The Falling Detective (10 page)

‘I, erm …' says a voice at the door, I turn my head. Birck is standing outside. ‘What are you doing?' He comes into the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Why aren't you sitting in your own chair?'

‘I … don't know.'

Birck sits down in my chair. I try to picture the inside of my own head. Just a fog — no actual thoughts worthy of the name.

‘What the hell are you doing, sitting there?' he mumbles, and starts messing with the levers underneath the seat, adjusting the backrest.

‘It took me an hour to get that right.'

‘And yet you're sitting there like a little old man.'

My phone buzzes: it's a message from Sam.

would it be okay if we met up tomorrow instead?

I close my eyes. Friday or Saturday, makes no difference to me, but I wonder why she wants to put it off this time?

yes
I reply.
if you really want to?

yes

good

Birck clears his throat, leans back in my chair, and puts his feet up on the desk.

‘We no longer have a case,' I say, looking up from my phone.

‘What?'

During the time it takes for me to tell Birck about Goffman's visit, Birck's shock gradually subsides until he is just sitting there, perfectly still, with a blank expression on his face. At one point he starts looking for something in the inside pocket of his jacket — perhaps cigarettes, maybe a comb — but for the most part he just sits there, staring at his shoes.

‘Didn't see that coming,' is his only comment.

‘Are you being sarcastic?'

‘I think so. Did he have the paperwork?'

‘No, but it does exist.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.'

Birck takes his feet off the desk, stands up, and runs his hand through his hair.

‘Well, blow me down.'

‘Goffman didn't tell me the real reason why they were taking over, that much I'm sure of. What he told me was just a hackneyed excuse.'

‘There are hundreds of potential reasons, and I'd say less than half of them are legit. But it must surely have something to do with his leftist background?'

‘Of course,' I say. ‘That's what he said. But fuck knows.'

‘They're taking everything we've got, then?'

‘Everything in the case file.'

‘So,' Birck says in a hushed voice, ‘have we got anything that isn't in it?'

‘Maybe,' I say, glancing involuntarily at the folder on my desk, and Thomas Heber's field notes, sticking out from underneath it.

‘I thought as much.'

‘He mentions someone,' I say, ‘in his notes.'

‘1599? We know.'

‘No, someone else. On the seventh of December he interviews someone he calls 1601, who tells him something. I don't know whether they were talking about people, but I guess we have to assume that they were. It could also be groups, organisations or anything, really. Then 1601 names someone else, apparently the one who's “going to do it”. Whatever “it” is. I lift the file and pass the printout to Birck. ‘Read it yourself.'

Birck takes it from me and flips through to the page in question. He reads it with a frown:

7/12 (later)

Something strange happened during my interview after lunch, with 1601. He wouldn't let me record the interview, so I made notes. Halfway through the interview he asked me if I had heard the rumour. No, I said, I haven't. I knew about what 1599 had said, but this was about something else. Our conversation went more or less like this (I don't have my interview notes with me, so I'm not completely sure):

Me: ‘You mean that someone would go after —?'

1601: ‘Yes.'

Me: ‘Why?'

1601: ‘Isn't hate enough? The feeling of having been betrayed? How many reasons do you want?!

Me: ‘Well, okay. But it still seems incredibly drastic.'

1601: ‘I suppose you're entitled to your opinion.'

Me: ‘Can you stop it happening?'

1601: ‘I wouldn't dare. I can't say any more about it, because no one knows where or when. I've already said too much. I've already … if anybody finds out …'

Me: ‘No one is going to.'

1601: (Long silence) ‘I know who is going to.'

Me: ‘Who?'

Then he gave me the name. I am going to contact him as soon as possible, but I daren't call or email him. I doubt he would even answer if he knew it was me.

‘Hmm,' is the extent of Birck's reaction.

‘Further down you'll see the entry from the ninth. Heber tries to contact whoever 1601 was talking about, I think. But the guy refuses to agree to an interview.'

‘You can't say for certain that that's who he's talking about,' says Birck. ‘Heber doesn't say any more than that he's spoken to him and tried to get him to do an interview, and that he refuses.'

‘I know. But he could be talking about the same person.'

‘In that case, it should be someone Heber knows,' Birck says, his eyes still glued to the printout. ‘They must at least know of each other. Or Heber should know, or at least guess, that this person doesn't want to speak to him. Or someone like him. Here,' he says, putting his finger on the page to show me. ‘ “I doubt he would even answer if he knew it was me.” '

‘Exactly.'

Birck tidies the printout into a pile and puts it on the desk.

‘No, hold on. Look at the last entry again.'

Birck picks it up again and flips to the last page.

‘ “Meeting 1599, to talk,” ' Birck reads aloud. ‘ “Might tell them what I've heard. I don't know. We're meeting at our usual spot at 2230. I'm nervous and unsettled, hesitant. Haven't got much done today.” Can I put it down now?'

‘The thing is, did he ever speak to 1599 about what he'd heard? In that case, she knows. Yes, you can put it down now.'

‘That's true,' Birck says. ‘But it might not have anything at all to do with what happened to Heber later on.'

‘I know. But maybe.'

‘If you know all this, why are you telling me?'

I sigh, and shake my head. Nothing happens. Everything's quiet. My fingers are twitching. I want a Serax. When did I last have one — was it just before I went to Café Cairo? No longer than that?

Birck gets out of the chair and walks over towards the door.

‘How do you make contact without using a phone or email?' I ask.

He turns around.

‘I don't know. Carrier-pigeon? Telegram? Smoke signals?'

II

A TOWN FULL OF
HEROES AND VILLAINS

14/12

Christian is sitting watching telly at his friend's house out in Enskede. One of the party leaders is giving his opinion about some insignificant issue. They've muted the TV to avoid having to listen to that bollocks. Sometimes that's the only thing to do.

He reads the words, one at a time, on the big banner hanging on the wall above the screen. Christian thinks about the knife — how it felt, resting there inside his coat.

‘Wanna beer?' Michael shouts from the kitchen.

‘No whisky?'

‘Oh yeah.'

Michael emerges with a couple of fingers of scotch in two round tumblers.

‘Jesus, look at the state of you,' he says, and hands one to Christian.

‘I didn't sleep very well.' Christian looks up. ‘I bet you did?'

‘Yes, why?'

‘Well, considering …'

‘I didn't do it for the hell of it. I had to. You know that.'

‘Yeah. But … didn't you feel anything?'

Michael takes a swig, with a determined expression on his face.

‘If you weren't the one asking, that question would make me fucking furious.' He puts the glass down. ‘What the fuck do you think? Course I fucking did. But some things …' He hesitates. ‘I learnt that inside. Some things just have to be done. And this was necessary. Everything could have been fucked otherwise.'

Christian wants to stand up and walk out, but he can't. So he sits there.

They got to know each other at parties. That's how it worked back then; maybe it still is. Every time they met, Michael had a new phone — always a Nokia. Christian didn't have one but, before long, Michael gave him one of his.

‘You can have that,' Michael said. ‘It's got Snake. But if you break my record, you're in deep shit.'

It took Christian a week to break the record. He didn't mention it. He swapped his glasses for contacts and took Accutane for his acne, three a day. Six months later, his skin was clear and smooth, and since that day he hasn't had so much as a pimple.

Christian didn't know much about his new friend. He worked out that he wasn't from Stockholm, because when he'd had a few, a completely different accent would spout from his lips. It was warmer, more rolling, and fuller than his normal voice.

‘Where the hell are you from anyway?' Christian asked, laughing.

‘Borlänge.'

‘And where the fuck is that?'

‘In Dalarna.'

‘That's in Norrland, isn't it?'

‘Dalarna is in the middle of Sweden. Norrland starts about five hundred kilometres north of Dalarna.'

‘Well, how did you end up here, then?'

‘Mum got divorced and met a new bloke who lived here. I must have been six or seven when we moved down.'

‘Did you want to move?'

Michael shrugged, smiling.

‘When you're little, I suppose you don't want things to change. But it wasn't too bad.'

Michael's mother and her new partner both worked in insurance. They were the kind of family who could afford to own their own home.

Christian himself was born in Stockholm, growing up first in Bredäng and later Hagsätra. His mum worked behind the till in one of the shops by the square, and his dad … well, only his dad really knew what had happened to him, and Christian would probably have given him a smack if he'd ever had the good fortune to bump into him. He'd left when Christian was ten, and they never heard from him again. His mum just said that he was living somewhere on the west coast, with some woman, but apart from that they never talked about him.

That might have been the precursor to Christian falling out with his new friend for the first time. Afterwards it was difficult to say what it had been about.

Every time he thought about his dad, even now, years later, Christian recalled that betrayal: how he'd woken up one morning and discovered that there were only three people in the apartment. How his dad's big Fjällräven rucksack, the one he used to take on their motoring holidays down in Skåne, was missing. Christian's mother was lying awake in bed, crying. It was a Tuesday — he even remembered that. Anton was in his room, and when Christian asked why dad wasn't home, he looked uninterested.

‘Dunno. Don't care either.'

Anton and his dad had never seen eye to eye. They were too much alike — at least that's what Mum put it down to, maybe because that was easiest.

‘What happens if he never comes back?' Christian asked.

‘I think he'll be back,' Anton said, matter-of-factly. ‘Now, get out of my room.'

‘But come on, would it have been better if they'd stuck it out and been unhappy and argued and fought?' his new friend wondered.

It was now early evening, and they were sitting on a bench close to Hagsätra's recreation ground. Autumn had arrived, and the grass on the pitch in front of them was covered with frozen dew. Lone runners ran round and round, coldly illuminated by the strong floodlights, their breath chugging ahead of them like thin white smoke.

Sometimes, late in the evening, Christian would run there himself. He'd been doing it for years — couldn't even remember when he'd started. Had he been eleven? Maybe twelve? Down here it felt like the vault-roof of the sky above was further away, and that running lap after lap had some kind of purifying effect.

‘They could have sorted it out,' Christian said. ‘If he'd had the bollocks to stay and fight for it, then they wou—'

‘You don't know that.'

‘Yes, I do know that. They'd had problems before, but they'd always sorted it out.'

They were fifteen, and both believed that they understood everything. In fact, they understood nothing.

Later, Christian looked for his wallet in the pockets of his jeans, but couldn't find it. They had shared a bottle of spirits that Michael had got cheaply, out in Salem, and at first Christian thought he'd got too drunk and lost it somewhere. He did his best to look for it in the darkness, but it wasn't there.

‘Weird, eh?' he slurred. ‘I was fucking sure I had it with me.'

‘You must have left it at home,' Michael slurred back, taking a swig from the bottle. ‘I haven't seen it since we came out.'

They were both tipsy, and Christian was starting to enjoy the sensation of tilting over. Focusing took a while. Michael climbed down from the bench to go for a piss behind one of the dugouts. He swayed, reeled over to one side, and hit the ground. He laughed, and so did Christian.

The fall had caused something to glide out of Michael's jacket pocket: a wallet. Christian noticed it from the corner of his eye, squinting as Michael tried to get to his feet.

‘What the fuck …' Christian began as he leant forward to pick it up.

He opened it. It was his.

‘What is this?'

‘Your wallet.'

‘You said you hadn't …' The three hundred-kronor notes were missing. ‘Where's the money?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You nicked my fucking wallet!'

Michael managed to stand up and laughed, dismissively.

‘I was going to give it back to you later, when you'd got properly paranoid.'

Something about his tone of voice made Christian not believe him.

‘Are you a fucking benefits-scrounger, or what? Who the fuck does a thing like that? Give me my fucking money!'

The next minute, Christian was lying on his back next to the bench. His cheek was throbbing, and his jaw ached like hell.

‘What the fuck?' Christian hissed as he struggled to get to his feet.

He leaned against the bench for support, and once he was standing up he grabbed Michael's jumper and jumped on his friend, pushing him over and then clenching his right fist.

It must all have been over in seconds, but it felt much longer: they found themselves on the ground below the bench, hitting each other in the face, kneeing each other wherever they could reach. Christian managed to bust his friend's eyebrow, and his own nose was clicking. One of his teeth was loose.

‘Who the hell nicks their mate's wallet?' Christian spluttered.

‘Who the fuck calls someone a benefits-scrounger? Look at them at school, you can tell who's on benefits and who isn't. Don't compare me to them.'

‘I didn't.'

‘Shut up.'

Later they went to A&E and explained how they'd been attacked by a couple of immigrants. They'd worked that out themselves, that that would be the easiest solution. They got stitches and bandages, and somewhere along the line a police report was filed, but nothing ever came of it, which wasn't really surprising.

As they left the hospital, Michael thrust his hand out in the darkness, without a word. In it were three hundred-kronor notes.

‘When will the others be coming?' Christian asks now.

‘In about an hour. First we'll have the meeting, map out our strategy, and then we pep each other up.' His mobile phone buzzes. ‘Jonathan's already on his way,' he says, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Jonathan. The poor sod got trapped with an amphetamine habit last summer, and they've been exploiting him ever since. And he's got no idea. Or maybe he does suspect something.

The television news-anchor is staring into the camera. Beside her is a picture of the leader of the Sweden Democrats.

‘Fuck this,' Michael says. ‘Turn that shit off.'

‘Don't you want to hear it?'

‘I don't want to hear anything to do with that bastard.'

Christian picks up the remote. The screen goes black.