’

  Vanja nodded gratefully as he passed her the note.

  ‘Thanks, Janne.’

  So she did know his name.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, and meant it. She was going to need it.

  As she left he saw her take out her mobile before the door had even closed behind her.

  Then she was gone. He had seen most things during his ten years in the job, but this was something different.

  * * *

  Vanja called Ingrid Ericsson first; it was probably best to start with the person who was leading the investigation. Straight to voicemail; presumably she had switched off her phone. Vanja left a brief message asking Ingrid to ring her back as soon as possible, but gave no further details. No doubt Ingrid would realise it was to do with her father, but she couldn’t make her request via an answering service. It would be hard enough in an actual conversation. Then she tried Stig Wennberg, the prosecutor. She had never come across Ingrid Ericsson’s name through her work, but she was familiar with Wennberg’s excellent reputation. She remembered that some of her colleagues had thought it was a shame when he moved to the Economic Crime Authority a few years earlier.

  He answered almost immediately. Vanja could hear children in the background, and assumed he was at home. He sounded stressed, but relaxed slightly when she said she was a police officer. He asked how he could help her, thinking she had called about a case she was working on.

  She told him how he could help her.

  Any trace of relaxation disappeared.

  ‘It’s out of the question. You do realise that?’

  There was a gravity in his voice that hadn’t been there when he took the call. This wasn’t going to be easy. It was a very tricky balancing act. Gross misconduct was just a few sentences away if she pushed too hard, which was what Vanja really wanted to do. She wanted to yell at him, tell him she had to see her father right now, rules or no rules. But she couldn’t do that. She had to stay in control, word her plea very carefully.

  ‘I know it’s an unusual request,’ she said tentatively, ‘but I really do need to see my father.’

  The response was a deep sigh.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a case; you might have heard about the mass grave up in Jämtland,’ she went on, trying a new strategy. If he wasn’t prepared to help a daughter, perhaps he would be willing to help a police officer. ‘I need to find out what’s happened to my father so that I can rejoin the team.’

  ‘Are you with Riksmord and Torkel Höglund?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Wennberg hesitated for a second. Perhaps there was a way in after all.

  ‘Do you know Torkel?’ Vanja asked in what she hoped was a neutral tone.

  ‘Yes, but don’t imagine that will get you anywhere.’

  The door closed as quickly as it had opened, but Vanja wasn’t giving up. She tried to find that little gap again, gently, gently, without annoying him too much.

  ‘I’d be happy for the visit to be supervised, of course.’

  ‘The restrictions are imposed by the officer in charge, it’s her decision.’

  ‘Absolutely, but the restrictions are often quite sweeping. He’s not a murder suspect. As prosecutor it’s within your power to allow exceptions.’

  Wennberg didn’t say anything, but he didn’t end the call either, which was something. As long as she was talking to him, she had a chance.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but I honestly can’t see what harm it would do you. If something happens, I would lose my job. The only person taking a risk is me.’

  For a second she thought about her FBI training; could this have a negative impact on her chances? She was ashamed of herself; why was she thinking about that now? She had more important matters to consider, the person who meant the most to her.

  Her father.

  He was the one she had to focus on, not herself.

  At the other end of the line the children had gone quiet, or else Wennberg had moved to another room.

  ‘If Torkel calls me and vouches for you, I’ll consider it. That’s the only way,’ he said eventually.

  ‘OK.’ Vanja could hardly get the words out. ‘He’ll call you right away. I promise. He’ll call you.’

  ‘Supervised access. Ten minutes max.’

  ‘Yes. Good. Absolutely. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Thank Torkel if it happens.’

  He ended the call, and Vanja stood there holding the phone. The first obstacle overcome. She was on the way. Now she just had to speak to Torkel. In her head she could hear herself starting a conversation she had never in her wildest dreams expected to have.

  Hi, Torkel.

  I need your help.

  My father has been arrested.

  * * *

  Valdemar had wondered
when the custody officer came to fetch him. He hadn’t expected anything to happen before tomorrow, but then again, what did he know about the normal routine in this place? He had been sitting in the same position on the hard bed for so long that his legs felt stiff and numb, and his first steps had been unsteady. The guard had led him down the bare green corridor to the same interview room where he had been questioned earlier. Sat him in the same chair at the same table and told him to wait. The stiffness in his legs had eased, but the ache at the base of his spine had come back. He felt old and worn out and, even worse, he felt as if he wasn’t quite with it, as if he were sitting in this room, yet he was somewhere else. His head was spinning. It had all happened so fast. That woman turning up on his doorstep. The first interviews. Being locked up. And now more questions, apparently.

  It was probably all part of their strategy, trying to confuse him.

  It was working.

  He had to pull himself together, focus. Answer their questions without getting himself mixed up and losing control. He heard sounds in the corridor and sat up a little straighter. He would say as little as possible, that was the plan. It had worked last time, perhaps it would be just as effective now.

  The heavy door opened and he caught a glimpse of someone behind the guard. He almost panicked. It couldn’t be, it mustn’t be her! The person disappeared from view for a second as the guard stood in the doorway, hiding her. Valdemar hoped it had been a figment of his imagination, that when the guard walked in there would be no one behind him. Or that it would be the self-satisfied women who had arrested him. Anything would be better than . . .

  But then he saw her. She was real. She was there, just as pale and bewildered as he was. She was staring at him, her expression unreadable. He made a brave attempt at a smile, but knew it was pointless. In this room, in this situation, a smile was no use.

  ‘Hello, Vanja,’ he said as casually as he could.

  She didn’t reply. She walked over to the chair opposite him, but remained standing. For a second Valdemar wondered if he could refuse to see her, if he could ask the guard to take him back to his cell. Perhaps that would make things easier.

  For her.

  Not for him.