The Disciple (6 page)

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?

But now he could feel the exhaustion taking hold. The hours on the hillock outside Vanja’s apartment. The sex. Last night it had been Ellinor, the night before and tomorrow someone else. The empty apartment. The empty life. He had to do something. Anything. Change things. He took out his mobile and keyed in the number.

Trolle answered almost right away.

‘I was just wondering when you were going to call,’ a hoarse, sleepy voice said.

‘I’ve had things to do,’ Sebastian replied as he started to walk away from Vanja’s building with the phone pressed to his ear. ‘I’ve been away.’

‘Don’t lie to me. You’ve been following her. The daughter.’

Sebastian stiffened for a second before he realised that Trolle was referring to Valdemar’s daughter. Of course.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’m better than you.’ It seemed to Sebastian that he could hear his former colleague smiling smugly on the other end of the line.

‘I didn’t ask you to check her out,’ Sebastian said crossly.

‘I know, but I’m thorough. An old-school cop.’

‘Did you find out anything?’

‘This and that. But no dirt. The old man seems to be a paragon of virtue.’ Trolle paused, and Sebastian could hear him riffling through papers which in all probability were in a heap in front of him.

‘His name is Ernst Valdemar Lithner. Born in Gothenburg in 1953. Started off at Chalmers, then changed to economics. Married Anna Eriksson in 1981; she didn’t take his surname, by the way. No ex-wives or other children. No police record. Worked as an accountant for some years, then had a change of heart in ’97 and did a few different things – everything from bookkeeping to tax advice. He must have made good money, because he paid the deposit on Vanja’s apartment and bought a big summer place in Vaxholm the following year. No lovers that I can discover, male or female, but I’ve got someone hacking into his computer, so we’ll see. He got sick last year.’

‘What do you mean, sick?’

‘Some kind of cell mutation in the lungs. Cancer, the thing that gets us all in the end. What did your mother die of ?’

Sebastian didn’t even respond to the implication that Trolle had clearly spent some time checking out him as well as Lithner over the last couple of weeks. He shivered in spite of the heat. Valdemar had cancer? That couldn’t be right. The man who had stolen his daughter seemed to be full of life. Perhaps it was just a mask he assumed when he was with Vanja, making an effort for her sake.

‘He’s been in remission since the spring,’ Trolle went on. ‘Whatever that’s worth. My contact hasn’t managed to get hold of his notes, but he’s only booked in for normal follow-up appointments, so he must be out of danger.’

Sebastian grunted with disappointment.

‘Okay . . . anything else?’

‘Not really. But I’ve only just started. I can dig much deeper if you want me to.’

Sebastian thought about it. This was worse than he had imagined. Not only was Valdemar loved by his daughter, he had just survived cancer. A saint who had returned to his family from death’s waiting room.

Sebastian didn’t have a chance. It was over.

‘No, there’s no need. Thanks anyway.’

He ended the call.

So much for that particular plan.

His third day in the job. He had finally got hold of one of those machines that allowed you to print out labels and self-adhesive strips, and he was now standing in the corridor in front of the metal plate which indicated that this room was the domain of the governor. He removed the protective strip from the back of the printed label and stuck it on the door. It was a bit crooked, but it didn’t matter. It was perfectly legible. Governor Thomas Haraldsson.

He stepped back and looked at the sign with a contented little smile.

A new job.

A new life.

He had applied for the post several months ago, but hadn’t really expected to get it. Not that he wasn’t well qualified, but it had been a period in his life when nothing was going his way. Things were bad at work; he didn’t get on with his new boss, Kerstin Hanser, and professional success had been eluding him, to be honest. This was largely down to the fact that Hanser refused to acknowledge what an asset he was, and actively worked against him, but even so. It had started to get him down. The situation at home was also rather strained. It wasn’t down to a lack of love, or the fact that they’d got into a rut, it was just that things were very . . . focused. His wife Jenny had embarked on a series of fertility tests, and their entire lives centred on her attempts to get pregnant. Her every waking thought was fixed on conception, while he was obsessed with Hanser, the job, and a growing sense of bitterness. Nothing felt right, and Haraldsson hadn’t dared to hope that he might get the job he had applied for towards the end of the winter, purely on the off chance. The advert had stated that the position would not be filled until the summer, so he had carried on working with the Västerås police and had more or less forgotten his application. Then that boy had been murdered, Riksmord had been brought in, and Haraldsson had ended up having surgery following a bullet wound. To the chest, if he was describing the incident. To the lower part of the shoulder, according to his notes. At any rate, he wasn’t yet fully recovered. It still pulled a little; he could feel it as he smoothed down his new name label one more time.

Somehow the bullet wound had been a turning point. When he came round after the operation, Jenny had been there. Anxious, but also thankful that he had survived. That he was still there. They were told that he had been lucky. The bullet had created a split in the parietal pleura, the membrane lining the chest cavity that contains the lungs. This had caused a bleed into the pleural cavity itself, and consequently in the upper lobe of the right lung. Haraldsson just knew that getting shot was extremely painful. He had been off work for three weeks. While he was at home he had time to think about what things would be like when he got back to the station. No doubt the chief superintendent would give some kind of welcome-back speech, highlighting his heroic contribution; perhaps there was even a minor medal for just such an occasion: injured in the course of duty. There would be coffee and cake, of course, gentle pats on the back to avoid causing any discomfort to his injured chest, and a desire on the part of his colleagues to know how he was feeling and what he thought.

It hadn’t quite turned out that way.

No chief superintendent, no speech, no medal, but the girls on reception had organised a cake. There hadn’t been all that much curiosity or too many pats on the back either, but he still felt that a change had taken place. There was something about the way his colleagues received him, how they treated him. He wanted to believe there was a certain measure of respect. Respect, and perhaps subconsciously a sense of relief. Not many police officers were shot in the line of duty, and from a purely statistical point of view it was highly unlikely that it would happen again in Västerås in the foreseeable future. He had taken a bullet for the entire team, so to speak. For the first time in ages he had felt happy going to work. In spite of Hanser.

Something had happened at home, too. They were more relaxed, closer to one another, as if the life they had together right now was more important than the life they were trying to create. They still had sex – a lot of sex – but there was more tenderness in their lovemaking now; it was warmer, less mechanical. Perhaps that was why it worked.

Suddenly everything seemed to be working.

Five weeks to the day after he had been shot, he was called for an initial interview. The same day Jenny’s pregnancy test proved positive.

That was the turning point.

He got the job. Hanser had given him a glowing reference, he was informed. Perhaps he had misjudged her. True, they had had their differences during the time she had been his boss, but when it really mattered, when she had been forced to judge his work objectively, to assess his chances of doing a good job at Lövhaga, she had been professional enough to put her personal views to one side, and had spoken truthfully about his excellent leadership qualities, and what a good administrator he was.

He had heard some spiteful talk at the station, people saying that she just wanted to get rid of him, that she had even tipped Lövhaga the wink about him, but they were just jealous. Of him.

Of Thomas Haraldsson, governor of Lövhaga.

He went into his office; it might not be very big, but it was his. No more workstation in an open-plan office. Haraldsson sat down in the comfortable chair behind the desk, which was still comparatively clear. He switched on the computer. His third day; he hadn’t really got to grips with the job yet. Which was perfectly natural. The only thing he had done so far was to ask for all the available material on one of the residents in the secure wing, since Riksmord had shown an interest in him. Evidently they had phoned again last night. Haraldsson placed a hand on the folder on his desk, but wondered whether he ought to ring Jenny instead. Not because he wanted anything; just to check how she was. They didn’t see each other quite so much now. Lövhaga was a good sixty kilometres from Västerås. Almost an hour by car in each direction. His working day was likely to be quite long. So far it hadn’t been a problem. Jenny was positively glowing with happiness. Right now her world was full of nothing but opportunities. The very thought of her made Haraldsson smile, and he had just decided to call her when there was a knock on the door.