The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  He moved as quietly as he could to the room where she lay sleeping. The door was closed, and he pressed his ear to the white-painted wood. Nothing. He went back to the kitchen and filled a glass with water for her; if she was awake she was bound to be thirsty. She’d drunk quite a bit.

  He opened the door slowly and stepped into the little room. It was dark; the only light came from the hallway behind him.

  She seemed to be asleep. He could just make out the contours of her body under the duvet and her hair on the pillow. Her face was turned away from him. He moved forward and closed the door behind him. It was stuffy, the air redolent of sweat and alcohol, the characteristic smell of a hangover. But it also smelled of a human being. It was wonderful. It was a pleasant room, if a little narrow. Pale blue wallpaper, a stylish white Rococo-style chest and desk, and a bed with a solid metal frame. Lily had bought everything at an auction in Norrtälje, lovely pieces that went so well together. Especially with a living breathing person in the room.

  Sebastian carefully picked up the desk chair and sat down next to the bed. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. Her breathing was regular and even. One foot was sticking out from under the duvet; she had kept her white ankle socks on. He smiled to himself; suddenly he could see the child in her. He wanted to tuck her in; he felt like the father he had never been to her.

  The father he was going to be.

  He wanted to sit there until the dawn found its way in through the curtains and touched her blonde hair, he wanted to see her when she woke up and looked around. But he realised that would come across as weird and scary. He put down the glass of water on the bedside table and sat back in his chair.

  Sabine suddenly came to him.

  Sebastian hadn’t sat by her bed very often. Back then he hadn’t known how fragile life was; he had taken everything for granted. He did remember a time when Sabine had had a tummy bug, and he and Lily had argued about who should sit with her. He had been arrogant, thinking that Lily was exaggerating the risk of their daughter choking on her own vomit in her sleep, but he had eventually given in. They had divided the night between them, and he had taken the early hours of the morning.

  Just like now.

  He was watching over his daughter once more, but this time he wasn’t annoyed. This time he understood that we have to love our children when we have them.

  Not when we think we’re going to have them.

  The present was everything.

  That was the secret.

  Suddenly he had an idea. He got up carefully, leaned over and gently moved her hair to one side. Her forehead was soft and warm to his touch. He kissed it gently. Brushed it with his lips. He felt a little embarrassed, and straightened up. Perhaps he should leave? He probably ought to be a little more careful now that she had come to see him, started to like him, but it was difficult. Almost impossible. There was nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child. He walked over to the door, opened it, then turned and looked back at her. She began to move.

  ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘I just brought you a glass of water,’ he whispered.

  She obviously hadn’t felt the kiss, otherwise her tone would have been significantly sharper.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost five. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Mmm. It’s an important day today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think I’ll hear about the FBI today. Or tomorrow.’

  Sebastian stiffened.

  ‘You’re still intending to go? After everything that’s happened?’

  ‘That’s exactly why I’m going to go. Good night.’

  He saw her face for a second before she turned over.

  ‘Good night.’

  So it had been nothing more than a dream after all. She would never sleep in his guest room again.

  She was going to go away.

  He was going to lose her once more.

  Anitha Lund got to work early. As always. She was there before most people had sat down to breakfast. Before they got out of bed, in fact. She usually arrived at five thirty, which meant she could avoid the company of her colleagues for at least two hours. She would start her morning by enjoying a coffee with milk in the empty kitchen on the third floor. In the past, when she was in a position of authority, she had had her own office in which to drink her coffee, but now her desk was among the ordinary mortals, it was only from the kitchen that she had a decent view. She sat there looking down on Kungsholmen. For a long time Anitha had sneaked into the new boss’s office to drink her morning coffee, but she had been caught one day a little while ago, and she didn’t dare risk it any more.

  At about six she went to her desk. She sorted through the new applications that had come in, which took around half an hour. With most of the day’s work under her belt, she could get on with what she enjoyed most: surfing. Searching the net for nonsense. Checking out Flashback and writing posts about everything from immigration to celebs’ love lives. That was her real job. She did what she had to do for thirty minutes in the morning and a little while in the middle of the day in order to get paid, nothing else. At first her minimal workload had felt limited and humiliating, but once she had discovered Flashback and the other gossip sites, it suddenly became a positive asset.

  As she was passing Joakim’s office – which he shared with Viktor, who was far too stylish to be straight – she saw that his computer was on. Careless. The new directive stated that all computers must be closed down at the end of the working day, for both security and energy-saving reasons. Typical Joakim; he always thought he was above the rules. But it could be useful. Anitha glanced around; the office was still deserted. Joakim never arrived before eight thirty, and Viktor was on a course this week. She had at least half an hour, which would give her time to see if Mr Investigation Today was on to something. That had been her plan all along: not to help Lennart, but to look into what he had told her, and to see if she could benefit from that information.

  Anitha sat down at Joakim’s desk and unfolded the sheet of paper Lennart had given her. Hamid Khan and Said Balkhi. Immigrants. New Swedes. Enriching our culture, as she put it on Flashback. Typical Swedish Television, always so fucking politically correct, always ready to expose injustice as long as the exposure carried the right values. They said they were on the side of the little man, but that was crap. They didn’t want to know the truth, because the truth hurt. The truth was that Sweden was being destroyed by all these new people who were pouring in. Anitha had no doubts about that whatsoever.

  She brought up the log-in box, wondered whose name to use. She had four favourites, all older bosses whose passwords and log-in details she had acquired. The question was, who would attract the least attention? She knew that three things were registered when anyone searched the database: the time, the computer’s unique IP address, and the name of the person who had logged in.

  She couldn’t do much about the time; perhaps she ought to wait until after lunch when there would be more people in the building, but as the other two variables couldn’t be traced back to her, she decided to risk it. She opted for Gunnar Bengtsson; he worked on the floor above, and usually got in early. It might seem odd that he was using Joakim’s computer, but Anitha didn’t care; that would be up to Gunnar to explain.

  They were supposed to change passwords every ninety days, but Gunnar simply added a number to the name of his dog: Molly1, Molly2 and so on. He was up to Molly14 at the moment. The system accepted the password and she was in. There were more and more discussions about security, more and more routines, and she couldn’t understand why no one checked whether passwords were dynamic and made sure they were actually changed. Not that she was about to point out the weaknesses of the system. She felt daring and full of life; this was the moment she loved. She clicked on the search function.

  There were two references to Hamid Khan and Said Balkhi. The first was a report from the Solna police confirming that the two men were missing on 3 Augu
st 2003, and that according to the Immigration Board there was good reason to believe that they had disappeared of their own accord due to the risk of deportation. The report included personal details of the two men – nothing odd about that. There was no further information on the search, so Anitha couldn’t tell how much effort the police had actually put in. The next note was more interesting. It had been added just over a week later, and stated that the case had been handed over to Säpo.

  That was all.

  Anitha tried to get into the file to see if there were any more details, but nothing came up. She stiffened and looked around. She thought she was still alone, but got up and went over to the door just to check. The office was still silent and deserted. Anitha sat down and concentrated on the screen again. Something wasn’t right. According to the regulations, there should be the name of at least one responsible individual who could be contacted, even if the information itself was classified or deemed sensitive for some reason. But there was nothing, which was definitely against the rules. The whole idea was that the system should be clear and, for those with the right security classification, searchable. It should always be possible to pass on any questions that might arise, but in this particular case that couldn’t be done. Anitha wasn’t entirely familiar with Säpo’s routines, so perhaps there was a simple explanation. Or perhaps there was an even simpler explanation, which seemed more likely to Anitha.

  They were hiding something.

  Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that Mr Investigation Today was interested.

  She went back to the main menu, searched for both men’s ID numbers, both separately and together to see if there were any further notes. Nothing. The same two files came up again. She thought for a moment; she needed something more to work on. She wrote down the name of the investigating officer in Solna from the first document: Inspector Eva Gransäter. Anitha wasn’t sure about the best way to approach her, and she probably wouldn’t say anything, but it was important to be meticulous, particularly when there was so little to go on.

  Just as she was about to log out, she remembered there was one more thing she could check: the date on the notes. That might be useful; the system was constructed so that the date and time were automatically recorded every time a file was updated or new information was added. Perhaps the same applied when something was removed; it was worth checking.

  She clicked on the second file and double-clicked on the date function. A small white box containing several numbers appeared on the screen; she read them and smiled. She was good. They could treat her like shit, but when it really mattered she could find what others had tried to hide.

  The file that had been created on 12 August 2003, stating that Säpo had taken over the case, had been edited yesterday.

  She couldn’t tell what had been removed, or who had done it. But yesterday someone had found it necessary to delete information from a file that had been untouched since 12 August 2003.

  This was no ordinary case of an asylum seeker going missing because of the threat of deportation. This was something else. Something bigger.

  Much bigger.

  She could spend hours on this, a small task among all the other small tasks that gilded her days.

  Now she had something to do. The only question was how to proceed.

  Cold and clear, a beautiful day.

  That was how the ever-smiling Klara had greeted him when they met in the corridor. Torkel hadn’t given the weather a thought; he had other things on his mind this morning.

  First of all, Yvonne had called.

  ‘I see you’re up in the mountains,’ she had said. ‘Will you be back at the weekend?’

  Torkel immediately knew why she was asking; she and Kristoffer were off to Finland, Friday to Sunday. Just the two of them – a romantic weekend, presumably. It had been arranged since August, and the girls were coming to stay with him. Unless of course he was sitting in a godforsaken mountain hotel in Jämtland. He ran his hand wearily over his face, realised he needed a shave.

  ‘I don’t know, and even if I’m home I’m not sure how much time I’ll need to spend working.’

  ‘OK, that’s what I thought. I’ll sort things out with someone else.’

  No accusation or disappointment in her voice, just a statement of fact. A problem that needed to be solved. She was good, Yvonne, he thought warmly. She made his life easier.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know. The girls had been looking forward to spending some time with you.’

  Torkel knew that wasn’t meant to make him feel guilty either, but it did.

  ‘I’ll talk to them, see if we can come up with something.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Torkel glanced at his watch. ‘Are they home now?’

  ‘No, they’ve gone to school.’

  ‘I’ll call this evening.’

  ‘Good.’

  There wasn’t really much more to say; the practical issue had been resolved, and yet somehow Torkel didn’t want to end the call.

  ‘So, is everything OK?’ he said casually.

  ‘Fine – busy, of course, with the two of them at different schools, and Elin’s got herself a boyfriend.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, his name is Erik. They’ve been together for a few weeks; he’s in her class.’

  Her class was HT12, the Hotel and Tourism course Elin had embarked on at the John Bauer High School in August. A decision she hadn’t discussed with her father. When Torkel found out what her plans were, he had gone online to find out more. He wasn’t impressed. ‘After completing the course you will be able to work as a receptionist, an events or conference coordinator, or within the catering industry, for example,’ he had read. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed; he had hoped that Elin would aim higher than a receptionist or waitress. However, he hadn’t said a word; he had no right to question her choice when he hadn’t been party to the discussions leading up to her decision. They had a good relationship, but recently whenever he had expressed an opinion or wondered about something Elin had done, the response had been ‘Well, if you were more involved you would have known.’ It was painful, but the truth sometimes hurt. He decided to be entirely positive about the boyfriend when he spoke to her later.

  ‘Have you met him?’ he asked Yvonne.

  ‘Yes, he seems really nice. He stayed over last weekend.’

  ‘Stayed over?’

  ‘Yes, on Friday night.’

  Torkel was on the point of asking about separate rooms, but knew he would come across as hopelessly old-fashioned yet again. Most of his views these days were treated as if he had a prehistoric perspective on life in general.

  ‘Shouldn’t we have . . . rules about that kind of thing?’ he said instead.

  ‘We have. They’re only allowed to stay over with one another at weekends, not when they have school the next day.’

  He hadn’t really been asking what the rules were, but because he thought he ought to have been consulted; however, he knew that Elin considered that she lived with Yvonne, and therefore her rules were the ones that counted.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘She’ll be seventeen in three months, Torkel.’ Yvonne had obviously worked out exactly what he was thinking from that one word.

  ‘I know. I just feel shut out.’

  ‘There’s only one person who can change that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The girls will tell you things if you ask.’

  ‘I know,’ he said yet again, even though he didn’t necessarily think that was true. As the girls grew up he found it more and more difficult to be a natural part of their lives, to move beyond the basic questions about how they were getting on at school, how their courses were going. He wasn’t sure how to deepen the conversation, ask about what really mattered. What they were thinking, what they were feeling, their plans and dreams. They no longer shared their thoughts spontaneously as they had when they were younger; back then he had sometime
s been on the point of asking them to shut up because there was so much they wanted to tell him. Paradoxically, it seemed as if the more time passed, the less he knew about them. His fault, of course – that kind of communication has to be maintained in order to work.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Yvonne said, to his relief.

  ‘Me too, I’d better get down to work . . .’

  ‘Ring the girls tonight.’

  ‘I will. Bye.’

  He ended the call and sat with the phone in his hand for a while, then went into the bathroom to shave. It immediately rang again.

  ‘Börje from IPO, did I wake you?’ said a cheerful voice when Torkel answered.

  ‘No, I’ve been up for a while.’ Torkel sat down and pulled a notepad towards him. ‘Any luck?’

  Not much, as it turned out. Or, to be more accurate, none at all when it came to Patricia Wellton. According to the US authorities there had never been a female of that name born at that time who was a citizen of the USA or who had a US driver’s licence.

  Perhaps it was just an alias she used overseas, Torkel thought as Börje went on.

  They had had more success with Liz McGordon. They weren’t exactly drowning in information, but there were five references to her, all concerned with leaving or entering the USA. The first was in April 2001, the second the following year, and the last in 2003.

  ‘She left the country on 28 October,’ Börje said, ‘but there’s no record of her having returned. It seems as if she didn’t exist within the USA; there’s nothing anywhere apart from those trips.’

  ‘She probably had a different name when she was in the country,’ Torkel said; he decided to be honest with Börje. They had known each other a long time, and he knew the information would go no further. ‘We think Patricia Wellton and Liz McGordon were the same person.’