The Disciple

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘How long does it take for one of these applications to be processed?’ she asked, struggling to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  ‘Three to five working days, but I’m sure we can speed things up for you; you are from Riksmord after all. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Vanja marched out without saying goodbye. Billy nodded before he left the room.

  Haraldsson gazed at the closed door. That had gone well. Now he was going to get himself a cup of coffee and call Jenny.

  This was going to be a good day.

  His third day.

  ‘So you’re still stalking her?’ Stefan was looking at Sebastian with an expression he recognised. The expression that said: ‘I know more about you than you know yourself, so don’t lie to me.’

  The expression Sebastian hated.

  ‘That’s not the way I see it.’

  ‘You stand outside her apartment block every day. You follow her around town, you follow her to work and to her parents’ place. What else would you call it?’

  ‘I’m interested in her. That’s all.’

  Stefan sighed and leaned back against the soft, pale upholstery of his armchair.

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ Sebastian ventured by way of an excuse. ‘I have to do it. I can’t let her go.’ He knew how lame that sounded. He was glad he hadn’t mentioned anything about Trolle.

  Stefan shook his head and gazed out of the window for a moment. They always ended up at this point. Vanja. The daughter Sebastian had suddenly discovered. The daughter who knew nothing, and could never be allowed to find out. Or could she? Was there a way? That was the hope. That was the question Sebastian always came back to, sooner or later. The point he was unable to get past. The issue he was constantly fighting with.

  Stefan could certainly understand the problem. It was like the meeting of two opposite poles. The desire, the longing and the need on one side cannoning into the reality on the other, apparently irreconcilable. This was where the most difficult questions arose. Stefan came across them all the time in his work. That was when his patients came to him – when they suddenly found themselves unable to come up with the answers. It was human. Nothing strange about it. The strange thing about this situation was that the person sitting in front of him was Sebastian Bergman. A man who had always had all the answers. A man Stefan had never expected to seek his help.

  Sebastian had been Stefan’s tutor at university. Everyone in the group had felt a certain reluctance to attend his lectures. They were always memorable, but on the very first day Sebastian had immediately made it clear to everyone that he was the star, and that he had no intention of sharing the limelight. Any student who questioned Sebastian’s arguments or attempted a critical discussion of his theses and theories was humiliated and mocked. Not just for the remainder of that particular lecture, but for the rest of the academic year, the rest of his or her university career. This was why Sebastian’s ‘Any questions?’ was always followed by complete silence.

  The exception was Stefan Larson. He came well equipped to meet Sebastian. As the youngest son in a family of academics, dinner at home in Lund had prepared Stefan for verbal sparring, and he had often sought discussions with the sharp, impossible man who was feared by so many others. Sebastian also reminded Stefan of his older brother Ernst, who had the same powerful need to make his point, and always went that bit too far in the battle to be proved right. That was the most important thing to both Ernst and Sebastian: to be proved right. It made them formidable intellectual opponents, which suited Stefan perfectly. He provided the opposition they required, but he never gave them the final victory. He came back with the next question, and the next, and the next. They were looking for the final killer blow, but instead they were faced with a long war of attrition. It was the only way to stand up to them.

  To wear them down.

  One morning almost two years ago, Sebastian had been waiting for Stefan outside the door of his practice. From the exhausted expression and the crumpled clothes, it looked as if Sebastian had been waiting all night. He was already a shadow of his former self by then. He had lost his wife and daughter in the tsunami in 2004, and since then he had been caught in an increasingly frightening downward spiral. Gone were the lectures and the book tours, replaced by tormented thoughts, apathy and a growing problem with sex. There was no one else he could turn to, he had said. No one. They had started to meet, always on Sebastian’s terms. Sometimes months would go by between meetings, sometimes just a few days. But they never lost touch.

  ‘How do you think Vanja would feel if she found out about this?’ Stefan went on.

  ‘She’d say I was crazy. She’d report me to the police and she would hate me.’ Sebastian paused for a moment before carrying on. ‘I know that, but . . . she’s the only thing I think about, all the time, going round and round . . .’ The end of the sentence was little more than a whisper. ‘This is something completely new. I’m used to being in control.’

  ‘Really? So you mean that until you found out she was your daughter, you were in control? It was your brilliant plan to fuck up your life one hundred per cent? In that case, congratulations; you certainly succeeded.’ Stefan leaned forward. That was the best thing about having Sebastian as a patient. You could take off the gloves. Hit him hard. ‘You don’t want me to pander to you. All your life people have let you have your own way. I’m not doing that. You lost your family in the tsunami, and now you’ve lost your grip. Completely.’

  ‘That’s why I need her.’

  ‘But does Vanja need you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s already got a father, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So who do you think would gain if you told her the truth, given the current situation?’

  Sebastian sat there in silence. He knew the answer. He just didn’t want to say it out loud. But Stefan was still leaning forward, waiting. He said it instead.

  ‘No one. Not you, not Vanja, not anyone.’

  Stefan leaned back. His expression grew kinder. Warmer.

  ‘Don’t tell her, Sebastian.’ His voice was warmer too. More intimate. ‘You have to have a life of your own before you can be a part of someone else’s. Stop following her, and spend some time getting back on your feet. When you’ve done that, we can talk about the next step.’

  Sebastian nodded. Stefan was right. Of course.

  Get a life before you can share a life.

  Sensible, boring Stefan in his soft, boring room was right. This annoyed Sebastian. Thinking Trolle was the solution might be wrong, but it was easy. Easier than getting a life. More fun to think about, anyway.

  ‘I run a counselling group,’ Stefan continued. ‘We meet twice a week, this evening and tomorrow. I think you should come.’

  For the first time Sebastian stared at Stefan in surprise. ‘Me?

  In a group?’

  ‘They’re people who don’t seem able to move on, for one reason or another. Does that sound familiar?’

  Deep down Sebastian was glad Stefan had come up with something as banal as group therapy. It moved him a few steps away from the black thoughts, and filled him with a simple, liberating irritation.

  ‘It sounds incredibly familiar and incredibly tedious.’

  ‘I’d like you to come.’

  ‘No.’

  Sebastian got to his feet, making it clear that the session was over and that he had no intention of discussing the matter any further.

  ‘I insist that you come.’

  ‘Insist all you like, but the answer is still no.’

  Sebastian headed for the door. This feeling of irritation was terrific. It provided him with fuel. Did Stefan really think he was going to see Sebastian Bergman in some snivelling, sobbing self-help group?

  Not a chance.

  Sebastian closed the door behind him. The energy gave him a lift, cheered him up. He might get something done t
oday after all.

  Sebastian had managed to get all the way to the university buildings at Frescati before the energising irritation dissipated. He wanted to show Stefan that he could get himself a life, but the weariness was starting to take over.

  The whole thing had started at home in his apartment on Grev Magnigatan earlier in the week, when he had found the old manuscript of a three-hour lecture entitled ‘An Introduction to Offender Profiling’. It had been at the bottom of a pile of newspapers and other documents in his study, a room he never used; in a moment of boredom he had suddenly decided to have a good clear-out. He couldn’t remember when he had written the text, but it was obvious that it was before the disaster, since it was largely free of the suffocating cynicism that now dogged his every thought. Sebastian had read it straight through twice, and was actually quite impressed with himself. He really had been able to write once upon a time.

  The lecture was sharp, well-informed and riveting.

  Sebastian had sat at the desk for a while with the document in his hand. Discovering a better version of himself had been a strange, almost surreal feeling. After a while he had looked around the room, and suddenly found signs of the better Sebastian everywhere. The diplomas on the walls, the books, the press cuttings, the notes he had once made, the words he had once written. His study was full of the flotsam and jetsam of another life. To escape the memories, he had gone over to the window, looked at the street below, but the remains of his old life were everywhere, and he remembered how he used to park his car just there, opposite the antique shop. Back when he had a car and somewhere to go.

  After the conversation with Stefan he had felt uplifted, almost inspired. He had gone straight home and into his study, where he started searching through the piles of papers, hunting for the contract, looking for a name. Someone must have ordered a three-hour lecture from him. After a while he had found two copies of a draft contract from the university’s department of criminology. Dated 7 March 2001, and relating to a total of three lectures providing an introduction to offender profiling. He tried to remember why he had never actually delivered the lecture. In 2001 he had been at the top of his game. Sabine had been born, and he was living with Lily in Cologne, so presumably he had simply thought he had better things to do. The contracts hadn’t been signed, but the other party was a university lecturer called Veronika Fors. He didn’t recognise the name. Head of Faculty. He had called the department. It was many years since she had sent the contract, but she was still there. The switchboard had put him straight through, but his courage had failed and he had hung up before she had time to answer. He had sat down again with his manuscript in his hand. At least she was still there.

  He stopped a few hundred metres from the building which housed the department of criminology; some visionary had named it Block C, presumably because it was the third building along. Sebastian looked at the tall, corpse-blue buildings; they looked more like part of some building programme from the 1960s than the capital city’s temple of knowledge, and suddenly the doubts came pouring in. Did he really think this was going to make a scrap of difference? He cursed his hesitation. Tried to fight it. He would go and see Veronika Fors. Start there.

  His idea was a simple one. A few quick guest lectures to begin with. A little spur, a distraction from everyday life to send him in a different direction, away from the women at night and, above all, away from Vanja during the day. Away from the feeling of being an outsider. Away from the mindset that had made him call Trolle.

  But the first doubts had set in as soon as the taxi turned into the eastern car park. He was struck most forcibly by the feeling that nothing had changed. The place was the same. He was the one who was different. Could it work? He tried to push the thought aside by heading as purposefully as possible for Block C, as if he could overcome his hesitancy through sheer muscle power.

  A group of girls was coming towards him; students, judging by their age and the books they were carrying. One of them reminded him of Vanja, with her blonde hair; she was probably a little younger, but not much. He looked at the girl. It was for Vanja’s sake that he was standing here outside Block C. Stefan was right. He needed a life of his own if he was ever going to be able to face her properly, to reveal who he was. Perhaps be accepted. Probably not loved. But possibly accepted.

  He needed a life. That was why he was here.

  He felt the energy coming back.

  He walked into Block C.

  Into a world he had not visited for many, many years.

  He was in luck. Veronika Fors was free, and could see Sebastian straight away. The woman on reception led him down a long corridor to a small, well-ordered office with a desk and two chairs.

  The woman behind the desk looked surprised when he walked in. He smiled and shook hands before sitting down uninvited in the chair opposite her.

  ‘Hi, my name is Sebastian Bergman.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’ She wasn’t smiling back at him. She closed the file she had been working on and stared at him. He couldn’t work out whether she was just surprised to see him, or annoyed as well. There was definitely something.

  ‘You’re Veronika Fors?’

  ‘Yes.’ Still terse.

  ‘Well, it’s about this lecture we planned a while ago.’ Sebastian took the contract out of his inside pocket and put it down in front of her. ‘It’s a detailed introduction to offender profiling.’

  Veronika picked up the contract and glanced at it.

  ‘But this must have been ten years ago.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sebastian answered. ‘I thought you might still be interested. The material is still relevant.’ He smiled again, as sweetly as he could manage.

  ‘Are you joking?’ Veronika Fors removed her reading glasses and looked at him.

  ‘No, when I’m joking I’m much funnier. I can be positively witty.’ He smiled again. She didn’t. There was something about her eyes. Something he recognised.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should be having this conversation with you. Are you still involved in research? You simply disappeared from the surface of the earth, and now you turn up here wanting us to honour a contract from ten years ago.’

  Sebastian quickly decided to stop smiling. That particular tactic had proved totally ineffective with the woman who was now glaring at him. He was starting to get annoyed with her. After all, she was the one who had once requested his services. Had wanted his expertise and his depth of knowledge. Which he still had. A little respect wouldn’t go astray.

  ‘I am still the best profiler in Sweden. I can promise you that you won’t be disappointed, even if I perhaps haven’t been all that active in the academic world of late.’

  ‘And where have you been active? Have you actually published anything at all since the nineties? Are you working? Are you doing anything?’

  ‘Look, if you have doubts about my abilities I can offer a guest lecture. So that you can see what I’m capable of. Just as a one-off, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re used to that kind of thing, aren’t you? One-offs.’

  The tone of her voice startled Sebastian. This sounded personal. Furious. Possibly hurt. He looked at her, but still didn’t recognise her. Even the eyes which he had thought seemed familiar a second ago provided no clues. Had she put on weight? Or lost it? Cut her hair? He had no idea. His brain was working at top speed. There was something about her. About that angry, slightly high voice. Suddenly a vague memory came into his mind. Too unclear to grasp fully, but he became convinced that in spite of the fact that he didn’t really remember her, he had seen her naked. In a stairwell in Bandhagen. The faint frozen image of a moment long ago. A naked woman screaming furiously at him in a stairwell. Surely he hadn’t told her to go to hell? Or had she said it to him?

  Could the situation really be that bad?

  Veronika Fors tore up the contract in front of him and gave him the finger.

  The situation probably was that bad.


  Unfortunately.

  ‘Guess who’s the new governor of Lövhaga?’

  Vanja settled comfortably in her chair and allowed her gaze to sweep over her three colleagues around the table in the Room. Billy smiled to himself. She really couldn’t let it go. In the car on the way back to Stockholm she had made several references to the fact that they had come across Thomas Haraldsson again. As a prison governor. How was that possible? What were they thinking of? Bribes, total brain freeze or someone who was determined to finish off Lövhaga were the only explanations she could come up with to explain his appointment.

  Billy had listened quietly. Haraldsson didn’t particularly bother him, and he had been quite pleased to see him again. He might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but there was something appealing and slightly pitiful about the man from Västerås who struggled so hard. There was nothing wrong with his ambition, and with the right support he might make a good job of his new post. Billy hoped so. Quietly, to himself. He was fairly sure he was the only person in the room who felt that way. He looked at Ursula and Torkel, who were both shaking their heads in response to Vanja’s question.

  ‘I didn’t even know they had someone new,’ said Torkel, taking a sip of his fourth cup of coffee from the machine.

  ‘Thomas Haraldsson.’ Vanja looked expectantly at her colleagues as she waited for the reaction. It came.

  ‘Thomas Haraldsson from Västerås?’ Ursula’s expression was quizzical, as if she thought she must have misunderstood. Vanja nodded. ‘How the hell did he end up there?’ Ursula went on.

  ‘I have no idea – it’s a mystery.’

  ‘How is he?’ Torkel asked quietly. He looked neither surprised nor annoyed, Vanja noticed. More concerned, in fact.

  ‘He looked very much at home.’

  ‘I meant his shoulder.’

  ‘He said he could still feel it a little bit, but otherwise everything seemed fine,’ said Billy.

  ‘Good.’ After all, Thomas Haraldsson had been shot while he was under Torkel’s command, and Torkel felt slightly guilty because he hadn’t been in touch with Kerstin Hanser and the Västerås police to find out how he was. He had intended to follow up several times, but had never quite got around to it.