The Falling Detective (24 page)

I give Sam a spare key and then I'm off, out onto Chapmansgatan, its pavements covered in slush and grit. I wonder where Goffman is. Since we parted company last, I haven't seen the black Volvo anywhere, and I'm sure Birck hasn't either. Goffman is probably sitting somewhere in Stockholm, waiting for something. I read the headlines as I pass the newsstand. No attack overnight. It might be empty words.

Sweetest sisters. Esther.

Ebi Hakimi's last words could have been the result of his brain sending impulses to his mouth to make noises that sounded like words — noises that might not mean anything. They might have been the answers to Birck's questions. Could have been a name. Who knows? Maybe Ebi Hakimi didn't even know himself.

‘Have you missed me?' Grim asks as we sit opposite each other in the chilly visiting room.

‘Yes.'

‘Same here.' He leans across the table, and sniffs. ‘You've had sex.'

I can't help blushing.

‘Yes.'

‘With Sam?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well done.' Grim smiles. ‘Does she know you're here today as well?'

‘Yes, she does.'

‘Was that the first time you've had sex?'

‘Since the break-up, yes.'

‘How was it?'

‘That's none of your business.'

‘So, not great then?'

‘I didn't say that.' I hesitate. I shouldn't be saying this, but something pulls it out of me, puts the words onto my tongue. ‘She reminded me of something that I …'

‘What did she remind you of?'

‘That I used to say that I couldn't cope without her.'

Grim sniggers.

‘Hollow fucking words.'

‘It was true. That's how I felt.'

‘Don't you feel that anymore?'

‘I don't know.'

Grim doesn't seem to care all that much about this. He yawns — a loud, drawn-out gasp —before bringing his hand up to his face and smelling it. He grimaces.

‘The drugs they give me. I'm sure I can smell them on my skin, in my pores. So fucking nasty.'

‘You could just not take them.'

‘How? They make sure I've swallowed them.' Grim has a spark of curiosity about him. ‘Something is different this time.'

‘What would that be?'

‘Something about you.' He rests his arms against the edge of the table. ‘Like you're full of remorse.'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't think I can stop. And I've only got two left.'

‘You've only got two Serax left?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, get some more then.'

‘I can't. If I get another script, it'll be in my notes. I could get caught.'

‘Have you had withdrawal symptoms?'

‘I thought I was going to die.'

Grim looks at me, with a look that you could easily mistake for empathy if you weren't careful.

‘I know the feeling,' he says. ‘Keep trying. It's near enough impossible to come off them altogether without any help. The only way is to cut down gradually.'

‘Do you really want me to get clean?'

‘Yes, of course I do.'

‘Why do you want that?'

‘Why are you asking me that?'

‘Ever since I started trying to quit, my life has been a fucking nightmare.'

‘Fuck you, Leo. You're back at work, aren't you?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘But what?'

‘I mean, it's like you enjoy this — seeing me in a state.'

‘I don't. And that was a shitty thing to say.'

‘I never know what you're up to. Is it any wonder I'm a bit suspicious?'

‘As I said, if you don't believe me, fuck off. That's fine by me.'

Silence. I'm embarrassed, although I don't want to be, about having challenged him.

‘What did you come for?' he asks.

The palms of my hands are clammy. I want to get up and walk away, but I avoid looking at the door, because that would give Grim the upper hand. It's not that easy to talk to someone when you have to tell the truth the whole bloody time.

‘You know who Felix is, don't you? The dealer on Södermalm?'

‘What the fuck is this? You collaborating with the drugs squad now?'

‘This isn't about an investigation,' I say. ‘I need his number.'

‘How come?'

I don't answer.

‘How come?' Grim insists.

‘You know why,' I hiss.

‘I thought you had his number.'

I shake my head.

‘I got rid of all those numbers when I got back on duty. And I can't get it at HQ without arousing suspicion.'

I wonder what Grim is thinking. He might be trying to work out whether or not I'm telling the truth.

‘I want a TV.'

‘I can't arrange that,' I say. ‘Too big. I can get you a better phone — anything bigger than that won't work.'

‘One that I can watch telly and read the news on,' Grim says.

‘I'll check with the robbery unit, see if they've got one lying around that they could donate.'

Grim shakes his head.

‘A new one, with as pay-as-you-go
SIM
. Paid for with your own money. It's nearly fucking Christmas, after all.'

This makes me laugh. Pay-as-you-go is far harder to trace.

‘No, ‘fraid not. No pay-as-you-go.'

‘Alright. One with a contract then.'

‘Alright.'

‘Do you promise?'

‘I promise.'

Grim's eyes have the same quality as dolls' eyes: what they communicate depends on the beholder. You see what you want to see. He says Felix's number, one digit at a time.

‘Will you remember it?' he asks.

‘If you've given me the wrong number, if I don't get through to Felix, I'll make sure they take away the phone you've got.'

‘If you don't get through, it'll be because you've dialled the wrong number.'

The door opens, and Slog comes in. His big goatee is dense and red.

‘Visiting time is over. It's time for John's morning session.'

‘If you need more pills,' Grim says quietly, hopefully quietly enough for Slog not to hear, ‘I've got other numbers you can call.'

‘I thought you wanted me to get clean?'

Grim laughs.

‘See you, Leo.'

18/12

‘So.' I lean forwards. ‘You mean you weren't hitting him, you were …' I flip through the notes. ‘Dancing with him?'

‘That's right.'

‘He tells me this happened out on the street, and I've got two witnesses saying the same thing. Is that right?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That you were dancing in the street.'

‘Well, yes, that's right.'

‘Isn't that a bit unusual? Especially when it's minus twenty?'

‘I didn't think it was cold.'

‘How come, if it's true that you were dancing, that ring on your finger looks a very good match for the mark on his cheek?'

‘I don't fucking know.'

Her blood-alcohol level was 2mg/ml when they brought her in and put her in a cell to sober up. She ended up having to sit there quite a while before being dragged down here. It doesn't seem to have made any discernible difference. The woman still stinks of alcohol, and the stench fills the room. I feel sick.

Four hours ago, a man lost two teeth outside a pub on Vasagatan. He claimed that a woman had hit him. The woman claimed they were dancing. It could be a matter of how you define these things, but I doubt it.

‘Thank you,' I say, and get up, because this has to end somehow. ‘I don't have any further questions.'

Everything is back to normal.

I'm in my office, with the interview transcript in front of me and the door open. Phones ring in the other rooms, but not mine. A radio somewhere broadcasts a news bulletin and then plays The Beach Boys' version of ‘Little Drummer Boy.' The voices and the chimes send me back in time, back to that journey through Stockholm in Goffman's car.

Later that day, on my way home, I spot Levin on the other side of Kungsholmsgatan. His coat is wrapped tightly around his bony frame, its collar turned up towards his cheeks to shield him from the snow and the gathering wind. It's so cold that any moisture in the air freezes, becoming tiny, glistening, fragments of pearl. Levin is walking along with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, determined but without appearing flustered or nervous. When a car rolls out onto the junction he raises one hand, getting it to stop. He jumps in the back seat, and I wait there, half a block away. The car disappears towards St Göran's. I didn't get a good look at the driver. It could have been Goffman.

I remember what Grim told me, about Levin visiting someone there. How he'd asked Grim to keep quiet about it. I wonder if it's true.

On a brick wall covered in advertising is a big poster of the Sweden Democrats party leader. He's smiling at the camera, under the banner
THE PARTY FOR ALL SWEDES
.

I take a Serax tablet from my pocket, and realise it's the only one I've got left. Fuck. I get Felix's number out. That was close.

If you think about it, you realise that it's too risky, so the only way is not to think about it at all, but just to do it.

I push the intercom buzzer and look around me. Maria Prästgårdsgata is nothing more than slush and parked cars, self-obsessed media types with mismatched outfits. No one's bothered, because there's nothing suspect going on here.

‘Yes?' rasps a voice from the intercom.

‘Hi.'

That's all that's needed. The lock clicks. I push the door and walk into the stairwell. Felix lives on the second floor, and I take the stairs, knock on the door, and wait. Behind the door I can hear music that sounds like it's come from an 8-bit Nintendo game being played loudly. The electronic din finds its way out into the stairwell, and bounces off the walls.

When the door eventually opens, Felix is beaming at me, bare-chested, but with a pair of jeans on. He is wiry and pale, like a dying man, which he might well be.

‘Junker,' Felix says and licks his lips. ‘It's been a while. Come in, come in, I'm just doing a stock-take.'

I close and lock the door behind me. Felix disappears into the little two-bed flat, and turns the music off. It smells stuffy and sour, a mixture of sweat and weed. On a table in the living room is a packet of heroin the size of a house-brick, zip-seal bags filled with powder or marijuana, and a variety of tubes in black, orange, and white, and blister-packs of tablets and capsules. Next to them is an open, half-full bottle of whisky, kept company by a heavy, low glass. Next to the table, on a wooden chair, Felix is sitting with a notebook and a pen.

‘Covering costs?' I ask.

‘If there's one thing that covers costs these days, this is it.'

Felix laughs. He grabs the bottle and carefully pours a couple of fingers into the glass, then sips.

‘I just sold fifty grams of coke to a nightclub owner. She was going to treat her guest list. Before that, five grams of morphine to a fireman, and ten joints to a nursery nurse. He laughs again. ‘I mean, a nursery nurse? This town is fucked up. I feel like Father Fucking Christmas.'

‘They're called pre-school teachers nowadays.'

Felix takes another sip.

‘And I'm a pharmaceutical distribution agent.'

I pull the roll of notes from the inside pocket of my coat and offer it to Felix.

‘I'm in a hurry. Can you help me out?'

‘Ah,' Felix says, putting the glass to one side. He takes the notes, and counts them. ‘Serax on the wish-list.' He squints at me like a tailor sizing up his client. ‘What sort of dose are you on now?'

‘Twenty-five to fifty milligrams a day. I don't want to increase it, but I need to avoid the withdrawal symptoms.'

‘Hmm,' Felix says, scratching his cheek. ‘The thing is, I haven't got any Serax.'

I stare at him, and take two steps towards him.

‘Give me the money.'

‘Calm down, Junker. Chill. I thought I did when you rang, okay? Then I checked.'

Felix's eyes are darting between me and the sofa on the far side of the table — a worn-out, pale two-seater from IKEA, with two equally pale cushions on it. Behind one of them is bound to be a weapon.

‘And?'

‘I've got other benzos, okay? Believe me, you'll be thanking me for this.'

Felix starts rummaging around his table, and locates two tubes with white caps: one orange and one black.

‘OxyContin,' he says, waving the orange one. ‘Or Halcion. I'd go with Halcion. You can barely get hold of it anymore. And it's got a pretty flat effect curve, which should suit you if you're just trying to keep on top of the abstinence.'

‘Halcion? You mean the sleeping pills from the Eighties? What the fuck would I want them for?'

‘Listen. In the great fables, Halcyon was this bird that could calm storms and the waves in the sea. Trust me, there's something in it. Halcion is an extremely potent benzoid. You only need a tiny dose — never more than half a milligram, unless you want amnesia and to be wandering around like a zombie. Point 25 is enough for that wonderful chemical calm, but you're still lucid. Not only that,' he adds, with a wry smile, ‘Halcion was part of the cocktail that did for Heath Ledger.'

Felix chucks me the tube. I catch it, and read the information on the side of the tube. It's in English. I pop off the lid, and my mouth starts watering. The pills are small, oval shaped.

‘Those are point two-fives. I've got fifties, too, if you should need them. As long as you don't lie down, you'll be awake and really, really caned.'

‘How much?' I ask. ‘How much do you want for them?'

Felix waves the roll of notes.

‘Should be more. But it's Christmas soon, isn't it? And it's not every day you get the honour of supplying an officer of the law. Well, actually, it is most days. But not such a corrupt copper as your good self.'

‘Fuck you, Felix.'

‘Merry Christmas.'