The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Did anyone come to see you after your husband’s disappearance?’

  Shibeka’s reaction told him this was a question she had wanted the police to ask for a long time. A very long time.

  ‘A man came a week or so after Hamid went missing. I’ve always thought he was from the police, but he never came back.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Sebastian turned to Billy and held out his hand. ‘Have you got the picture?’

  Billy opened his folder and handed a photograph to Sebastian.

  ‘Is this the man?’

  Shibeka stared at the picture. Sebastian knew the answer before she spoke.

  Adam Cederkvist had been here.

  There was definitely a connection.

  After the brief meeting with Anitha Lund, Torkel contacted Britta Hanning at Säpo. They didn’t really know one another, although they had met occasionally when their paths crossed. They were the same age, and had had a similar career path within the force, but that was unlikely to make things any easier. Britta Hanning was Säpo, after all and, just as he had expected, he got nowhere with his query about the case of two missing asylum seekers that had landed on their desk nine years ago. Torkel didn’t get through until he said they had found one of her former colleagues, a man everyone thought had drowned during a round the world sailing trip, in a mass grave in the mountains.

  ‘How sure are you that it’s Adam you’ve found?’

  ‘We’re sure,’ Torkel replied firmly, even though they had no forensic proof as yet. ‘Didn’t you miss him?’

  ‘He was on leave from the autumn half term onwards; he was going to spend a year sailing round the world with the family.’

  ‘Someone made it look as if he’d gone, but he died up in Jämtland in October.’

  After a brief silence Britta had said she would get back to him. Ten minutes later she called and asked him to come over.

  Now he was sitting in her corner office right at the top of Police HQ, in the section closest to Polhemsgatan – Kronoberg Park on one side, the green roofs of the buildings on Kungsholmsgatan on the other. He had declined the offer of coffee when he arrived, but was waiting for Britta’s PA to bring hers before they started. Britta had no interest in small talk in the meantime; she explained apologetically that she had one or two emails to deal with, and focused on her computer. Torkel gazed out at the park. The wind had got up during the morning, and now the leaves from the trees opposite were swirling around seven floors up. There was still warmth in the sun, at least when you were indoors behind glass, but soon it would be nothing more than a source of light for a few short hours each day, a glowing promise of heat in a distant future.

  There was a knock on the door and Britta’s PA placed a green Höganäs cup of cappuccino on the desk in front of her; she smiled at Torkel on her way out. As the door closed, Britta turned to Torkel.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Torkel began with the call from Hedvig Hedman in Östersund, and ended with the events of the past few hours, and the fact that some members of his team were now in Rinkeby. The only thing he left out was the names of those involved in the hacking incident; he had no doubt that Britta would soon track them down now she knew where to look.

  ‘Have you spoken to Charles Cederkvist?’

  ‘We can’t get hold of him.’

  Britta sighed audibly as she picked up her cup and looked out of the window. Torkel remained silent, giving her time to think. To an outsider it was perhaps obvious that the different departments within the police should help one another, and in most cases that was what happened, but this was Säpo. It would take a lot to be given access to their material, certainly during a spur-of-the-moment visit without pressure from higher up within the organisation. Britta seemed to have reached a decision. She turned back to Torkel and put down her cup.

  ‘OK.’

  She pushed a dossier over to him. Just as Torkel was about to pick it up, Britta placed her hand on it. Torkel looked up enquiringly; her expression left no room for negotiation.

  ‘It stays here,’ she said, removing her hand. Torkel leaned back in his chair and opened the folder.

  He had expected to spend some time reading intensively while Britta finished off her cappuccino, but when he saw the contents he realised this wasn’t going to take very long at all. He skimmed through the brief notes, then closed the dossier and regarded Britta with ill-concealed distrust.

  ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But there’s nothing here.’

  It was no exaggeration. According to the dossier, Adam Cederkvist had been informed that Hamid Khan and Said Balkhi were suspected of terrorism, or at least of having contact with terrorists, and that it therefore seemed unlikely that they had disappeared because they were threatened with deportation, particularly in view of the fact that Said already had a permanent residence permit. Instead it was assumed that they had travelled overseas in order to carry out terrorist attacks, or to undergo training in preparation for such attacks. A case for Säpo, to put it simply. But apparently Adam Cederkvist hadn’t accepted that theory, and had carried on looking. He had even visited the wives of the two men; for some reason he had then become even more convinced that this wasn’t a voluntary disappearance – quite the reverse. A final note right at the bottom of the page was the only thing that could be useful, as far as Torkel could see.

  ‘There’s a mention of American agents at the end here . . .’

  ‘Yes, I saw that. I checked it out before you arrived; we had no active overseas agents in the country during that period.’

  ‘Officially.’

  ‘We had no active overseas agents in the country during that period,’ Britta repeated in a tone that made it very clear to Torkel that this would be a very short conversation unless he played by the rules. Her rules. He understood and moved on.

  ‘Where did the suggestion that the two men were involved in terrorist activity come from?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘I don’t need a specific name.’

  Britta looked him in the eye and said nothing. Torkel sighed to himself. He fully understood the issue of national security, but sometimes the secrecy between departments could be a little ridiculous.

  ‘Let me put it this way. Does the military intelligence and security service sometimes share information received?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Is that what happened in this case?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Torkel contemplated the woman sitting opposite him. She looked sincere, but that was irrelevant. She wasn’t going to tell him anything. He thought through a possible scenario. Military intelligence had found out that someone was preparing to carry out a terrorist attack on an American target, perhaps in the very near future. Hamid and Said were named. They were picked up and the Americans were allowed to . . . do what? If the two men had been taken out of the country, surely it would have hit the headlines? When it was revealed in 2004 that the CIA had removed two Egyptians from Sweden in 2001, there had been a hell of a row. If it had happened again two years later, it would definitely have come to light. Or had they learned their lesson? Managed to hide it this time? Did American agents take Hamid and Said out of the country?

  There was no point in running his theory past Britta; even if she knew, she would never tell him. He tried a different tack; this was his last shot.

  ‘If Adam thought American agents were operating in Sweden, why wasn’t this followed up?’

  ‘I wondered the same thing.’

  Torkel was struck by the sudden honesty in her voice.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think someone made sure it didn’t go any further.’

  She pointed at the ceiling. As they were on the top floor, there was no physical presence above her, and it seemed unlikely th
at God had decided to intervene in a police matter. Therefore, the finger had to mean ‘a higher power’.

  But that wasn’t all.

  It also meant they had a big problem.

  * * *

  Torkel was on his way back to Riksmord when he decided to go for a walk, clear his head. The autumn afternoon had looked so beautiful from Britta’s window, like a commercial with cheerful people in chunky jumpers playfully chasing children and dogs, ending up on the sofa in front of a crackling fire enjoying whatever product was being advertised. For a brief moment he pictured himself and Ursula as those cheerful people, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A stroll, some fresh air would do him good. As soon as he walked out of the main entrance he realised that the weather was much more pleasant through a pane of glass than it was in reality. The wind tore at his clothes as Torkel lowered his head and turned left. He bought a cup of coffee from the café on the corner, then walked back with the wind behind him and sat down on a bench in the park. It was in the shade and it certainly wasn’t sheltered; he was freezing in no time, and the hot coffee didn’t really help at all. However, having decided to sit outside for a while, he wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  He concentrated on the case.

  So many question marks. He just couldn’t make it add up.

  If military intelligence had picked up Hamid and Said, why tip off Säpo? Why not just put it down as a disappearance following a refusal to grant asylum, and leave it at that?

  Because that kind of disappearance wasn’t conclusive. Relatives might be able to convince someone that the individuals in question hadn’t vanished of their own free will, and if they shouted loud enough, the police would have to take up the case again. Start searching. Investigating. Someone wanted to avoid that at all costs.

  As it was, the case was closed as far as the Solna police were concerned. Nobody was going to feature it on Crimewatch, Most Wanted, or in the tabloid press. The Säpo stamp was an unbreakable seal, which indirectly implied that the two Muslims had had something to hide. To most people, the fact that Säpo were interested in them meant that they must be guilty of something.

  Lennart Stridh, Anitha Lund and Morgan Hansson had broken that seal, and one of them was dead.

  Torkel got to his feet, considered a walk, but decided that he’d had enough of the great outdoors. He set off back to the office, still thinking about the case.

  Charles Cederkvist receives a warning about terrorist activity. He has Hamid and Said brought in. Contacts the CIA. Hamid and Said vanish. Charles asks his brother to take over and shut down the case. So far so good. Torkel thought he could see the end of the labyrinth through which his thoughts were picking their way.

  OK, but what next?

  Adam didn’t just do as he had been asked. He started digging. Linked the disappearances to the unofficial American presence in Sweden.

  Was that why he died?

  If so, who was behind it?

  Surely Charles wouldn’t have his own brother killed because he was getting close to an uncomfortable truth?

  The end of the labyrinth receded into the distance, and as Torkel pulled open the door with a sigh, he realised that even if they were moving in the right direction, they still had a long way to go.

  Alexander Söderling pushed open the door and said hello to Hanna on reception, who responded with: ‘You have a visitor’.

  Alexander quickly ran through his diary in his head. As far as he recalled, the meeting he had just left in Vasastan was the last for today.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Hanna nodded towards the stylish seating area, where Charles Cederkvist was just putting down the latest edition of Industry Today. He got up with some difficulty from the low, deep-pink leather sofa with its yellow and white irregularly shaped cushions and came towards Alexander with a smile.

  The two men shook hands, and Alexander made a point of saying what a long time it had been and how pleased he was to see Charles before he showed his guest into his office.

  ‘I need to get away. Far away, for a long time,’ Charles said as soon as Alexander had closed the door.

  ‘I don’t understand how I can help you with that.’

  Charles gave him a look, making it very clear that he didn’t think he should need to explain. Alexander spread his arms wide, as if to indicate that their location should be enough to make Charles see how unreasonable his demand was.

  ‘I run this business now; I can’t help you.’

  He met Charles’s gaze and saw no sympathy. ‘It would have been difficult when I was with military intelligence, but now it’s impossible.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible,’ Charles said, walking over to the window. People were battling along Drottninggatan, leaning into the wind. ‘You’ve got contacts and money, or at least contacts with money. Use them.’

  Alexander went and sat down in his comfortable office chair. This was an unwelcome visit, reminding him of things he would prefer to forget, but there was no reason why it should be anything more than that.

  ‘Let’s not rush into things,’ he said calmly. ‘They’ve found the bodies, they’re looking into the car accident, but—’

  Charles interrupted him with a brief, joyless laugh as he turned to look at the man behind the desk. Ten years older, fifteen kilos heavier. Alexander really had lost his grip. The good years running a PR company had taken the edge off, transformed him from a vigilant panther to an indolent house cat. Back then, all those years ago, Alexander Söderling used to say that you could never have too much information. Now he didn’t even seem to know the basics. Time for an update.

  ‘Joseph called. Hamid’s son came looking for him,’ Charles said in a quiet, intense tone. ‘The police are looking for me; they’ve identified Adam. Investigation Today have started digging, and as you know it’s only a question of time before the CIA realise that Patricia Wellton was murdered, if they don’t know already.’ He kept his eyes on Alexander, making sure his message hit home. Alexander felt the colour drain from his face. This was bad, really bad. On every level. The worst aspect was probably Investigation Today; Lennart Stridh had been found dead in a car in Bråviken. For God’s sake, what was Charles dragging him into?

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said; he was pleased to hear that his voice was steady.

  ‘No, you’ll do it,’ Charles said, moving over to the desk. ‘I’ve sacrificed too much to go down because you’re bone idle, and scared to upset your friends.’ He leaned forward and picked up a pen. ‘My new number,’ he said, jotting it down on a piece of paper by Alexander’s left arm. ‘You’ve got until this evening.’

  He straightened up and headed for the door.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Alexander asked, in spite of the fact that a part of him thought it was best to know as little as possible.

  ‘I’m going to take care of Joseph and the boy.’

  ‘Did you take care of Lennart Stridh too?’ Alexander heard himself say, even though this time he was absolutely certain he didn’t want to know the answer.

  ‘You do what you have to do and let me do what I have to do.’

  Then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a quiet click. Alexander stayed where he was. Let out a long breath. So many thoughts crowding into his head. The key question: how should he handle this? Charles was obviously desperate, and therefore unpredictable and dangerous. He wanted to run, which meant he was under pressure from so many directions that he didn’t think he was going to get through this, and if Charles thought it was over, how was Alexander going to survive? He wasn’t. Not without help.

  He picked up his mobile and scrolled through to the number he wanted. She answered right away.

  ‘You told me not to call unless we had a problem,’ Alexander said without preamble. He assumed she knew who he was. He paused for a second. ‘We have a problem.’

  * * *

  Veronica Ström ended the call and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. />
  Yes, they had a problem.

  At the worst possible moment.

  She turned to the woman at the other end of the pale conference table. The man beside her was just lowering his camera; he had taken several shots while she was on the phone. For a moment Veronica thought they might have overheard what she was saying, then she remembered that her responses had mostly been monosyllabic, apart from a parting promise to take care of things.

  The woman was Maria Stensson, and she was a journalist. Veronica didn’t recall the photographer’s name. He had introduced himself when they met, but it had gone in one ear and out the other.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to make a call,’ she said, smiling apologetically.

  ‘No problem,’ Maria Stensson said, returning the smile. Veronica could see that her colleague was about to protest; he wanted to take some pictures in her office and perhaps outdoors, down by the water behind the parliament building, before it got too dark.

  ‘It won’t take a moment,’ she said, pre-empting him. She left the room and went out into the corridor that housed the majority of the Social Democrats’ representatives in parliament. She was going to take care of things, just as she had promised Alexander Söderling. She dialled +1, then a number she knew by heart. A male voice answered on the second ring with a curt ‘Yes?’

  Veronica introduced herself and briefly told him why she was calling; she was sorry to disturb him, but one or two problems had arisen.

  The man on the other end, with his southern drawl, asked how he could help.

  Veronica began to explain.

  Mehran had never been this far south. He and Levan had once been to Flemingsberg with a friend, but he had just passed that station and was heading towards Tullinge. He was to get off at the penultimate stop, which was called Södertälje Port.

  Joseph would be waiting for him there.

  Mehran was supposed to call him when the train left Östertälje. He was finding it hard to sit still, and kept going to look at the blue-and-white poster showing all the stations on this line. Seven to go. Six. He went back after every stop, as if the number of stations might suddenly change while he was sitting on the train. The metal in his pocket was warm, although it ought to be cold. He had sorted it through Levan: a drilled-out starter pistol. It looked a bit silly, copper-coloured with a slender barrel, but Levan’s friend had assured him it would work. All Mehran had to do was take aim and fire. Six shots. He had been hoping for something better, but in spite of the fact that Levan was always talking about knowing the right people, that was the best he could come up with – at short notice, anyway. Mehran had no idea how to get his hands on a gun, so he was still pleased to have it.