The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  Sebastian was in full flow, clearing the apartment of everything that reminded him of Ellinor. He had thrown away the flowers on the table, followed by all those peculiar candles that smelled of strawberries or vanilla that she insisted on buying. Now he was in the living room, folding up the crocheted mats that adorned every flat surface. He wanted a clear space, no handcrafted crap under stupid little china figurines. Ellinor had bought most of the stuff he was getting rid of, but there were a few bits and pieces he recognised. She must have gone through every cupboard, searching for something to ‘brighten up’ his apartment. The familiar items reminded him of Lily. She hadn’t been quite so ‘modern and design-orientated’ – the words Ellinor used to describe herself – but she had tried to make the place more welcoming and homely.

  Sebastian pushed aside thoughts of Lily; nothing good ever came of going back to those days. He focused on Ellinor instead. He wasn’t feeling quite so worried now; if Ellinor was somehow behind Valdemar’s problems with the police, an awful lot of things would have to go badly wrong before anyone could make a connection with him.

  The doorbell rang. Sebastian stopped in the middle of folding a large white cloth. Speak of the devil, he thought. Ellinor. No one else would call round at this time of the night. In fact, come to think of it, no one else would call round at any time.

  He thought about keeping quiet until she went away. It would work, no doubt, but she would come back, over and over again. Besides which, it was a bit cowardly. Better to show her how little she meant to him, prove that he had not only removed her from his apartment, but from his life.

  The doorbell rang again. He had no intention of letting her in, so she wouldn’t actually see how much of her he had cleared away. He would have to make do with annoying her from a distance, letting her know that he was in, but was determined to ignore her. He went over to the radio and switched it on. Smooth Radio 104.7. Her favourite station. Sebastian smiled to himself. It would drive her crazy to know that he was listening to ‘her’ station when she couldn’t get in. He turned up the volume. Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’. The gods were on his side; Ellinor loved that song. He turned the volume as loud as it would go, until the music was reverberating through the whole apartment. He was sure it could be heard in the stairwell. Celine was really going for it. Sebastian sat down in the nearest armchair, leaned back and closed his eyes. He would have liked to close his ears too; he felt as if listening to this banal pap was shortening his life. He couldn’t hear anything from the door, but assumed Ellinor was still there. She wouldn’t give up that easily. He decided to join in the chorus to emphasise his presence in the apartment. He was a little hesitant at first; he hadn’t sung since he was a teenager, and very little even then, but now he threw himself into the experience. No doubt it sounded appalling, but he didn’t care; his main aim was to annoy Ellinor. He joined in at the top of his voice.

  Eventually the music stopped. In the silence that followed he heard the doorbell yet again. Oh, this was wonderful! Another song came on; Sebastian didn’t recognise it, but he hoped it was about lost love.

  Heartbreak and lost love.

  Then again, was that open to misinterpretation? Sebastian sat bolt upright. What if Ellinor thought he was sitting there all alone, playing her favourite music and singing along because he missed her? If that was the case she would never leave. She would kick the bloody door down, rush in like a knight in shining armour to save him from his lonely life. He got up so fast that he felt quite dizzy, and more or less staggered across the room to switch off the radio.

  ‘Sebastian, what are you doing?’ he heard from the other side of the door. He stiffened. Listened hard. Went cold inside. That wasn’t Ellinor’s voice. It was Vanja’s.

  ‘I’m coming!’ he yelled. He stopped just before he opened the door, suddenly unsure; was it really Vanja? Could he have misheard? After all, Celine had abused his eardrums for a good three minutes.

  ‘Is that you, Vanja?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Yes,’ the answer came immediately.

  It was Vanja. Outside his door. He opened it as fast as he could, but his smile faded when he saw her. It was Vanja, and yet it wasn’t. She looked pale and pitiful.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked with genuine concern in his voice. She looked like shit, to be honest.

  ‘I need someone to talk to.’

  And you chose me.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, stepping to one side. She came into the hallway, her face shiny with perspiration.

  Of all the people in the world, you chose me when you needed someone to talk to.

  Sebastian had to make a real effort to stop himself from breaking into a smile. That definitely wasn’t what she needed right now; certainly not a smug, self-satisfied smile at any rate. He put on his serious, concerned face instead.

  ‘You’re always welcome here. How are you feeling?’

  She stared at him, her expression both curious and puzzled.

  ‘What were you doing when I rang the bell?’

  Sebastian didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I was . . . er . . . I was cleaning.’

  Vanja raised her eyebrows, then she smiled. Perhaps smiles weren’t forbidden after all.

  ‘You sing when you’re cleaning?’

  He had to nod. What was he supposed to do – tell the truth? That he wanted to torment his ex-girlfriend, who might be responsible for putting Vanja’s father in jail? That wouldn’t go down too well.

  ‘You surprise me,’ she said, managing to keep her tone light. ‘I thought you’d have a cleaner. And that you’d be sleeping with her.’

  The small talk seemed to be working, calming her down. So he carried on – anything to make her feel better, anything to make her stay. He needed to know what had happened.

  ‘The music helps me to relax.’

  ‘Celine Dion?’

  ‘Yes, she’s good when you’re cleaning.’ He ventured a smile. ‘Don’t you have any little quirks?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t sing quite so loudly.’

  He flung his arms wide. ‘You know me, always over the top. Come on in.’

  He led the way into the apartment. He could see that some of her normal colour had returned as she looked around with a curiosity he recognised only too well.

  ‘I didn’t know you had such a big place,’ she said, unable to hide the fact that she was impressed.

  ‘As I said, always over the top.’

  ‘Well, if you can afford it, why not.’

  ‘I used to earn good money once upon a time. Come and sit down.’

  He showed her into the living room. The sofa under the large window looked welcoming. Ellinor had moved it there against his will, but he suddenly realised that it made the room look more spacious; it could stay there.

  ‘I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’

  Vanja shook her head. ‘Water’s fine.’

  She sat down on the sofa. Sebastian went into the kitchen, took out a big jug and put in lots of ice, then added slices of lemon. Something else Ellinor had insisted on, which now felt right. He wanted to make as good an impression as possible. He wanted to be someone Vanja came to in the future when she needed to talk. He filled the jug, picked up two glasses and went back into the living room.

  He was struck by how small she looked. Small and vulnerable, with her arms tightly folded across her chest, her expression tense and serious. The brief relaxation she seemed to have felt in the hallway had disappeared. Sebastian sat down opposite her and tried to look as supportive as possible. He poured them each a glass of water, took a sip and waited for a moment before he spoke. He knew that was the best way to go. The other person in a situation like this often interpreted silence as sincerity. It made them feel that the listener had time, and would therefore take what they wanted to say extremely seriously.

  ‘Is this about Valdemar?’ he said eventually.

  Vanja gave an almost imperceptible nod.

>   ‘Have you seen him?’

  She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘There’s no rush. I’ve got all the time in the world, and there’s plenty of water in the tap.’

  She looked at him gratefully. ‘I went to see him. In Kronoberg.’

  ‘Has he been arrested?’

  ‘Remanded in custody.’

  Sebastian nodded sympathetically.

  ‘What’s he suspected of?’

  ‘Embezzlement, fraud, tax evasion . . .’ She gave a little shrug to show that she couldn’t bring herself to go through the entire list. ‘He’s guilty,’ she said, meeting Sebastian’s gaze.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She gave a single nod. He could see that she wished with all her heart that it wasn’t so.

  ‘I don’t understand any of this. Apparently the Economic Crime Authority have investigated him before. They didn’t pursue the case, but now they’ve managed to link him to Daktea.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Fresh evidence.’

  The cold shiver down Sebastian’s spine came back, accompanied by a slight stomach cramp.

  The Economic Crime Authority.

  Fresh evidence.

  Daktea.

  Ellinor. There was no other explanation. It didn’t necessarily mean the trail would lead back to him, but he needed time to think – which he didn’t have right now. He realised he hadn’t said anything for a while; he hoped Vanja would think he was upset on her behalf, not that he was pondering on his own culpability.

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ he managed to say. ‘Do you know what they’ve found?’ he went on, hoping for some detail that would exonerate him.

  ‘No. The prosecutor is Stig Wennberg, and the investigating officer is Ingrid Ericsson. Do you know either of them?’

  ‘I’ve heard of Wennberg.’ Sebastian got to his feet. He felt torn. Part of him wanted to dance on the table. The other part was worried sick.

  His plan to knock Valdemar Lithner off his pedestal, the task he had given Trolle Hermansson, had come to fruition, and it seemed to be working far better than he could possibly have hoped. In a way this was fantastic news. As long as nothing could be traced back to him. He would clamber up onto the pedestal, Valdemar would be brought down. Crushed. Now he had to tread carefully, make sure the dream became a reality. Sebastian started gently.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a good explanation. He’s a financial adviser, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe he’s been dragged into something without really understanding it. And economic crimes are notoriously difficult to prove.’

  Not with the evidence Trolle put together.

  He had gone through the material himself, although it seemed like a lifetime ago. There were extracts from overseas accounts with names and dates. There was clear evidence of where the money had actually gone. Payments to the fall guys. The whole lot. Valdemar was toast.

  Sebastian sat down again and leaned forward. Gave Vanja the best advice he could come up with.

  ‘You have to help him. Whether he’s guilty or not – you know that.’

  She nodded, and the tears spilled over. Sebastian could feel her pain.

  He was so happy.

  He shouldn’t be feeling like this.

  ‘Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tell me?’ she suddenly burst out.

  ‘I suppose he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.’

  ‘Why not? He’s my father!’

  Not for much longer.

  ‘A lot of people behave that way,’ Sebastian said calmly as he got up to fetch her a tissue or something. ‘He’s probably terrified of losing you.’

  He fell silent. Was he in danger of making Valdemar too human? Was he being too understanding? He had to get this right. He knew he mustn’t be too critical of Valdemar; after all, she hadn’t stopped loving her father. Quite the reverse – it was because of her love for him that she felt so let down. That was why she was sitting here, and he must never forget that. Never.

  Vanja loved Valdemar.

  Even though Sebastian would have liked to trample all over Valdemar, he couldn’t do it too overtly. On the other hand, he couldn’t be too gentle and understanding, because then Vanja might want to forgive her father. He had to strike a balance, keeping his long-term goal in mind. The key was to increase the distance between them, work on the crack that had appeared in their relationship, widening it little by little. He would need to use all his skills to win her over. Right now she was furious and disappointed, but there would be times when she just wanted Valdemar back, and that was when Sebastian had to make her choose him instead.

  ‘I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me,’ Vanja sobbed. ‘That’s what makes me so angry. He lied to me.’

  Sebastian came back with a serviette that he had found in one of the drawers. Vanja dried her cheeks and noisily blew her nose. Sebastian sat down on the sofa beside her this time. He needed to depersonalise Valdemar, gradually turn him into a symbol. People found it easier to kill off symbols. That was the secret behind the political desire to generalise ethnic groups and sections of the populace. Faceless groups were easier to dislike. Gypsies, homosexuals, Jews and . . . criminals. He had to get Vanja to regard Valdemar as a criminal rather than her father. It wouldn’t be easy, but if anyone could pull it off it was Sebastian Bergman. He was confident, but he had to get closer to her, become more human as Valdemar became less so. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I used to have a daughter,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘What?’ Vanja looked at him in surprise, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

  ‘With Lily, my wife. I haven’t told anyone else.’

  Vanja was staring at him.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She died. In the tsunami. She was four years old.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘I was holding her hand when the wave came, but I let go. She was torn away from me.’ He gazed at her with all the warmth he could muster. ‘So I know what it’s like to lose someone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sebastian.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He took her hand. She let him.

  When she arrived, he was a colleague.

  Now he was a grieving father.

  It was a step in the right direction.

  They had told Eyer they had to go out for a while, and left him watching TV. First of all he had wondered where they were going, and then he had wanted to go with them, but Mehran had been very firm with his little brother and told him he was staying at home. There was something Mum and Mehran needed to do.

  Alone.

  Shibeka was just as surprised as Eyer at Mehran’s new tone, which brooked no disagreement. It certainly worked; Eyer curled up on the sofa without asking any more questions. Mehran looked at his mother.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, leading the way.

  She didn’t even have time to answer, she simply followed him. She would really have liked to go and see Said’s wife Melika on her own; this was going to be a difficult conversation. However, when she told Mehran that she needed to talk to Melika because Lennart Stridh wanted to meet her, he had been just as decisive as he had been with Eyer. From now on, they were doing this together. He was going to be involved in everything she did, at least if it concerned Hamid and that journalist. There was nothing to discuss. It was the two of them now. She was proud of the way he had suddenly stepped up and taken responsibility, but at the same time she couldn’t help feeling that he no longer trusted her, which was a terrible thought. She had only ever wanted to put things right, and to find out what had happened to Hamid – for the children’s sake as much as her own.

  They walked in silence through the chilly autumn evening. It had grown much colder as soon as the sun went down. Winter was still a couple of months away, but it felt as if the cold would come early this year. They turned left and cut across the slopes between the huge apar
tment blocks. Melika and her son lived at the other end of the urban sprawl known as Rinkeby, and it would take about fifteen minutes to get there. Shibeka didn’t see Melika very often these days. At the beginning, just after their husbands went missing, they used to meet up all the time, but now it was as if they reminded one another too much of what they had lost, and the mutual support that had been so important had metamorphosed into endless discussions about right and wrong. Another issue was that Melika hadn’t had a visit from any Swedish official after the disappearance, apart from a uniformed police officer, and when Shibeka first mentioned it, they fell out. Melika thought that Shibeka was imagining conspiracies all over the place, while Shibeka thought that Melika was refusing to see the various possibilities they had to investigate.

  They had reacted so differently to their grief. For Melika it was as if the new country was to blame, and she withdrew, leaning heavily on the values of her homeland. Shibeka, on the other hand, became very active. She learned more Swedish, got a job, started writing letters and calling the authorities. She didn’t want to withdraw, she wanted answers. But perhaps they weren’t all that different. They were both women who refused to give up; perhaps that was the source of the friction between them. They had made different choices, and were determined to defend those choices. Too determined, Shibeka sometimes felt.

  As they approached Melika’s blue-grey tower block, Shibeka felt a pain in her belly. Could this really work? Shouldn’t she ask Mehran to wait outside? That would make things easier. They stopped at the door. Mehran turned and looked at her, then pointed to a few abandoned swings in the small play area to the left of the block.

  ‘Dad brought me here just a few days before he disappeared.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s probably why I hardly ever come here now.’

  Shibeka nodded. Mehran looked up at the building; there were lights on in most of the windows.

  ‘She’s not going to like this,’ he said as if he had read his mother’s mind.