The Falling Detective (32 page)

The fifth of December, a few weeks earlier: the tabloid
Expressen
published a few articles about racist abuse carried out by several active Sweden Democrats on various internet forums. All those exposed were expelled from the party. The leader threw out anyone who dared to tell the truth.

The Traitor. The Spineless Bastard. The Populist.

The hatred grew and grew, you could almost feel it.

On internet forums and in blogs written by his friends and comrades, known and unknown, the reactions erupted. Christian was sitting at his computer when the phone rang. It was only as he pulled the phone from his pocket that he noticed how slippery it was, and realised he was sweating. He stared at the forum topic he had just read, from the first post to the most recent. Michael might be right, he thought to himself. It really looks like people support what we're planning. If he succeeds now, he could end up becoming a hero.

They really had the wind in their sails now. The dice fell in their favour, time and time again.

Christian didn't recognise the number illuminating his phone's display. He pressed to accept the call, and put the phone to his ear, without saying anything.

It was a male voice, deep and calm: ‘Hello? Anyone there?'

Christian snapped the lid down on his laptop.

‘Yes.'

‘Who am I talking to?'

‘Who are you calling?'

‘I was looking for Christian Västerberg. Have I called the right number?'

‘Who is this?'

‘My name is Thomas Heber, and I'm a researcher at Stockholm University.

‘Okay?' Christian thought about hanging up. ‘And what do you want?'

Then he explained.

Christian said yes, but couldn't say why. They met in a windowless seminar room at the library in Skärholmen. He refused to have the interviews recorded. Heber took notes.

He'd already interviewed lots of people before Christian, in movements like Swedish Resistance, as well as their opponents, like
RAF
. That was all he could say about his interviewees, and he would never reveal anything more to anyone, not even under police interrogation.

He could say whatever he liked, Heber promised. Christian was anonymous to the extent that he could reveal a crime in progress, and Heber wouldn't do anything about it, wouldn't do anything other than listen.

Heber explained that that was just an example, but Christian felt a strange giggle bubbling in his chest. The laugh in his throat became a silent retching. Christian's vision became blurred.

He was close to falling apart. He was sweating. Heber didn't seem to notice, or maybe it was just that he didn't care.

Much of the conversation was about Christian's own life. At first, he regretted having agreed to this. Talking about himself was unusual, uncomfortable, but Heber was skilful, Christian had to admit. He was a man who inspired trust, and the conversation soon started to make Christian feel temporarily safe, giving him a sense of security that seemed to grow. Heber always let him finish whatever he was saying before asking another question. There were a couple of times when he didn't want to answer, and when he shook his head, Heber said that it was fine, no problem, and moved on to the next question.

Talking about himself was liberating. It was as though the angst disappeared.

The betrayal, the treachery, when it came, a few hours later, went almost unnoticed.

‘Have you heard the rumour?' he asked.

‘No,' Heber said, eyebrows raised.

Christian was carrying a heavy burden in his chest. It was suffocating him. And then he told Heber, in two sentences. Heber took it in with a surprised expression.

‘You mean someone's going to have a go at the leader?'

‘Yes.'

Christian wondered what he was thinking.

‘Can you stop it happening?' said Heber.

‘I wouldn't dare. I can't say any more about it, because no one knows where or when. I've already said too much. I've already … if anybody finds out …'

‘No one is going to find out,' said Heber.

Christian was sweating. He couldn't keep it in any longer. It had been so long, and during that time he'd done a lot of things he shouldn't have done, hurt so many people. He felt lost.

The room tilted. He blinked.

‘I know someone who will,' he said eventually.

He told Thomas Heber, who couldn't pass it on, who should have kept it to himself, but who might have felt exactly the same way as Christian: this just cannot happen.

Later, Michael called him on the night of the twelfth with instructions to steal a knife. He couldn't say no, couldn't put up any resistance. It was only when he was told where to go after breaking into Café Cairo — the university — that he realised what was going on.

Someone is banging on his door. He walks over to open it.

Images of the attack are still rolling on the telly. He can feel his own pulse in his temples. He can feel just how close he is to history, how this story will be told, how close he is to its epicentre. It's huge. And he feels guilt, a guilt so heavy that now, when the flat is filled with nothing but darkness, it seems impossible to bear, yet he can do nothing about it.

So he bears it, the man who is just a number, just 1601 in a dead researcher's field notes.

Jonathan calls again. He's keeping away from the window now. Any minute now, it's going to get cracked by the wind, he's sure of that. He's rolled down the blinds, but he doesn't know why. Perhaps to avoid shards of glass, but the blind is made from fabric. It might not help.

He starts thinking about the Dictaphone, wondering where it is now. He gave it to Ebi, but what happened after that isn't clear. Did he keep hold of it? Did the police find it on him when he died?

Maybe it fell out of Ebi's pocket during the demonstration. It might still be lying there, on the ground in RÃ¥lambshov Park.

They've duped him. That's the only explanation. And he was taken in by it. They're always cleverer than him, always one step ahead. Jonathan has been a pawn in Christian's hands. He feels so predictable. So stupid.

And at the same time: so scared.

The party leader. Christ. A genuine opportunity to get rid of him for good. Jonathan has seen and heard that being discussed, in internet forums as well as amongst his friends.

But now it's happened — Jesus, what if he dies?

It keeps ringing, until eventually there's a click and the ringing stops.

‘Hello?' Jonathan says. ‘Hello? Christian?'

It's a bad line. The storm makes everything rasp and crackle. Then, through the noise, that voice: ‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you answer?'

‘I …'

He doesn't finish the sentence.

‘Hello?' says Jonathan.

‘Yes, I'm here.'

‘You knew about this.'

‘Yes.'

‘This is … you, both of you, have tricked me. You've played me like a fucking, what's it fucking called …'

‘I know,' says Christian. ‘It was necessary.'

‘Swedish Resistance have had it now. You do realise that, don't you?'

Christian doesn't reply.

‘Do you support them doing this?'

He hears the storm, and nothing else.

‘Hello? Are you still there?'

‘Yes.'

Jonathan slumps on to the bed.

‘Do you support them doing this?'

‘I can't answer that, Jonathan.'

‘Is he there?'

‘Who?'

‘
Him
.
'

‘No.'

‘You're lying.'

Christian doesn't respond.

‘How are things with him?'

‘I don't know,' Christian says. ‘I have to go now.'

The call ends. Jonathan sits there on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

Behind the blind, the force of the storm smashes the windowpane. The flying shards slash gaping holes in the fabric.

Christian puts his phone away and turns to Michael.

‘He knows.'

Michael's eyes are blank.

‘Who?'

‘Jonathan.'

‘Oh, right. Good.'

‘How are you feeling?'

Michael takes the towel from his forehead.

‘I'm bleeding quite a lot. Feel a bit dizzy. But I'm glad that bastard is dead.'

‘You don't know whether he is or not.' Christian glances at the telly. ‘They've haven't said so yet.'

‘It's a matter of time. The knife hit its target.'

‘How can you be so sure? It was so dark in there.'

‘What do you take me for? Have you told the others that it was us?'

‘No, not yet.'

‘Get a message out to all the members. They need to know.'

Christian doesn't say anything. He doesn't send a message either. He heads to the bathroom, takes a clean towel from the cupboard, wets it, and then gives it to Michael. His face is spattered with dried blood from the wound on his forehead. He wipes himself off with the towel.

‘Did you get that message sent?'

‘Eh?'

‘The group message.'

‘Oh, right.' Christian hesitates for a second, then pulls his phone from his pocket.

‘No, sending failed. I suppose that'll be the storm.'

‘Try again.'

‘I will.' He sits down opposite his friend. ‘What happened?'

‘The power went. That was my only chance, so I took it.'

‘I meant your forehead.'

‘A bit of a roof-tile hit me. It was only the size of a coin, so it didn't knock me out, but it was fucking sharp.' He smiles. ‘Do you realise what we've done? This changes everything. Whatever happens to us, things will never be the same again.'

‘Why did you come here?'

‘I didn't know where to go. I had to get inside, but I wasn't about to go home. If they know it was me … I'm pretty sure they don't, but if they do, then that'll be the first place they look. But I didn't want to be outdoors — fuck that. This storm is killing people. Once my head stops bleeding, I thought I'd go down to your basement. Is that okay? If they come, you can just say you don't know where I am.'

Christian stands up, goes and gets the key to the basement, and puts it on the table in front of him.

He takes a deep breath.

‘Do you remember,' he says, ‘at the beginning of December, when Heber called you? From a payphone?'

‘Yes.' The towel has already turned a deep red. ‘Why won't it fucking stop bleeding?'

‘That was me,' he says.

‘Eh?'

‘I was the one who told him. He got in touch with me to ask whether I might be prepared to do an interview. I told him during that interview.'

Michael looks up from the towel. The look he gives Christian feels lik
e
a dagger. He never suspected it, Christian now realises: Michael trusted him, right to the end.

‘Eh?'

‘It was me,' he repeats. ‘I told him your name during an interview. I told him what you were planning to do.'

‘You?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're having a laugh.'

Christian feels a burning sensation behind the eyes, feels the tears pushing their way out.

‘No.'

Michael stands up, but does so too quickly and sways wildly, putting his arm out to hold himself up against the wall.

‘Why? What did you do that for?'

‘I had to.'

‘But … how … why …?'

Winded, he collapses back onto the sofa.

‘You are dead,' Michael says. ‘You got that? You are dead to me.'

‘Yes.'

‘And Heber is dead, because of you.'

‘I know,' Christian says.

‘You were the one who stole the fucking knife, for fuck's sake.'

‘I didn't know what you wanted it f—'

‘Don't lie!' he roars. ‘Don't lie to me again. You knew fucking full well what I wanted it for. You even asked me if I'd chucked his phone in the water. You were the one who got Jonathan to make
SEPO
concentrate on
RAF
instead. You're as much a part of this as I am. How the hell can you … have you called the cops as well? Are they on the way?'

‘No.'

‘Have you?' he screams.

‘No.'

‘If you're lying now,' he says, his breathing shallow and laboured. ‘I'm going to shoot the first person who comes through that door. Got that? I'll shoot everyone. Is that what you want?'

‘I haven't called them, Michael,' Christian says, staring at his hands.

‘Look at me, for fuck's sake.'

He braces himself to obey. It hurts. It hurts way too much for him to be able to stand it.

‘I haven't called them.'

This wasn't what was supposed to happen. Michael shouldn't even be here now; he should be lying low. That's what he said. Christian wasn't to contact him.

‘How the hell could you be so stupid?' Michael's voice is quiet, suddenly collected. As usual, Michael sees the big picture, knows what has to be done. ‘Why the hell didn't you say anything?'

‘I tried. But you wouldn't listen.'

‘Is that all you've got to say? That you tried?'

And it is. He realises that now. There's nothing more to say.

‘Yes.' He stands up again, picks up his phone. ‘I'll try and send that message again.'

This time he doesn't bottle it. He goes to the kitchen and opens the pantry. The strip light in the kitchen blinks once, twice, three times. He feels along the top shelf with his hand. There. There it is.

He returns, phone in one hand, revolver in the other. It's loaded. The same revolver that took Lisa Swedberg's life. Was that Christian's fault, too? He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know anything.

A phrase pops into his head, something someone said, or wrote to him once, a long time ago,
They can laugh if they want, sneer at us — we're moving forward, they're standing still.
He can't picture her face. It's gone, like everything else.

Michael notices the weapon in Christian's hand. Now he's on his feet, quickly, and this time the adrenalin keeps him steady. He raises his hands, his palms facing outwards.

‘Christian …'

‘Sorry,' he says, and takes the safety off.

Christian then puts the revolver in his mouth, the barrel against his palate.

Outside, roof-tiles whipped off by the wind swirl past, falling downwards. The sound of them crashing to the ground is masked by the thud inside the apartment.