The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Don’t move!’ she yelled, but her instruction had the opposite effect. The man started to run. Jennifer lost sight of him, but set off at speed, shining her torch among the trees. After a few seconds she saw him again; he had increased the distance between them. She kept going, doing her best to train the beam on him all the time.

  He was about ten metres ahead of her when he ran out onto the road and increased his speed even more. Jennifer was running as fast as she was able, while calling for backup via the two-way radio clipped to her shoulder. Now she could see where the fleeing figure was heading; there was a car down by the ammunition stores. The torchlight was reflected in the glass of its headlamps.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled, without much hope of being obeyed this time either. He didn’t even slow down. Jennifer could feel the adrenaline giving her that extra power; this was what she had longed for. Action. Instant decisions. The chase, the excitement. This was why she had become a police officer.

  When the man, who she assumed was Charles Cederkvist, had almost reached the car, there was a flash and the locks opened with a click. He was fast. She didn’t slow down, in spite of her slightly laboured breathing. He reached the car and opened the driver’s door. Then something weird happened. He stopped. Stood there behind the door as if he was posing for a photograph. Jennifer stopped too and took aim.

  ‘Raise your hands and step away from the car,’ she said, edging forward. Charles didn’t move. She couldn’t see his hands. She repeated her instruction. Where were the others? Charles still didn’t move.

  ‘Raise your hands and step away from the car,’ she said for the third time. Why didn’t he just give up? This was like her dream. The hunt was over. She was armed. He was supposed to feel beaten, outmanoeuvred, finished. He was supposed to give up. Jennifer lowered her gaze. There was a chance she might be able to hit his feet under the door, or his left shoulder above it. Maybe. But she didn’t really want to shoot; the best thing would be if she could get him to surrender.

  She realised that definitely wasn’t his intention when he suddenly raised one hand, rested it on the door and fired two shots. Jennifer threw herself to one side; Cederkvist leapt into the car and sped away with a screech of tyres. Jennifer had to roll out of the way to avoid being run over.

  She saw the red rear-lights disappear, then she saw Billy illuminated by the headlights for a second before he broke into a run, shouting and swearing.

  He jumped into their car, started the engine, backed out and gave chase while calling the patrol car on the radio. He put his foot to the floor; he could just see the red lights of Charles’s car up ahead on the narrow, winding track from time to time. Billy changed down; he wasn’t good at everything, but not many people could beat him when it came to driving. He raced through the night, all his senses on full alert. The headlights illuminated trees, bushes, signs flashing by and vanishing in the darkness behind him. He was getting closer; his success spurred him on even more. The helicopter’s searchlight fastened on Charles’s car and Billy pushed even harder; he wanted to end it here where there was no traffic, rather than taking the pursuit out onto the main roads.

  He was getting closer and closer, and seconds later he caught up. It was impossible to overtake; the track was too narrow. Billy was only about a metre behind, slightly worried in case Charles slammed on the brakes. If he did that, Billy would end up in the back seat of Charles’ car, but at the moment his quarry was showing no sign of slowing down.

  Suddenly the lights of the car ahead picked out a road sign warning of a sharp bend to the left, and Billy saw his chance. He moved a fraction closer, and when Charles braked to take the bend, Billy changed down again, wrenched the wheel to the left and accelerated. He caught Charles’s car by the back wheel. The rear of the car swung outwards, and Billy thought he could see Charles trying to regain control. In vain. Billy stamped on the brake and watched as the other car left the road and turned over on the field below. He quickly undid his seatbelt and got out.

  * * *

  Charles quickly realised two things.

  He wasn’t unconscious.

  The car was upside down.

  A third realisation hit him as soon as he tried to move.

  He was in pain and he was bleeding.

  He tried to orientate himself. The helicopter was still circling, holding the car in the beam of its searchlight, which made it easier for him. He could see his gun lying over by the passenger window, and reached for it.

  It was over now.

  The business of the two Afghan men had grown into a hydra. Every time he chopped off one head, two more grew in its place. He couldn’t carry on. It was over. He tightened his grip on the gun and managed to push open one of the doors. Laboriously he started crawling out.

  Billy was on his way down the slope when he saw movement from the car, which had ended up about ten metres away from the track. He drew his gun, undid the safety catch and kept it pointing downwards.

  Charles emerged; he was bleeding heavily and his clothes were badly torn.

  Billy edged closer.

  As Charles grabbed hold of the car to get to his feet, Billy saw the gun in his hand and raised his own weapon.

  ‘Drop the gun!’ he yelled above the noise of the hovering helicopter. Charles was still trying to stand up straight, giving no indication of whether he had heard or not.

  ‘Drop the gun!’ Billy roared as loud as he could. Charles was on his feet; he wobbled, then slowly turned to face Billy. The scene was suddenly lit up even more brightly as the patrol car arrived, its headlights picking out Charles Cederkvist as he deliberately raised his gun and pointed it straight at Billy.

  Billy fired two shots.

  Both penetrated the heart.

  Charles’s dead body fell to the ground.

  Night, darkness.

  The desk lamp facing the wall was the only source of light in the room; Sebastian and Torkel were sitting in the gloom, their bodies casting long shadows on the walls. The wind was rattling the windows.

  If Sebastian had been a drinker he would have had a glass of whisky in his hand to complete the picture; Torkel was drinking beer straight out of the bottle. He was on his second or third.

  ‘It’s a long time since we sat like this,’ Torkel said, breaking the silence.

  ‘We’ve never sat like this,’ Sebastian replied, ‘and if you’re going to start being revoltingly nostalgic, I’m going home.’

  Torkel smiled and took a swig of his beer. He thought Sebastian had had a different attitude to the job and the team this time, but perhaps he hadn’t changed too much.

  ‘Why haven’t you gone home already?’ he asked.

  ‘Why haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m lonely,’ Torkel said honestly. ‘I don’t like being at home these days.’

  He fell silent, and Sebastian realised he was expected to react in some way. He had no interest whatsoever in hearing about Torkel’s emotional life, so he chose to answer the original question, divert the focus from anything personal.

  ‘I’m angry. Charles Cederkvist wasn’t behind the disappearance of Hamid Khan and Said Balkhi, or the execution of Adam and his family.’

  Torkel nodded in agreement.

  ‘But he was involved.’

  Sebastian grunted. ‘So what do you think happened?’

  Torkel leaned back, had another drink, and thought about the question in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that the CIA were here, and they either took the two men with them, or killed them. I think military intelligence knew about it, and Charles asked his brother to shut down the investigation, but Adam found out too much and was murdered up in Jämtland.’

  ‘By Patricia Wellton?’

  ‘Yes. But why someone then killed her . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Charles is dead. Do you think he’s the only one we’re going to be able to link to this?’ There was no mistaking the displeasure in Sebastian’s voice.

>   Torkel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied the man opposite, the man he still wanted to call his friend.

  ‘I thought you didn’t care about all that conviction/punishment stuff. The destination is nothing, the road is everything. Isn’t that what you usually say?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I want them to get away with it,’ Sebastian said acidly.

  ‘But sometimes they do,’ Torkel said in a matter-of-fact tone, leaning back on the sofa.

  ‘Besides, the road was so fucking boring this time,’ Sebastian went on in an attempt to explain his smouldering irritation. ‘Billy shot the only person who was remotely interesting.’

  ‘You might have enjoyed it more if you’d been around all the time,’ Torkel replied with a teasing smile.

  ‘I had other fish to fry.’

  Torkel sat up straight.

  ‘How is Vanja – have you heard from her?’

  Sebastian shook his head. ‘She hasn’t answered her phone all day.’

  ‘She took the FBI rejection very hard,’ Torkel said pensively.

  ‘She’s a strong person.’

  ‘She’s certainly very good at giving that impression, but I think on top of the business with her father, this could almost break her.’

  Sebastian’s irritation was tempered with a sense of unease, and perhaps something he couldn’t recall having felt for a very long time: guilt. It was definitely time to change the subject.

  ‘We know a lot,’ he said, going back to the original topic of conversation and hoping Torkel would follow him. ‘Lennart Stridh must have colleagues; I could leak the story to them.’

  Torkel shook his head and leaned forward yet again as if to confide in his colleague. Sebastian didn’t like it at all.

  ‘Do you know why I’m where I am, and why I hang on in there, year after year?’

  ‘No – it’s never crossed my mind,’ Sebastian said candidly.

  ‘It’s because I know when to step back. Choose your battles, Sebastian. Fight the ones you can win.’

  ‘That’s not really my style.’

  ‘It makes life easier.’

  ‘And more boring. Speaking of boring . . .’

  He raised his arm in an exaggerated gesture, looked at his watch and got to his feet. Torkel smiled and stood up as well.

  ‘I’m leaving too; there’s something I need to do.’

  In spite of everything that had happened, it was obviously impossible to wind Torkel up today. Perhaps that was his way of dealing with the frustration: with a smile. Sebastian picked up his jacket and headed for the door; Torkel switched off the lamp.

  ‘How high up do you think it goes?’

  ‘I’m not interested. We’ll never know.’

  ‘And you can live with that?’

  ‘Yes, and so can you.’

  They went down in the lift in silence. Torkel was right, of course. Sebastian could live with it, just as he had to live with everything else.

  The police officer had just left. Shibeka hadn’t recognised him; his name was Torkel Höglund, and apparently he was in charge of something called Riksmord. He had been warm and engaging and had asked how Mehran was getting on, what the doctors had said; he had seemed genuinely interested. However, when they got to what had happened and what they actually knew, the words were depressingly familiar.

  They didn’t know much. They didn’t dare speculate.

  They were good at words. But not at the truth.

  Or perhaps they realised the price was far too high. Maybe it was that simple, and they were wiser than her. In spite of what everyone said about freedom and openness, maybe there were things that were best left undisturbed. She had almost lost her son because she had failed to understand that; was it worth it?

  Never.

  But could she really keep quiet? Right now, sitting by a hospital bed with her son in plaster, the choice was very straightforward. But in three months? Six months? When the questions came back to haunt her?

  She didn’t know if she could do it.

  She took Mehran’s hand. The colour was beginning to return to his face, probably thanks to the strong analgesics he had been given. His eyes were more beautiful than ever. Hamid’s eyes.

  ‘Mum?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They know more than they’re saying. They must do.’

  ‘Don’t think about that now. I thought I was never going to see you again.’

  She leaned forward, wanting to hold him tight, never let him go, but she knew it would hurt his bruised and battered body. She squeezed his hand more tightly instead. Mehran looked at her sadly.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was going to do.’

  ‘You don’t ever need to apologise,’ she whispered. ‘If anyone should say sorry, it’s me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For dragging you into all this.’

  ‘You don’t ever need to apologise either. Never again.’

  Those lovely eyes filled with tears.

  ‘He’s dead, Mum. He was murdered.’

  ‘I know. I think I’ve always known.’

  ‘But we don’t know how. Or why.’

  ‘We can talk about it later – whether the how and the why are really important.’

  They fell silent. Mehran gazed at his mother, and a thought came into his head. Simple. Self-evident. But he couldn’t remember ever putting it into words. No doubt he had assumed that she knew, that it didn’t need saying.

  ‘I love you, Mum.’

  She couldn’t stop herself this time. She stood up and gave him a big hug, which he loved even though it hurt.

  ‘Can you tell me about him?’ he said softly when she had sat down again.

  ‘About Hamid?’

  ‘There’s so much I don’t know. I didn’t want to know until now; I always thought it would be too painful.’

  ‘I understood that, Mehran.’

  He took a deep breath and went on: ‘But I was wrong, I realised that today. He lives on through our memories, gives us strength. Those of us who are left.’

  Shibeka smiled at him. Memories. There were so many. So many. At last she had someone to share them with.

  Alexander Söderling had had a good morning. He had allowed himself a lie-in and had breakfast with the family. When they had gone off to school and work, he had settled down with his iPad and glanced through the newspapers. No link between the events out at Almnäs and the bodies on the mountain, or two missing Afghan men. Nor between Charles and the car accident that ended Lennart Stridh’s life. The boy had survived with a broken leg, but Alexander assumed that someone had been smart enough to make it clear that under certain circumstances it was best to keep one’s mouth shut. It looked as if they were going to be OK. Veronica Ström had kept her promise when she said she was going to take care of everything.

  Alexander left the house at 9.15 and went to the car. He usually left early so that he could beat the rush hour; today it would take him at least an hour to get to work, but that was fine. He unlocked the Audi as he was walking down the path. He glanced over at the extensive lawns, which were covered in leaves. Bloody neighbours – couldn’t they get rid of those huge maples? It was bad enough that they stole the sun from his garden in the summer, but in the autumn 90 per cent of their leaves ended up on his side of the fence. More than once he had toyed with the idea of going round there one night and hammering a few copper nails into the trunks, but how long would it take before the fuckers died? Years, probably. If it worked at all. Maybe it was just a myth. A chainsaw would work, he knew that for sure. It was tempting. What would the consequences be? A fine? Having to pay compensation? The odd article in the press? It might be worth it; the neighbours wouldn’t be able to resurrect the fuckers if he chopped them down.

  He opened the car door, tossed in his briefcase and sat down. He felt a sharp pain in his lower back, like a wasp sting or . . . He slid his hand behind him, pricked himself again. A p
in. How the hell had a pin got into the upholstery? Where had it come from? He was just about to get out and see if he could remove it when he noticed something was wrong.

  His heart was racing.

  Not beating faster, not starting to pick up speed. Racing. He slumped back and tried to gain control of his breathing. He had to relax. Deep breaths. But it was no good; his body was running on autopilot. The beating of his heart was pounding in his ears, and he had a pain in his chest. He realised he was about to have a heart attack. There was no way his heart could cope with this level of strain for very long. He pressed both hands against the horn, hoping to alert someone. It didn’t work. He thumped the button. Not a sound. The cramp in his chest got worse. The veins in his neck were throbbing. He had to get help, and fast. But from whom? The quiet residential area was more or less deserted at this time of day.

  Across the road, about twenty metres away, there were two men sitting in a car. A dark-red Volkswagen Alexander had never seen before. He tried to attract their attention. Waved his hands, tapped the windscreen. That was the best he could do; he wouldn’t be able to get out even if he managed to open the door.

  Was it his imagination, or were the two men watching him? The one with red hair definitely was. It was difficult to decide about the other one, because he was wearing sunglasses. Aviators. Why weren’t they doing anything? As his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, he suddenly understood.

  His final thought, just after his heart had stopped beating, wasn’t about Annika or the children, strangely enough. It was about Veronica Ström and the fact that he now knew exactly what she meant when she said she would take care of everything.