The Falling Detective (17 page)

My phone rings. That bastard phone.

It's Birck. I should answer, but I don't want to and I can't, because Sam's waiting at the door. It's evening, and in the flat next to mine you can hear voices, people talking over each other, roaring and laughing. It makes me think of something approaching happiness.

‘I've been trying to get hold of you all day,' she says.

‘You've rung twice.'

‘Can I come in?'

I move to one side and she goes past me, into the hall. She sweeps a scent in with her, a mixture of Sam and the December evening outside, which makes me think of the days when we shared a home. Apart from that last year, they were good times — perhaps the happiest times of my life.

She has unbuttoned her coat, but her handbag is still on her shoulder.

‘Can I stay over?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't want to sleep alone.'

‘I said yes.'

‘But I don't want to if you don't want to. You're always saying yes to things you don't want to do.'

I close the door.

‘I want you to stay over,' I say, and I stretch out my arm to take her coat and hang it on a hook, and it feels like she has finally come home.

That is what Sam's scent brings with her into the flat, the smell of hope. But it was a long time ago now, yes darling, an eternity, an eternity that has passed and will never come back. Only fools and children think that everything can be fixed.

you really should listen to this

Birck is talking about the Dictaphone. I wonder what's on there. I'm sitting, phone in hand, with Sam's head on my shoulder. She's asleep. The flickering light around us is coming from the film, where Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe are somewhere, surrounded by men with well-groomed hairstyles and expensive suits, and Jane Russell sings
bye bye baby, remember you're my baby when they give you the eye.

tomorrow,
I reply.
sam's here

Birck doesn't send an answer, and I'm glad about that. It took a long time for her to get to sleep, and she's a light sleeper — always has been. Carefully, I put my lips to her hair, and she must notice, because she moves a bit, stretches, and pushes her mouth against mine. It's unexpected, after all this time, and even though she tastes a bit metallic and her lips are dry, it still feels like Sam. Skin remembers.

When I get up to get her a blanket, she holds on to me as though she thinks I might leave her to her dream and not come back.

Three blows to the chest, that's all. Well, not blows: sharper than that, more dangerous. The pain is everywhere. She falls on her back, and her eyes are looking up at the ceiling. Can she move her eyes? Yes, yes she can. She shifts her stare, looking at the table, the man in front of her, then back to the ceiling.

She's surprised at this, that the body gives you so long. That she's functioning. But she can't move. For some reason, her legs hurt.

She doesn't understand what's just happened — the phone that rang, three rings, and the man asking if they could meet up. He had something to tell her, information that would turn out to be important, he claimed. Considering who he was, she was sceptical, but the conversation with the two policemen had left her shaken and afraid. Desperate, almost — that's the word she's looking for. The fact that it takes so long to find that word makes her realise that there isn't long left. An image pops up: someone starting to blow out a candle, the flame about to give up and disappear.

Desperate. That's why she went along with it. That must be why: she was desperately trying to understand what was going on. And now he's here, she understands even less.

The one thing she does know is that she's been tricked. That realisation fills her with rage, that something as banal as getting tricked is going to take her life.

She remembers opening the door to him. He looked at her inscrutably, and as he raised the revolver, she managed to take one, two, maybe even three steps back before the first blow struck her chest. In the corner of her eye, the man is backing away, leaving the flat, disappearing.

A little flash of realisation strikes her: she remembers Ebi Hakimi telling her, as he gave her the Dictaphone.

It is not Antonsson

She wasn't sure he was right. Not even when she saw his anxious expression. Is that why she hadn't told the two policemen? Maybe. Would she have done, if she'd known how it was all going to end? Did she trust them? One of them, she decides. Not the other one. That was also a factor in her keeping quiet, and now it's too late to change her mind.

With that comes insight, and that might be what makes her let go. That makes her understand.

She'd found out that the threat wasn't against Antonsson. That is the truth. That is what has made her dangerous.

That is why she has to die.

The cars they scratched, that winter ages ago — the fun part had hardly started before everything went wrong. They were sitting watching telly at Christian's, images from Gävle telling the story of how the city had been paralysed by the worst snowstorm in history. People were skiing to work, gliding along at the roof-height of the snowed-in cars. Caterpillar trucks brought essential supplies through the snow.

‘I wonder if they're bringing beer,' Christian said, and Michael laughed.

The phone rang. Christian's mum answered it, out in the living room. They could hear her voice through the closed door.

‘Jesus, I'm bored,' said Michael. ‘Shall we ring Oliver?'

Oliver was one of four mobile numbers they had for people who they bought black-market booze from. Oliver was their favourite: always on time, not particularly expensive, and, unlike the others, didn't have nasty knucklehead mates in his car.

‘I can't be arsed tonight,' Christian said.

‘Me neither, come to think of it.'

There was a knock on the door. Christian turned the sound off on the telly.

‘Yes?'

‘Phone, for Michael.'

‘Who is it?'

She looked over at Michael.

‘The police.'

Apparently this cop, a beat officer by the name of Patrik Törn, had first tried to contact Christian's friend by calling his home, but no one answered. Törn had managed to put two and two together and had rung Christian instead, because he suspected that was where he'd be.

It was about a car with scratched paintwork. The owner had filed a complaint. If it hadn't been for one of Christian's classmates cycling past and later informing his dad what had happened, it would probably have stopped there, a complaint that led nowhere.

‘Why the hell did you tell them he was here?' Christian hissed afterwards.

‘They would've caught up with him sooner or later, and he's done something illegal, so it's only right. I'm just happy it wasn't you they were after.'

‘Fuck off.'

His mum looked blank.

‘I know who it is,' Christian said a couple of days later. ‘The girl that saw you. Her name's Natalie.'

‘I wonder whose car it was,' said Michael. ‘How many have we scratched now?'

‘No idea,' said Christian, despite knowing exactly how many he was guilty of. ‘Ten?'

‘Good stats, anyway, getting away with nine out of ten.'

Michael was laughing, not seeming to be taking it seriously. Christian didn't know how to react, so he laughed, too. In fact, the total number of cars he'd scratched was no more than four.

Natalie didn't know the name of the one who'd scratched the car, but that wasn't going to stop an industrious man like Patrik Törn. As if that wasn't bad enough, Natalie had also managed to give a partial description of the suspect. He had been wearing a white puffer-jacket, undone, and a dark jumper, possibly black, with Skrewdriver printed on it. The print had been clearly visible in the darkness.

‘Shit, man,' said Michael. ‘I'm gonna get a stinking great fine.'

But that's not how it turned out. In hindsight, Christian wishes that it had only been a fine.

It all happened quickly, much faster than Christian thought it would. That winter, a few weeks after the complaint, Michael's phone rang. He and Christian were sitting on the bed listening to a new CD, sharing the inlay card between them, examining the photos, following the lyrics. Christian picked up the remote and pointed it at the stereo. The music stopped.

‘Hello, yes?' said Michael.

The male voice on the other end was barely audible. It was calm and methodical, and it sounded dangerous. He asked who he was talking to. Christian's friend said his name in a heavy tone that sounded like a confession in itself.

‘Right,' said Michael. ‘Yes, that's right. But how did you get this number?' The man on the other end carried on talking, and Michael raised his eyebrows higher and higher. ‘What … really? Yes. Thanks. Yes, can do. I'll see you there.'

Michael stared at the phone, as though it had surprised him. He hung up.

‘What was that?'

‘That … that was the guy whose car we … I scratched.'

‘Shit.' Christian sat upright on the bed. ‘What did he want?'

‘He wanted to meet up. If I agree to that, he'll withdraw his complaint.'

Michael picked up the inlay card, and flipped aimlessly between its pages.

‘Are you going to do it?'

‘If it means I get off a fine, damn right I will.'

‘How had he got your number?'

‘He said he was good at finding out stuff like that. I don't know what he meant.'

Christian didn't say anything. Alarm bells rang.

It was the twenty-first of December. The shopping precinct in Hagsätra was decorated with green and red rope-lights suspended between the buildings, and on the square four men with guitars sang
Jingle Bells
in broken Swedish. Freezing rain made the ground shiny and slippery. Christian met him by the ticket barriers in the underground station, where they said hello to some people they knew. They went to the same school. Christian didn't say where they were going.

They left Hagsätra and rolled into Rågsved. On the other side of the aisle were four Yugoslavs, or whatever, arguing with each other. It sounded like one big mess. Christian rolled his eyes at Michael, which made him laugh, silently. It felt good.

They swished past Högdalen, before the train slowed and pulled in to Bandhagen.

‘Thanks for coming with me.' said Michael.

Christian nodded.

A man leant against a black Volvo. The car gleamed. The man was wearing a black trenchcoat and a light-grey scarf, jeans, and black boots. They noticed each other at the same time. The man walking towards them smiled. Christian noticed how Michael went stiff.

The man pulled his hand from his pocket and offered it to them. He stopped smiling.

Michael put his hand out.

The man was probably ten years older than them, no more. He introduced himself as Jens. Jens Malm. His voice was smooth and pleasant. Then he switched his stare to Christian.

‘I'd rather it was just the two of us,' he said to Michael. ‘Is that okay?'

‘Yeah, of course.' He looked at Christian. ‘See you down at the recreation ground in a bit?'

‘Okay.'

Christian turned around and walked away. He heard Jens opening the car door behind him.

They were gone for ages that first time, he remembers that. And afterwards it was as though something had changed, but it was impossible to put your finger on what. Christian and Michael met up at the rec, late that evening.

‘I should really be home by now,' Michael said, looking at his watch.

‘My mum's not bothered.' said Christian.

‘Well, mine is.'

‘Did it go okay?' he attempted.

‘I think so. He just wanted to talk, really.'

‘About what?'

Michael laughed.

‘He asked me about my Skrewdriver top.'

‘What? Seriously?'

‘Yes.'

Jens Malm had asked him if he liked the band. Yes, he'd answered, they're dead good.

‘After that,' Michael went on, ‘he asked me if I knew what they were about, and I said that they had been punks, but that they went on to be Nazis.'

That's right, Jens Malm had said. Michael had got it right, apart from one detail: the correct name was National Socialists. They had gone over to National Socialism after the first album.

‘And he wanted to know what I thought about immigrants, about Jews and Muslims, and I said I wasn't really bothered either way. That they might be a bit disruptive sometimes.' He shrugged. ‘They are, though, aren't they?'

Christian agreed. They lit a cig each. They looked up at the sky and shivered in the cold.

‘He gave me this,' Michael said, pulling out a bit of paper from his pocket. It looked like one of the flyers that was often pinned to the noticeboard at school. ‘He said I should think about joining. If I do, he'll withdraw his complaint.'

‘I thought he was going to withdraw it if you talked to him?'

‘That's what I thought. But he'd changed his mind.'

Michael stubbed out his cigarette.

‘What makes you think he won't change his mind again?' said Christian.

‘What do you mean?'

‘How do you know he's going to withdraw it this time? It feels like you're about to get dragged into something you don't …'

‘I asked him that, obviously.'

‘And? What did he say?'

‘That I could listen to him withdrawing the complaint, on the speakerphone.'

Christian tried to think. He didn't know much about police reports or how the police go about things.

‘I think I'm going to do it,' Michael went on. ‘He said loads of stuff that sounded spot-on, and I've been looking for something to do. Know what I mean? Everyone else is playing football or music or whatever, and I don't do anything. And neither do you, we don't do anything, me and you. We do this. And if I'm not sure I'm ready to join his group yet, there's another group I can join first, to see what it's like. One that's sort of a bit more open. Not just that …' Michael looked at his watch. ‘I've got to get home. I'll see what I decide to do. See you tomorrow?'

‘Yes.'

They went their separate ways.