The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  Billy popped two slices of bread in the toaster. Went over to the fridge and took out butter, cheese and marmalade, which he placed on the tray on the kitchen island. Switched on the kettle. Folded the omelette in half and left it on the warming plate. Got two mugs out of the cupboard above the sink. There was no rush; he was suspended from duty again, for the second time in just a few months. It didn’t look good, of course. The press would go to town if they found out, but so far he had been lucky. There had been surprisingly little publicity about what had happened out at Almnäs.

  Billy couldn’t stop thinking about it, however.

  Charles getting out of the car. A gun pointing straight at Billy. Could he have done anything differently? Aimed for the shoulder or leg, for example? Put him out of action? His memories of the incident weren’t 100 per cent crystal clear, but one thing he did remember with painful clarity: the feeling of anticipation as he made his way down the slope and approached the car.

  Torkel would speak up for him, of course. Charles Cederkvist was a highly trained intelligence officer who had drawn a gun on Billy at a distance of only a few metres. Even though he was injured, it was highly likely that he represented a lethal threat. There were plenty of witnesses. No, he wasn’t particularly worried about the internal investigation. Not at all, in fact. What was eating away at him was that even if he didn’t recall everything that had led up to the shot, he did remember the feeling immediately afterwards. A wave of warmth had flooded his body when he saw Charles go down. More endorphins than adrenaline, he was sure of it. A sense of well-being. It was crazy, but the only thing he could compare it with was the way he felt after sex. Really good sex.

  The kettle switched itself off and he poured water into the two mugs, dropped a teabag in each. Flipped the omelette onto a plate and added it to the tray along with the runny honey. He contemplated the tray with satisfaction; he hadn’t forgotten anything. Yes he had – the toast. He wrapped it in a clean tea towel. Maya’s influence on him extended to all areas of his life, but she might well have had the greatest effect on his diet and what he could do in a kitchen, he thought. He went into the hallway, got a key out of his jacket pocket, placed it next to the butter knife, then picked up the tray and went into the bedroom.

  Maya was sleeping on her left side. A little dribble of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth onto the pillow; Billy even found that adorable. She was good for him. Right now she was really good for him. At first it had been a bit difficult; he had believed she would think less of him if he was the kind of person who was perfectly satisfied with the way things were at work, while she had believed he wanted her to help him change his life. That was why he had clashed with Vanja. He had sorted it out now, with both of them. More with Maya than with Vanja, he had to admit.

  He woke her gently; she was wide awake at once as always. It was as if she had an on/off switch: bright as a button first thing in the morning, fast asleep in two seconds at night. She sat up, discreetly wiping her mouth. Billy carefully put down the tray and joined her.

  ‘You’re a star,’ she said, giving him a kiss before she started her breakfast.

  As she picked up the butter knife, she stopped mid-movement. Put it down and picked up the key.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a key.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to.’

  ‘I thought so too.’

  Cautiously, to avoid upsetting the tray, she leaned over and gave him a hug. He hugged her back, for a long time. When he was here, he was the person he wanted to be. Maya didn’t know the other Billy, the one who felt good after he had killed someone. Only Jennifer knew that Billy. Could he move in with Maya without telling her? What would happen if he did tell her? Jennifer hadn’t reacted particularly strongly, but then she was a police officer herself, and she wasn’t going to move in with him.

  ‘. . . in the spring.’

  Billy realised Maya had murmured something in his ear. He broke away.

  ‘Sorry? What??’

  ‘Now we can get married in the spring.’

  Billy couldn’t say a word; he couldn’t even manage a smile. Maya, however, was grinning.

  ‘I was just joking! I was joking, darling!’

  She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the mouth. His phone rang; he slid out of bed and picked it up. It was Vanja.

  She was pleased to see him.

  He was concerned about her; she could see that when he walked into the room. In spite of the fact that she was dressed and sitting up in bed, this was a hospital and she was a patient. She reassured him; she was only there for tests and a discussion about a kidney transplant. She was the donor, so there was nothing to worry about.

  He pulled a chair over to the bed and started to fill her in on what had happened since she left them. He told her he had moved in with Maya, but spent most of the time updating her on the case.

  ‘You had no choice,’ Vanja said when he reached the part about shooting Charles Cederkvist dead.

  ‘I know,’ he lied.

  She took his hand; she could see that the gesture surprised him. Sebastian had said she couldn’t do anything about their disagreement, that the ball was in Billy’s court, but she had to try. Besides, her opinion of Sebastian as a trustworthy mentor had dropped considerably of late.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said I was a better cop than you.’

  ‘You are,’ Billy said with a shrug.

  ‘I really need a friend, and you’re the best I’ve ever had,’ she said with such candour that Billy felt himself blush.

  ‘It’s cool, I am your friend, forget about that other stuff.’

  Vanja smiled at him with so much warmth and relief that he had to make a real effort not to look away. Her phone started vibrating on the bedside table. Billy picked it up, grateful for the diversion, and glanced at the display.

  ‘Sebastian.’

  ‘Ignore it,’ she said. Billy put it down, wondering what was going on.

  Sebastian. Vanja realised she needed to share with someone. If she kept it bottled up inside, it would consume her. She had to confide in a friend.

  ‘I think Sebastian . . .’

  She hesitated, knowing how ridiculous it would sound when she said it out loud. Billy would think she’d gone mad. There was no doubt about it; she placed heavy demands on her friends.

  ‘This business with my dad, and the fact that I didn’t get onto the FBI programme,’ she began, speaking slowly and choosing her words with care.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think Sebastian had something to do with both of those things.’

  Billy’s expression told her that she sounded just as crazy as she had feared.

  ‘Why on earth would Sebastian be involved?’ he asked her, with every justification.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, and the best I can come up with is that he’s sick. He wants to ruin my life, for some strange reason.’

  Billy nodded to hide his confusion. It was hard to reconcile what Vanja was saying with his own speculation about Sebastian. Why would he want to hurt Vanja if he was her father?

  ‘That sounds a bit . . . crazy.’

  That’s why he’s getting away with it,’ she said as calmly and sincerely as she could. ‘It’s so crazy that nobody could possibly believe he’s done it. I think he’s a psychopath.’

  What could he say? The door opened and a doctor came in, much to Billy’s relief.

  ‘You can go home,’ Dr Shahab said to Vanja.

  ‘OK – when shall I come back?’

  ‘You don’t need to come back. We can’t proceed with you as a donor; your kidney isn’t a match.’

  Vanja didn’t understand a thing; it was as if he had suddenly started speaking a foreign language.

  ‘Of course it is. I’m his daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The doctor spread his hands apologetically. ‘Unfortunately this kind of thing happens sometimes.’

  ‘What’s h
er blood group?’ she heard Billy ask.

  ‘A lot of things have to match up, not just the blood group.’ Which wasn’t an answer at all. ‘In our professional opinion, the risk of rejection is too great.’

  ‘I’m group O,’ Vanja told Billy.

  ‘And what about your dad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She turned to Dr Shahab, whose eyes slid away. He scratched his chin. Vanja’s instinct as a police officer kicked in. He was hiding something.

  ‘What’s my father’s blood group?’ she demanded.

  ‘I can’t tell you that; it’s confidential.’

  ‘He’s my father. I’ll find out one way or the other within the next fifteen minutes, so you might as well tell me now.’

  Omid Shahab hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to give this kind of information to anyone, whether they were a relative or not. At the same time, he had no doubt that Vanja would find out in considerably less than fifteen minutes.

  ‘He’s AB,’ he said quietly.

  Vanja understood the implications immediately.

  Even if she didn’t remember the genetic crossing scheme from school, her knowledge had been regularly updated thanks to years of working with Ursula and her analysis of crime scenes.

  A parent with blood group AB couldn’t produce a child with group O.

  She couldn’t process the implications of what she had just heard. It was too big. Too much. Billy leaned over and gave her a hug. She clung to him, afraid that she might fall apart.

  Billy didn’t say anything, but his mind was racing.

  He wondered what Sebastian Bergman’s blood group was.

  He was pretty sure it wasn’t AB.

  Ellinor took off her name badge and placed it in one of the small metal cupboards lining the wall in the staff room at Åhlén’s. She picked up her bag and coat and closed the door. The bag was heavier than usual, or was she just imagining it? Eight hundred and seventy-four grams wasn’t very much, but she thought she could feel the difference. Perhaps it was psychological, like when people thought they were on medication and felt better, even though they were actually taking a placebo. She slipped her bag over her shoulder – it was definitely heavier – and walked towards the staff exit. Said goodbye to three of her colleagues on the way; they were going out for a drink and had asked if Ellinor would like to join them, but she had declined.

  She had other plans.

  She emerged onto Mäster Samuelsgatan and fastened her coat. Looked around. First of all she would go and get something to eat. Jensens Bøfhus was handy, just a few hundred metres away. Holding the lapels of her coat together against the wind, she set off. There were quite a few people around, but no one took any notice of her.

  No one knew she was a sick home-help that Sebastian had sex with.

  No one knew her bag was a little heavier today.

  No one knew. Yet.

  There was no hurry. She would take her time over a nice cut of meat, have a glass of wine, maybe two. Finish off with a coffee and one of those little truffles, if they had any. She had plenty of time, and the metro station was nearby if she decided not to walk to Sebastian’s apartment afterwards.

  The place was spotless.

  Torkel usually tried to make a bit more effort with the apartment when he wasn’t actively involved in a case. It wasn’t a lost cause this time, but he had decided to do a big clean, partly to pass the time, give him something to do.

  He tidied things away, vacuumed, dusted, took the rugs and seat cushions outside and beat them, changed the beds, shook out the duvets. He opened the wardrobe and considered giving everything a good airing, but decided that was a step too far.

  It was eight o’clock by the time Torkel finished. He had a shower, sat down on his dust-free sofa and switched on the TV, then realised he couldn’t be bothered, and switched it off again. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge; he wasn’t hungry. He got himself a beer and sat down with the morning paper. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

  ‘Evening – it’s Axel Weber from Expressen.’

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘Sorry to call so late, but I was wondering if you’ve got anywhere with those bodies on the mountain?’

  At first the question surprised Torkel, but then he remembered that only he and the team knew whom they had found; the official version was that they had been unable to identify the bodies.

  Choose your battles.

  He gave Weber the official version and hung up.

  With regard to the shooting in Södertälje, there wasn’t even an official version. Military intelligence had embargoed the whole thing, still refusing to confirm or deny that Charles Cederkvist had been a part of the organisation. If Torkel had interpreted the documents in front of him correctly, the story would be leaked in a day or so, then completely disappear. No trial to follow, no grieving relatives to speak out, no suggestion that the incident was gang related. Without those ingredients, a fatal shooting in the Södertälje area wouldn’t be news for very long.

  After he had ended the call with Weber, he sat there for a few moments with the phone in his hand.

  Axel Weber, crime correspondent.

  Could be a pain in the arse, but he was good at his job.

  If he found out the identity of the bodies in the grave, he would immediately make the link with Charles Cederkvist. He might even connect them with the dead man who had been found at Almnäs, who was apparently known as Joseph, and that could lead him to the case of the two missing Afghan men, Hamid and Said.

  He had met Hamid’s widow and son today. Lied to them. Fudged the truth. Made them understand that with both Charles and Joseph dead, they weren’t going to get anywhere. No one was going to get anywhere.

  But then Weber called.

  Choose your battles. Or get someone else to fight them for you, he thought as he dialled a number.

  ‘Good evening, it’s Torkel Höglund from Riksmord . . .’

  Five minutes later he ended the call. He had followed the correct procedure and informed the local police who had originally sought their help of the final outcome of the investigation. No one could object to that. They had identified the four remaining bodies, and the case was now closed. He assumed that Hedvig Hedman and her team wouldn’t pass on that kind of important information . . .

  Satisfied, with a feeling of having done something illicit that he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager, he got up and wandered around the apartment. The evening was still comparatively young; he wanted to go out.

  He called his daughters; did they fancy going to the cinema? They could choose the film. They were pleased to hear from him, but they were doing something else. Another time. Torkel toyed with the idea of calling Ursula, but couldn’t come up with a spurious yet convincing reason, so instead he poured himself a whisky and switched on the TV again. Drinking alone wasn’t a good idea, but if he didn’t do that, when the hell was he supposed to have a drink? He knocked back the first glass and poured himself another.

  * * *

  Ursula was sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine as Sebastian served up the food he had just been out to buy. If anyone who knew about her history with Sebastian had seen her now, they would have wondered what the hell she was doing. The fourth time in a week. Sometimes Ursula wondered too, but she had found the word that summed up the time she spent with Sebastian: undemanding.

  That was what she needed at the moment: an escape, a diversion, silliness – she didn’t know what it was, but she enjoyed Sebastian’s company. She could relax. He would never get the idea that it could turn into something more, and nor would she. He would never say ‘I love you’ – or at least he wouldn’t mean it. It was better than being alone, but it was on her terms. She was going in with her eyes wide open. He wasn’t monogamous, and neither was she. She had loved him once upon a time, and he had let her down, but that was because she had had unreasonable expectations.

  About togetherness. Fidelity. Life.<
br />
  Besides which, he was good company. Apart from the fact that they had a lot to talk about, something happened to him when he was alone with a woman. He became more sensitive, seemed more open, more interested. She was under no illusions that this had anything to do with her; no doubt he was the same whichever woman was sitting at his table. Operating purely on autopilot. He had been compulsively seducing women for so long that his brain automatically disconnected the bastard aspect of his character when he was on his own with a member of the opposite sex. Anything to get them into bed. He hadn’t succeeded with Ursula this time. Not yet, she added to herself as he brought the plates over and smiled at her.

  ‘Dinner is served,’ he said.

  The TV programme was still on but the bottle was more or less empty, Torkel noticed when he poured himself another glass. It hadn’t been full when he started, but he had put away a fair amount. Enough to feel tipsy. On the sofa, alone in front of the TV. Pathetic. He sat up straight, feeling slightly dizzy and with a burning pain in his stomach. He ought to eat something, but there it was again: the loneliness. It was sad, cooking for one. And going out to eat alone was even sadder. His daughters had other plans for the evening, and that wasn’t going to change over the next few years. He reminded himself that he must make sure he met this boyfriend – at least while he was still around; such things tended to be short-lived at that age. Wishful thinking? Yvonne had Kristoffer; what did he have? Who did he have? No one.

  He thought about Sebastian.

  Sebastian always had someone, whenever he wanted. If Torkel had had only a fraction of Sebastian’s success with women, he would have been a happy man.

  With one woman.

  With Ursula.

  Because that was the problem. Even if he’d been comfortable with going out and trying to meet someone, or registering with an online dating website, there was no one out there that he wanted. He knew he wanted Ursula.

  Was this really a war he couldn’t win? She was married, but that hadn’t stopped her in the past. This business of her and Mikael finding their way back to one another was bound to be a passing phase. Mikael wasn’t what Ursula wanted or needed, and she knew it. Perhaps she just needed a clearer sign from Torkel so that she would have the courage to let go, certain that he would be there to catch her. It was a bad turn of phrase; Ursula didn’t need someone to catch her. She had more integrity than anyone else he could think of, but the fact remained: she didn’t know how he felt about her. He could never win if he didn’t enter the fray. Torkel picked up the phone and called her. He got to his feet before she answered and started pacing around the room, which made his head spin even more. How much whisky had he actually got through?’