The Falling Detective (15 page)

Lützengatan is located in an understated upper-class neighbourhood, behind Karlaplan's great plaza. These blocks have the lowest reported crime-rates in the city, but the truth is probably that there's just as much crime here as anywhere else. Everyone knows this, but everyone keeps quiet, because no one wants to lose face.

The street is paved with cobblestones, fanning out in a classic pattern and ending in a neat turning circle. The taxi comes to a stop and I climb out, to the strains of the radio and the accompanying taxi-driver, both singing
Who's got a beard that's long and white? Who comes around on a special night?
in a strained, excitable, never-ending polka.

Further down Lützengatan, at the corner where the little strip of cobbles meets Wittstocksgatan, a dark-coloured Volvo is parked, and silhouettes are visible inside. I light a cigarette and try to decipher the number plate, but the angle at which the car is parked makes this impossible.

Santa's got a beard that's long and white! Santa comes around on a special night!

I get my card back, and the sound of the polka is suffocated as I close the car door. The taxi rolls off. I take a drag, and the cold makes me shudder.

Many people's homes will tell you something about their occupants, but Gabriel Birck's apartment isn't one of them. It is large, with high ceilings, yet somehow it still seems small. Its many doors, cubbyholes, and nooks and crannies make it easy to get lost in. The flat contains very few books, but plenty of films, DVD box-sets, and paintings. None of the furniture is from IKEA, apart from the kitchen. The IKEA sticker is still there, on the inside of the cupboard door I open in search of a cup. The mug is blue, and features the Moderate Party emblem, and yet there are various pamphlets and flyers from a public meeting arranged by Feminist Initiative lying in the hallway. On one wall in the kitchen there's a large photo of Twiggy, androgynous and symmetrical. On a worktop near the window is a pair of small speakers, playing music from Birck's phone at low volume.

Above the sofa are twenty, thirty, maybe more, photos in black frames and varying sizes. They're not arranged in a neat pattern but untidily, in a sort of collage. Some of the images depict children. Most of them feature men and women, and in some cases something unclassifiable in-between. Birck himself is not present in a single picture. These might be photos of his friends and family, but they might just as easily be complete strangers.

And sitting underneath the pictures is a woman. She has her hands in her lap and is constantly interlacing and then separating them, looking at us and then looking at the glass coffee table in front of her, where a dark-blue Dictaphone is lying.

I put the cup in front of her, take the jug, and fill her cup about half full.

‘A bit more, please.'

She takes a swig. I sit down in the armchair next to the sofa and wait. Birck is sitting in the other armchair, one leg on top of the other, and with a glass of water in his hand. The water is so cold that condensation has gathered on the glass. He's wearing a white vest, grey tracksuit bottoms with Armani written along the thigh, and, as far as I could tell when he opened the door, no underwear. His hair is wet and tousled, and he smells of shower gel. The woman is short, and her hairstyle reminds me of Twiggy's in the picture in the kitchen, scraped into a strict side-parting. She has big eyes and a small mouth, and freckles that spread from her nose and underneath her eyes. She's wearing black jeans, cherry-red boots, and a thick, knitted jumper, and she doesn't look the type to stick a knife in someone's back, but then you never know these days. She puts the cup down.

‘How …' I say, before changing my mind. ‘You are 1599.'

‘Yes.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Lisa Swedberg.'

‘With V or W?'

‘W.'

‘You were at Cairo the day before yesterday, when I was there. You're the one who left.'

‘Yes.'

‘Why did you leave?'

She doesn't answer straightaway. She drinks a bit more coffee, tapping thoughtfully on the cup. Her nails are short, and painted the same colour as her boots.

‘I was scared.'

‘What made you scared?'

‘It … everything. I didn't want to see …'

She doesn't finish her sentence. Birck drinks some water. Watery sunlight shines through the small panes that make up the large window. I feel like another cigarette.

‘What are you doing here?' I ask.

‘I saw him the day before yesterday, as I was leaving.' She looks from Birck to me, as though she needed to explain herself. ‘Gabriel, outside Cairo. I saw the number plate, and checked it with the licensing authority — you can do that on your phone. I got his name and then checked on www.eniro.se. There aren't that many Gabriel Bircks in Stockholm.'

‘Impressive,' Birck says. ‘Don't you think?'

‘Yes, but I thought that car was registered to both of us?'

‘My car is my car,' Birck says.

‘But why?' I say and turn to her.

‘Why what?'

‘Why did you want to trace us?'

‘It's … I …' She looks surprised to see the cup next to the Dictaphone, as though she thought she still had it in her hand. She grips the handle again, carefully. ‘I really don't know where to start. No one knows I'm here. Everyone's at the demo in Rålambshov Park. That's why I came now, so that no one could follow me.'

‘Won't you be missed, at the demo?'

She shakes her head.

‘I said I was ill.'

‘You knew Thomas,' I say. ‘You were one of his subjects.'

‘Yes.'

‘What does that actually mean?'

‘Haven't you worked that out yet?'

‘We'd still like to hear it from you.'

She adjusts her fringe with two fingers.

‘He asked me about stuff, for his research.'

‘How did he get in touch with you?'

‘Someone I know, who he'd also interviewed, had apparently given Thomas my name. I can't be reached by phone or email or anything like that, but he asked around and managed to find me.'

‘Did you know who he was?'

‘I knew of him. He used to be a big player in
AFA
.
AFA
doesn't have formal power structures, but I know he was big. That he was important to them, when he was involved.'

‘When did you first meet?'

‘Some time in March.'

‘Where?'

‘At a café. Not Cairo, another one. It's on Vanadisv
ä
gen, near …'

She goes quiet.

‘Near his home?' Birck fills in.

‘Yes.'

‘Did he tell you that, that he lived nearby?'

‘No. No, he didn't.'

‘Well, then, how do you know where he lived?'

‘I checked him out. A couple of days later, I went back to his place and slept with him.'

Birck isn't surprised. I am. Maybe that's why 1599, or Lisa Swedberg, is so absent from his notes, despite her apparent importance. It must be an ethical quandary to be sleeping with one of your interview subjects. He might have wanted to make sure that nobody would find out, if the notes were to fall into the wrong hands.

We had the impression that Heber was alone, surprisingly alone. And it seems that he was, yet Lisa's eyes have become slightly moist, bearing out Grim's theory. Everybody is missed by someone.

She blinks deliberately. Out in the kitchen, a warm voice sings, ‘It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go
.'

Lisa turns to Birck.

‘I thought you said you didn't like Christmas songs?'

‘But everyone likes Johnny Mathis, surely?'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘One thing at a time. You started a relationship with him, then?'

‘No, that's the wrong word. At least to describe the beginning. It was more of a … an impulse.'

‘But it gradually became a relationship?'

‘Yes. By some point in April it had become that, if you can even call what we had a relationship. We kept it quiet because he, Thomas, had to. I understood why, but it was still tough. We pretty much only ever met as his place, apart from when we went to the cinema, or some obscure club that he dared to go to with me.'

She laughs, wistfully. My phone starts vibrating, which makes Lisa go quiet. It's Sam. I reject the call.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘Go on.'

‘I don't really know what to say. It wasn't exactly a high-intensity relationship, if that's the word we're using — well, actually it was, but it went in waves. Do you know what I mean? When we did see each other, we'd see each other quite a lot. Sometimes straight after an interview. He did several with me — I think five, maybe six altogether. There were a few of his subjects who he used that way, like keys. When he'd thought of something new, or come across new leads in other interviews, he would then come back to me and ask about them. I haven't studied much sociology, but Thomas explained that interview-based research often works that way. To begin with, I thought he was just saying it so that he could see me again. That's how big my ego is. But, gradually, I realised it wasn't that. Well, at least not the only reason.

‘Did you notice straightaway, the first time?' Birck asks. ‘That he was attracted to you?'

‘I noticed … I don't know. Thomas was difficult, or rather he was good. He could make you feel comfortable, safe, and listened to. But then that's what an interviewer should do. I found it difficult, at first, to work out whether he was attracted to me or whether his interest was purely professional. I thought there was something there. And after the second interview I knew I had been right about that.'

‘How did you know?'

‘You just do. It's just there, between the lines.'

She goes quiet for a moment, before taking up the story again. Neither of us say anything. I wonder whether she's lost it.

‘Sometimes a month would go by without any contact, and then he'd get in touch and ask if we could do another interview, that new information had come to light which he needed to talk about, and then we'd meet, and everything would just blow up again, intensive as hell for a couple of weeks, and then it would die down again.'

‘How did you feel about that?' Birck says. ‘Would you have preferred to have met more regularly?'

‘No,' she says. ‘That kind of relationship suits me. I don't need much — I prefer my own company. A lot of men are quite simply useless, but a few are good at a couple of things that I like. One is having sex. Another is talking politics. Thomas was good at both.

‘Thomas kept it to himself,' Birck says, ‘your relationship. Did you?'

‘Yes.'

‘How long was it going on like this?'

‘Until … well until Thursday, I suppose.'

Birck leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs.

‘Okay. Tell us what happened.'

‘That night?'

‘Yes.'

‘We'd arranged to meet … a place where we often meet up, or used to. An alley off Döbelnsgatan. A friend of mine lives round the corner, and I sleep over sometimes. That's when we'll meet there, me and Thomas, outside the gate, and then walk back to his place. But this time we'd said we'd meet in the yard.'

‘Had you done that before?'

‘No.'

‘So why did you decide to this time?'

‘It just turned out that way.' She hesitates. ‘I was scared.'

‘What were you afraid o
f
?'

‘I stood behind the bins,' she continues, as though she hasn't heard Birck's question. ‘They were lined up against one wall. I was waiting for Thomas to come round the corner. I stayed there until I heard footsteps. Then it occurred to me that it might not be Thomas, and I wanted to make sure it was him. I could see his profile, from where I was standing, and I could see that he was looking for me, that he hadn't seen me. He took his gloves off and put them in his pocket, and I started walking over, but at that moment I heard something that scared me, made me back away —scurrying footsteps coming rapidly down the alley. And before I knew what was happening, he collapsed onto the ground. My field of vision, or whatever you call it, was blocked by one of the bins, and I didn't dare move, so all I could see was Thomas's face. He'd fallen on his back, and then someone was rifling through his pockets. I didn't even have time to … he never even saw me.'

‘How do you know this person was going through his pockets?' Birck asks.

‘I could see his coat was being pulled and tugged at.'

This detail in Lisa's story makes her go stiff, and then stare fixedly at Birck's table, her lips strained and tight. It's always the unexpected details that hit hardest. I know that better than most.

‘Then what happened?'

‘I heard the rucksack being picked up, the sound of the zip, and someone rooting around in it.'

‘And then?' I ask.

‘He or she left. I remember being surprised, because I was sure that whoever it was had seen me, and that I'd be next. But he or she made off. I must have been in shock, because my heart was pounding so hard and so fast. I came out from behind the bins and went to see … I was really terrified … I was so shocked. I crouched over him and tried to see if he was still breathing. He wasn't. He might not have been dead yet, but … sometimes you just know it's too late. This might sound strange, but this feeling just came over me … I couldn't bear to look at him.'

‘What did you do next?' Birck asks.

‘I said goodbye, without touching him. I was worried that I might leave some trace on him if I did. I didn't want that. I got out of there as fast as I could, and went and called the police.'

‘You dialled 112.'

‘Yes.'

‘And what did you say to them?'

‘Haven't you heard it? Those calls are all recorded, aren't they?'

‘We haven't listened to it yet,' says Birck.

We had requested the recording, but it hadn't arrived by the time
SEPO
took the case from us.

‘I said that a person had been stabbed, and gave them the address. That was it.'

‘Did you disguise your voice?'

‘I did my best — I tried to make it a bit deeper.'

‘Why did you do that?'

‘I didn't want … I can't …'

Lisa studies her hands. They are beautiful, clean, the sort of hands that have never had to work to ensure the survival of their owner.

‘The assailant,' I say. ‘You didn't see him?'

‘No, I couldn't even say if it was a man.'

‘It takes a fair bit of strength to push a knife into someone like that.'

‘Like, women couldn't do it?'

‘Yes, sure,' I say, ‘they could. But it's far more unusual. What were they after? In his clothes, his rucksack, what were they looking for?'

‘That,' she says.

‘The Dictaphone? How do you know?'

‘Once you've heard the tape, you'll understand. Even if it's not completely accurate, I … I don't know anymore. I'm so bloody torn.'

‘Tell us,' Birck prompts. ‘We're going to listen to it later, but you tell us first.'

‘I … I can't.'

‘How did you get hold of it?' I say instead.

‘Someone gave it to me.'

‘The attacker?'

She doesn't answer. Instead, she reaches over and turns it on. The Dictaphone responds with a gentle beep, and the little screen lights up.

She holds it out, towards Birck.

‘I haven't had it very long — I only got hold of it this morning. The files are named after people, or his subject number. So the first interview with me is called 1599. The second is 15992, the third, 15993, and so on.

‘One more thing,' Birck says slowly, not taking the Dictaphone. ‘You know that we're no longer running the investigation into Thomas's death? That the security police have already taken over?'

‘I know that. They've already been on to me.'

‘What did you say to them?'

She lowers her outstretched hand, and strokes the Dictaphone with her thumb, as if she were cleaning it.

‘I've …
SEPO
, they never leave us alone. They're so fucking paranoid, they just see terrorists everywhere they look. Like us. You get blacklisted, just because you're struggling for something that they don't agree with. They're fascists, hardly better than the neo-Nazis. So they didn't get a lot out of me. I want his … I want Thomas's death to get solved, but I don't trust
SEPO
at all. They called him a pseudo-scientist and a secret terrorist. See what I mean? He was an award-winning international sociologist, for fuck's sake.'

‘Who's we?' I say. ‘You said “they never leave
us
alone.” '

‘Oh, I mean the anarchist movement, everyone who has a copy of
The Coming Insurrection,
or any books like that, really. I've heard that they do checks on anyone who buys it and pays with a card. They can trace it that way. It's crazy. And then, of course, there are parts of the anarchist movement who do use violence in the struggle against fascism. It's a form of self-defence. But then the movement also includes animal-rights activists, syndicalists and feminists, anti-fascists who have never used violence.'

‘What was the
SEPO
officer's name, the one you spoke to?'

‘Goffman, something. And there was another one — there were two of them. A woman, called Berg, I think. No, Berger.

‘Who gave you the Dictaphone?' Birck attempts.

‘I can't say.'

‘Are you protecting someone?'

‘The person I got it from hasn't heard any of it, I know that much.'

No one knows what to say next. Lisa drinks a bit more coffee.

‘Radical Anti-Fascism,' I say slowly. ‘What is that?'

‘Haven't you got Google on your phone?' she asks.

‘I have indeed, but the only thing about it on the internet, as far as I can tell, is a homepage with the logo on it — a front that leads nowhere.'

Lisa leans back on the sofa.

‘We're not an organisation, even if that's what the media and the police call us. That makes me mad, because the thing about an organisation is that it has a hierarchical structure, with superiors and their subordinates. We oppose the very idea of hierarchy. Radical anti-fascism is more of a network. We're part of the anarchist movement, struggling against fascism and oppression, above all against white-power movements like Swedish Resistance.'

‘And your struggle sometimes gets expressed through criminality,' I say. ‘Have I got the right idea?'

‘That's what you define it as. We believe that it isn't possible to fight fascism through purely legal means, in a society that has inherent fascist tendencies. It's no different to Rentokill treating insect infestations. We …'