The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  He had picked it up from Sergels torg. Levan had had to vouch for him, and had come straight down when Mehran called. It cost 1500 kronor; Mehran managed to swap it for the new mobile phone his mother had bought. Levan had to lend him 200 for the cartridges. It annoyed Mehran that he had to pay for them separately, but Levan and the supplier said that was the way things worked. The pistol was like a car and the cartridges were the fuel, they insisted. Two totally different things. Mehran knew he was being conned, but he had no choice. He had no intention of going to meet the man who might well be behind his father’s disappearance without being armed. It was out of the question. If anyone was going to be taken by surprise, it was Joseph, not him.

  He fingered the gun. It felt warm, but nowhere near as reassuring as he had expected. Mehran glanced around the carriage; he felt as if everyone was looking at him. They probably were, because he kept getting up and going over to the route map between stations, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that they all knew he was armed. That he shouldn’t be there. That he was about to make a serious mistake.

  His mobile rang; the sound made him jump, and he started searching for it. He didn’t really want to answer, but it might be Joseph. He couldn’t find it; had he put it in the same pocket as the gun? That would be really stupid. What if he pulled the gun out along with his phone? It might fall on the floor, and everyone who already knew he was armed would see the evidence. Feverishly he groped in the narrow pocket; the gun which had seemed so small suddenly seemed huge and cumbersome. Eventually he realised the ringtone wasn’t coming from that pocket, but from his jacket. Where he always kept his phone. Obviously. He grabbed it as it stopped ringing as abruptly as it had begun.

  He took several deep breaths, tried to regain his composure before he checked the display.

  It wasn’t Joseph, it was his mother.

  He really didn’t want to talk to her right now. He didn’t even want to think about her; it would merely serve to weaken his resolve. But she wanted to talk to him. She called again. He knew her; she wouldn’t give up until he answered.

  She sounded cheerful and enthusiastic, which didn’t feel right at all. What had she got to be cheerful about?

  ‘Mehran? Where are you?’

  ‘In town.’

  ‘Listen, the police were here. They believe me.’

  Mehran couldn’t understand what was going on.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘They were here. You have to come home.’

  He had heard correctly, although he still didn’t understand.

  ‘I can’t, Mum.’

  ‘You have to, Mehran. There were three police officers here. They’re taking it seriously this time.’

  ‘Mum, I can’t. I’ve found Joseph. I’m on my way to see him now.’

  He heard her gasp for breath; it sounded as if someone had slapped her across the face.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve tracked him down. I’m going to find out the truth. I have to do this.’

  ‘Come home, Mehran,’ she begged. ‘Please come home.’

  ‘Afterwards. When I know. When I know what happened. I promise.’

  ‘Mehran!’ She was screaming now; he moved the phone away from his ear. He could still hear her pleading as he ended the call.

  It was wrong, he knew that. We should always listen to our mothers. But he had no choice, regardless of what the police may or may not know.

  For nine years Shibeka had waited for them to listen to her.

  For nine years he had waited for Joseph.

  Today both their wishes would be granted.

  * * *

  Eyer couldn’t understand why his mother was yelling. He gave her a hug, tried to console her. She barely even noticed him. She was still clutching the telephone, ringing the same number over and over again, but Mehran seemed to be rejecting the call every single time. Eventually she slumped to the ground. Eyer tried to hug her even more tightly; all he knew was that he mustn’t let go of her. Ever.

  At last she calmed down slightly and looked at him. Her eyes were full of tears, but she wasn’t sad in the way that she usually was. This was something different, a horror he had never seen before. He realised something awful was happening; his hugs seemed so ineffectual.

  ‘What’s happened, Mum?’

  ‘It’s Mehran. It’s Mehran. He . . .’

  She broke off and held him close, buried her face in his hair. She didn’t know whether she should, or even could, tell him any more. How could she explain something she barely understood herself? How could she tell him about the name that had walked beside her like a ghost for so long, the shadow whose very existence she had doubted?

  Joseph.

  Mehran was on his way to see him, and it was going to happen again, just like the last time Joseph’s name had come up. Mehran would disappear, just like his father. The man who had been nothing more than a name would hurt her family again. She knew it. And it was her fault. She was the one who had let him back in by refusing to forget. She had kept the monster alive, nurtured it, and now she had given it her firstborn. Shibeka clung to Eyer, wondering if she would ever be able to let go of him. She didn’t think so. But she had to do something, she couldn’t just give up.

  She noticed the card the slightly overweight police officer had given her; he had looked at her in a way she didn’t like at all. It was lying on the table next to the telephone.

  The police might not have helped her in the past, but right now she had no one else. She had to make him understand.

  ‘Charles Mikael Cederkvist, born 1966 in Hedemora. He’s been living with his partner Marianne Fransson in Oskarshamn since 2006. No children. His brother Adam was two years younger.’

  Billy was addressing the team in the Room, where everyone except Vanja had gathered. Sebastian had called her several times, but with no luck. He was starting to get seriously worried. She had gone off at lunchtime, and no one had heard from her since then. He decided to call round at her apartment later that evening, but right now he needed to focus on the man Billy had plastered all over one wall via the projector. The man who had probably killed his brother.

  ‘The family moved to Södertälje when he was thirteen and his father got a job with Scania,’ Billy went on. ‘Charles did his military service there, applied for officer training, then went on to specialist training. He was recruited to the military intelligence and security service in ’98, but that’s all we know. They’re not telling us anything; they weren’t even prepared to confirm that Charles works for them. If we want more information, we have to go down the official route: a formal request from one authority to another.’

  He looked at Torkel, who nodded to show that he understood. The official route also meant the slow and bureaucratic route, unfortunately. Billy brought up another image on his laptop and Jennifer took over.

  ‘The head of military intelligence in 2003 was Major General Alexander Söderling. He left the army in 2008 and moved into business. He’s the Managing Director of Nuntius, a PR company on Drottninggatan. We haven’t tried to contact him yet.’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Torkel said with a sigh. ‘If military intelligence won’t even confirm that Charles works for them, Söderling isn’t going to say anything either.’

  Sebastian’s mobile rang. He grabbed it, hoping it would be Vanja, but it was a number he didn’t recognise. He ignored the irritated glances of everyone else as he got up to answer it. Ten seconds later he had left the room.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Investigation Today,’ Jennifer went on. ‘Lennart Stridh’s boss . . .’ she looked down at her notes, ‘Sture Liljedahl, said that as far as he was aware, Lennart had given up on Shibeka’s story. He had no idea what Lennart was doing down by Bråviken, but he promised to go through his computer and let us know if he found anything.’

  Before she could say any more, Sebastian flung open the door.

  ‘That was Shibeka Khan. Her son is on the
way to meet someone called Joseph.’

  ‘Who’s Joseph?’ Ursula wondered, not unreasonably.

  ‘Shibeka didn’t know, but he was associated with Hamid and Said. Shibeka thinks he had something to do with their disappearance, and her son is absolutely convinced he was involved.’

  ‘Where are they meeting?’ Torkel asked, ready to leave the Room immediately.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Could it be Charles?’ Jennifer suggested. Torkel nodded. Possibly – probably, in fact.

  ‘In which case, we have to find him fast. Billy?’

  Billy was already at his computer. ‘He called from a mobile; I can try and trace it.’

  He looked up at Sebastian. ‘What’s his number?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Could you try and find out?’

  Sebastian called Shibeka, explained the situation and handed the phone to Billy.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Billy, I need . . .’ He glanced enquiringly at Sebastian.

  ‘Mehran,’ Sebastian supplied.

  ‘Mehran’s phone number so that we can try and trace him.’

  He made a note of the number, and asked Shibeka for a few more details. Soon he knew the operator (3), what kind of phone it was (one of those with a screen you just have to touch), and who the subscriber was (Shibeka Khan); he asked her to see if she could find the receipt. He thanked her for her help, gave the phone back to Sebastian and picked up his own. He contacted 3 and gave them a three-digit number plus the password that proved he was calling from the police. After thirty seconds he had an IMEI number. Meanwhile, Shibeka had found the receipt. Billy checked that the IMEI number was correct, just to be on the safe side, then typed the fifteen digits into his computer.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jennifer asked; she had come around the table and was standing behind him.

  ‘Every mobile phone has a unique ID number. As long as it’s switched on, I should be able . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence; all his attention was on the screen.

  ‘I’ll get a car,’ Torkel said, leaving the room.

  ‘Bingo!’ Billy leaned back on his chair, hands linked behind his head; he was obviously pleased with himself. Sebastian moved closer and saw a blue dot appear against a grey background.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Just wait,’ Billy said, holding up his hand. Around the blue dot a map began to appear, bit by bit, and finally names and other reference points emerged. Billy studied the screen and ran his finger along a thick black line, which the blue dot appeared to be following.

  ‘That’s the railway. He’s on a train, just outside Södertälje.’

  ‘That’s where Charles Cederkvist did his military service,’ Jennifer informed them.

  Billy closed his laptop and he and Jennifer ran out of the door.

  Shibeka had called so many times that he had had to switch his phone to silent; now it kept on vibrating instead. He ignored it. He gave Joseph a quick call as the train reached Östertälje, as agreed. The rasping voice answered right away.

  He would be waiting at the next station, in the car park just outside.

  The voice didn’t say any more.

  Nor did Mehran.

  It wasn’t necessary.

  He went and stood by the doors, one hand in his pocket. The metal no longer felt warm, and nor did he. The heat in his body had been replaced by a cold sweat that almost made him shiver.

  It was normal to be afraid. There was nothing wrong with that.

  Not having the courage to act, that would be wrong. Warriors were afraid, he understood that now. Bravery meant being able to act in spite of one’s fear.

  The train began to slow down: Södertälje Port. Mehran stepped down onto the platform, saw the red station building a short distance away; the exit must be over there. He felt better when he started walking; the anxiety was still there, but the movement made it easier to handle. He entered the large brick edifice, saw the big doors leading to the car park. He didn’t know what he would do if Joseph really was standing there waiting for him. He was glad they had agreed to meet in a place where other people were around; it felt safer than in an apartment. Some of the other passengers were behind him, and he slowed down to allow them to pass. Mehran was in no hurry, and there was a certain security in having people in front of him. There were a dozen or so vehicles in the small car park. Two passengers were picked up in a red Ford just by the entrance, while some headed for the bus shelter a short distance away. The others went off in different directions, and soon Mehran was the only one left. He stood by the door, looking around.

  A man got out of a black, highly polished BMW, his eyes fixed on Mehran. He looked Arabic, and was in his fifties; well built, with short grey hair, a few strands of black remaining in his beard. Mehran didn’t recognise him. He was wearing a short black leather jacket, jeans and loafers; the combination of the car and the jacket made him look rich. Powerful. Or maybe that was just Mehran’s mind playing tricks on him. The man nodded to Mehran, who nodded back. Slowly he began to walk towards Mehran. Perfect. Joseph could come to him. However, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He didn’t dare touch the gun; the man might notice the movement and realise he was armed. He let his arms dangle by his sides; it didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t work out what else to do. He didn’t want to seem nervous, didn’t want to give Joseph (if it was Joseph) the upper hand in any way. The man was strolling towards him as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if he had come to pick up an old friend. Not a hint of unease in his body. That annoyed Mehran; he wanted Joseph to be afraid of him, rather than the reverse.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me,’ the man said when he was five metres away. It was him. There was something special about hearing that voice for real, so close, rather than on the telephone or as a memory. Mehran was even more confused about what to do with his hands.

  ‘I have some questions about my father,’ he said as clearly as possible. His voice was steady, which was something.

  ‘Your father’s name was Hamid, wasn’t it?’

  Mehran nodded.

  ‘I hardly knew him. He was a friend of a friend.’

  ‘Said wasn’t your friend. I know you lent money to Rafi, his cousin.’

  Joseph shrugged.

  ‘I help many people. Many, many people.’ He smiled. ‘That’s just the way I am.’

  ‘My father disappeared. I’m trying to find out what happened.’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’

  Mehran met Joseph’s gaze. It was as deep as a grave. In Joseph’s eyes there was no hope, no future. He really wished the gun was in his hand right now, but he couldn’t get it out, not here. There were too many people around. He took a step back; he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Am I?’ he said, trying to sound confident. ‘I think you know what happened to him.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you would say such a thing,’ Joseph said, a fraction more gently. ‘There must be some kind of misunderstanding.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Shall we go somewhere, sort this out?’

  ‘We can sort it out here.’

  Joseph laughed.

  ‘No. Either you come with me, or we forget it.’

  He turned away and walked back to his car. ‘You won’t get another chance,’ he added.

  Mehran wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t planned beyond actually meeting Joseph, but now he realised he had to act. Give this arrogant man something to think about. Take him by surprise. Perhaps he should take out the gun, press it against Joseph’s forehead.

  But not here; he needed to get him on his own, but he really didn’t want to get in the car. It was too risky. Joseph had reached the BMW and turned around.

  ‘Are you coming?’ he said irritably.

  Maybe he should give up, Mehran thought. Accept that he wasn’t going to get any further. He hadn’t made a fool of himself, he ha
dn’t bottled it; he could walk away with his head held high. And it didn’t mean it was over; he now knew that Joseph existed, and he would be able to plan their next meeting more carefully.

  But that wasn’t what he had promised himself.

  He had promised himself that he would find out the truth.

  For Shibeka’s sake.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket; the metal felt warm again. It was ready, and so was he. He set off towards the car, gripping the butt of the pistol.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted. He looked around; the car park was empty. It could work. It had to work. If he could just get Joseph into the car with a gun to his head before someone came along, it might work. The metal in his hand gave him strength. He increased his speed while trying to look as relaxed as possible, as if he had changed his mind, but perhaps hadn’t quite decided. He wanted the threat to remain invisible, in his pocket rather than in his body language.

  Joseph went round to open the passenger door. Mehran tightened his grip on the pistol, got ready to whip it out. He was almost smiling to himself. Joseph was going to get one hell of a surprise.

  With only a metre to go, he heard the sound of voices. Two girls appeared from behind the bus shelter. They were in their twenties, laughing and joking as they walked towards the station. Instinctively Mehran let go of the gun and slowed down so that they could go past. However, if he lingered for too long he would give himself away; Joseph would wonder why he was reluctant to approach the car while the girls were still in sight. He had to keep going. Joseph was smiling now.