Sebastian sighed again. ‘I have to work, unfortunately.’
A lie. He didn’t work. He hadn’t worked for many years, unless you counted his brief stint with Riksmord in Västerås a few months ago. These days he did nothing, and he intended to carry on doing nothing. There wasn’t actually anything he wanted to do, and he certainly didn’t want to do anything with Ellinor Bergkvist.
‘How long do you think you would have slept if I hadn’t woken you?’
What kind of a fucking question was that? How was he supposed to know? Presumably the dream would have woken him – there were very few nights when it allowed him to escape – but it was impossible to say when. Not that he had any intention of telling her about that. He was going to leave. Leave the apartment and Vasastan as quickly as possible.
‘I’ve no idea – until nine maybe. Why?’
‘Two and a half hours.’ The index finger was back, moving across his forehead, down his nose, over his lips. A gesture that was somehow far more intimate than anything they had done a few hours earlier. ‘So if you don’t want to go back to sleep,’ Ellinor went on, ‘that means we have two hours to do something else without encroaching on your important work.’ The finger continued down his chin, his throat, his chest, and underneath the duvet.
Sebastian met her gaze. Her green eyes. There was a brown patch on the iris of the left eye, he noticed. The hand continued its downward progress.
It turned out there was something Sebastian might consider doing with Ellinor after all.
Breakfast.
How had she managed to get him to agree to that?
An unconsidered, throwaway post-coital promise?
The kitchen window overlooking the courtyard was open, but the apartment was still warm. The sound of a motorbike roaring past came from outside, but otherwise it was quiet. The stillness of a summer morning. Sebastian wondered what day it was as his eyes took in the breakfast table. Yoghurt, two kinds of cereal, muesli, freshly squeezed juice, cheese, ham, German sausage, gherkins, tomatoes, peppers, slices of watermelon. Wednesday, could that be right? Tuesday? The aroma of fresh bread filled the kitchen as Ellinor removed the baking tray from the oven and placed the mini-baguettes in a tea towel. She laid the tea towel in a woven bread basket and put it on the table with a smile, before turning back to the island in the middle of the spacious kitchen. Sebastian wasn’t hungry. The kettle clicked off; Ellinor came over and poured the boiling water into the cup in front of him. Sebastian gazed down into the cup, watching the water turn dark brown as soon as it came into contact with the freeze-dried granules at the bottom. A look which Ellinor clearly interpreted as a criticism.
‘I’m sorry I’ve only got instant coffee; I always drink tea myself.’
‘It’s okay . . .’
She poured water into her own cup and took the kettle over to the island. Halfway back to the table she stopped.
‘Do you take milk?’
‘No.’
‘I can heat it up if you want? Like a latte.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’
She smiled, sat down opposite him, picked up a tea bag – lemon and ginger – popped it in her cup and dunked it up and down a few times. Once again she caught Sebastian’s eye and smiled. In return he managed something which with a certain amount of goodwill could be interpreted as a smile, then looked away. He didn’t want to be here. He usually avoided situations like this. Now he remembered why. He couldn’t bear the false sense of togetherness, the idea that they had something in common, in spite of the fact that they would never see each other again – not if he had anything to do with it. He fixed his gaze on one of the kitchen cupboards and allowed his mind to wander while Ellinor stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. She took a mini-baguette out of the basket, split it in two, spread butter on it, then added cheese, ham and two rings of yellow pepper. She took a bite, gazing at Sebastian as she chewed. Sebastian, who was still staring out into the room beyond her.
‘Sebastian?’
He gave a start and looked at her enquiringly.
‘What are you thinking about?’
He really had disappeared. Again. To the place where he always ended up. To the thing that seemed to occupy his every waking hour these days. It was a virtually unknown feeling for Sebastian. The obsession. Even during the most successful phase of his career, when he had been totally committed, he had never had any difficulty in pushing aside unwelcome thoughts. If a case was threatening to take over his life in a way he didn’t like, he simply stopped thinking about it for a few days. Did something else. Reclaimed the initiative.
Sebastian Bergman was a man who did not lose control. Not for anything, not to anyone. At least, that was how things used to be.
Now things had changed.
Life had shaken him up. Damaged him.
Not just once. Twice.
He’d been nowhere near finding his way back after the disaster in Thailand on Boxing Day 2004 when he went to Västerås three months ago. The purpose of the trip had been to sell his parents’ house, and as he was clearing the place out he had found some letters. Letters sent to his mother in 1979. From a woman who said she was pregnant with his child. Letters he had not received at the time. Three months ago he had done all he could to trace the sender. Sebastian’s former colleagues from Riksmord had been in Västerås to investigate the brutal murder of a young boy, and he had wormed his way into the case in order to make use of all the resources available to the police so that he could put a face to the sender of those letters. To find an address. Information.
He had found it all. A woman at Storskärsgatan 12 had opened the door to him. A face. Anna Eriksson’s face. He had been given information. Yes, he had a daughter, but she would never know that Sebastian was her father. She already had a father. Valdemar Lithner. Valdemar, who knew that Vanja was not his.
So they would never meet, Sebastian and his daughter. It would destroy so much. Destroy everything. For everyone. Sebastian had to more or less promise that he would never seek her out.
The problem was that they had already met.
More than that.
They had worked together.
In Västerås. He and Vanja Lithner, an investigator with Riksmord. Smart, driven, efficient, strong.
His daughter.
He had a daughter.
Again.
Since then he had been more or less stalking her. He couldn’t really explain why, not even to himself. He got to see her, but that was all. He never let her know he was there. What would he say? What could he say?
Now he looked at Ellinor, who had gently asked what he was thinking about, and responded with the word that would probably provoke the minimum amount of follow-up: ‘Nothing.’
Ellinor nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, or at least with the fact that she had got his attention once more. Sebastian reached for a slice of melon. He ought to be able to get that down, surely.
‘What are you working on?’
‘Why?’
An unpleasant response, positively rude, but it was just as well to put a stop to things straight away. Sebastian really didn’t want this already unpleasant breakfast experience to develop into an opportunity to get to know one another. They knew enough. He knew more about her than she did about him. She knew that his name was Sebastian Bergman, and that he was a psychologist. He had managed to evade any further personal questions by pretending to be interested in her.
‘You said you had to work,’ Ellinor went on. ‘It’s the middle of July, most people are on holiday, so I just wondered what you were doing.’
‘I’m working on a kind of . . . report.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s a . . . follow-up. For the police academy.’
‘I thought you said you were a psychologist?’
‘I am, but I sometimes work with the police.’
She
nodded. Took a sip of her tea and reached for her baguette.
‘When does it have to be finished?’
What a fucking question.
‘In about two weeks.’
Those green eyes. She knew he was lying. It didn’t really matter to him. He couldn’t care less what she thought of him, but he wasn’t at all comfortable with this everyday breakfast situation when they both knew it was just a sham. A chimera. Enough. He pushed back his chair. ‘I have to go.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘Sure . . .’
The door closed behind Sebastian. Ellinor listened to his footsteps as he walked down the stairs. She smiled to herself. When she couldn’t hear him anymore, she got up and went back into the bedroom. Over to the window. If he crossed the street and turned left she would be able to see him. He didn’t.
Ellinor sank down onto the unmade double bed. She lay down on his side. Pulled his sheet over her, buried her nose in his pillow and inhaled deeply. She held her breath, as if she were trying to keep the smell of him inside her.
Hold on to him.
Vanja lived in an apartment on the hill above the Free Port. Sebastian was fairly sure it was a three-room apartment. As sure as he could be from his observation point on a small hillock a hundred metres away. It was a modern, pale yellow building. Seven storeys. Vanja lived on the fourth floor. No one was moving around inside the apartment, as far as he could see. Perhaps she was still asleep. Or at work. It didn’t really matter if he didn’t see her right now. He had come here mostly because he didn’t know where else to go.
A few weeks ago it had been different.
He had got it into his head that he had to see her. Needed to see her. See what she was doing. He had decided he had to get a better view than the hillock could provide, and to achieve this he had tried to climb one of the large leafy trees growing in the hollow below the hillock. The first metre had gone much better than expected. He managed to get a good grip on a couple of branches higher up, and kept going. Then he spotted a suitable branch even higher up, and after groping around for a while he was able to heave himself up a few more metres. The sun was shining through the leaves, which smelled wonderfully fresh. He suddenly felt like a little boy in the middle of an adventure. How long was it since he had climbed a tree? Many, many years. But he had been good at it.
Agile.
Fast.
His father hadn’t encouraged him; he had always been of the opinion that Sebastian ought to be devoting his time to intellectual challenges, developing his musicality and his artistic and creative talents. His mother had been more worried about the state of his clothes. Neither of them had been happy about his tree-climbing, so he had done it often. As often as possible. And now he was once again enjoying the feeling of doing something adventurous, something forbidden.
Then he looked at the ground and realised that even from this height he was going to have considerable difficulty getting back down, at least without injury. Agility and speed were no longer the first qualities that came to mind in connection with Sebastian. Just as this startling and terrifying insight hit home, his jacket caught on a sharp protruding branch behind him, and he lost his balance. Suddenly the young boy on his way to an adventure was replaced by an unfit middle-aged man, dangling several metres above the ground as the lactic acid built up in his arms. Sebastian was forced to sacrifice both the illusion of youthful daring and his jacket; he edged his way laboriously over to the trunk, then shuffled, or rather slithered unceremoniously, down to the lower branches, where he managed to put a rather painful stop to his rapid descent. He clambered to the ground; his legs were shaking, his jacket was ripped and he had long, painful grazes on the inside of his thighs.
After that he made do with standing on the now familiar hillock to observe Vanja’s apartment.
That was enough.
It was certainly crazy enough.
He didn’t even dare to think about what would have happened if Vanja had looked out and seen him dangling from a tree outside her apartment.
The place where she lived looked so lovely. Modern curtains. Red and white flowers in the windows. Small lamps with dimmer switches on the windowsills. A north-east-facing balcony where on fine days she drank her coffee between seven twenty and seven forty-five in the morning. This meant that Sebastian had to crouch down behind some juniper bushes; he had never imagined he would become quite so familiar with them. She was obviously a woman who stuck to routines, his daughter. Up at seven on weekdays, around nine at weekends. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she went jogging before work. Six kilometres. On Sundays she doubled the distance. She often worked late, and rarely got home before eight. She didn’t go out much; she went for a drink maybe once or twice a month. With the girls. No boyfriend, as far as Sebastian could tell. On Thursdays she had dinner with her parents on Storskärsgatan. She went there alone, but Valdemar Lithner usually walked her home.
Her father.
They were close, that was perfectly obvious as they strolled along together. Very close. They were often laughing, they always parted with a tender, loving hug, and Valdemar would kiss Vanja on the forehead before he left. Always. The signature of their relationship. It would have been a beautiful picture, but for one thing. Her real father was standing a short distance away, watching them. Those moments caused Sebastian the most pain. It was a strange pain.
Worse than envy.
Greater than jealousy.
Harder than anything else.
It was the pain he felt for a life that had never been lived.
Two weeks ago, when Sebastian had seen Vanja and Valdemar having lunch together at an Italian restaurant not far from police headquarters, he had had an idea. It wasn’t the most sympathetic idea he’d ever come up with. Quite the opposite, in fact. But it felt good. At the time, anyway.
As the weeks went by, the envy he felt towards Valdemar had slowly morphed into anger, then into something that could only be described as hatred. Hatred towards the tall, slender, elegant man who was able to stroll along beside Sebastian’s daughter. His daughter! He was the one who should be getting those hugs, that tenderness. He was the one who should be getting the love.
Sebastian!
No one else!
Several times he had considered telling her everything, but he always changed his mind at the last minute. He was nurturing the idea of getting close to Vanja in some way and then, when they had built up a relationship, telling her the truth. At least that would enable him to spend time with her. Get to know her. Perhaps she would think he had deceived her, but that wasn’t what was stopping Sebastian. The big problem was that irrespective of when or under what circumstances he told Vanja the truth, it would destroy her relationship with Valdemar. She would hate Sebastian for that. She already disliked him intensely.
Nothing was simple when it came to Vanja.
Unless of course she began to have her own doubts about her counterfeit father. That might be one way forward, if Sebastian could just get Vanja herself to bring Valdemar down from the pedestal on which he had dared to place himself. It shouldn’t be impossible. What if she started to find out a few things about Valdemar, dirty little truths, secrets that blackened his name and made his halo slip. There was nothing more likely to get someone to change their views than personal experience and discoveries. Sebastian knew that. Often it was only personal experience of a situation that made you see the reality of it all. Therefore, action was always more valuable than words, and personal action was the most valuable of all.
If Vanja should make such a discovery herself, then this might cause her to question Valdemar’s character. To think that he might not be the perfect father. That he might be something else. Something much worse.
If Sebastian could help Vanja to reach this insight, it would lead to despair and confusion. She would feel alone and let down, and she would be open to other influences, open to the truth; perhaps deep down she might even welcome it. Welcome a father figure who was
waiting for her, who had secretly been close by. At that precise moment she might even throw her arms around him, need him. When she was hurt and had lost her footing. She would be ready for him.
It seemed like a really good plan. Complicated, difficult to carry through, but life-changing if it succeeded.
The research was vital. Nobody’s perfect. Everyone has something to hide. It was simply a matter of finding it. Then exposing it in the best way possible.
The plan was so malicious that even Sebastian had hesitated briefly.
If it ever emerged that he had been involved in some way in blackening Valdemar’s name, any chance of a relationship with Vanja would be gone for good. But if his plan succeeded, it would be the turning point he had been seeking. Lurking in the doorway opposite the Italian restaurant, he had decided that she was worth it. That she was worth fighting for.
He had no life anyway.
He had pushed his doubts to one side and gone straight home to look up a phone number. A number he hadn’t used for a very long time. The number of the former chief inspector who was everything Torkel Höglund was not.
Impulsive, unscrupulous, perfectly prepared to walk over dead bodies if necessary.
He had been kicked out of Riksmord when it turned out that he had been carrying out private surveillance on his ex-wife, and had planted evidence to try to get her new husband convicted of drug-related offences, all so that he could gain sole custody of his children. He was exactly the person Sebastian needed right now.
Trolle Hermansson.
He answered after the phone had rung nine times. At first he wanted to talk about the old days, but Sebastian made it clear that he wasn’t interested, and briefly outlined what he wanted. He finished his explanation with the promise of several thousand kronor in payment, but Trolle waved away his offer. He seemed genuinely pleased at the thought of having something to do. He just needed a few days.
That was two weeks ago.
Trolle had called him several times since then, but Sebastian had ignored him every single time. Sat motionless in the apartment, listening to the telephone as it rang and rang and rang. Only Trolle would let the phone ring so many times before giving up. Sebastian was no longer sure that he wanted to know. If he pursued this, would there be any boundaries left for him to cross?
The Disciple Page 4