The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  Her eyes were soft as she contemplated her son.

  ‘I was still surprised. When I met him he was even better than I could have hoped; kinder and wiser, more loving than I could possibly have imagined. That’s why this picture means so much to me. It gives me hope.’

  She went back to Mehran, her eyes shining with the memory.

  ‘Hope that things can be better than you expect,’ she went on. ‘That sometimes our worries are unfounded. I am still hopeful.’

  ‘But you know Melika lied, don’t you? About Joseph.’

  Shibeka nodded.

  ‘In which case she might have lied about other things,’ Mehran went on. ‘Like this business with the shop.’

  ‘Perhaps, but what can we do, Mehran?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her, and I won’t let her get away with it this time.’

  Mehran knew what he had to do. He would use his new voice to find out the truth. Presumably that was why Allah had given it to him; not to grow in front of Memel and the other men as he had thought, but to face up to something much more difficult.

  Much more important.

  Shibeka looked at him, and after a while she nodded.

  So be it.

  This time Vanja waited for over half an hour outside the apartment block on Västmannagatan before a middle-aged couple came strolling along arm in arm, entered the code and disappeared inside. Vanja quickly slipped in after them. They looked at her suspiciously as she walked past them while they were waiting for the lift; she almost expected to have to produce her ID, but neither of them said anything; they just watched her as if they were trying to memorise her appearance in case they were called as witnesses to something or other at a later date. Vanja quickly made her way up to the third floor. This was probably a stupid idea, but she had to know.

  She hadn’t stayed long at Sebastian’s. She had cried, let it all out. He had held her, standing there in the hallway until the worst had passed; he had asked her to stay for something to eat – he was cooking burgers – but she had declined. She needed to be alone, think about what had happened, what she knew. She really wanted to believe him, but it wasn’t that simple. He might be a new improved version, but he was still Sebastian. Smart, unscrupulous, with a liberal conscience – the very qualities she had valued just a few hours earlier now counted against him, which was why she was back in the apartment block on Västmannagatan. She had to know the truth before she could truly regard Sebastian as the friend she so desperately needed.

  She rang Ellinor Bergkvist’s doorbell. It was almost midnight, but she didn’t care. She rang again, keeping her thumb on the bell. She could see movement behind the spyhole, then the lock clicked and the door opened as far as the security chain would allow.

  ‘Hi, my name is Magdalena,’ Vanja said. ‘Could I have a word with you about Sebastian Bergman?’

  ‘What about him?’ Ellinor asked, her voice a mixture of scepticism, joy and anxiety.

  ‘May I come in for a moment?’

  ‘No.’

  In order to put weight behind her response, Ellinor pushed the door shut so that only a tiny gap remained. She peered out with one eye.

  ‘What about Sebastian?’ she reiterated.

  Vanja started by explaining that she was a police officer, keeping her fingers crossed that Ellinor wouldn’t ask to see her ID. An ongoing investigation by the Economic Crime Unit had led to Sebastian, and things weren’t looking too good. From the little she could see of Ellinor’s face, she seemed distraught. Daktea, Trolle Hermansson’s death, the fact that all this information had been handed in by someone with a connection to Sebastian, meant that the police had to dig deeper into Sebastian’s role in the whole thing, Vanja clarified. It was a complex case, and when a colleague came up in an investigation, it was a matter of routine to dig a little deeper. Ellinor nodded. Vanja was impressed by what a good liar she had turned out to be.

  Ellinor started talking; she appeared to be proud of what she had done, and equally determined that no shadow of blame should fall on Sebastian.

  Yes, he had asked her to throw away the bag, but she had read the contents and decided to help him.

  No, Sebastian had never said that Valdemar was a threat, or expressed any desire to harm him in any way; that had been Ellinor’s own conclusion. She might have been mistaken.

  Yes, she thought he had been give the material by someone called Trolle, but she wasn’t sure.

  Vanja could feel herself relaxing more and more each time Ellinor confirmed something Sebastian had said. Life had been enough of an emotional roller-coaster lately; she couldn’t cope with finding out that Sebastian had been involved in bringing down her father, for some inexplicable reason. In fact it seemed as if the reverse was true.

  He had wanted to protect her.

  Save her. Again. Just as he had done from Edward Hinde.

  He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for this woman with her face pressed against the door. Vanja felt a surge of rage, a pure, clear emotion – welcome after the mixture of sorrow, pain, suspicion and confusion she had endured over the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘Is Sebastian back in town?’ Ellinor asked, sounding hopeful.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  Under normal circumstances Vanja would have felt sorry for a woman in Ellinor’s situation; she would have found Sebastian’s actions in kicking her out and then refusing to talk to her both cowardly and insensitive. Bastard. She would have been completely on the side of the woman. Under normal circumstances.

  ‘He said you weren’t together any more,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘He’s only saying that to protect me,’ Ellinor insisted.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Valdemar Lithner.’

  Vanja’s anger was overlaid with impatience. Ellinor was contradicting herself: she had just said that Sebastian didn’t regard Valdemar as a threat. That was the final straw; Vanja felt a sudden urge to go on the attack. She had taken so much crap; it was time to give something back. This woman had destroyed so much, and besides, she would be doing Sebastian a favour, she told herself.

  ‘He kicked you out because you’re crazy. He never wants to see you again,’ she said, fixing her gaze on the eye peering through the gap. Ellinor jerked back as if someone had slapped her.

  ‘He didn’t say that.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Vanja revelled in the knowledge that she had regained control. She might not be proud of herself tomorrow, but she would worry about that when the time came. Right now she decided to twist the knife a little more.

  ‘He said you were sick; he let you stay with him for a while out of kindness, but he can’t cope with you any more. Particularly after what you’ve done to Valdemar Lithner.’

  The light in the stairwell went out, and in the compact darkness that followed, Vanja didn’t see Ellinor’s eye narrow and darken as it stared at her with an emotion that was unmistakable: hatred.

  ‘Stay away from Sebastian,’ Ellinor heard from out of the darkness, and then the figure outside her door was gone. She didn’t switch on the light as she went down the stairs, presumably to make her departure more dramatic, Ellinor guessed as she closed the door.

  She hurried into the bedroom, over to the window. If Magdalena crossed the street and turned left, Ellinor would be able to see her. That was exactly what she did, and Ellinor watched her until she disappeared from view. Ellinor sank down on the unmade bed.

  The woman had said such terrible things.

  Terrible and true?

  Valdemar Lithner had been arrested. He could no longer constitute a threat to anyone, and yet Sebastian hadn’t been in touch, hadn’t asked her to come back now the danger was over.

  According to the woman, Sebastian had never been afraid of Valdemar. Had she misinterpreted the situation? If so . . .

  She could hardly bear to formulate the thought. If so he had meant what he said on the note attached to her suitcase.
r />   If so he hadn’t said those hurtful things and thrown her out in order to protect her. He had grown tired of her. He really did see her as a home help he had sex with, and now it was over. That nurse he had told her about – he really had slept with her. With her and God knows how many others.

  Ellinor had loved him.

  He had just been toying with her.

  He had spent Saturday alone with his music and his thoughts as they billowed back and forth, stopped then slipped away. However, he kept coming back to the same point, and by the evening he knew what he had to do. He had to confront Melika. She couldn’t be allowed to hide the truth any longer. His mother would have wanted to come with him if she had known; he understood that, but it was better if he did this on his own. If it was just him, Memel and the others wouldn’t be able to say much, and if it went wrong and caused problems, it would be better if they only had him to blame. Mehran would be able to explain, put his cards on the table, tell them about Melika’s lies; they would have to listen. They didn’t have to listen to Shibeka. That was the difference between men and women; he needed to take it on board and learn to exploit it.

  This morning Shibeka had made him breakfast. He ate well, told her he was going out, but didn’t say where. Now he was standing outside Melika’s apartment block. Mehran wanted to take her by surprise, make sure she didn’t have the opportunity to prepare herself in any way; he would strike suddenly, with no warning. He just didn’t know how. Ringing the doorbell would surprise her, admittedly, but he couldn’t force his way in, and he definitely didn’t want to have this conversation on the landing.

  Eventually he got his chance. He had seen her set off with a friend an hour or so earlier, and now her son Ali was coming down the street with a couple of friends. They parted company where the paths crossed, and Ali continued on his own. The other boys’ voices faded away. Mehran was half-hidden behind a tree, watching Ali as he strolled along without a care in the world. He knew Ali, of course, but Eyer was closer to him in both age and interests, and it was a long time since they had spoken. He straightened up and walked quickly towards the other boy. Ali’s face lit up when he saw him.

  ‘Hi, Mehran!’

  He seemed genuinely pleased to see Mehran. Good – that meant his mother hadn’t said anything about her problems with the Khan family, which should make things easier.

  ‘Hi, Ali, how’s things?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Is it OK if I come up for a bit? I’ve forgotten my key and it’s a bit cold; Mum won’t be home for hours.’

  He tried to look as frozen as possible in order to make his story credible; Ali bought it.

  ‘Course you can, although I don’t think Mum’s home, so there won’t be anything to eat.’

  ‘No problem – we can watch TV.’

  Mehran felt both nervous and excited as Ali unlocked the door of the apartment. He had no idea if this was going to work, but at least he would have a slight advantage when Melika got home and found him sitting on her sofa. If she came home alone . . . otherwise he would have to come up with another plan.

  He and Ali spent an hour in front of the TV. They chatted about Eyer and school and friends before they ran out of things to say. Mehran had other matters on his mind. If Ali found the silence uncomfortable, he didn’t show it; in fact he seemed delighted that someone so much older was sitting watching cartoons with him. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange; all his friends had brothers and sisters. None of them was an only child, like him.

  At last they heard a key in the door. ‘Here she is!’ Ali said happily.

  ‘Good,’ Mehran said, getting to his feet. He fixed Ali with a hard stare.

  ‘Go to your room.’

  Ali looked shocked. ‘But why?’

  ‘Go to your room, I said. Now!’

  Ali stood up, his expression mutinous. This was his home; he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Mehran was annoyed; obviously he didn’t carry enough authority. However, he didn’t want to shout at Ali, who was no more than an innocent kid, just as he had once been. No doubt that was the problem; he was too sensitive.

  ‘I need to speak to your mother,’ he said in a more reasonable tone. ‘Alone.’

  Ali didn’t have time to respond before Melika walked in with a carrier bag of food. She was shocked to see Mehran.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

  He walked past Ali, who didn’t seem to know how to react.

  ‘What’s happened, Ali?’ Melika asked anxiously. Mehran answered for him.

  ‘I’ve asked him to go to his room. I know you’re lying. I didn’t think he needed to hear this.’

  Her face lost its colour and she dropped the bag on the floor.

  ‘Get out of here, Mehran. Right now.’

  He shook his head. He had no intention of giving up. Not until he got to the truth.

  ‘You don’t have to tell my mother, but you do have to tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I went to Said’s shop. Your husband’s shop. Ali’s father’s shop. Do you know what they told me?’

  For a second she had no idea what to say. Mehran could see that his words had hit home, got past the protective wall of lies. She stood there in silence, as if she was hoping that if she kept quiet for long enough, he would give up and go home. No chance. He felt more powerful than ever; his strength of will had driven out his nerves.

  ‘I can pass it on to Memel if you like. I think he would be interested to hear that your cousins and Said fell out. That they sold the shop a month after he disappeared. Or does he already know? Does everyone know except us?’

  ‘That’s not true,’ she whispered, sinking down onto the stool by the door.

  ‘What’s not true, Melika?’

  She stared at the floor. At her feet. Then she looked up at her son.

  ‘Do as Mehran says. Go to your room.’

  Ali couldn’t believe his ears. ‘But, Mum—’

  ‘Go to your room!’ she yelled. Mehran could tell that her voice was on the point of breaking. He, on the other hand, had most definitely found his voice.

  Ali slipped away to his room. He would probably never look at Mehran in the same way again. At last Melika met his gaze. Her expression was no longer hostile, merely sad.

  ‘I don’t know what happened, Mehran. Honestly I don’t.’

  ‘But you know more than you told us.’

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Who’s Joseph?’

  She went as white as a ghost. ‘An evil man. It’s all his fault.’

  There was no longer sorrow in her eyes; instead he could see fear. A nagging anxiety, perhaps even terror.

  Mehran held out his hand to her. He wanted to be gentle now; he thought that was what the truth required.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Morgan Hansson had shown Anitha a number of new sides to his character over the weekend. He wasn’t a troll at all.

  He was something much worse.

  A bon vivant.

  A man who really knew how to handle the cards he had been dealt. After she had told him the truth about Lennart Stridh and the TV programme, Morgan had suggested they go out to dinner, just as she had feared. That would be nice, wouldn’t it, now they knew each other so well and no longer had any secrets? Anitha couldn’t say no. She was going to have to butter him up, agree to all his suggestions for the rest of her life, or at least as long as she stayed with the police.

  They had eaten at his favourite place, Texas Longhorn on Sankt Paulsgatan on Friday night, and Anitha had learned the following:

  1) He loved talking, particularly when he’d had a couple of drinks.

  2) He loved large quantities of red meat, served with baked potato filled with sour cream and Cheddar cheese. She was surprised he wasn’t fatter, given the amount he put away.

  3) He liked ale and noisy pubs,
preferably in the Söder district of the city. According to him that was the best way to finish off an evening, and he was often one of the last to leave.

  4) He was obsessed with sparkling water. He had told her in detail about the joy his own carbonating machine brought him, and now there was one in her kitchen too. He had tried to come up and install it for her, but that was where she had drawn the line. On this occasion. It was only a question of time before he made himself at home, and was standing in her kitchen happily carbonating water.

  5) He loved the Kista Galleria shopping centre. That was where they had bought the machine. He liked the fact that there were so many people there, different cultures from all over the world. It was so ‘un-Swedish’, he thought. She had to agree, even though she just wanted to scream with every fibre of her being.

  This evening they were going to the cinema – Morgan’s decision, of course. He always went to the cinema on Sundays, and presumably so did she, from now on. Some 3D film, apparently. She didn’t dare tell him that she’d never seen anything in 3D, otherwise he would no doubt make her watch everything that had ever been produced in that format.

  She tried to think of one positive aspect of her new ‘friend’.

  She couldn’t come up with anything.

  Nothing at all.

  Something had to change. Anitha needed to feel that she was at least getting something out of the road to Golgotha that her life had become; even if it wasn’t very much, her pride demanded some restitution, otherwise she might just as well lie down and die. She refused to do that; she had to keep control of something.

  She decided to call Lennart Stridh; she might as well get some money out of this. It wouldn’t be a great deal, she knew that, but right now it was better than nothing. The feeling of control was priceless; that was what she really needed.

  She would give him the name.

  It wasn’t much, but he would pay a higher price than he had ever done before.

  Ursula was sitting on the sofa watching TV.