The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  He went over, smiling politely. He started in Pashto, almost out of habit.

  ‘Hi, is Rafi here?’

  The man looked up, uncomprehending.

  ‘What did you say?’ he responded in heavily accented Swedish. Mehran guessed that his origins were Arabic, but switched to Swedish to be on the safe side.

  ‘Rafi. Is Rafi here?’

  ‘I don’t know any Rafi.’

  ‘He owns this shop.’

  The man looked even more puzzled.

  ‘My brother and I own this shop.’

  Of course. That was why he had heard nothing about the shop for such a long time; they had sold it.

  ‘We bought it from some Afghans,’ the man went on. ‘Is that who you mean?’

  ‘I think so. Rafi and Turyalai?’

  ‘I don’t remember their names, but there were three of them, as far as I recall.’

  Mehran nodded. Said would have been the third man.

  ‘Was the other man called Said?’ he asked, just to make sure.

  The man shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. My brother took care of all that. Are they relatives of yours?’

  ‘No. My father was a friend of Said’s.’

  The man took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘It took my brother a long time to close the deal. He didn’t like them at all. They were very difficult, arguing with us, arguing with one another.’

  Mehran was taken aback. That wasn’t how he remembered Said and the others at all.

  ‘Do you know what they argued about?’

  ‘They couldn’t agree on whether to sell or not. They kept changing their minds, and we thought the whole thing was going to fall through, but then suddenly they called and everything was settled within twenty-four hours. We were amazed; we’d actually started looking for other premises.’

  Mehran’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t marry the story the man was telling him with his memories of Said and the others. They had been good friends. They were family, after all; distant relatives on Melika’s side admittedly, but even so. Surely they had got on well? He had always believed so, but perhaps there had been some conflict that had passed him by as a child? It wasn’t impossible, but wouldn’t Shibeka have mentioned it? She had hardly thought of anything else over the past few years. Something didn’t add up.

  ‘How long have you owned the business, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  The man smiled and leaned back on his shabby chair.

  ‘Far too long, if you ask me. Nine years, I think, but my brother has all the details. I can give him a ring if you like.’

  ‘Please, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Do I look as if I’ve got too much to do?’ the man said drily, waving his hand at the empty shop. He picked up his phone, pressed a button, got to his feet and was soon speaking in Arabic. Mehran managed to pick out the odd word, but not enough to understand fully. He gazed around; how many times had he been here as a child? Ten, fifteen perhaps. Said was usually here, Rafi sometimes, Turyalai never. Mehran had met him occasionally at Melika’s, but not often enough to have a clear memory of him. Turyalai was the biggest of the three, as far as he recalled. Not overweight, but both Said and Rafi were tall and slim – so compared with them he had seemed big. Round face. Short hair. Slightly bad-tempered. Mehran hadn’t thought about them for a long time, and never as individuals. He had bundled them together as three friends, three relatives – Said and the other two. Now it turned out that they might not have been as close as he had always believed.

  The man behind the counter had finished his conversation.

  ‘We bought the place in September 2003 after negotiating with them for almost a year.’

  Mehran nodded stiffly; he couldn’t think of anything to say. His mind was whirling. The two cousins had sold the shop only a month after his father and Said had disappeared. He wasn’t sure if that meant anything, but it was too soon. And they had argued about the sale; why had Melika never mentioned that? They were her cousins, after all; she should have said they’d sold the shop. Why hadn’t he known? Once again, it didn’t add up.

  ‘Does your brother remember who didn’t want to sell?’ he heard himself ask.

  ‘He thinks it was Said, but he’s not sure. Anyway, Said wasn’t around when the sale went through, so my brother assumed he wasn’t happy with the arrangement.’

  Said wasn’t around at all, Mehran thought. He’d gone missing by then. Along with my father.

  When he emerged from the shop he broke into a run, raced down the escalators. He didn’t really know where he was going, but he knew that something was wrong.

  There was only one person he could talk to.

  One person he had to tell.

  His mother.

  The second Ellinor lived on Västmannagatan in the city centre. After spending almost twenty minutes looking for a parking space, Vanja gave up and abandoned the car much too close to a pedestrian crossing. She refused to use the multi-storey car parks; the cost was beyond ridiculous. She preferred to take her chances and just hope she wouldn’t get a ticket during the half hour or so she needed.

  There was no entry phone, just a keypad. Vanja hung around near the door; it was a comparatively large apartment block, and there was bound to be someone getting home from work or heading out early for a night on the town. After ten minutes two young men emerged and headed off towards Odenplan. Vanja slipped in before the door closed. Another stairwell, another list of names. Bergkvist, third floor. She set off up the stairs, rang the doorbell. Tried again. Nothing.

  ‘Are you looking for Ellinor?’

  Vanja turned around. An elderly lady in a coat that was far too big for her had just arrived on the landing. Beneath the wide-brimmed hat she could see pure white hair and a face that was so lined it made Vanja think of an Egyptian mummy rather than a raisin. At least raisins had some moisture left in them, whereas the woman approaching Vanja looked completely desiccated. However, her eyes were sparkling with life and curiosity.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If she’s not in she’s probably at work. Is there anything I can help you with? My name is Tyra Lindell; I live upstairs.’

  She pointed at the ceiling with a thin finger. Everything about her seemed dry and brittle. Vanja wondered why she hadn’t used the lift, but then she realised the woman wasn’t even out of breath after walking up three flights of stairs.

  ‘Thanks, but I really need to speak to Ellinor. Do you know where she works?’

  ‘At Åhlén’s – household goods or interiors or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  Vanja smiled and headed for the stairs.

  ‘They’re open till nine some evenings.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Vanja said again over her shoulder.

  ‘And if she’s not there I expect she’ll be with her gentleman friend,’ Tyra Lindell went on as if she hadn’t noticed that Vanja was no longer standing in front of her. Vanja stopped dead. Went back up the stairs.

  ‘Do you happen to know where he lives?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but if Ellinor is to be believed, he can’t be all that difficult to find.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Tyra leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice.

  ‘Apparently he’s very well known – famous, in fact.’ She rolled her eyes to show how much faith she put in Ellinor’s nonsense. ‘She told me all about him, and she got quite annoyed because I didn’t know who he was. In the end I had to pretend.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Oh yes – Sebastian, Sebastian Bergman. Apparently he’s a psychologist.’

  Vanja stared at the old lady. It was impossible. She must have misheard. That name couldn’t pop up here. Not now. The feeling she had had in her apartment earlier came back; this couldn’t be reality. It must be a practical joke, one of those TV shows with hidden cameras. Soon someone would jump out, laughing at how easily she had been fooled. Priceless! Vanja didn’t know who that someon
e might be, but surely that had to be the explanation.

  ‘Sebastian Bergman is Ellinor’s gentleman friend,’ she repeated, noticing to her surprise that her voice was steady. Tyra nodded.

  ‘Yes. As I said, he’s a psychologist, and between you and me,’ Tyra leaned closer once again, and this time she placed her wrinkled hand on Vanja’s arm, ‘I think Ellinor needs some help in that department from time to time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, but she is a bit odd.’

  ‘I mean are you sure she was talking about a psychologist called Sebastian Bergman?’

  ‘Absolutely. She’s practically living with him. Or at least she was; she’s been home quite a lot lately. Maybe he’s come to his senses.’

  Tyra smiled at her, but Vanja didn’t even notice. It was as if two parallel universes had collided in the stairwell of an apartment block on Västmannagatan and created an alternative reality. If anyone was going to jump out and laugh at her blank expression, then now would be a good time. But no one did. Unfortunately.

  Anitha had kept a low profile since her long lunch with Morgan Hansson. She had done what she was paid to do, she hadn’t logged in under anyone else’s name, she hadn’t even posted on Flashback. No doubt she was being excessively cautious, but she felt it was best to take a break from any supplementary activities until she heard back from Morgan. He had promised to go down to the data room in the basement the following morning, but he still hadn’t contacted her. How long could it take to search through a couple of backup tapes?

  For a while Anitha was worried; what if he had gone to his line manager and told him everything, instead of helping her? Perhaps that was why it was so quiet. However, she calmed down when she remembered how close Morgan had stood before they parted yesterday, the looks he had given her. She had played him to perfection; he wouldn’t let her down. In fact, she suspected that the real problem would be getting rid of him when this was all over.

  By the afternoon she couldn’t sit still any longer; she decided to go down and see him. She had to know. Should she call first, or just turn up and surprise him? The latter option was probably best; she wanted to look him in the eye while he was talking so that she could tell if he was lying or not. She walked quickly towards the main staircase, hurried down to the first floor and didn’t slow down until she reached his office.

  He wasn’t there. She did a tour of the whole floor, trying to look as if she had important business. Eventually she spotted him over by the smaller staircase; he seemed to be on his way up, presumably to see her. His whole demeanour told her that he had done it. She increased her speed, wanted to break into a run, but controlled herself. It would look weird, and she definitely didn’t want to attract anyone’s attention.

  She caught up with him just as he reached the heavy glass door.

  ‘Morgan,’ she said, as casually as she could manage.

  He turned and gave her a neutral look that she couldn’t interpret. It wasn’t nervous or excited; it simply was.

  ‘How did it go?’ she went on.

  He didn’t reply, but indicated with a nod that they should go through the door. She followed him as he set off down the stairs, their footsteps echoing. He seemed to want to get to the bottom before he said anything, possibly to avoid the acoustics in the stairwell. His words would be amplified, and could be overheard by the wrong person. It was a sensible precaution, but Anitha was suffering. Eventually he stopped and waited for her. She tried to look unconcerned as she joined him, in spite of the fact that she wanted nothing more than to shake him, make him say something.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ he whispered at last.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Anitha said warmly. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about you . . .’

  ‘It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to help you and Eva.’

  ‘Eva?’ Anitha heard herself say; a second later she realised who he meant. Morgan gazed at her sceptically.

  ‘Eva. The police officer in Solna. The friend you told me about.’

  ‘Right, yes, Eva Gransäter,’ Anitha babbled, cursing her stupidity. How could she forget her own lies? ‘I’ve been feeling quite stressed,’ she added in an attempt to explain.

  ‘Me too,’ Morgan said disarmingly. ‘I thought I was going to have a heart attack down there.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Well, Adam Cederkvist is the name your colleague is looking for. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Anitha replied with total honesty as a wave of disappointment washed over her. She had been hoping for a name she would recognise, some big shot whose ruined reputation would taste sweeter than that of some anonymous civil servant, if this led anywhere.

  ‘Nothing else?’ she said, unable to hide her feelings.

  ‘That was the reference you deleted by mistake. And now I’ve got a question for you,’ Morgan said with a wry smile.

  ‘No problem,’ Anitha replied, although she suspected she might regret it. All of a sudden Morgan seemed rather too sure of himself for her taste.

  ‘What’s this really about?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why did you log in under a false name and search classified Säpo files?’

  Anitha tried to look blasé.

  ‘I’ve already told you – it was a stupid attempt to help a colleague.’

  There was a brief silence. Morgan nodded to himself as if he had just received confirmation of something he thought he knew. He leaned towards her.

  ‘I checked her out. Eva Gransäter. She’s no longer a police officer. She left in 2007.’

  Anitha’s cheeks flushed red. She didn’t have an answer. It was an odd feeling; she always kept to the shadows, and now she was caught in the light.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what this is about,’ Morgan went on calmly, ‘or would you rather I passed it on to my boss?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Good. I want to know everything.’

  Morgan looked at her again with his newly found confidence. Anitha realised she would never get rid of him. They would be dining together quite often from now on. The question was, who had played whom?

  * * *

  Shit, he had to think fast.

  Less than a minute ago he had been standing in the kitchen frying burgers when the doorbell rang. He had removed the pan from the heat before he went into the hallway. Asked who it was, he reminded himself that he must get a spyhole fitted. It was Vanja. He had felt his heart give a little leap of joy, even though she sounded quite subdued, as far as he could tell from ‘It’s Vanja.’ Sebastian had taken a deep breath; no doubt she had heard about the FBI programme and was devastated. She needed someone to console her. He had opened the door.

  She wasn’t devastated.

  She was furious.

  ‘Ellinor Bergkvist,’ she had barked as soon as the door opened, arms folded.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You know her.’

  It wasn’t a question. Sebastian thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t said ‘Who’s that?’ when he heard the name of the woman who had lived with him for a short time.

  ‘Yes.’

  Brief answers. No point in expanding until he knew more.

  ‘She’s the one who handed the material about my father to the police.’

  Vanja had stared at him with an expression that was even worse than when she had disliked him intensely several months ago.

  He had to think fast.

  Shit, he had to think fast.

  He stepped aside and she strode in. Stopped just inside the door. Made no attempt to take off her jacket or shoes.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ he said, playing for time.

  ‘Your girlfriend handed the Economic Crime Authority the material that got my father arrested, so I think you’re the one who’s got some explaining to do.’

  Arms still folded. A challenging look in her eyes. Sebastian opted for the truth, or at least a varia
tion on the truth. As close as possible, but with the omission of certain details. He let out a deep sigh to show how troubled he was. He didn’t even need to pretend; this could wreck everything they had built up over the past few days.

  ‘I did wonder, but . . .’ he broke off and shook his head. ‘I hoped it wasn’t true.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He took a deep breath. He would have to play it by ear, take his chances. The worst thing would be to try to wriggle out of it.

  ‘Trolle Hermansson turned up here a few months ago and gave me a bag containing case notes on Valdemar.’

  ‘But why? Why did he give it to you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I assumed he knew that we work together now and again, but that I wasn’t formally attached to Riksmord any more.’

  ‘I don’t understand – why was Trolle investigating my father in the first place?’

  Sebastian shrugged. He could stick to his modified version of the truth.

  ‘From what I knew of Trolle, he took whatever work he could get.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘We worked together, but he got kicked out before I left Riksmord. That must have been . . . maybe fifteen years ago?’

  ‘But were you still in touch?’

  ‘We saw one another now and again. He was pretty lonely – divorced, lost his family. He was a bit of an arsehole – not many people were prepared to put up with him.’