The Falling Detective (16 page)

‘Okay, okay,' I say.

‘This is exactly what I'm talking about,' Lisa says, sharply. ‘You don't see anything beyond your little, little cop-world. You don't see the oppression going on out there, day in and day out.'

‘What I'd like to know,' Birck says, ‘is what the difference is between
RAF-W
and
RAF-B
? Are they separate movements?'

‘No, one and the same. They're called that after the way movements usually act on demos, in a white bloc and a black bloc. The white bloc are the ones who like to avoid conflict, but who can turn to violence if it becomes necessary. The black bloc are the ones who have a more violent nature, who are always ready for confrontation. I think I'm right in saying that they were
SEPO
's names, named after an earlier organisation where the less violent members wore white, and the rest didn't. But then gradually it became a more general description of how the groups split into different blocs.
RAF-W
and
RAF-B
are not names we use about ourselves, but Thomas used them to categorise his interviewees. For us it's a strange distinction, because everyone in
RAF
is prepared to use physical force to defend themselves in the struggle against fascism.'

‘I've been thinking,' I say, ‘how … you said that you'd arranged to meet that evening. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes. It was nearly always Thomas who contacted me, usually when some new pattern or theory cropped up in his research. It was him this time, too.'

‘You said that you were scared,' Birck says. ‘Why were you scared?'

‘I … I can't …' she replies, and turns her gaze away, and you can almost feel them, those words waiting just on the tip of her tongue, yet something is stopping them.

We should be going at her harder, we should be a bit tougher, but the risk then is that she'll clam up instead.

‘In the notes that Thomas wrote about his field work,' I say, ‘he described his research and his interviews.'

Her look reminds me of someone who has just found out about their partner's infidelity.

‘You didn't know he was making them,' Birck says.

‘No.'

‘Apparently it's not exactly unusual for researchers to do so,
but …'

‘Have you read them?'

‘Yes,' I say.

‘Can I see them? Have you got them here?'

I shake my head.

‘When
SEPO
took over, they got all the material.'

She studies my face for a long time.

‘Okay,' she says, as though she's decided that I'm telling the truth. ‘Shame. I would've liked to read them. Did he write anything about me?'

‘Yes,' Birck says. ‘But not your name, and nothing about your relationship. He refers to you as 1599.'

‘In them,' I continue, ‘towards the end, he mentions that you had told him something. That was late November, I think. He wrote that you had contacted him, because you wanted to meet up.'

Lisa doesn't say anything, but nods faintly.

‘A week or so later, he writes again, but this time nothing more than that he feels torn by what you told him. He doesn't write what it was.' I hold my breath. ‘What was it you told him?'

‘I … it was about … I can't say it, because I don't even know if it's still true.'

‘Was it about his own death?' Birck asks. ‘Did you know that someone was going to kill him?'

‘Oh God no!' she says, in a tone that makes you expect her to get up and leave. ‘I had no idea about that … there was no threat to his safety, no, it was nothing like that.'

‘There was no threat to his safety,' Birck says, ‘but there was a threat against someone else? Is that what you mean?'

She doesn't respond.

‘Right then,' I say, calmly. ‘You're named in his notes, and it also says that you talked about something. He also names another interviewee, 1601.' I try to read her reaction, but it's difficult. I don't think she recognises that number. ‘We believe,' I continue, ‘that 1601 gave him information about the same event, but that the information 1601 gave didn't tally with what you told him. Maybe what you'd said wasn't altogether accurate.'

Lisa is observing us with her mouth half-open. It's impossible to tell whether or not she knew about this. She might be surprised to hear it — it might be news to her. Or she might be surprised that we know.

‘Okay,' she says, eventually.

‘You don't recognise the number, 1601? You never talked about it?'

‘No, never.'

‘Is there anything … in your social sphere, or whatever you call it,' Birck says. ‘Are there rumours about something that's about to happen?'

No answer.

‘Okay. I'll take that as a yes. Are there different versions of this rumour? Or is it about two or more different things?'

‘I …' She hesitates.

‘Explain,' Birck persists.

She shakes her head.

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘It …'

‘It's a person,' I say. ‘Who is under threat?'

She nods weakly.

‘Who?' I say. ‘Who is it? You really should be helping us, Lisa.'

She gives me a sharp stare. My words came out sharper, more accusatory than I intended.

‘Why the hell do you think I'm sitting here?'

‘I …' I start, but there's a beep, and Lisa pulls out her phone and reads the text message.

‘Oh Jesus.' She gets up from the sofa. ‘I've got to go.'

‘Now? You can't go now.'

‘I have to.'

She starts getting her stuff together.

‘Please, sit down.' Birck says.

‘I can't. Something has happened in Rålambshov Park. One of my friends has been hurt. Listen to that,' she says, looking at the Dictaphone before she hurriedly makes for the door. ‘Don't give it to Goffman.'

‘How do we find you, if we need to talk to you again?'

She gives an address in Bandhagen as she passes by, without even slowing down. I rush to write it down. She opens the door, and in an instant Lisa Swedberg is gone, and it's as though she's never been here.

During the counter-demonstration, Jonathan ends up near one of the trees. He's wearing a hoodie.
That's all he needs to withstand the cold — the adrenalin coursing through his veins combined with amphetamine takes care of the rest.

He's holding a flare in one hand, a knuckleduster in the other. There are so many people, everything's a blur. He chucks the flare towards a nearby cop. It lands close to his shoe, smoking and sparking. The cop's colleague must have noticed it, because the next minute someone attacks Jonathan from the left. An unsheathed truncheon crashes into his forearm, causing him to groan loudly.

Jonathan turns around. For some reason, this cop isn't wearing a helmet. It's lying on the ground between them. The truncheon swings in again. Jonathan defends himself, and the second blow crashes against his shoulder. It feels like something's been dislocated. He takes yet another blow. He swings the knuckleduster in front of him, but it slams into the shield, mute and futile.

Someone comes running over and pushes both palms hard in the cop's back. The shove takes him by surprise, making him lose control. Jonathan steps to one side to avoid the collapsing cop, who slumps to the ground.

Ebi is standing just in front of him. He's wearing the same clothes he had on when they saw each other in Hallunda, but now he's wearing a mask, too. Jonathan recognises his childhood friend's eyes. Ebi rushes over to the policeman and pushes him against the tree, making him drop his truncheon.

‘Fascist bastard!' Ebi hisses. ‘Fuck off!'

Jonathan should've seen it, the fear in the cop's eyes, how his free hand was heading for his holster. In a flash, the cop is holding it in his hand. Ebi lets go too late. The cop's face is white with panic.

As the shot rings out and Ebi falls to the ground, Jonathan can't do anything. He can't even get down on his knees next to him. He wants to so badly, but it cannot be done. Everything would come out.

The tears that force their way from the corners of his eyes are hidden by his mask.

Christian doesn't see it happen. He's there, a couple of metres away, but he doesn't see it.

The smoke from the flares envelops the missiles, the struggling, the shouting and screaming, which mixes in turn with the sound of his own heartbeat. From the corner of his eye, he sees two policemen, armed with batons and shields, throwing themselves onto one of his friends.

A policeman stands pressed against one of the trees, and somehow his helmet has come off and is lying there on the ground. The policeman is holding his shield so close to his face that his breath condenses on it. Christian recognises Jonathan. There's another man with him.

Christian turns around, and that's when a shot goes off behind his back. Everything stops, and Christian turns his head. The other man is lying on the ground. The body is convulsing wildly. Jonathan is staring down at him.

The man on the ground has only one eye.

This is what they say, but no one knows for sure. A riot-policeman in RÃ¥lambshov Park with a twitchy trigger-finger somehow succeeded in shooting one of the demonstrators in the eye. The policeman started panicking when he was surrounded and then attacked by demonstrators. And when people with weapons start to panic, it always ends badly.

Those taking part in the demo were primarily Radical Anti-Fascism and Swedish Resistance. Their flyers are strewn over the snow. There are several casualties, men and women from both camps, with forearms and legs bandaged, and large dressings across cheeks and foreheads. A handful of police appear to have suffered grazing. The grubby snow is flecked with blood, spent fireworks, and the remnants of flares.

It is absolute chaos.

The smoke has dissipated, but the strong smell remains. Rows of ambulances stand waiting, and emergency-services personnel are busy patching up demonstrators, whilst police keep a close eye on them, and the media observe and record the whole scene. Beyond them are rows of terrified members of the public. Lisa Swedberg is in there somewhere.

Birck and I wait on the other side of the park, far enough away to make us spectators.

‘You see that?'

‘I can see,' says Birck.

Lying there on the dirty snow is a
RAF
flag — red, white, and black.

‘Do you really think he's been shot in the eye?' I say.

‘Wherever it was, there's going to be a big fucking fuss. Do you remember Gothenburg 2001?'

‘I was twenty-one.'

Birck looks puzzled.

‘Yes?'

‘It was during my training.'

‘Didn't they talk about it?'

‘I'm sure they did. But not in front of me.'

Birck turns around.

‘And this little tail the whole time.' He raises his hand, waves, and smiles at the dark-blue Volvo parked on the verge. ‘They're not even trying to hide it anymore.'

I feel the Dictaphone in my coat pocket, and wonder what is waiting on it.

‘They know about us meeting Lisa,' Birck says.

‘You mean
SEPO
know?'

‘Yes. We should've told her.'

‘We didn't get the chance. We should have pushed her a bit more, though, tried to keep her there.'

‘Detain an anti-fascist who hates the police?'

An ambulance is moving through the park, with no sirens but with blue lights on to ease its passage through the mass of people. The crowd parts, reluctantly. A little way away, a flyer is flapping in the wind, and several identical flyers lie scattered around. Birck takes two steps forward, picks one up, and I read it over his shoulder:

Swedish culture is now in a critical condition. Our Nordic region has been invaded by foreign races over the last few decades, just as politicians and the media have frantically encouraged us to be tolerant, to accept racial and cultural integration. Every race and culture has the power to shape its own destiny, and thus the right and the duty to defend itself. We have been forced to accept a devastating occupation, and our corrupt politicians have used all their efforts to make sure that disapproval and resistance are categorised as somehow illegal. Our hands are tied, and the disciples of multiculturalism fight to silence our voices too. Desperate times call for drastic solutions. It is our responsibility to break free, to fight back. We must not fall silent. We must ensure the survival of our people and a future for our Swedish children.

At the top of the little flyer is the message:
JOIN THE SWEDISH RESISTANCE
— j
OIN THE STRUGGLE FOR SWEDEN
.

‘What do you reckon?' Birck smiles. ‘Fancy it?'

He drops the flyer to the ground.

‘What she was saying about the night of the murder,' I say, meaning Lisa Swedberg, ‘tallies with John Thyrell's witness statement. Not bad, considering he's six years old.

‘Shame there's no suspect. That we know of. Then we would have been able to show John a picture and really put him on the spot.'

‘I don't think he saw that much,' I say. ‘Not from that distance. What he noticed was someone rooting around in Heber's rucksack. I'm guessing he didn't get a good look at the face. Not only that, it was dark as a coal shed in that yard. It's a wonder he could see anything at all.'

Add to that the fact that this was several days ago, and time makes children's memories even less reliable.

‘But still,' Birck says. ‘Worth a try.'

‘Sure. If
SEPO
actually had anyone to try it with.'

‘They might.'

‘Who might that be then?'

‘Fuck knows.' Birck looks sullen. ‘Fucking mess.'

We hang around the park for a while, and my thoughts drift off. I feel pessimistic and lethargic.

In the throng at the far end of the park, Lisa Swedberg flashes past. She has her hands in her pockets, but it's probably not because of the cold. A tall, thickset man is standing next to her, telling her something. It is Oscar Svedenhag. She seems increasingly resolute, and eventually she turns and walks off, briskly. I observe what's happening, but it doesn't register. I'm somewhere else.

‘Oi. Hello …'

‘Yes?'

‘I asked if we should get going. What's wrong?'

‘What do you mean what's wrong?'

‘You look wrecked. Is everything okay?'

For a long time, I say nothing. Sirens wail. We head back to the car.

‘Olausson threatened me.'

‘What?'

‘If I stick my nose in to the Heber case, I'll be suspended. He thinks I'm still taking Serax.'

‘Fucking hell. But then … you are still taking them.'

‘It's other things as well,' I say, to change the subject.

‘Such as?'

I manage to get hold of a Serax in my pocket. I grip it between my fingers. I think about Dad, about his voice.

‘No, nothing. I think I'm just a bit confused.'

Birck unlocks the car. I let go of the little pill, even though the urge is stronger than it's been all day.

We drive away from RÃ¥lambshov Park, and the black Volvo follows us, a couple of car-lengths behind. I pull the Dictaphone from my pocket and hand it to Birck.

Dusk is falling. Somewhere in the swarm around Kungsholm Square, the Volvo loses us, and Birck looks pleased with himself, turning on the radio. A Christmas carol has just been interrupted for an update on the events in RÃ¥lambshov Park.

‘Did you know it was Sunday today?'

Birck laughs.

‘What difference does it make what day it is?'