‘Of course,’ he said politely, and showed Memel into the living room where Eyer was watching TV. Mehran switched it off and told Eyer, who was still in his pyjamas, to go to his room. Eyer’s early morning dopiness immediately disappeared as he leapt up, gazing at the men with big eyes. He had the good sense to nod respectfully at each one as he passed them, which pleased Mehran. It was good to see that his brother knew how to behave when it mattered. He turned to Shibeka, who was still standing in the hallway, and asked her to bring their guests something to eat and drink, but Memel shook his head. They were not here to eat and drink.
The men settled down on the sofa, while Memel chose an armchair opposite the others in his role as spokesman. Mehran sat down too, and waited for Shibeka. Even though he had butterflies in his tummy, he also felt good. He was the one Memel had turned to, he was the one who spoke for his family now. In the past he too would have been sent to his room when the grown-ups were discussing important matters. He sat up a little straighter to show that he was ready to take on the role.
Shibeka joined him. She had made sure that her head was fully covered, and the black fabric emphasised the pallor of her face. It was a long time since she had gone to such trouble, Mehran thought; like him, she understood the gravity of the situation.
There was a brief silence. Memel looked at each person in turn before he began.
‘We have heard what Shibeka is doing. We want to discuss it with you. Give you the chance to tell us about it.’
Shibeka lowered her eyes, and Mehran understood that it was up to him to speak. He was a little disappointed in his voice at first; it didn’t sound quite as mature as he would have wished.
‘We’re just trying to find out what happened to my father and Said.’
‘We understand that,’ Memel replied after a pause. ‘But we are concerned. People are coming to us, asking whether your mother really understands what she is doing.’
‘I’m sorry that this is affecting others, but there’s nothing to worry about. We know what we’re doing.’
Memel sighed; he didn’t like Mehran’s answer. Did this boy think he was going to get away that easily? He leaned forward.
‘Mehran, a Swedish man has been here. Is he married, unmarried? How many women is he seeing? What does he want?’
‘He just wants to know what happened. He’s a journalist. I am present at every meeting with him.’
‘Really? That’s not what we have heard.’
Memel’s expression was icy. Shibeka straightened up, the lines around her mouth tightening as they always did when she got angry. Mehran could see that she was making an enormous effort to remain calm; he nodded to her and turned his attention back to Memel and the men on the sofa. His voice was steadier now; it was as if it was becoming used to its new role with every word, every sentence.
‘My mother has the greatest respect for me and my father. She would never do anything without telling me. If you are angry with anyone, it should be me.’
Another silence. He could still see the doubt in Memel’s eyes.
‘I don’t like it, Mehran. This is not our way, and you know it.’
‘So what is our way?’ Shibeka snapped. The fountain of emotions she had been trying to suppress burst through the surface. ‘To sit in silence? To do nothing? To keep quiet?’
Memel was angry now.
‘You of all people don’t need to ask that question – you know the answer!’
Mehran could feel the situation slipping from his grasp. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that challenging Memel was not a good idea. He wasn’t the kind of man anyone would want as an enemy. Mehran realised that he needed to demonstrate his position within the family to restore order. He turned to his mother and hissed: ‘Quiet! You will remain silent!’
For a second he thought that Shibeka might explode. Her eyes flashed, and she was a heartbeat away from flying at him, but somehow she regained control of herself. She let out a long breath and lowered her eyes once more. Mehran both loved and hated the feeling it gave him when she submitted. He faced Memel, trying to look as apologetic as he could.
‘My mother doesn’t mean any harm. It’s just that she’s grieving. The past years have been difficult for her. I apologise.’
Memel hesitated, but then he appeared to accept the apology.
‘It has been a difficult time for many people, but we must stick together. Do what is right. That’s what we are saying. Do you understand, Mehran?’
Mehran nodded.
‘I understand.’
‘If that is really the case, then stop this right now. Melika doesn’t want to get dragged in, and nor do the rest of us. You cannot think only of yourselves; you have to think of us all.’
With that he got to his feet, and the other men immediately followed suit. Mehran stood up too. Memel stepped forward and looked him deep in the eye, his gaze containing both love and a clear warning.
‘Mehran, you have your father in you. I saw that today. Show me who you are. Do the right thing,’ he said, patting the boy on the shoulder in a way that was almost friendly.
‘I promise, Memel. You won’t be disappointed.’
Memel smiled at him.
‘Good. Then there is no need for us to speak of this again. Thank you for your time.’
They disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. None of them even looked at Shibeka, who was still sitting on the stool in the living room, her eyes fixed on the floor. It was as if she no longer existed.
But Mehran existed. He placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
‘It’ll be fine, Mum. Eventually.’
He wasn’t even sure if he believed that himself any more.
Lennart had been intending to work from home all day. He needed peace and quiet to gather his thoughts and lick his wounds. He had had such high hopes for this story, and it was all falling apart. Linda Andersson hadn’t managed to get anything out of Said’s wife. Quite the reverse – it had been a disaster, and they had both been asked to leave Shibeka’s apartment only seconds after Melika had stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Even Shibeka had refused to meet his eye.
Presumably it was all down to the son, the boy with the truculent expression. He didn’t seem to share his mother’s enthusiasm at the idea of Investigation Today helping to reveal the truth about his father’s disappearance. Perhaps it was a cultural thing. Perhaps he felt threatened because his mother had acted independently. It could be that he didn’t want to revisit the pain of the past, and that he was grieving for his father in his own way. Whatever the reason, it was devastating as far as Lennart was concerned. Without the co-operation of the missing men’s wives and families, he didn’t even have the beginnings of a programme. However, it went against the grain to give up. He tried to cheer himself up: things weren’t so bad. It wasn’t the first time he had lost a story; suggestions came and went all the time, and only a few made it through. That was just the way it was. It could be much worse; he might have spent months on the project, and still have had to give up in the end. That was the reality; when you started digging, sometimes you found nothing, or at least not enough to make good TV.
But Lennart found it hard to let go. He had always been the same. It was actually a useful quality in his profession; stubbornness helped, but it took its toll. He was proud of what he did. He didn’t want the simple way out; he would dig and dig until he came up with something, and Shibeka’s story had moved him. It had all the ingredients for a perfect exposé: a missing husband, an attractive wife who refused to give up in spite of all the years that had passed, plus links to the security police. Lennart had been searching for a scoop like this for a long time; it was liberating to be dealing with something that wasn’t about money or sleazy politicians for once. It reminded him of why he had wanted to become a journalist in the first place, and it wasn’t to reveal how tycoons got even richer or how greedy managing directors avoided paying tax.
When he told s
tories like that, it wasn’t his own voice he heard, it was the voice of the times. The voice of today.
What had happened to Shibeka suited him much better. He wanted to tell the viewers about real people, grab hold of them and wake them up. Move them. Look what’s going on in Sweden right now! We don’t treat people equally. His friends sometimes teased him, said he was the last idealist who still believed it was possible to change the world armed with a camera.
He needed to see Shibeka again, just the two of them this time. It was his only chance. He had called her mobile several times, but there was no reply. He decided to go for a walk, clear his head. Maybe ring his mates, make plans for the match on Sunday: Hammarby versus Brage. As he was putting on his jacket and heading for the door, his mobile rang. Shibeka. He almost dropped the phone in his eagerness to answer; he hardly heard what she was saying at first.
When he finally understood, it was a disaster. He tried to persuade her, convince her that he could help. That she would find out the truth. That he didn’t give up at the first setback.
It didn’t make any difference.
She was the one who was giving up.
It was over.
Mehran sat in the kitchen listening to the conversation in the hallway. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but he wanted to be sure that she was doing what she had promised to do, that this was the end of it. It was a strange feeling, eavesdropping on his own mother, but if she was uncomfortable with the decision, she was hiding it well. Her voice remained firm, even though he could almost hear the Swede complaining, pleading with her. He was wasting his time. She kept the call short; there was nothing more to discuss. It was only when she hung up and sank down on the little stool next to the phone that he thought he understood. He saw into her heart as the dream died and a part of her life ended. He went over to her, determined to be as gentle as he could. He was proud of her, although she probably didn’t realise it.
‘He was disappointed,’ she said without looking at him.
‘And so were you.’
Shibeka nodded sadly. ‘I won’t lie to you. I will keep my promise. But I’ve fought for this for so long . . .’
Mehran sat down beside her. He could feel her pain, and he wanted to show her that he was suffering too. She had never set out to hurt him or anyone else; it was just that events had taken the wrong turn and led them to this point.
‘It was necessary. You do understand that, don’t you?’
He took her hand, keen to underline the fact that everything was fine now.
‘To be honest, Mehran, I don’t. I don’t really see why it was wrong. People like you and me need someone like Lennart to fight for us, otherwise no one listens to us.’
‘But if we carry on, we will be completely alone. We can’t allow that to happen. We don’t want that.’
‘We are alone, Mehran. Who do you think is going to help us? Memel?’
Shibeka more or less spat out the name as she got to her feet. It seemed as if she needed to get away from the sorrow and disappointment, and it seemed to work; she looked stronger when she stood up. She turned to her son, holding out the mobile.
‘What am I supposed to do with that?’
‘I’ve no idea. Keep it, give it to Eyer. I don’t need it any more.’
Mehran took the phone. It felt heavy in his hand, much heavier than it was. Full of broken dreams and crushed hopes.
‘Promise me one thing, Mehran,’ Shibeka said gravely. ‘Don’t just listen to everyone else. Listen to yourself. Perhaps I went too far, but you have to listen to your own voice.’
She went into her room and closed the door.
She managed to leave the sorrow and disappointment behind; she left them with Mehran.
There were twenty-three Ellinor Bergkvists in Sweden, and three of them lived in Stockholm. Vanja printed out all the details, but decided to concentrate on the three in the capital. Same name, different women.
Twenty-two of them were living their lives completely separate from Vanja’s. Their paths might cross at some point in the future, but probably not. One of them, however, was directly involved in the events that had placed her father in a cell; she might even have something to do with Trolle Hermansson’s death.
Vanja leaned back on the sofa as the printer hummed into life in the room next door. The problem was that she couldn’t contact any of the Ellinors on the list, not because she had made a promise to Peter Gornack, but because such an act would be evidence of extremely poor judgement on her part –– trying to influence an informant in an investigation into her father. It would definitely put an end to any hopes of training with the FBI, and yet she had to know more.
For a moment she considered calling Billy, but for one thing he was probably still up in Jämtland, and for another their relationship hadn’t recovered sufficiently for her to ask him to carry out a personal enquiry on her behalf. It would also cause trouble for both of them if it ever came to light; she would be putting Billy in an impossible situation, and it was almost as bad as doing it herself. But she needed help.
Sebastian.
Weird. His name was the first that came into her mind. In the past she had always thought of Valdemar first, or Billy under certain circumstances. But now it was Sebastian.
A few months ago she would never have considered him as an option; Sebastian Bergman didn’t do anything unless there was something in it for him, that was common knowledge. However, after the events of the past twenty-four hours she thought he might make an exception, do her a favour. Just to be kind. It was worth a try. Plus he was only loosely connected to Riksmord, he had a very liberal conscience, and would have no problems whatsoever in coming up with a cover story if he was caught.
Then again, what did she actually want him to do? Contact these women and ask if they had helped to implicate Valdemar Lithner in dodgy financial dealings? All except one of them would have no idea what he was talking about, and the one who did understand would lie. Perhaps Ellinor Bergkvist was a waste of time; the only lead she had might turn out to be a dead end. Was it even worth trying? Valdemar was guilty, she was sure of it.
What he had said to her during their brief meeting.
The way he had said it.
The look on his face.
He was in the right place; did it matter how he had ended up there? Did it matter who had informed her colleagues in the Economic Crime Authority, and why? She was off to the USA, leaving it all behind. Couldn’t she just let it go?
Vanja got up and went into the bedroom, collected the sheets of paper from the printer and glanced through them on her way back to the living room.
Twenty-three names and addresses. One of them was the right one.
She went over to the coffee table; her phone started ringing before she got there.
‘Vanja Lithner,’ she said without bothering to check the display.
‘Hi, it’s Harriet from HR.’
‘Hi!’
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all.’
Vanja couldn’t help smiling. She felt a tingle of anticipation; Harriet was responsible for staff development and the international exchange programme with the National Police Board, and she was the person who would open the door and allow Vanja to fly away. Leave the country. Look forward, not back. Vanja needed breathing space, time to focus only on herself. She would follow the trial, of course, but from a distance. The physical distance would allow her the luxury of standing outside. She had been the good girl doing everything that was expected of her for far too long. Eventually she would have to face up to her relationship with her father, eventually they would find their way back to one another, she was sure of it, but in order to do that she had to have the strength, and right now it just wasn’t there. She was tired. Thirty-two years old, and tired. Of most things. The FBI and the USA would give her back her spark. Right now she just wanted to leave everything and race through the door that Harriet was about to open for her.
‘I really am very sorry,’ she heard Harriet say; at first she didn’t understand at all.
Did Harriet know about Valdemar? Possibly: Police HQ was a workplace like any other, and gossip spread through its corridors in no time.
‘Thanks, but it is what it is; there’s not much I can do about it right now,’ Vanja said, putting down the printouts on the coffee table. She walked over to the window and looked out beyond the increasingly sparse foliage towards Gärdet.
There was a silence on the other end of the line: a surprised silence. The kind of silence that arises when someone has completely lost the thread of a conversation.
‘I don’t quite understand . . .’ Harriet said.
‘My father,’ Vanja clarified, hoping that her tone of voice would show that she wasn’t too bothered, and that there was no need to discuss the matter any further.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been . . .’ Vanja began, but broke off. Harriet didn’t know, yet she had started the conversation by saying she was sorry about something. A little ball of anxiety began to roll around Vanja’s belly.
‘It’s nothing,’ she went on. ‘What were you talking about?’
Silence once more. Different this time: not surprised, more troubled, the kind of silence that arises when someone is gathering the courage to deliver bad news. The ball was growing fast.
‘You haven’t been accepted on the FBI training programme.’
The ball grew to the size of a football in a second. Forced the air out of her lungs, made it hard to breathe. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. In some weird way, this wasn’t reality.
‘Are you sure?’
Stupid question. Harriet carried the final responsibility. There weren’t many candidates left. Of course she was sure.
‘Yes. I’m very sorry.’
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 30