The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, and the reason why she didn’t travel back in 2003 is that she died up here on 31 October.’

  ‘Shit. Do you want me to carry on searching for both names?’

  Torkel didn’t really think there was much point. Börje had found out all there was to know about Patricia and Liz; he wouldn’t be able to dig up any more information unless they discovered a third identity.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ he replied. ‘But can I ask you something?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘She had a fake US passport, good enough to travel in and out of the country the year after 9/11. Who produces forgeries of that quality?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Torkel hesitated. This was something he hadn’t shared with anyone.

  ‘Could she have been . . . some kind of government employee?’

  ‘What do you mean, a government employee?’

  ‘You know . . . an agent.’

  ‘CIA?’

  ‘Or something else, I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there anything to suggest she might have been?’ Börje wondered, sounding interested.

  Torkel didn’t answer immediately. Yes, he thought there was. The two false identities, the well-planned and efficient travel arrangements, the involvement in the mass murder on the mountain, the professional pattern of the bullet holes. However, these were only theories, thoughts that had occurred to him. Thoughts that could have far-reaching consequences if it became known that they had come from the head of Riksmord.

  ‘You know what, forget it,’ he said breezily to his colleague. ‘It was just a silly idea. A long shot. Forget it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  He had ended the call, realised he was really hungry, and had met Klara – who had commented on the weather – on his way down to the dining room. It was empty apart from Ursula, who was reading at a corner table with the remains of her breakfast in front of her. Her cup was still steaming, so Torkel assumed she was finishing off with coffee and the newspaper.

  As he helped himself from the buffet he wondered if it might be time for them to leave Jämtland and take the investigation back to Stockholm. Ursula’s relaxed morning routine told him they didn’t really have enough to do up here. He didn’t know where Billy and Jennifer were; still asleep, perhaps.

  He picked up his tray and went to join Ursula.

  ‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did. How about you?’

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  Torkel sprinkled a little sugar on his cereal as he looked around, making sure that they really were alone.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said quietly.

  Ursula sighed. This was what she had been afraid of when she saw Torkel walk in, and realised they were going to be alone. She knew he would get personal. Bring up their relationship. Force her to make some kind of decision. So she sighed, which Torkel assumed was because of the other man in her life.

  ‘Is it Micke?’ he asked.

  Well, yes, it was. Whatever she was going to say to him, irrespective of whether she decided to tell the truth or lie to him, it was all about Micke.

  ‘Yes,’ she said truthfully. Torkel nodded sympathetically. He shovelled down several spoonfuls of his breakfast in silence, then said: ‘So . . . how are things between you?’ just as Ursula thought she had got away with her brief ‘Yes’. She sighed again. Actually, it was very simple. Truth or lie. Separated or married. Difficult or even more difficult.

  ‘I feel as if we’re growing closer and closer all the time, finding our way back to one another,’ she said in a suitably regretful tone.

  ‘I understand,’ Torkel nodded. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So it just wouldn’t feel right, you and me,’ Ursula went on. If she was going to lie, she might as well do it properly. ‘That’s why I’ve been a bit cool with you. I have to give this a go; it’s probably our last chance.’

  ‘Absolutely. I understand.’ Torkel wiped his chin. ‘Good luck,’ he added.

  He really meant it. He was a lovely man. He was bound to find out sooner or later that she and Micke had split up, that she had lied, but she couldn’t deal with it right now. The immediate crisis was over. Torkel would leave her alone.

  Her mobile rang. She took the call, asked two brief questions, and hung up.

  ‘That was the team up at the grave site. They’ve found the Dutch couple’s bags.’

  Lennart was annoyed. Linda Andersson was ecstatic. They were on their way to Rinkeby via Bromma in one of Swedish Television’s cars. Linda was driving and listening to the radio. Shibeka had called Lennart earlier and ruined his entire day. Apparently Said’s wife was refusing to meet him because he was a man. However, she would consider speaking to a woman. Lennart tried his best to change her mind, but Shibeka insisted: it was that or nothing. He made out that it was a major problem which could jeopardise the entire project, but Shibeka ignored his veiled threat and eventually he had been forced to give in, and promised to bring along a female colleague. Shibeka had thanked him.

  She was probably the only person who would, he thought. Linda and Sture would be delighted, but they were unlikely to say thank you, and now he was in exactly the position he had wanted to avoid. The story had been his, and now it was slipping away, becoming someone else’s. A team effort. He had briefly considered taking Annika Morin with him instead; she was a reliable freelance reporter, but if Sture found out he had replaced Linda, he would go crazy. Sture was only too aware that Lennart wanted to fly solo and shine, so all Lennart could do was bite the bullet and make the best of the situation.

  He had called Linda and quickly briefed her, and she had picked him up in the car thirty minutes later. She was efficient, he had to give her that. He made her promise that any information would stay between the two of them, and that any decision about what they used was down to him. Linda said all the right things. She knew it was his story, she wouldn’t do anything he wasn’t happy with – she would be a team player.

  Yeah, right. As long as Sture wanted it that way. Lennart knew he would need to keep one step ahead from now on. Then again, maybe he could start trusting Linda. He hadn’t decided yet. Part of him was tired of having to do everything himself. There were traffic jams just by the main offices of Svenska Enskilda Banken, and progress was very slow. Lennart sighed and stared out of the side window. A woman in the car alongside gave a big yawn. He hated jams; he couldn’t understand how some people could cope with sitting in traffic for hours day after day. He was glad he lived in the inner city and usually travelled by taxi or underground. Feeling frustrated, he popped another piece of nicotine gum in his mouth. It had to be his tenth already, and the day had hardly started. Linda smiled at him.

  ‘How long have you been trying to stop smoking?’

  ‘I gave up three months ago,’ he lied.

  ‘You’re not free from the addiction until you don’t need the gum any more.’

  I know, that’s why I didn’t tell you it’s two years since I quit, he thought. So you don’t get the idea that I’m a weak character.

  ‘Have you ever smoked?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I worked on a story about how nicotine gum has suddenly become a huge industry. Nicotine has become a pharmaceutical drug, and the profits they make out of smokers trying to give up are just ridiculous.’

  Lennart looked at her. He really didn’t want to have this conversation, but he had to be nice to her.

  ‘Interesting,’ was the best he could come up with. He couldn’t even manage to sound sincere, but Linda didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘You and I are the only ones who think so; Sture didn’t go for it at all.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t have the right angle. Sture likes big exposures. Massive.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘If it comes to anything. I’m a bit concerned that we might be chasing something that won’t lead anywhere,’ he s
aid honestly. ‘We have to get these families on board.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Do you know any more about Melika?’

  ‘No. I don’t really know anything about her, so you’re very important to me.’

  Lennart tried to look as friendly as possible, to convey how grateful he was without going over the top.

  ‘As I said, I’ll do my best.’

  The lights changed to green and the car moved forward four metres. Lennart was already feeling the need for another stick of gum.

  * * *

  ‘Hi, we’re here to see Shibeka. I’m Lennart and this is Linda,’ Lennart said, smiling at the fifteen-year-old boy who had opened the door as soon as they rang the bell. The boy nodded, but didn’t smile back. He was wearing blue jeans and a black shirt; he had short, neatly combed dark hair, and looked as if he had got dressed up for the occasion. His expression was wary, with a hint of suspicion.

  ‘Mehran Khan. Come in.’

  They stepped into the spacious hallway. The apartment was clean and tidy, and smelled of soap. The walls were adorned with family photographs – Lennart recognised Shibeka in a couple – and hangings in gold thread. The place was an intriguing mixture of Swedish straight lines spiced up with exotic colours. Mehran silently showed them where to hang their coats. Lennart could see Shibeka in the living room; she was perched on the edge of a large grey sofa, wearing a black shawl that covered her hair completely. Opposite her in an armchair was another woman in a shawl, with her face turned away from them. Melika, presumably. Lennart waved to Shibeka, who quickly looked away; instead it was Mehran who met his gaze, his expression challenging. That said it all. He was in their home now, and their rules applied. Lennart felt stupid. He was here to build a relationship based on trust; it was no good lumbering in as if he was visiting an old friend.

  ‘You can sit in there while we talk,’ the boy said, pointing to the bright kitchen next door to the living room.

  He doesn’t like me, Lennart thought. Not one bit.

  He realised that Shibeka’s meeting with him in the café hadn’t gone down well, and that somehow he needed to connect with this boy.

  ‘I was hoping you and I could have a chat,’ he said tentatively, but Mehran obviously wasn’t interested.

  ‘Later, perhaps. I need to sit with the women now.’ He turned to Linda. ‘Wait here.’

  He led the way into the kitchen. ‘There’s tea if you want some,’ he said, pointing to the brown teapot on the table, before going back to Linda. Lennart flopped down on a chair as he watched Mehran take Linda into the living room and close the door behind them. Soon he could hear the murmur of voices; it sounded as if Melika didn’t speak Swedish at all, and Shibeka was translating. Unfortunately they were talking too quietly for him to pick up what was said. He wondered whether to creep over to the door and listen; that was why he was here, after all, not to sit in the kitchen drinking tea. However, he decided against it; he wouldn’t go up in Mehran’s estimation if he was caught eavesdropping. Lennart felt as if he had not only been outmanoeuvred, but flattened.

  He could hear Linda’s voice; she sounded cheerful, energetic, engaged. He could understand that. She was where he was supposed to be.

  The two rucksacks were identical: 65 litre Arc’teryx, black with red trim. Jan and Framke Bakker seemed to have been the kind of couple who liked to show their togetherness by looking identical. The grey and yellow Gore-Tex clothing, the red and black rucksacks, even their walking boots had been exactly the same brand and model, as far as Ursula recalled. She could picture them in the summer, wearing identical tracksuits and Crocs, camping by some lake. Although that was never going to happen, and it never had. Crocs weren’t invented when the two of them walked straight into something on the mountain that immediately cost them their lives.

  Ursula carefully turned over their kit; it was in surprisingly good condition, given how long it had been buried. Dirty and muddy, of course, and in places the dampness and mould had eaten right through the surface material, but what she had in front of her was significantly more rucksack than remains.

  They had been found about a dozen or so metres from the bodies, which reinforced the theory that it didn’t matter to the killer or killers if the Dutch couple were identified. In which case, it was strange that they had gone to the trouble of digging a fresh hole near the grave, but Ursula had no interest in speculating as to why they had done so. That wasn’t her job.

  A tent was attached with double straps to the bottom of one rucksack. Ursula carefully removed it and put it to one side, along with a dark-green plastic water scoop on a metal hook beside it. She moved the rucksack so that the top was facing her. She could see the remains of a bedroll and a sleeping bag, also secured with straps. She removed them, placed them next to the tent and turned her attention to the flap. The plastic buckles were full of earth and gravel, but opened relatively easily. When she folded back the flap she could feel that there was something in the two pockets, and pulled at the zips. For the first time since she had brought the rucksacks into the room set aside for the purpose, and which she had already used to examine the items found in Harald Olofsson’s possession, the time they had spent in the ground made things difficult for her. The zips refused to budge. She picked up a small knife and sliced along the top of both zips. Inside she found metal cutlery and a pocket knife with a variety of functions; on the side it had a white cross surrounded by some kind of shield and set against a red background. A plastic bottle of mosquito repellent and the remains of a packet of tissues and some plasters. The other pocket contained something that was virtually unidentifiable, but what was left of the packaging suggested that it had once been a bag of chocolate, nuts, raisins and other energy-giving snacks.

  She cut the thin string around the top of the inner bag and realised immediately that Jan and Framke Bakker were going to make her task a little easier. The contents were neatly packed in separate plastic bags, which were well sealed. Many were unaffected by dampness. Ursula removed bag after bag and placed them on the table before checking the outside pockets, where she found a water bottle, a camping stove, and a bottle of fuel. When the rucksack was empty, she started working her way through the plastic bags. As she had guessed when she saw the heavy tent, this was Jan’s rucksack. Boxer shorts, T-shirts, waterproofs, a warm sweater, underwear. A toilet bag containing a razor, soap, condoms, deodorant, painkillers, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Ursula stopped and looked at the items spread out in front of her: ordinary, functional objects packed for a week’s holiday, a week that Jan and Framke Bakker had no doubt planned and longed for. And then they ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  She sighed and pulled the other rucksack towards her. Once again she removed the bedroll and sleeping bag and opened the flap. She was about to investigate the pockets when her phone rang: a number she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Ursula.’

  ‘Is that Ursula Andersson?’ asked a female voice in a lilting Norrland accent.

  ‘Yes,’ Ursula confirmed, and surprised herself by suddenly wondering if she ought to revert to her maiden name now she was divorced. Not so much because of the name itself – there wasn’t much to choose between Lindgren and Andersson – but because she was no longer an Andersson. Or was she? She had carried that name for so many years that perhaps she was, with or without a male Andersson by her side.

  ‘Renate Grossman from the forensics lab in Umeå,’ the caller interrupted Ursula’s train of thought. ‘It’s about these six bodies from Jämtland; I understand you’re the officer in charge.’

  ‘Torkel Höglund is the senior investigating officer, but you can pass the information on to me.’

  ‘First of all we have the cause of death.’ Ursula could hear Renate tapping her keyboard to bring up the relevant pictures. ‘All six were shot with a 9 millimetre gun. We have been able to establish that four were shot in the chest, but it’s impossible to say whether those shots were fatal. All of them had been sho
t twice in the head, from close range; death would have been instantaneous as a result.’

  ‘When you say that four had been shot in the chest, does that mean that the other two hadn’t been, or that you were unable to establish that they had?’

  ‘We were unable to establish that they had.’

  ‘OK. What else?’

  ‘We’ve got the preliminary results of DNA analysis on the four bodies, two children and two adults, that you asked us to check.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The adults were the parents of the two children.’

  ‘So they were a family.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ursula didn’t say anything. They had been working on the assumption that they were looking at a family, but the confirmation sent a shiver down her spine. Out there on the mountain, some of them must have seen the others die. Did the parents die first, or the children? Either way, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘What about other injuries to the bodies?’ Renate went on. ‘Do you want me to go through them now, or shall I just send down the details?’

  ‘Send them down, that’ll be fine.’

  Then she changed her mind.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything that could help with identification?’

  Renate tapped away on her keyboard for a few seconds.

  ‘No, all the teeth had been removed, and there’s nothing relating to possible operations or hospital visits that could be traced. Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Ursula put down the phone, thought for a moment, then picked it up and dialled a number. Torkel answered right away.

  ‘Forensics in Umeå called,’ Ursula said without preamble. ‘The preliminary DNA results confirm that it was a family.’

  ‘OK,’ Torkel said. ‘At least we know for sure,’ he added in case his brief response might be interpreted as a lack of interest or even truculence.

  ‘The missing families Vanja came up with,’ Ursula went on. ‘One Norwegian and two Swedish?’