The Falling Detective (2 page)

I take off the latex gloves. The boy is still standing up there, half hidden by the big, glowing star. He's six, maybe seven years old, no more, with large eyes and dark, curly hair. I lift my hand in a friendly gesture, and am surprised when the boy, expressionless, does the same.

‘Someone should talk to him.'

‘Who?' says Mauritzon.

‘The boy.'

‘I'm sure they'll get around to him eventually.'

Mauritzon is right. It's late, most of the windows overlooking the yard are in darkness, but, one by one, lights come on as people are woken by my colleagues, who've started the door-to-door. I take a Serax from the inside coat pocket, the first one since the start of the shift. It's small and round, like the ‘o' on a keyboard.

Seeing it, holding it, makes my mouth water, and I feel the sweats subsiding. I can almost feel it, the sensation of slowly being wrapped in cotton wool and the world reverting to its correct proportions. I hold the tablet in my hand before discreetly returning it to my pocket, and instantly regret not having put it in my mouth.

‘Where's his phone?' I ask, and notice that my voice is unnaturally thick.

‘The deceased's? No idea. Maybe he's lying on it. I need to roll him over, I'd like to see his back.'

She waves over two uniformed constables. They're ten years younger than me, and shivering, maybe because of the cold. She gives them latex gloves, and they help to carefully turn the body over so that Mauritzon can study the back and the backs of the legs.

The ground under Thomas Heber's body is browny-red. The blood has melted the snow and turned it into a purple-brown slush.

‘Strange that there isn't more blood,' I say.

‘It's the cold,' Mauritzon mumbles, and investigates the back of the wet coat. ‘It makes bodily functions shut down more quickly.' She frowns. ‘We've got something here.'

A marked gash in the back, close to the heart.

‘A knife?'

‘Looks like it.' She turns to the two uniformed officers. ‘Can we put him back, carefully?'

‘And get Gabriel Birck down here,' I say.

‘He's not on duty, is he?' one of the officers asks.

‘No, not officially.'

‘Well, can't it wait till tomorrow then?'

I look up from Thomas Heber's body to the officer standing there. My nausea has returned, and my pulse is increasing. The fear creeps up on me, creatures emerging from the earth and trying to get to me.

‘What do you think?' I manage. ‘We need to get someone to run the show.'

The officer turns to his colleague.

‘You do it,' he says.

‘He asked you to do it.'

‘Just do it,' I hiss, and I feel the walls around us closing in, about to tumble down, about to fall and crush me.

The constables head off, sighing. Mauritzon returns to her examination. In the nearby club, someone's singing
Oh what a laugh it would have been if Daddy had seen Mummy kissing Santa Claus that night,
and Mauritzon is humming along to the melody.

Maybe it's the club and the thought of alcohol that makes the sweats flare up again and flood through me, squeezing out through my pores and making me short of breath. I walk hurriedly away from the crime scene, down the alleyway and out on to Döbelnsgatan, and I don't know how noticeable it is, but it feels as though I'm stumbling. I collapse, and I'm gasping for air. I can't breathe.

Everything goes black, and somewhere between the body and the edge of the cordoned-off area I lean against the wall. The bricks are cold and hard, but the wall is the only thing keeping me upright. Then my stomach turns inside out. I bend double. The remains of a half-digested hotdog, bread, and coffee form a foul-smelling mix that splashes onto the snow.

My muscles give in and I fall to my knees, feel the cold seep through my jeans and up my thighs, but it's a numb feeling, lost in the sweat, the shivering, the hoarse, rasping noise from my throat, and the absolute conviction that this is how my life is going to end.

‘Looks like murder gets to the old hands, too,' I hear one of the uniformed officers say in the distance.

The photographers' camera flashes fire off. Everything is a thick fog. I keep my eyes open, but they are filled with tears from the throwing up. Everything is murky. My throat is burning, my stomach wracked with cramps.

With one hand against the brick wall and the other fumbling in the inside pocket of my coat, I haul myself up. It's not the first time this has happened. When did I last have one? Must have been a day or two ago. Is that really all it is? I'm still falling, deeper into myself.

It isn't the city that's scared, not Stockholm that is the flickering light bulb, about to give up. It's me.

The door is cold and heavy, with the name
THYRELL
emblazoned on the letterbox. I raise a shaky index finger towards the doorbell before I decide to knock instead. There's something unpredictable about children that makes me nervous.

I am dizzy, but the Serax has started working, and its haze is slowly enveloping me. My legs are still weak, but the cold sweats have evaporated, leaving my skin bristling. As soon as my knuckles make contact with the door, I can hear movement from inside, as though someone is waiting for me. The lock turns with a click, and the door swings gently open.

Behind it is a thin little boy, with sunken eyes and skin so pale that it seems to be translucent at first.

‘I'm ill,' he says.

‘It's alright. It's no problem.'

‘Pneumonia,' the boy explains slowly, as though the word demanded great exertion.

‘What's your name?'

‘John. Yours?'

‘John. That's a good name. My name is Leo, and I'm a policeman. Are your mum and dad home?'

‘Dad's away.'

Somewhere behind him, a door opens, and out comes a woman about my age, who's obviously just woken up. Her nightie is adorned with a faded Bob Dylan print.

‘Did you open the door, John?' She asks and puts her hands on his shoulders. ‘What's this about?'

‘Something …' I hesitate. ‘I'm a police officer. Something has happened down in the yard, and I think John might have seen it. I would like to talk to him.'

‘Can I see your badge?'

I show it to her.

‘Do you have to talk to him right now?'

‘Yes. If that's okay?'

John purses his lips as though weighing up the pros and cons of letting a strange man into his home. Eventually he moves out of the way.

‘You have to take your shoes off,' he says.

‘Of course. How old are you, John?'

‘He is six,' the woman says.

She introduces herself as Amanda. Her hand is warm. The little hall is short and narrow, leading into a larger living room, passing a kitchen and the half-open door to the parents' bedroom on the way. I stand by the large Christmas star glowing on the windowsill, clear and red.

‘What has he seen?' she asks.

‘When you saw me down there, John, when we waved to each other — you were here, weren't you, standing by this window?'

‘Yes.'

‘What is it that he's seen?'

Amanda walks over and looks down to the yard below, gasps, and puts her hand to her mouth.

‘Oh my God.'

She asks John if he's okay, if he can really talk to me.

‘Yes, I can.'

‘Okay, I'll just …' She composes herself. ‘I'll put the kettle on, I think. Would you like some tea, John?'

He shrugs. She walks away, unsteady.

I put my hands on my thighs and crouch down to see the world down there, as he must have seen it. Even from here you get a good view of the yard, where Mauritzon is in the process of carefully removing the dead man's shoes.

More people are now moving around close to the body — and judging by Mauritzon's body language, this has done nothing for her mood.

‘You smell,' the boy says.

‘Do I?'

‘You smell of sick.'

‘It's my coat. We policemen meet a lot of people who are sick, and you don't always manage to get out of the way in time.'

‘But your eyes?' The boy squints, suspicious. ‘They're red.'

‘I haven't slept for a long time.'

John contemplates the truth of this statement before apparently letting it go.

‘Someone is lying down, down there.'

‘Yes.' I straighten up again. ‘Yes, that's right.'

‘He's dead, isn't he?'

‘Yes.'

I look for something to sit on, and find a large leather armchair next to a low glass table. I perch on one of the wide armrests, and at that moment John coughs — a violent, hoarse cough. His lungs gurgle like a blocked drain, and he grimaces with pain, and goes red in the face.

Amanda seems to have forgotten why she went out to the kitchen, or else she changed her mind on the way. She returns with a glass of water, puts it on the table, and sits on the sofa, pulling a blanket over her legs.

‘I would like to be present.'

‘Oh, naturally.' I look over at the window. ‘You saw me down there, John. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘How long were you standing there?'

The boy folds his arms.

‘A while. Not that long.'

‘Can you tell me what you saw when you came to the window? What was happening down there?'

‘Nothing.'

‘There was no one there?'

He shakes his head.

‘But then someone came.'

‘When?'

John coughs again, but not as violently this time.

‘You're asking me to tell the time, but I haven't learnt that yet.'

‘That's right. I'm asking about time.' I hesitate. ‘Don't worry about it. Who came into the backyard?'

‘A guy. The one who's lying there now.'

‘How do you know it was him?'

‘Because that's what I think.'

I stifle a tut. Kids.

‘Was he alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then what happened?' I ask.

‘I don't really know. I had to go to the toilet, and when I came back he was lying where he is now.'

‘Was he still alone?'

‘No. Someone was standing next to him, looking in his bag.'

‘Can you describe what he looked like?'

John pauses.

‘Black clothes.'

‘Was he tall or short?'

John looks me up and down.

‘About the same as you.'

‘What colour was his hair? Could you see?'

‘No, he had a hat.'

‘Did he have a hat you can pull down over your face?'

This question makes the boy laugh — a deep, clucking laugh, a pleasant sound that gives me a feeling of wellbeing. The laugh gives way to a cough, and John's face goes red again.

‘Drink some water, love,' Amanda says.

I hold up the glass towards him. He takes a gulp. He grimaces, as though it hurts.

‘No,' he says. ‘You don't have hats like that.'

‘When you came back, there was somebody next to the guy down there, looking in his rucksack. Is that right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did he find anything?'

‘I didn't see what it was.'

‘But he found something?'

‘Yes. Then he went.'

‘Which way did he go?' I point out through the window, and get the boy to follow my finger with his eyes. ‘That way, or this way?'

‘The first one.'

Back towards town.

‘And then,' the boy continued, ‘the other one disappeared, too.'

‘The other one? The guy lying down there?'

‘No. The one who was hiding.'

‘Was there another person there, hiding?' I raise my hand and stick my thumb out. ‘First there was the guy who's lying down there …'

The boy nods. I extend my index finger.

‘Then there was the one standing by the rucksack.'

John nods, again. I stretch out my middle finger.

‘And then there was one more.'

‘Yes.' John looks pleased with himself, as though he's just completed the none-too-straightforward task of getting an adult to understand something. ‘Exactly.'

‘Was it a boy or a girl, this last one?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What about their hair — was it long or short?'

‘I didn't see.'

‘Where was this person hiding?'

‘Behind one of the green bins. When the one who was looking in the rucksack had gone, the other one came out and then disappeared.'

‘How did this person move? Slowly or quickly?'

‘Quite quickly.'

‘Nimbly? I mean …' I say to the boy, who obviously doesn't understand, ‘did he seem clumsy? Was he walking straight or wonky — did he trip up or fall over?'

John shakes his head.

‘He just walked.'

‘So maybe it was a guy after all?'

‘No, I don't know. You're the one saying “he”.'

The boy is right, and I don't say any more. I head over to the window instead. The floodlights illuminating the body are blinding. Mauritzon is giving him something resembling a pedicure.

‘Were you alone the whole time?'

‘Yes.'

‘You never got up?' I ask Amanda.

‘No.' She looks as though I've insulted her.

‘That's not what I meant.' She doesn't say anything, and I turn to the boy. ‘That's good, John. Thanks for your help. You've told me some important things that might help us.'

‘He's dead,' the boy says again. ‘The one lying down there.'

‘That's right. That much we can be sure of.'

The Christmas star causes the backdrop to melt away, makes the snow falling outside a blurred, dark-grey sludge.

‘Are you going now?' the boy asks.

‘I think so.'

‘Happy Saint Lucia, then.' His gaze falls away, towards the hall. ‘Don't forget your shoes.'