The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to get a DNA sample from a close relative of each family so that we can run a comparison.’

  ‘Do we really think it could be any of them?’ Torkel couldn’t help sounding sceptical. ‘I mean, none of them went missing at the relevant time.’

  ‘I know, but I want to be able to rule them out completely.’

  Torkel nodded to himself. Of course she did. Ursula left nothing to chance; that was how you became the best.

  ‘I’ll put Billy and Jennifer on it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Torkel said before she ended the call. ‘If you don’t find anything in particular in those rucksacks, we’re going back to Stockholm tonight.’

  ‘At last.’

  And she was gone.

  Ursula put away her phone and went back to the grubby rucksack on the table in front of her. She sliced along the zip and slipped her hand inside the pocket. Something hard. Rectangular. Wrapped in plastic. Two plastic bags, as it turned out. Even before she had removed the second bag, she thought she knew what she had found. A small, slim digital camera. The battery had run down long ago, of course, but the cover of the memory card slot was closed, and appeared to be undamaged. Ursula had no idea what happened to pictures on a memory card if they were wrapped in plastic and buried for ten years, but she knew who to ask. This time she didn’t call; she went to find Billy.

  Shibeka Khan made a very good impression: she spoke clearly and strongly, and her Swedish was virtually fluent, with a wide vocabulary. Linda felt quite excited, sitting there on the sofa with the woman she had heard so much about from Lennart. On the other side of her was the boy who had let them in; apparently he was Shibeka’s elder son. He hadn’t spoken since he sat down, but he was following every word, every movement with his watchful brown eyes. Linda and Shibeka began with a few polite remarks; Linda thanked them all for giving her the opportunity to speak to them. Shibeka was friendly and welcoming, said how pleased she was that they had come, but the other woman, Melika, somewhat younger and plumper than Shibeka, was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. It was obvious from her rigid posture and the brief sentences she occasionally uttered in her mother tongue. Linda didn’t need to understand the language to know that this interview wasn’t going to be easy. The fact that Melika’s Swedish was negligible, meaning that everything that was said had to be interpreted by Shibeka, made it even more difficult for Linda to get past Melika’s defences and build a relationship. Pashto was a beautiful language, and Linda tried to look at Melika with interest and understanding while Shibeka was translating her questions. They chatted for a while about the weather and about how they were enjoying life in Sweden. Swedish became Pashto, then Swedish again. Melika seemed to be softening; it was impossible to be sure, but at least she nodded a few times and was no longer turning away from Linda.

  It was important that this went well. She was quite sure that Lennart didn’t want her here; he was one of the best journalists she knew, but he was a real lone wolf, so this was something special. She had been so proud when he asked her to come with him, and she wanted him to realise she was a valuable resource, not his enemy.

  ‘How many children do you have, Melika?’ she asked.

  ‘She has one son, he is eight years old now,’ came the answer via Shibeka.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Ali.’

  Linda nodded. ‘So he never met his father?’

  She understood the answer before Shibeka spoke; Melika shook her head.

  ‘No, he was born in November that year.’

  So sad. They were about the same age, she and Melika; Linda would be thirty-one in November. Her cat had died three years ago; that was the worst thing that had happened to her. Melika had lost her husband when she was pregnant, and had brought up her son alone. They might be about the same age, but their lives were as different as they could possibly be.

  ‘That must have been very difficult,’ Linda said sincerely. ‘Do you mind if I ask a few more questions about your husband?’

  ‘She doesn’t understand why,’ Shibeka said when Melika had finished shaking her head.

  ‘We want to see if we can help you find out what happened. That’s why we’re here. To help you.’

  Shibeka spoke a few words to Melika in the beautiful language; Melika’s response sounded hostile. Shibeka looked slightly embarrassed.

  ‘She wonders how you could possibly help her.’

  Linda nodded; she had no intention of giving up yet. She had to find a way to reach this woman, who seemed determined not to let her in.

  ‘We’re trying to find out the truth.’

  Linda reinforced her words with a little smile, but she got nothing back. Shibeka turned to her, looking disappointed.

  ‘How would the truth help us, she asks. Would it bring them back?’ Shibeka said, and added: ‘I’m sorry, she’s not feeling very positive about this.’

  ‘No problem, I understand. But wouldn’t it be better to know than not to know?’

  ‘She doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Doesn’t she want to know what happened?’

  ‘No. She already knows. He came to Sweden. He worked hard. He was honourable. He was a good man. He still disappeared.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we want to find out the truth, precisely because he was a good man.’

  Pashto again. Linda sat back and tried to look calm. Curiosity wasn’t helpful; she had to be composed, dignified. She didn’t speak Pashto, so her body language was all the more important. Something Shibeka had said seemed to be working; Melika’s tone was more musical, less spiky this time.

  ‘She says you can ask.’

  Linda glanced down at her notes.

  ‘Said had a residence permit, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He owned a shop?’

  ‘He was in partnership with two of Melika’s cousins. Said was supposed to close up that night, but he never came home.’

  ‘And the cousins don’t know anything?’

  Shibeka shook her head.

  ‘I asked them myself. They had left a few hours earlier.’

  ‘Could you ask Melika, please? I’d like to hear it from her.’

  The reply came straight back.

  ‘She says the same thing.’

  ‘No problems with money, or anything else?’

  Melika smiled when she understood the question; Shibeka was smiling too.

  ‘Things were going well for Said,’ Shibeka explained. ‘Very well, in fact. He was conscientious and hardworking.’

  Linda smiled back, but she was beginning to feel frustrated. It was a pleasant chat, but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She needed to sharpen up her questions.

  ‘Did a man come to see her and ask about Said a week or so later? I believe someone came to see you.’

  ‘She says no. No one came.’

  Linda nodded.

  But that’s not all she said, Mehran thought, staring at Melika. He had sat in silence listening to the conversation with his pulse rate increasing. Melika’s tone of voice altered as soon as the questions became sensitive. He thought his mother had noticed the difference too.

  He was convinced that Melika was lying. Someone had come round to see her, he was sure of it. He joined in the discussion.

  ‘What about Joseph? Do you recognise that name, Melika?’ he asked her in Pashto. Melika turned to face him, looking scared.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ Linda wanted to know.

  Mehran ignored the Swedish woman and glared at his mother.

  ‘Do not translate! This is just between us.’

  A different Melika from the one he knew was facing him now, a woman who definitely didn’t want to be there. She more or less hissed at him: ‘I don’t know him. I’ve never heard that name.’

  She was lying again.

  ‘Said knew him; I already know that. Tell the truth. Not to her,’ Mehran said, noddin
g at Linda. ‘To us.’

  Melika shook her head angrily.

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know any Joseph!’

  They all fell silent. Linda was confused.

  ‘Can someone please tell me what she said?’

  Shibeka was about to speak, but Mehran got there first.

  ‘She says she doesn’t want to talk any more.’

  Linda spread her arms wide. ‘But why not?’

  ‘That’s what she says,’ Mehran said, getting to his feet. ‘So we’re done here.’

  Linda stared at him.

  ‘But we’ve hardly started.’

  Mehran could understand her frustration. She realised that something had happened, but she had no idea what it might be.

  The truth would come. Not to the blonde woman his mother had just been talking to. Not to the man sitting in the kitchen. It would come to him.

  Joseph.

  Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe was sitting in his little office on the sixth floor of the National Police Board Headquarters completing the final assessments when someone tapped on the door frame. Håkan held up one hand and took his time finishing off the sentence he was writing before he turned around, wearing an expression that he hoped would indicate how busy he was. It was a waste of time.

  Whatever his intentions were, his face showed nothing but complete surprise when he saw who was standing there.

  Sebastian Bergman.

  Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe could easily come up with a hundred people who would be more likely to drop in on him, including the king and Meg Ryan – in fact he had secretly been hoping she would knock on his door ever since he saw When Harry Met Sally in 1989.

  ‘Morning, how’s it going?’ Sebastian said, as if he was in the habit of popping in for a chat. In fact it was several years since they had seen one another; more than ten, Håkan thought.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  He couldn’t keep the surprise or anger out of his voice.

  ‘Can I come in for a minute?’ Sebastian said as he walked in without waiting for the ‘no’ that was bound to follow. He removed a pile of papers and folders from a chair and sat down.

  Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe contemplated the man who had just invited himself into his office with distaste. Typical.

  Sebastian Bergman wanted to come in and sit down.

  Sebastian Bergman came in and sat down.

  Without giving a thought to whether it was convenient, whether he was disturbing Håkan, whether Håkan wanted a visitor or not. Nothing had changed over the past ten years. The universe still revolved around Sebastian Bergman, apparently.

  Back in the day they had actually spoken quite often. They were roughly the same age, had a similar educational background, and worked within the same organisation. It would have been an exaggeration to say they were friends, but they had had a professional relationship based on mutual respect, or so Håkan had thought.

  In 1999 Sebastian had been at the top of his game. His two books on Edward Hinde had brought him a great deal of acclaim – well deserved, in Håkan’s opinion. Sebastian had become a real authority in his field, someone who appeared on the news and on the sofa during daytime TV programmes to explain the most brutal crimes and to give an insight into the character of those behind such events. Since Sebastian had taken a step back from public appearances, that role had been taken over by Leif G.W. Persson, but it could have been Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe sitting there shedding light on terrible crimes, his voice full of confidence.

  Should have been.

  Would have been.

  But for Sebastian Bergman.

  In 1998 Sebastian moved to Germany, to Cologne as far as Håkan recalled, leaving the door wide open for a successor.

  Only a month or so later the bodies of three girls were found in a mine outside Sala. The old shafts had been closed since the 1950s, and the council decided to open them up to the public. When they went down to carry out safety checks, the macabre discovery was made. Three teenage girls were sitting there surrounded by cushions, cuddly toys and burnt-out candles. Forensic tests revealed almost right away that the girls had died as a result of poison, ingested orally. A floral Thermos containing the remains of poisoned tea was found at the scene, and there was a cup by the side of each girl.

  Sebastian was away, leaving a vacuum in the media that had to be filled. Håkan Persson Riddarstolpe, then as now employed by the National Police Board, saw his opportunity. It would have been foolish to ignore it. The case attracted an enormous amount of publicity, and there was a need for someone to explain what had driven three girls, admittedly fairly solitary and ‘alternative’ characters, to make a joint decision to end their lives in an old abandoned mine.

  Håkan was the man who could meet that need.

  Suddenly he wasn’t just an expert in ritual and collective suicide, but also, in his capacity as a psychologist, well versed in topics such as the vulnerability of young women and the increasing demands placed upon them by society. Soon he found himself in TV studios and on the radio holding forth about the fixation with one’s appearance, skewed norms, the growing pressure to achieve, and low self-esteem. He was exactly where he wanted to be, where he ought to be.

  Until Sebastian Bergman decided to come back from Germany.

  Afterwards Håkan tried to find a reason for his colleague’s return, but there didn’t seem to be one – except that Sebastian wanted to put him in his place.

  Which he did, and then some.

  After spending only one day in Sala he announced that the three girls had been murdered, and hours later forensics confirmed his conclusions when they carried out a second examination and found signs that external force had been used to administer the poison. Riksmord was brought in, and even though Sebastian didn’t play an active part in the investigation, he still received a great deal of acclaim when they eventually tracked down the killer. Completely undeserved acclaim, in Håkan’s view.

  But that wasn’t the worst part. People had been wrong before and come back, been given a second chance. The worst part was that Sebastian appeared on a news programme and totally destroyed him. He said that anyone who thought this was a case of collective suicide should go back to school and study something different; the person in question clearly wasn’t suited to criminal psychology. He had repeated words and phrases that Håkan had used; on Sebastian’s lips, under these new circumstances, they sounded ridiculous and utterly unreasonable.

  Yes, people could come back after making a mistake, but not if the undisputed expert in their particular field completely trashed their credibility and consigned them to the ranks of the incompetent for all eternity. In the end Håkan was relieved to hang on to his job. He knew that his future had been discussed after Sala, but he was still here, kept well away from any publicity, well away from major cases and complex investigations. These days he was responsible for human resources issues, looking into the suitability of candidates, trauma counselling, and assessing applications for promotion and professional development. It was what it was. Thirteen years now. Doing the same things in the same office, far away from the limelight and the big money. Far away from the success the man sitting opposite him had achieved.

  ‘What do you want?’ Håkan asked again, although this time he managed to exercise some control, keep his tone more neutral.

  ‘I want to ask you a favour,’ Sebastian replied, making it sound as if he wanted to borrow a pen.

  Once again, Håkan was taken aback. Of all the reasons he could have imagined for Sebastian’s visit, a favour would have been at the very bottom of the list.

  ‘Why should I do you a favour?’ he said, although as he spoke it occurred to him that it might have been more sensible to ask what kind of favour.

  ‘Because you’re in a bloody good negotiating position.’ Sebastian met his gaze calmly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Håkan was still on his guard; as far as he recalled, very few people had managed a posi
tive outcome from their dealings with Sebastian Bergman. If any.

  ‘I mean that I need your help with something, and you can more or less dictate what you want in return.’

  Still that open, honest expression. Håkan thought fast. Sebastian didn’t like him either. Hadn’t been anywhere near him in years. Their dislike was mutual.

  And yet he was here.

  ‘What is it you want?’ he said eventually, and Sebastian leaned forward.

  Anitha had spent the day at her desk, buried in the manuals relating to the computer system: three thick files that normally lived on a shelf above the departmental photocopier. The first file was well-thumbed. It contained the user’s guide for laymen, and was supposed to answer the most common questions. After a brief, fruitless search Anitha decided to concentrate on the second and third files. She wanted to know how the backup system worked, and how files were recovered after a crash. A couple of hours later she had discovered that their main system had two backups. If she had understood correctly, a mirror server copied all the information from the main server every three minutes. This was the main backup, and the primary line of defence. It was completely automated, and designed to minimise the loss of data. The manual didn’t say where this mirror server was located, but it was clear that I-tech, the company that had originally installed their system, was responsible for both the server and regular updates.

  The second backup system was definitely old school, and consisted of tapes that copied the information each day. These tapes had to be changed and stored; the manuals didn’t say whose job that was, but Anitha suspected it was down to the internal IT department, partly because keeping simpler tasks in-house meant saving money, and partly because the IT department hadn’t cut staff numbers after the National Police Board bought in I-tech’s system, which they should have done if that aspect of their work had disappeared. The more Anitha thought about it, the more she was convinced, and if there was a weak link in the chain, then it was the IT department. She could forget about anything to do with I-tech; they were real professionals. The program was originally Israeli, even though I-tech was a Swedish company. The software had been developed for use by Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, and the Israeli military; only at a later stage had it become a commercial product. Anitha had no doubt that I-tech was still under the control of the Israelis. Jews were experts when it came to business, everyone knew that, and there was no way they would let some Swedish computer geeks rake in all the big money, in her opinion.