The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

‘No reason,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It just seems like the kind of thing people teach their kids.’

  Like swimming, he thought, and felt his right hand clench into a fist. He straightened his fingers and rested his elbow on the bottom of the window. He had to be careful. The dream was one thing, he had no control over that, but for it to come into his head now, in the car with Vanja . . . However much the dead children on the mountain had affected him, Sebastian Bergman was in control of his own thoughts. That was one of the reasons for his success, his greatness. He kept his intellect on a tight rein, never allowed it to run free, always made it work for him. He strove for full control, and usually achieved it.

  ‘Have you never been married?’ Vanja asked as they were passing Tegelfjäll.

  Sebastian stiffened. He might be able to steer his own thoughts, but not the conversation, apparently. He quickly ran through his options. Tell her it was nothing to do with her. Not good, it would arouse suspicion and put her in a bad mood. Lie: a simple no. Could be exposed at a later stage and lead to more unnecessary questions. The truth. He decided on the truth. Up to a point, at least.

  ‘Once, yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ninety-eight.’

  ‘So when did you get divorced?’

  Sebastian hesitated, but stuck to his chosen path. The truth.

  ‘We didn’t. She died.’

  Vanja fell silent. Sebastian stared ahead. He had told Torkel that much when they met in Västerås, but no more. He had no intention of going any further now.

  No one knew any more.

  No one knew everything.

  If Vanja carried on asking, he would start lying.

  Or would he?

  Should he tell someone for the first time? Tell her everything? About Lily and Sabine and the wave that took them both away from him. The sense of loss, the angst. How close he had been to going under. How he was still pretending to live his life, to a great extent.

  It would presumably bring them closer, deepen their relationship. He couldn’t see how it could be anything but beneficial, and yet it went against the grain.

  He didn’t want to do it.

  The idea of using one daughter to get closer to the other just felt wrong, as if he were exploiting Sabine, profiting from her death for his own ends. Using her for emotional blackmail.

  He didn’t want to do it.

  He couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Vanja said quietly.

  Sebastian nodded, keeping his fingers crossed that she wouldn’t ask . . .

  ‘How did she die?’

  Sebastian sighed. He had to finish this. There was no point in dressing it up or trying a diversion. He couldn’t leave it open to further discussion in the future. He had to finish it.

  For ever.

  He turned to face her.

  ‘She died, isn’t that enough? What do you want do know? Do you want to see the post-mortem report?’

  Vanja glanced in his direction, then devoted her full attention to the car and the road. She had only wanted to show sympathy, but clearly this was a minefield, and whatever her intentions, she had overstepped the mark.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Vanja didn’t reply. What could she say? Sebastian had very efficiently put an end to any attempt at small talk. They drove on in silence.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure this is right?’ Sebastian asked as he got out of the car.

  Vanja could understand his scepticism. The squat brown building in front of them looked more like a hairdresser’s or a small pizzeria, but the GPS had brought them here, and the police emblem on the wall suggested they were indeed in the right place.

  ‘They don’t even occupy the whole building,’ Sebastian said, pointing to the logo of an insurance company further along. ‘What a dump. How many people work here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Vanja said, pushing open the door.

  Inside they found a reception desk on the right, with a row of chairs along the opposite wall, and a table with a couple of newspapers and several police brochures scattered across its surface. Straight ahead was a door leading into some kind of office, with a staircase beside it. Vanja and Sebastian went over to the desk and Vanja explained who they were, and that they were expected. The woman behind the desk nodded, then yelled ‘Kenneth!’ in the direction of the stairs before turning back to the visitors with a smile. Sebastian smiled back. How old was she? Forty, forty-five perhaps? Short dark hair, high cheekbones, narrow lips, quite large breasts under the beautifully ironed uniform shirt. He leaned over the desk a fraction and noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  ‘He won’t be a minute,’ the woman said as they heard footsteps on the floor above. A man aged about thirty-five came down and introduced himself as Kenneth Hultin.

  ‘We’ve put everything out for you,’ he said, showing them up the stairs. There were three desks in the room on the right at the top; Kenneth led them to the left, into something resembling a cupboard, which clearly served as the staff room. At one end there was a table covered in a yellow striped wax cloth, surrounded by four folding chairs; a small sink and a fridge had been squeezed into the other end. A microwave sat on top of the fridge, and the coffee machine was on the draining board. An unmistakable odour of fish pervaded the whole room.

  ‘Would you like a coffee or something?’ Kenneth said, nodding towards the half-full pot in the machine.

  ‘What’s something?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said coffee or something – what’s something?’ Sebastian repeated.

  ‘Erm . . . tea, water, some fruit maybe . . .’ Kenneth waved in the direction of a bowl of apples on the table.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ Vanja interrupted; she looked sharply at Sebastian, who had already lost interest and was examining the large wall-hanging at the end of the table with an expression of distaste. Kenneth nodded and left them to it. Vanja sat down, opened the folder on the table and began to read.

  The call had come in at 08.23 on the morning of 31 October 2003. The police had arrived at the scene at 08.57, and established that there was a dead body in the driving seat of the car, which had burnt out.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’

  Vanja glanced up; Sebastian jerked his head in the direction of the door.

  ‘I thought you came to help?’

  ‘No, I came to get away from that depressing bloody mountain.’

  He left the room and Vanja went back to her reading with a sigh.

  The body in the car had been in such poor condition that it had been impossible to determine age or gender at the scene. The number plates had enabled them to identify the vehicle as a hire car that had been rented in Östersund by a Patricia Wellton from Kentucky, USA. When they tried to find her relatives, and to obtain dental records or other means to confirm the identity of the deceased, it turned out that there was no Patricia Wellton from Kentucky. Never had been. The driver’s licence was a forgery, and that was as far as they’d got. They assumed that the body in the car was the woman who had called herself Patricia Wellton. No other women had been reported missing, but they could never be completely certain. The folder contained a pile of photographs; Vanja flicked through them and decided to take them with her. They would tell Ursula far more than they told her.

  The car had been taken away for forensic examination. Vanja skimmed the report; there was nothing to explain why the car had left the road. The brakes and steering appeared to have been working perfectly.

  Nor did the analysis of the scene provide any clue as to why the car had crashed. There was no sign of a puncture or a collision with a wild animal. The lack of skid marks or any other sign of an attempt to avert the accident led to speculation that the driver might have fallen asleep, or perhaps been taken ill.

  Vanja turned back.

  The post-mortem had been unable to est
ablish whether or not the woman was alive when the car caught fire. Theoretically, she could have had a heart attack.

  Vanja went back to the forensics report. At the end there was a list of the items found in the car. It was short. Very short. The boot had been empty. Vanja paused. Admittedly the woman wouldn’t necessarily have had any luggage, even if that did seem rather strange bearing in mind that she had presumably travelled to Sweden, but she had provided ID when she picked up the car, and she had paid for it. She must have had a handbag, or at least a wallet or purse. But nothing like that had been found in the car or on the body. Vanja took out her notebook and wrote:

  DRIVER’S LICENCE / MONEY?

  Then she went back to the beginning of the folder with the notepad beside her. When she had gone through the material for a second time and jotted down the places where she had questions, she called Kenneth in the hope that he would be able to clear up at least some of them.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Vanja had the name of the person who had reported the accident, and the firm who had eventually removed the car. She thanked Kenneth, gathered up the documents she wanted to take with her, and went downstairs.

  Sebastian was in reception. The woman behind the counter was laughing and jotting something down on a card. Her telephone number, Vanja assumed as she handed it to Sebastian with a little wink.

  ‘Are you ready to leave?’ Vanja asked as she passed by.

  ‘Yes, are you?’

  Vanja didn’t reply; she simply pushed open the door and walked out. She took deep breaths of the fresh autumn air as she headed for the car. It was nice to escape from the fishy, increasingly stuffy air upstairs in the police station, and it also served to calm the sudden surge of irritation she had felt in reception. It was stupid, she told herself, ridiculous. Sebastian’s affairs were nothing to do with her, but there was something about his compulsive need to get virtually every woman he met into bed that she found deeply offensive. Unpleasant. She realised she was slightly embarrassed on his behalf, yet at the same time there was something sad about his behaviour. Sad and desperate. What was missing from his life? What kind of empty space were these fleeting contacts supposed to fill? Besides which, Sebastian was a representative of Riksmord now, and such conduct was inappropriate. Vanja had no intention of discussing it with him; however, she would mention it to Torkel, and then it would be his problem.

  Vanja could hear the woman laughing again; she called out ‘See you!’ as Sebastian opened the door and emerged with a smile on his face.

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ he asked as he opened the car door.

  ‘I’ve got an address.’

  ‘Whose address?’

  ‘The guy who found the car.’

  ‘Why do we need to talk to him?’

  ‘Because he found the car.’

  Vanja opened the driver’s door and got in. Sebastian stood there for a moment replaying the conversation in his head. Vanja was annoyed. It could be that she was disappointed with Kenneth, but a more likely explanation was that he was to blame. As usual.

  ‘Is it Bodil?’ he asked as they were waiting to turn left onto the E14 when there was a gap in the cars emerging from the tunnel under the slalom slope.

  ‘Who’s Bodil?’

  ‘The receptionist. I don’t have to go to bed with her if you don’t want me to.’

  Vanja pulled out onto the main road and quickly accelerated to fifteen kilometres over the speed limit. He really was a mystery. It would never occur to Vanja to talk about her sex life with a colleague. She and Billy were still close, but neither of them had ever shared intimate details. Not that Vanja had much to tell these days, but even so . . . However, this was clearly yet another boundary that was present in normal people and completely lacking in Sebastian Bergman.

  ‘What makes you think I’m interested in who you may or may not be planning to sleep with?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you seem annoyed.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Sebastian nodded to himself. They had gone round in a circle. They weren’t going to get any further. Vanja turned up the radio.

  P4 Jämtland. Something about a bear.

  Then Roger Pontare.

  They drove on in silence.

  Lennart had spent all day trying to avoid Linda Andersson, with limited success. It didn’t help that they worked in the same office. Sture must have told her to contact Lennart if he didn’t contact her, because just after two she came over. Lennart said he was just on his way out; he had a meeting in town. In fact he wandered around the corridors of the television centre wondering how to handle the situation. There was nothing wrong with Linda as a journalist; she was conscientious and hardworking. But she couldn’t be trusted. If anything went even slightly wrong, Sture would know about it before Lennart had time to work out a defence strategy. And if it went well? Sture had suddenly seemed a little too interested in Shibeka’s story, and that worried Lennart. Sture had a tendency to take the credit for any success, and he was equally skilled at dissociating himself from any failures. The best-case scenario was when Sture was vaguely interested – not enough to get involved, but enough to stop him blocking a project. Lennart decided to keep Linda as far away from the key material as possible. The safest thing would be to ask her to check official records: the police, the Immigration Board, the tax office. It needed to be done thoroughly, it probably wouldn’t produce anything useful, but at least it would keep her busy for a few days.

  Meanwhile he would focus on anything that was unofficial, hidden, and also on the people involved; that was where the breakthrough was likely to come. If it came.

  Satisfied with his plan he sat down in the little café in the foyer and called Linda. She sounded pleased, but she was a little too familiar with the names – she even pronounced Shibeka correctly – and he realised that she had been fully briefed by Sture. They arranged to meet in half an hour; he was still in town at his meeting, he said.

  He ended the call and looked around the virtually deserted café, which someone had tried to make modern and inviting, with mismatched armchairs, sofas and bold-patterned wallpaper. Unfortunately the selection of coffees tasting of tannin, sandwiches wrapped in plastic and depressing microwaveable ready meals meant that the decor was striving in vain.

  Perhaps it would be best to go out for a while, Lennart thought. It would be embarrassing if Linda came down for a coffee and found him there. The sky had clouded over; he hoped it wasn’t going to start raining. He realised he was in his shirt sleeves, but there was no way he could go back up to the office to fetch his jacket. He really did hate that place. Better to catch a cold.

  * * *

  Lennart walked down towards Filmhuset, out onto Gärdet and the extensive fields of tall yellow grass. Took out his phone. He had too few contacts that were good sources within the police. He would have liked to call Trolle Hermansson; admittedly he hadn’t been a serving police officer for some years, but he must still have had contacts, because he was brilliant at digging the dirt for Lennart. But Trolle was dead. He had been found murdered in the boot of a car back in the summer. It wasn’t clear how he had ended up there, but he had somehow got himself mixed up in the tangled mess of the Edward Hinde case, which had filled the front pages for weeks in July. The police couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal what his involvement had been, and Lennart suspected that the truth behind their vague responses was that they didn’t actually know. Lennart himself had been very surprised. Trolle was a man who had had a finger in many pies. He had worked not only for Lennart but for Cold Facts and for Expressen, but Lennart couldn’t work out why Trolle would be interested in someone like Hinde. The Trolle Lennart had got to know was interested in money, not in bringing killers to justice or making the world a better place. He had given all that up a long time ago.

  Lennart looked at Trolle’s number, stored in his phone under PC for police contact, and realised that he would never call him again. In spite of that, he didn�
��t want to delete the number; it seemed so definitive, almost disrespectful. It was the same with his grandfather, who had passed away at Christmas the previous year; his number was still there too.

  Like real memories, somehow. You wanted to hang on to them . . .

  After some hesitation Lennart opted for contact number two on his PC list: Anitha Lund. To be honest, she was far too complicated to handle and often brought him more problems than solutions. She was driven not by the desire for money or adventure, but by anger, which made it more difficult to evaluate whatever she told him. She might just as easily be more interested in some private vendetta than in finding the truth, but right now he didn’t have many options.

  She answered almost right away. She sounded angry.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a little chat,’ Lennart ventured, keeping it casual.

  ‘I’m working. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘So why answer the phone, if you’re busy?’

  ‘Because I’m well brought up.’

  Lennart laughed. He had learned that there was no point in being too polite to Anitha.

  ‘You’re a lot of things, Anitha, but well brought up isn’t one of them.’

  ‘No, I’m an asshole,’ Anitha said without a hint of humour in her voice. ‘Ask my boss or anyone else who works here. What do you want?’

  ‘I need to see you. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to work with you any more. The pay is crap and I don’t get anything out of it.’

  ‘That’s not true and you know it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You get to know things nobody else knows. You like that, don’t you?’

  ‘No, you’re the one who likes that kind of thing; you’re the journalist. I’m the one you call and disturb when I’m working.’

  ‘Listen to me, Anitha,’ Lennart said, lowering his voice to stress the seriousness of the situation. ‘I think you’ll like this. Honestly.’

  Silence. He could almost hear her weighing her curiosity against her reluctance to help him. The conversation had gone exactly the way he wanted.