The Falling Detective (18 page)

16/12

‘Are you sure you haven't been to see him? Not yesterday, or Saturday either?'

Early, early morning. That's the first thing Sam says, still lying on the sofa on the other side of the room.

‘I'm sure, I haven't.'

‘Okay.'

‘I was with you on Saturday.'

‘But before that?'

‘Why are you asking?'

‘I want to know.'

‘I haven't met him.'

She doesn't believe me, and I don't blame her. After all, I have seen him, but I wonder if she knows, somehow. I can't help being annoyed. No, offended, maybe because this just reminds me so much of how things were at the end, last time round. How we don't share a bed, how the cautious evening reunions become wary, mistrustful mornings after.

‘Just like the old days,' Sam says, and laughs, and I don't know how to take it.

‘That's just what I was thinking.'

‘There are certain things you shouldn't get nostalgic about.' She plays with one of the many rings in her earlobe. ‘What would you like for Christmas?'

‘You don't need to go buying anything.'

‘But I want to.'

I wonder what's waiting on that dark-blue Dictaphone, what it was that Birck was so keen for me to hear.

I haven't really got time for it today. I should be concentrating on a mugging on Torsgatan, where one speed-addled man put a knife to another one's throat. The assailant made off with fifteen hundred crowns in cash, and presumably the victim's stash, because that's nearly always the way. He's still on the loose, but the victim had the poor judgement to contact the police immediately, rather than sobering up a bit first. The result was a drawn-out, confused interrogation at the beginning of last week, before I thanked him for his time and had him put on remand for possession. Since Heber's death I haven't really spent any time on the case.

‘I'd like a new coffee machine,' I say. ‘The one I've got is on its last legs. I've had it since we … I never bought a new one.'

And then it just comes out, and once it has I can't take it back:

‘And you.'

Is that even true? There's something about seeing her, lying on the sofa, the way she's looking at me. I can't work out whether I want to be with her now, or whether I want to wind the clock back and start all over again. They are two very different things, but right now I just can't separate them.

‘You've already got me.'

‘Have I?'

‘If you want me.'

‘I don't know if I want you,' I say, ‘but I do know that I need you.'

‘That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.'

It's so cold that you can feel the moisture in your nose freezing as you breathe in. And slippery. The ground is shining, covered in ice. There's just over a week to go till Christmas, and three or four days until the Christmas holidays start.

I remember them now, past Christmases, as my footsteps carry me north, across Kungsholmen's streets. Sam's right — there are things you shouldn't get nostalgic about, but this time I just can't help it. I remember early Christmases, at Gran and Grandpa's, Ella and Arthur, my dad's parents. I remember later, when Arthur was gradually eaten away by his Alzheimer's, the years spent at ours in Salem. How Arthur refused to get in the lift, the last few times before his death, because he was convinced that it was actually a death-chamber. Micke and I had to guide him up the stairs, all eight flights
.

Every Christmas, Mum and Dad, like so many other mums and dads in Salem, would take out a small loan so they could buy us the things we'd asked for, and would then spend the next quarter paying it off. After those first Christmases, we didn't have Father Christmas anymore. Micke had seen through the fake beard and the red coat that hung in the cupboard throughout the rest of the year, but I still believed in Santa, and my brother mocked me for it.

‘Why should we go through all this,' I heard my mum saying, that same Christmas that Santa ceased to exist, ‘the stress of shopping, the loan, all of it, and then say that the presents are from Father Christmas? It's stupid. Is this how we want to raise our kids? He should know that we're the ones who bought it for him, that we're the ones who love him and want to give him this. It's important that he understands.'

‘But he's five, Annie. Father Christmas is magical for a child. He represents the fact that miracles happen every day.'

‘He doesn't exist though.'

‘Not so loud,' Dad hissed. ‘He'll work that out, sooner or later. It's not something we need to help along.'

‘Yes, it is.'

As happened so often, Mum won, and I, the little fool, was crushed, as though something had been taken away from me. The world had shown its true face.

Today I arrive before Birck, and I wonder how long he was up listening to Lisa Swedberg being interviewed. Probably long enough to oversleep. I call him and, as the phone rings, I click through the emails that have arrived since I was last here.

On the way to the printer to pick up a memo, the thought strikes me again. How did Heber make contact with the man 1601 told him about? By visiting him? Probably not. How do you contact someone without using phones or emails? What was it Birck said — smoke signals? Well, maybe.

The department is quiet this early in the morning, apart from the constant sound that goes on in the absence of people. The buzz of the ventilation system mixes with that of all the computers, a radio that is always on in one of the rooms, and the telly in the lunchroom. The TV is showing the annual Christmas serial, with the three children, the girls and a boy, who have now made it to the fat, bearded man, who's sleeping. One of the girls is shown clambering up on to his big belly and then jumping on it, while the other one pours cold water on his face. Then there's a close-up of one of the man's feet. It is twitching.

I read the memo. It's about the force's pending reorganisation.
I chuck
it in the waste-paper bin, and watch the telly instead.

The man suddenly sits bolt upright on the sofa, as though someone has just given him an electric shock. The girl on his belly flies off and hits the wall. The man is breathing heavily, and looking around, disorientated. He looks like I feel.

I go back to my office and sink into myself, thinking about Olausson's threat, and working absent-mindedly on the Torsgatan mugging.

Out in the lunchroom, the telly is still on when I go back to get another cup of freshly brewed coffee. It's a repeat from yesterday — a party leader talking to the people. She's the leader of the Centre Party, wearing a spotless suit with an open-necked blouse, and sitting in a dark-red chair. She's talking about traditions and smiling at the camera, as though no one else existed.

‘What do you reckon?' I hear Birck's voice behind me. ‘Does the sly nationalism appeal? All the party leaders get fifteen minutes each, before Christmas. She's up first.'

‘I preferred the Christmas tale,' I say. ‘Why don't you answer your phone? How long did you oversleep anyway?'

‘I haven't slept at all. I've been here since yesterday, except for a couple of short excursions to a bar and to the hospital.'

Judging by the paleness of his skin and the red rings around his eyes, it's certainly possible that he's telling the truth.

‘You should get some sleep.'

‘Listen,' he says, filling a black mug with coffee, ‘While you were at home snuggling, I was doing my job. Don't tell me what I should be doing.'

‘What were you doing at the hospital?'

‘Visiting Ebi Hakimi.'

‘Who the hell is that?'

‘He's the guy our gifted colleague shot in the eye yesterday.' He drinks a big gulp of coffee. ‘Fuck,' he hisses. ‘Hot.'

‘Why did you visit him?'

‘I'm pretty sure that he knows why Heber died, maybe even who did it. And what's going to happen next.'

‘Eh?'

‘Come with me,' he says. ‘We'll sit in my car. We've got plenty to talk about.'

‘But …'

‘What?'

‘We're not supposed to be doing this. If we get caught, I'll be fucked. And besides, haven't you been assigned other stuff? I know I have.'

‘Yes, I've got other assignments.'

‘Shouldn't we get on with them, then?'

‘I've finished mine. Haven't you?'

‘No.'

‘Shame,' says Birck.

I don't say any more, although I should. We take the lift down to the garage and get into Birck's car.

‘I've used a setting on the Dictaphone to edit them together.' Birck weighs the little dark-blue player in his hand. ‘So we don't waste any more time unnecessarily. I also have the unedited version, in a place that no one other than me knows about or has access to. If you want to listen to them later, I can arrange that.'

He starts the car. I close my eyes, only for a second, but I can feel sleep approaching from a distance.

‘I'm tired.'

‘Wake up then. Stick with it.'

Birck steers the car out of the garage and up towards the daylight, which meets us, pale and cold.

‘Where are we going?'

‘No idea. Somewhere where there's water. I like water — it makes it easier to think.'

There are clicking sounds, then a scraping sound with a background of voices, and a doorbell rings. Someone laughs, followed by Thomas Heber's voice:

‘Right then,' he says. ‘I think it's on now.'

‘Think?'

‘It's on.'

‘I don't want to have to repeat myself.'

‘Don't worry. It's on. You do know that you don't have to do this? You can stop whenever you like.'

‘I know.'

According to the notes, it's March, and they're in a café. Thomas Heber and Lisa Swedberg are meeting for the first time. They're not far from Heber's home. Her voice sounds wary.

A phone rings close by. The ring tone is the tune from
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
Heber seems calm and collected. He could almost be a radio host, a soothing voice in the night, consonants just barely touched. That's the kind of voice Heber has, a voice that suits his face.

‘You haven't been that easy to get hold of,' he says.

‘Good. That's the way I like it.'

‘Why is that?'

‘I had so much grief with the cops a few years back, I got tired of it. This makes it a bit trickier for them.'

‘It might also seem a bit more suspicious.'

‘Yeah. I guess so. I hadn't given it much thought.'

You can hear the chink of crockery. One of them slurps tea or coffee.

‘You used to be in
AFA
, is that right?' she asks.

‘Yes, that's true.'

‘Why did you leave?'

Several seconds tick by, with no voices recorded.

‘
AFA
was good fire-fighting politics. We could rush out when somewhere was burning, like when the Sweden Democrats were out demonstrating or marching somewhere. We were effective then. But we couldn't deal with the kind of party that the Sweden Democrats have become today. But,' he adds, ‘who knows whether I'm right? Maybe
AFA
can after all; maybe it's me that's changed. I've got older. It could be as simple as that.'

That makes her laugh out loud.

‘How old are you?' she asks.

‘Thirty-five. You?'

‘I'm twenty-six. But I feel older, for some reason. I always have done.'

‘That might tie in to my first question,' Heber says. ‘I thought I'd ask how you got involved with the anarchist movement.'

The clip ends.

‘This is a load of boring shit and babble about middle-class parents and bourgeois economics, the patriarchy, experience of gender and class oppression, and so on,' Birck says. ‘The first interview is actually pretty dull, unless you're a sociologist, I suppose.'

‘Weird,' I say.

‘What is?'

‘Hearing his voice.'

‘Ah. Okay. The next clip is very short, at the end of the first interview.'

It's quieter, with fewer customers. A radio has been switched on somewhere, and there's a voice reading the news.

‘I need to get going — I'm meeting a mate.'

‘By all means,' says Heber.

‘Have you got everything you need?'

She's far more relaxed now, sounding more like she's talking to a friend. There's something more there, a desire to make him happy.

‘I can't really say here and now,' he replies. ‘I really need to listen to the interview first.'

‘It's easy talking to you, because you've got the same background. That means I don't have to explain loads of stuff for you, because you already get it.'

‘It also means that we, well, that I might miss a lot of things that are actually important. But I'll listen to this and then get back to you. Is there an address or something I can contact you via?'

‘Yes.' There's noise in the background, and someone is clicking a lighter. ‘Can you turn that off?'

‘Of course.'

Rustling. Silence.

‘You can hear it, even here. There's definitely something between them,' says Birck.

It's not explicit, but it is there. You can imagine the glances between the words.

‘She's already very careful not to let any personal details get recorded, as you will have noticed. She does soften a bit later on, but not completely. I don't even think her name is mentioned during any of the interviews, except once, right at the end. And even then, Heber's the one who says it. But I don't think she knows, at this point, what is going on …'

Birck goes quiet as he clicks through the Dictaphone to get to the next file.

‘What's going on?' I say.

‘It's coming. Calm down. This is the follow-up interview that he does a week or so later, at the same café. It's after this one that they go back to his place for a fuck.'

Same place, but something's different. When the doorbell rings during the clip, it sounds distant. They're sitting towards the back of the café. It's late evening. The ten o'clock news is on the radio.

‘You know, things have … changed.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘No, the whole thing. It's got a bit rawer since the Sweden Democrats got into parliament.'

‘Why's that?'

‘You should know better than me.' There's a short laugh, a clucking sound like a child's. It sounds nice, genuine. ‘I guess that … I mean, you can't just have a load of Nazis and racists from out in the sticks sitting in parliament. That's what they are — look at their history, it looks really fucking bad. So since 2010, or rather since they got a new leader in 2005, they've been trying to reinvent themselves, to make themselves more palatable. I saw this slogan,
THE PARTY FOR ALL SWEDES,
on the internet somewhere. Did you see that?'

‘I think so. It sounds familiar.'

‘They've toned down what they really stand for, at least on a national level — I don't know what they're like locally. But it's shifted the whole political arena to the right, because all the parliamentary parties, even the left, are affected when a new player comes along. It's just logic.'

‘Yes.'

‘But it has also meant that the extreme right has become more extreme, because they always need to stand apart from mainstream politics. They believe that the Sweden Democrats are led by a traitor. That he has betrayed Sweden.' She laughs again. ‘Can you believe it? How fucked up is that? They are really fucking nasty. They talk about Swedish-ness, the superior race, white culture, stage faked mass-executions of immigrants and homosexuals at their parties, and film them and put them online until they get taken down by some mod. They send them to us, of course, to provoke us. And we stage mass-executions of Nazis, and send the films to them.'

She goes quiet, perhaps to let it sink in.

‘We didn't do that ten years ago,' says Heber.

‘No, that's what I mean. And it's a good example — they were the ones who started it, but then we, the anarchists, joined in. We're doing exactly what they're doing. As the extreme right gets more extreme, so do we — just in the other direction.
RAF
had a public meeting two weeks ago, for International Women's Day, and halfway through the meeting they cut the cables to the PA with pliers or some kind of saw, when no one was looking. We don't really find out about their meetings, because they're such a fucking closed group. But for some reason their parties are more open — we got word about one the other week, and went down there. It was in an old barn, near Ösmo, out in the middle of nowhere. It was fucked up, people were wearing uniforms, there were flags and swastikas on the walls, white-power music, and a projector was showing old film of Hitler. Every time a swastika flashed up, they cheered, as though it was a football match and their team had just scored.'

‘What did you do?'

‘We set fire to the barn.'

He wasn't expecting that. Then the tape records the sound of footsteps and someone coming over to them, a woman with a high-pitched voice.

‘Just to let you know, we're closing now.'

‘Thanks,' says Heber.

Lisa Swedberg says nothing, and the woman leaves.
All my friends in the loop,
someone on the radio is singing,
making up for teenage crime.

‘What happened to the barn?' Heber asks.

‘It burned down. It was in the press the next day.'

‘Was anyone hurt?'

‘No. Unfortunately.'

‘I would like to continue the interview, if that's okay with you? Otherwise just say so.'

‘Fine by me. Don't you live around here somewhere?'

‘How do you know that?'

‘That's not really the sort of thing you tell people, as I'm sure you understand?'

I wonder what Heber thinks at this point, and try to imagine his facial expression.

All my friends in the loop, making up for teenage cri—

The clip ends with a crackling sound.

‘Well,' I say, ‘they go back to his place and have sex now.'

‘Yes. No recording, though. Which I think we should be thankful for.' Birck clicks the Dictaphone again. ‘They don't seem to have continued the interview that evening, at least not on tape. This was around the twenty-seventh of March — she mentions Women's Day, and that it was two weeks earlier. The next time they meet up for an interview, it's May.

‘The barn that burned down …' I say.

‘I checked that out. The organisation she doesn't want to name is Swedish Resistance. The story stands up: there was an arson attack recorded in Ösmo, and our talented local colleagues did their utmost, put everything into finding the suspects — probably because half of them actually sympathise, ideologically, with the idiots at the party. They never managed it, though. The case was closed in June — probably just as well, if you ask me. Listen now. This is when things start happening.'

This time it's quiet, except for a slight hum, perhaps from an open window. Yes, it's spring now, and Vanadisvägen is buzzing away somewhere below them, and they're sitting close to the window, Lisa Swedberg and Thomas Heber. Crockery is chinking.

‘Would you like some more?' he asks.

‘No, I'm good, thanks.'

A lighter clicks — once, twice, three times. There's the fizzing sound of tobacco being lit. She breathes in the smoke and blows it out again.

‘Your flat really is weird,' she says. ‘How long have you lived here?'

‘A couple of years. In what way is it weird?'

‘It feels … uninhabited.'

‘I don't spend an awful lot of time here.'

‘Your bed works, anyway.'

She might be smiling as she says that — there's a playful tone to her voice. She takes a drag. Heber clears his throat.

‘It's been a while since we did an interview,' he says. ‘I've spoken to a few others, and I've been thinking that it's interesting, how anarchists like you in
RAF
, and those in the White Power movement, see each other. I was listening to our previous interview yesterday, and you mentioned setting fire to a barn after they'd sabotaged your public meeting. Can you tell me a bit more about that?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, what happened next, for a start?'

She giggles.

‘This is strange, doing this, when we've already talked so much.'

He laughs. For a moment, he's not a scientist.

‘I know,' he says.

She touches him — his arm, or maybe his thigh. Her hand makes a pleasant, rasping noise against the fabric.