‘Apart from another arsehole.’
‘I guess so . . .’
Vanja took in what she had heard. Sebastian was pleased to see that her arms had dropped slightly; she was beginning to relax. This was good in one way, bad in another. Now that her initial fury had abated, she was becoming pensive and analytical, which was much more dangerous for Sebastian. Any further questions would be dictated by her intellect, not her emotions.
‘But if someone asked Trolle to investigate my father, why did Trolle give the material to you rather than to that person?’
A difficult question with a simple answer, because of course it was Sebastian who had asked Trolle to dig up as much dirt as possible on Valdemar Lithner, and that was the one thing he could never tell Vanja. Time to abandon the truth altogether.
‘I don’t know, maybe they fell out over the payment, maybe Trolle got mad for some reason and decided to mess them about.’
‘So he gave it all to you instead.’
‘Yes.’
They kept coming back to the same point; even Sebastian could see how hollow the explanation was. There were many more credible scenarios.
Trolle could have gone to the police.
Destroyed everything he had found.
Left it lying in a drawer in his apartment.
Why had he given it to Sebastian? It was essential to stop Vanja thinking about that, strengthen the motivation.
‘I don’t know, maybe he was scared of having the stuff at home, or maybe he just wanted somebody to see what he’d achieved. Like I said, he was pretty lonely.’
‘So what did you do with it?’ Vanja asked; at least she seemed to have dropped the issue of why Sebastian had acquired the material – for the moment. Back to the half-truths.
‘Nothing. I read through it and decided not to do anything. Then when Trolle died—’
‘What was his connection with Edward Hinde and Ralph Svensson – did he say anything about that?’
They were rapidly approaching the next critical point. He had to come up with a sensible explanation as to why an old disgraced cop who had been under the radar for almost fifteen years suddenly turned up twice in the course of just a few months. The common denominator was Sebastian, of course, but he had to find something else.
Someone else.
Vanja.
‘I’ve been wondering about that too,’ he said, stroking his cheek. ‘The only thing I can think of is that someone asked him to investigate your father, so he ended up close to you, discovered that you were involved in a major murder inquiry, and decided to get one over on Riksmord by solving the case himself, and then he . . . died.’
Sebastian held his breath.
Too much? Too smooth? Too carefully thought out?
Vanja nodded thoughtfully. Sebastian decided to keep going while he was ahead, make sure she didn’t have too much time to ponder.
‘Anyway, I decided to throw away the material Trolle had given me, but then I got hurt and I had to stay in hospital. I asked Ellinor to destroy it, but obviously she didn’t.’
‘So who is this Ellinor?’
Back to the truth.
‘She’s a . . . sick woman who lived here for a while. When women I’d slept with started being murdered, I warned her and she . . . moved in. And stayed, somehow or other.’
He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
‘We’re not together any more. I kicked her out. She’s crazy,’ he added, just to underline the fact that he had nothing to do with what had happened.
Vanja stood there staring at him, processing the information, trying to decide whether she believed him or not. He stepped forward, placed a hand on her arm, waited until she met his sincere, sympathetic gaze.
‘I’m so very sorry this has happened, and I really hope you don’t think it was anything to do with me.’
Vanja looked deep into his eyes, searching for any sign that he was lying, searching for something that didn’t add up. Trolle, Ellinor, the material – all linked to Sebastian. It could be a coincidence, a quirk of fate. What else could it be? she asked herself. She still wasn’t completely happy with the explanation as to why Trolle had handed everything over to Sebastian, but she was inclined to believe him. Sometimes stuff just happened; people acted according to a logic that was all their own, and this seemed to be one of those situations. What reason could Sebastian Bergman have for wanting to see her father end up in prison?
None whatsoever.
He was her friend.
She nodded, and she could see how relieved he was. How happy.
But once the anger and the uncertainty ebbed away, Vanja couldn’t hold back the tears. Suddenly she was looking down at the floor, weeping silently. Sebastian didn’t know what to do; he seemed to want to give her a hug, but he hesitated. She took a step towards him to show that it was OK, and he put his arms around her.
‘I didn’t get onto the FBI programme,’ she mumbled into his apron-clad chest as she let out all the disappointments of the past twenty-four hours. She was sobbing so hard she was shaking now, and he did his best to comfort her. Like a father. He needed her, that was why he had gone to Riddarstolpe, but she needed him too. It was best for both of them if she didn’t go away, he told himself as he gently stroked her hair.
Valdemar was lying on his back on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of something other than the slowly receding pain in his back. Same bunk, same cell, same ceiling, but he was now the responsibility of the criminal justice system rather than the police. He had been formally charged this afternoon.
He had never been in a courtroom before, and had expected it to look like the ones he had seen in American TV series, which turned out not to be the case, at least not when it came to the room in Stockholm’s district court into which he was led at 13.05, along with Karin Svärd, the solicitor he had finally engaged. There was a podium at the front, with the high backs of five very comfortable-looking green chairs sticking up behind it. Two of the chairs were occupied by court officials, the others were empty. In front of the podium there were two curved tables, arranged so that it was easy to see whoever was at the other table, and to speak to those on the podium. Two people were sitting at the table furthest away from the door: Valdemar was informed that one of them was Stig Wennberg, the prosecutor, and the other was some kind of assistant; Karin didn’t know his name.
They sat down and Valdemar had glanced at the public area. Anna was there, of course; Vanja wasn’t. Just the way he wanted it. He allowed his gaze to sweep over the others who were present before he met Anna’s gaze; no one he recognised. No one from the office. Nosey people with too much time on their hands, presumably. Anna looked tired. He gave her a little smile and she smiled back, but her eyes didn’t light up as they usually did, and she quickly turned her attention to the two court officials.
The proceedings began. After establishing the names of those present, the prosecutor was asked to read the charges. Stig Wennberg cleared his throat and began. It was a long list. Valdemar glanced at Anna; her features seemed to grow more rigid with each accusation that was read out.
They hadn’t spoken since the police picked him up. Did she believe he was innocent? They had enjoyed the good life, been able to treat themselves, but did she really think he earned that much? Perhaps she hadn’t concerned herself with that side of things, or had she suspected that some of the money came from slightly more shady activities? He didn’t know. They had never discussed it. Judging by her expression in the courtroom, this had come as a complete shock, and she didn’t seem to doubt his guilt. There were no little shakes of the head to show how ridiculous the prosecutor’s charges were, no sympathetic looks at Valdemar to convey how sorry she was that an innocent man had ended up in this position. In fact she seemed determined not to look at him at all. It hurt, but he had only himself to blame. This was a devastating blow for his wife and daughter and, unlike him, they were totally innocent. It was hardly surprising if
they decided to distance themselves from him. He had a long road back if he was to regain their trust and love; too long, perhaps.
He didn’t really understand how it had come to this. He couldn’t blame ignorance; he had known that what Daktea were doing, what they had asked him to do, was illegal, but to be fair he hadn’t appreciated the scope of the operation until it collapsed. However, he also knew that they were smart; with his help they had built up a solid structure riddled with dead ends and countless transactions that were nigh-on impossible to trace. As time went by he felt more and more secure. He was only a small cog in a huge machine. Why would anyone track him down?
Wennberg concluded his statement, and Valdemar was asked if he pleaded guilty or not guilty. He glanced at Karin, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. She had told him what to say, even if it was a lie.
‘Not guilty.’
The proceedings had continued for another thirty minutes. Karin did her best to expose any weaknesses in the prosecution’s case, but Valdemar didn’t give much for her chances, and indeed the result was as he expected: he was charged with serious fraud. The prosecutor asked that all restrictions should remain in place, and his request was granted. It was over. Anna had got up and left the room before anyone else; Valdemar thought she was trying hard not to cry. That was the worst thing. Not the humiliation, not being locked up, not the punishment that would inevitably follow, but the damage he had done to those he loved. It was almost more than he could bear. He had hoped to be able to exchange a few words with Anna, but instead he instructed Karin to tell her that under no circumstances was she to inform Vanja that he had been charged.
Back in his cell he lay down on the bunk; there wasn’t much else to do. After an hour or so his back had started aching again. It wasn’t because he had been lying in the same position for too long, but he turned over anyway. It didn’t help. He had asked for and been given painkillers. He hadn’t felt like eating when dinner was served, but had asked for more painkillers. And now he was lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of something other than the slowly receding pain. He kept coming back to Anna and Vanja, which was even more painful in its own way. He got up with some difficulty and went over to the small toilet. He pulled down his pants and peed. Was the light playing tricks on him? He finished peeing and bent down to take a closer look. Turned his head slightly so that the ceiling light illuminated the toilet.
The contents of the bowl were red.
Blood red.
The meeting broke up.
Torkel had gathered them all in the room that was always known simply as the Room, for a final briefing before the weekend. Six chairs arranged around an oval conference table on top of a grey-green fitted carpet. On one wall was the whiteboard where Billy had recreated the timeline with the help of the information they had gathered in Storulvån. The Room was silent; they were supposed to be discussing the progress made over the past twenty-four hours, reporting back on what they had done and what results they had achieved or were expecting to achieve. Unfortunately there was depressingly little to discuss.
Torkel began by telling everyone that he had called Hedvig Hedman in Östersund to inform her that they had now been able to confirm the identity of the Dutch couple. It was common practice for Riksmord to report back on parts of an ongoing investigation to the local police who had requested their help, with the emphasis on parts of. It was important for the local force to feel involved, but it was even more important for Riksmord to be in control of the flow of information, which was why he said nothing about their theory that the Dutch couple just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, nor about the camera or how the rest of the case was going.
Fortunately.
Torkel hadn’t been particularly surprised to find a full-page spread in the online edition of Expressen that afternoon, with the headline ‘THEY DIED ON THEIR DREAM HOLIDAY’. The introduction stated that Riksmord were now one 100 per cent certain of the identity of two of the six bodies in the mass grave in the mountains: Jan and Framke Bakker from Rotterdam. The article carried a picture of the couple, a fairly emotional piece about how much they had been looking forward to their week in the mountains of Jämtland, a brief interview with a friend who was grateful for some kind of closure, and a fact box about ‘The Mountain Grave’, as the paper had dubbed the case.
If Torkel had had any doubts, he was now quite sure: informing Hedman and the Östersund police was virtually the same as issuing a press release. He ended his summary by stressing how important it was that he and he alone dealt with the press.
The team merely nodded.
Same as always, in other words.
Jennifer was the next to report: lots of work with little to show for it more or less summed up her continued efforts, using every imaginable international database, to find more families who might fit the profile of the four unidentified bodies. Either the team already knew about those she came up with, or she was able to eliminate them more or less straight away, thanks to the fact that the forensics team in Umeå had given estimated ages and a pretty accurate assessment of the height of each person. Which took them to Ursula, who immediately handed over to Billy.
He had started the day by tackling the camera from the Dutch couple’s rucksack. He managed to find a cable that fitted, but the camera refused to charge. Too long in the ground, he assumed. It was hardly surprising if being buried for nine years was more than it could cope with, even if it had been wrapped in plastic and tucked inside a rucksack. He concentrated on the memory card instead, but soon realised he wouldn’t be able to remove it from the camera without damaging it. He had consulted Ursula, who was of the same opinion, so they sent the camera down to the National Forensics Lab in Linköping by courier, with a message to say that retrieving the pictures was a matter of the utmost urgency. Ursula had called her former colleagues during the afternoon, partly to check if the camera was there and partly to stress that urgent meant exactly that. She was told that they had prioritised the camera as soon as it arrived, and things looked promising. They should have the pictures on Monday.
Torkel nodded appreciatively. At least that was something to keep their hopes up over the weekend. Finally, Ursula added that she had been right about fingerprints on the rucksacks found at Harald Olofsson’s place: it was impossible to lift any at all. They were still going through the clothes, and had found some strands of hair which they hoped to match with the bodies in Umeå.
Towards the end of the meeting they put the investigation to one side and stopped being police officers for a little while. It started with Jennifer asking what everyone was doing at the weekend; Billy and Maya were going mushrooming. It was Billy’s first time; he was trying to go into it with an open mind, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be his new hobby. Jennifer was going to visit her mother, but stressed that she could be reached on her mobile 24/7. She didn’t say it, but she was convinced she would be longing for Monday morning as soon as she left.
Ursula said she was planning to visit Bella in Uppsala, which wasn’t true. She didn’t really know what she was going to do, but she thought there was a chance she might end up at Sebastian’s place again.
Torkel was spending the weekend with his daughters, pleased that he had been able to keep his promise for once.
There was an unusual atmosphere in the Room. The topics of conversation in there were generally violent and sudden death, theories about crimes and criminals – focused discussion with details that everyone left behind when they went home, because otherwise they would pollute the atmosphere outside. But right now, for a moment, things were different. They were colleagues, almost friends, talking about life instead of death.
They got up and went home for the weekend.
Like normal people.
It was a strange feeling.
Her hand was just as warm as it always was. He had told his story, and now he was holding her hand as tightly as he could. She had reacted with
both surprise and anxiety, pacing around the living room before sinking down in front of him. He thought back to when he was a little boy, when her hand was all he needed to comfort him. Back then his little paw had almost disappeared in her loving grip. It wasn’t like that any more; these days his hand virtually covered hers. The tenderness was still there, but now she was the one who needed solace. They sat in silence for a moment; he could tell that she was struggling to work out the significance of what he had told her. Then Shibeka let go of Mehran’s hand, got to her feet and slowly walked over to the photograph of Hamid, which had stood in the same place for as long as he could remember. She picked it up, caressed the glass covering the black and white mouth with her index finger. Mehran realised he was about the same age as his father in the picture. Young and tall, with their whole lives ahead of them.
‘Hamid once said that Said regretted buying the shop, but that was the only negative thing I ever heard. Are you sure they quarrelled?’
‘I don’t know, but why would someone lie about it?’
Shibeka shook her head. She couldn’t think of a reason either.
‘Melika told me her cousins had sold the shop, but I thought it was only about a year ago.’
‘They sold it a month after Hamid and Said disappeared; maybe Melika didn’t want us to know.’
Shibeka gently replaced the photograph, gazing lovingly at the man who had been such a big part of her life. Even after his disappearance.
‘My parents gave me this picture when I was thirteen years old, so that I would know what the man I was to marry looked like. I used to sit and stare at it, wondering what sort of person he was. Would he be a good husband? Would he be kind, harsh, gentle? I had no idea. I was very frightened – not that I dared say anything to anybody. I decided he was going to be a good man. I looked at his picture and told myself that his eyes were both curious and kind, that he looked wise. But you know what?’
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 33