The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  Vanja hardly heard a word he said. To be honest she hadn’t expected much from this lunch; she hadn’t thought Peter would be either willing or able to help her. But now Trolle Hermansson had popped up again, along with some mystery woman who seemed determined to ruin her father. She had to start digging. Hermansson was dead, so that left the woman.

  ‘Do you know who she is? The woman who brought in the material,’ she clarified.

  ‘No, but we have no reason to look into her background; the investigation into Hermansson’s death is closed.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Vanja leaned forward so that she wouldn’t miss a single syllable.

  Peter sighed again, audibly this time. He didn’t even need to think about this one. Giving Vanja the name was out of the question. Revealing the name of an informant to a relative of the suspect went against every rule in the book, even if said relative was a police officer and, he had to admit, still extremely attractive.

  ‘Come on, Vanja. You know I can’t tell you that.’

  Vanja nodded. Of course she did. But she also knew that she had no intention of leaving the restaurant without a name. She quickly ran through the various options that might enable her to get it, and immediately discarded the most obvious; she didn’t even know if he was single or not. Instead she decided to appeal to Peter Gornack the police officer, make it a mutual case.

  ‘I know my father isn’t innocent,’ Vanja began, looking Peter in the eye. ‘I might make sure he gets good legal representation, but I won’t be doing anything else to help him.’ She moved closer, glanced around to make sure no one was listening, and lowered her voice. Peter also had to lean forward to hear what she was saying.

  ‘I found Trolle dead in a car, murdered by a man who killed on the orders of Edward Hinde. Hinde then escaped from Lövhaga prison, abducted me and threatened to kill me.’

  Peter merely nodded; he knew part of the story, but not all of it, and he couldn’t deny that he was curious. Edward Hinde’s escape and subsequent death were still a hot topic of conversation among colleagues, whichever unit or department they worked in.

  ‘If Trolle was involved in investigating my father, perhaps it’s all connected. It’s too much of a coincidence if some old ex-cop turns up twice in cases with me as the common denominator, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I only want to check her out, I promise.’

  Vanja gazed at Peter with big eyes and the most sincere expression she could manage. For a moment she thought of Puss in Boots in the Shrek films and realised she mustn’t overdo it, so instead she looked away, as if to make sure once again that no one was taking an interest in their discussion.

  ‘I won’t go anywhere near her, I won’t speak to her, and if I come up with anything I’ll pass it on to you so that you can decide if it’s worth pursuing.’

  Peter leaned back. She could see that he was thinking about what she had said. He wasn’t trying to work out how to say no; he was wavering. Going through the possible pitfalls. Trying to find anything that could cause him problems later. There was nothing. She’d got him, and she knew it.

  ‘If Edward Hinde and the murders of those women in the summer are somehow linked to my father, then surely you want to know about that too?’ she said in order to remove any lingering doubts.

  ‘Ellinor,’ he said quietly. ‘Her name is Ellinor Bergkvist.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her hand brushed against his. The waitress arrived with their food, and as Vanja eagerly dipped her fried chicken in her chilli mayonnaise and asked him how things were these days, Peter Gornack got the feeling that he would spend the rest of their lunch worrying that he had said far too much.

  The enormous Rottweiler wanted to get going. It was sitting at the feet of the man on the bench, staring pleadingly at him with its brown eyes. Charles could feel its scrutiny; he was well aware that the walk hadn’t delivered much in the way of exercise. He had hoped to be able to come to terms with the events of the past few hours while taking the dog around the ten-kilometre track in the nearby forest, but it hadn’t worked. The air was cold and clear, even the deciduous trees that had resisted the autumn so far had been forced to give in and withdraw the supply of chlorophyll, and there was no one in sight apart from him and the dog. Ideal conditions to process the consequences of those early morning phone calls, but it was as if his thoughts disintegrated with each step he took. Everything was up in the air.

  This was unusual, almost frightening. Charles had always been able to process information and make rapid decisions on the hoof. In his profession it wasn’t always possible to sit down and consider the options – sometimes it was, but not always. His training taught him to think fast when the situation demanded it. However, those cases almost always involved a heightened level of adrenaline, brain and body operating at top speed. Alexander Söderling’s call, however, had almost evoked a sense of resignation, a deep-seated weariness; events he had put behind him and come to terms with were unlikely to remain in the past.

  After only a kilometre he had sat down on one of the benches by the little lake.

  What did they know, what might they discover, what would they never be able to work out?

  The fact that they had linked the car fire and the bodies on the mountain was unfortunate, but no more. And before that? The two men. Four, really. A simple surveillance job. Learn from the best. Hard, implacable. But the times required that approach.

  He had tried it himself.

  When you think they can’t take any more, you carry on for another twenty seconds, and then another ten, that’s what those implacable figures had said.

  Over and over again.

  And in between, the questions.

  Where? When? Who else?

  Over and over again.

  Where? When? Who else?

  The mistakes right there. The mistake later on. When Charles thought he would get help, when he hoped that the person who had always been there would once again prove loyal and reliable.

  The betrayal.

  The difficult decision.

  Patricia Wellton. He remembered waiting for her. She had been several hours late, and she was furious when she finally turned up. She had yelled at him, complaining about poor information, how the hell was she expected to do her job when the details about the target were incorrect? Charles didn’t know what she was talking about. She explained. From then on, things rapidly got worse. He hit her. Fast and hard. She was completely unprepared and he was particularly well trained in that type of attack, so she had gone down. Unconscious. Into the car, down towards the ravine; put her in the driver’s seat, push the car off the road. Follow it down, empty the tank, start the fire.

  A regrettable accident. Until now.

  Was that why he was finding it so difficult to concentrate? Was it because anxiety had evoked the memories and the suppressed grief? Because the accident had turned out to be murder. He had murdered Patricia Wellton, and the organisation she worked for was not known for its capacity to forgive and forget. So far nothing was definite. So far it was just speculation in the tabloid press, but Charles knew they were watching him. If there was official confirmation of that speculation, he was in no doubt that they would hunt him down. It might be a good idea to plan for that eventuality. There were those who could protect him; he had access to the very best resource if you wanted to motivate men and women to come to your rescue.

  Information.

  He got up from the bench. The dog was on its feet in a second, but the walk was over. Charles thought his threat to Alexander Söderling had hit home, but it was time to make sure. Time to act, to put his house in order. He had sacrificed far too much during those weeks and months almost ten years ago; if his actions back then were going to have consequences now, then he was going to make sure that at least he wouldn’t be the only one who fell.

  Flight SK071 landed at 20.35, ten minutes late. After another fifteen minutes, Torkel, Ursula,
Billy and Jennifer were waiting by the baggage carousel. No one was talking; they hadn’t said much on the plane down from Östersund either. Even though it remained unspoken, they were all disappointed over how little they had actually achieved during their stay. They had identified the Dutch couple and linked the death of Patricia Wellton/Liz McGordon to the victims on the mountain, but that was all. They still had no idea who the family in the grave was, nor did they know the real identity of Patricia Wellton/Liz McGordon.

  Their only hope was the camera Ursula had found in the rucksack. Billy had quickly ascertained that he didn’t have the right cable or charger, which meant he was unable to charge the battery. The next blow came when he opened the cover of the memory card slot. Even though the camera had been wrapped in plastic, the air and possibly dampness had got in. The metal parts of the memory card had oxidised, and the card was firmly stuck. With no proper tools at his disposal, Billy hadn’t dared to try and remove it, so right now the camera was in his bag in exactly the same state as when Ursula had brought it to him.

  ‘Hi, welcome home!’

  Billy turned and just had time to catch a glimpse of Maya before she was up on her toes giving him a kiss. She placed her hands on his cheeks, pressed her body against his, and seemed to want to freeze the moment. After what felt like at least a minute, Billy broke away by taking a small step backwards, slightly embarrassed by the emotional reception.

  ‘You haven’t met my colleagues,’ he said; everyone was smiling at him, just as he had expected. He introduced them one by one, and Maya appeared to give a little curtsey each time she shook someone’s hand. He’d never seen her do that before, but then he’d never seen her shake hands with someone new before, come to think of it. It was quite sweet, but at the same time it was a bit odd for a grown woman to do that kind of thing. Maya turned to Jennifer, who introduced herself.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were Vanja,’ Maya said with a smile.

  ‘No, she had to come back early,’ Jennifer explained. Maya nodded, slipped her arm through Billy’s and started chatting to the others as if she were a part of him, of his life. It felt good. He realised he had missed her; he was really pleased to see her. If he missed her after only a few days, didn’t that mean he wanted to see her more often? All the time? Perhaps moving in together wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Their baggage arrived and they moved towards the exit.

  ‘Where do you live?’ Maya asked Jennifer.

  ‘Sollentuna.’

  ‘That’s on our way – would you like a lift?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  Billy and Jennifer waved goodbye to Torkel and Ursula as they left.

  ‘Shall we share a cab?’ Ursula asked as she peeled the airline tag off her case. She could cope with that. She would be dropped off first, and Torkel wouldn’t expect to be invited in. In his world, she was still married, with a husband waiting for her in their apartment. Ursula caught herself wishing she lived in his world.

  ‘My car is in the long stay car park,’ Torkel said, waving vaguely in the direction of the windows. ‘I was planning on calling at Yvonne’s to see the girls, otherwise I could have offered you a lift.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll get a cab.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you.’

  Torkel headed for the bus that would take him out to the car park, and Ursula watched him walk away. There goes a disappointed man, she thought. In spite of the time they had spent together up in Storulvån, nothing had happened. It wasn’t just that they hadn’t had sex – they hadn’t even gone for a walk or sat and had a chat after dinner. They hadn’t spent any time together outside work, apart from one brief breakfast. Perhaps she didn’t need to be quite so dismissive. She would be a little more forthcoming tomorrow. Ursula picked up her bag and went to join the taxi queue.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later she arrived home and keyed in the door code. She opened her mail box, which still bore a label declaring that it belonged to M. U. & B. Andersson. Ursula assumed it was up to her to change it. It occurred to her that perhaps the new label ought to say U. Lindgren, but she didn’t pursue the idea; she certainly wasn’t going to do anything about it this evening. The apartment seemed emptier than she remembered. She put down her bag in the hallway; everything was just as she had left it. Of course this had been the case each time she came home since Mikael had moved out, but now that she had been away for a few days, it was even clearer that she lived alone. That she was alone. The place felt stuffy; she opened one of the living-room windows, then went back into the hallway and took off her outdoor clothes. She left her shoes where they landed and dropped her jacket on the small knee-high bench under the mirror, upholstered in red corduroy. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge; they had been given coffee and a sandwich on the plane, but she still felt peckish. Unfortunately her fridge was unable to help. There was cheese and a tube of fish roe, but she realised she had no bread. She picked up a pot of yoghurt from the door: the best before date was three days ago. Same with the milk. She stuck her nose in both, but by now she had lost her appetite. It was quite sad, really; her fridge was a cliché encapsulating the life of a recently divorced woman. Then again, it would have looked like this all the time if Mikael hadn’t made sure there was food in the house. Shopping and feeding Bella had been his job. Among other things.

  She closed the fridge door, picked up her post, sat down on the sofa and started to go through it. Nothing that interested her or made her feel remotely better. TV? She checked the time. She could watch the news on TV4, but she didn’t really feel like it. She took out her phone; should she call Bella? It was a perfectly normal thing to do, to let her daughter know she was home. She’d never done it before, but decided she would be the kind of parent who did exactly that from now on. They had spoken twice since Uppsala, and on both occasions they had stuck to safe topics such as Ursula’s work and Bella’s studies, and had successfully avoided mentioning what had happened at the station. But it was always there, another brick in the already high wall that had been built up between them. Ursula knew it was up to her to lower the wall.

  Bella answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ Ursula said; she couldn’t help sitting up a little straighter. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Kind of – I’m out with some friends.’

  Ursula became aware of the unmistakable sounds of a pub or club in the background: music, laughter, life.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know I’m home.’

  ‘Have you been away?’

  Ursula told herself not to be disappointed. How was Bella supposed to know where she had been? If she’d wanted her daughter to know, she should have called and told her. She decided that was something else she would do in future.

  ‘Yes, up in Jämtland.’

  ‘The mass grave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘We haven’t finished yet; we’ve moved the investigation to Stockholm.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Bella said: ‘Did you want something?’

  Ursula didn’t answer right away. What did she want? She wanted to say how empty the apartment felt when she walked in, she wanted to invite herself to Uppsala, ask if Bella fancied going away with her in a month or so, somewhere hot and sunny. Escape the horrible November weather. Just the two of them. That was what she wanted to say.

  What she actually said was: ‘No, is everything OK with you?’

  ‘Fine – I’ve got a lot of work on, but otherwise everything’s good.’

  Was that a gentle hint that she didn’t have time for visitors, or to come down and see her divorced mother, or was Ursula over-thinking things?

  ‘Great, I just thought I’d give you a call.’

  ‘OK, maybe we could have a chat at the weekend?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll let you get back to your friends.’

  ‘Speak soon. By
e, Mum.’

  ‘Bye . . .’

  Bella had already hung up. Ursula sat there with the phone in her hand. She wouldn’t be able to settle tonight, all alone in the apartment. She got up, went into the hallway and put on her outdoor clothes. This was far from her dream scenario, but he was someone, and she needed someone right now.

  * * *

  She ran a hand through her hair and tugged nervously at her jacket before she rang the bell.

  ‘Who is it?’ came from behind the closed door after a few seconds.

  ‘It’s me. Ursula.’

  She heard the lock turn. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Do you fancy dinner?’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s quarter to eleven.’

  ‘A late dinner.’

  He looked at her; she realised he couldn’t work out what she wanted. It was too late for dinner, of course. Did she just want his company? She had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in the past. Ursula could tell that she was the last person he had expected to see, but now she was here, and he seemed genuinely pleased.

  ‘I’m just a bit surprised,’ he said, confirming her thoughts.

  ‘I can understand that. To be honest, so am I.’

  ‘Do you want to go out, or shall I fix us something?’

  ‘You can fix us something,’ she said, stepping inside. With one last amused glance, Sebastian closed the door behind her.

  They arrived early in the morning, with old Memel leading the delegation of silent men who walked into their hallway and their lives with the authority of age. Mehran knew all five; they stood there staring at him and his mother. Shibeka seemed shocked, but Memel’s focus was on Mehran, his expression stern and implacable. Gone was the lively, almost youthful twinkle in his eye that Mehran liked so much; it gave Memel an air of charm and kindliness. Now he looked as if he had a bad smell under his nose.

  ‘We need to speak to you,’ he said. ‘Do you have time?’

  It wasn’t really a question; saying no wasn’t an option. Mehran knew exactly what had happened: Melika had talked, probably as soon as she had left them yesterday. Mehran was furious; not only was Melika hiding something, but now she had chosen to involve other people.