The Falling Detective (9 page)

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?'

He's a full head shorter than me. That doesn't matter, because behind him another four or five, maybe more, are getting up from their seats, surrounding me, looking at me the way you look at an insect before you swat it. The short man takes a step towards me, and plants a sharp punch in my guts. I feel the air leave my lungs as I fall to my knees, hissing.

I can hear them laughing above my head.

I struggle to stand up. It takes an embarrassingly long time, but in the end I manage it. From the corner of my eye, I notice someone standing up from their table and leaving Cairo — a woman.

I look down, still gasping for air after the blow. Mind-blowingly stupid, this.

The men are so close that their chests are touching my arms, their shoes are touching mine. None of them seem particularly angry, but several seem interested in what might happen next.

‘Your turn,' the short guy says to one of them.

Then something happens. The door to Cairo swings open again, and Gabriel Birck steps in, with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and an inquisitive look on his face — a policeman in a far-too-expensive suit and with a profile so sharp it wouldn't look out of place on a coin. When he spots the crowd and my head just visible between their shoulders, he walks over and takes his hands out of his pockets.

‘Is everything okay?'

‘Not great,' I wheeze.

‘I recommend that you leave the premises,' Oscar says from behind the counter.

‘That sounds reasonable,' says Birck.

I turn around, and my eyes meet Oscar's.

‘Ring me,' I say, but I can't say whether or not he responds, because before I know it I'm out on the street again.

‘I told you,' Birck hisses, as we head for the car. ‘Don't do anything stupid.'

‘I know.' I'm massaging my stomach. It feels empty and sore after the little man's punch. ‘Sorry.'

‘This is precisely why I said no, when you asked if I was happy working with you. You're too unpredictable.'

‘Sorry,' I say again.

‘Fuck you. Have you got a cigarette?'

Embarrassed, I pull one out of my pack. We get into Birck's black Citroën. It has a unique smell: a mixture of leather, aftershave, and winter.

‘You should report that punch,' he says. ‘Assaulting a police officer. That little leftie would get spanked.'

I shake my head.

‘We might need to contact them again. If we make a complaint, that'll become impossible — they'll hate us even more. Did you see anyone leaving at about the same time as you came in?'

‘A woman,' Birck says. ‘Why?'

‘Did you get a good look at her?'

‘Not really.'

‘I think that she might be our witness, 1599.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘A feeling.'

‘Feelings? Completely useless in this line of work.'

I wonder if Birck might be right. Maybe.

‘He called me disgusting.'

‘Who?'

‘The guy who told us to leave.'

‘Disgusting,' Birck says thoughtfully. ‘Aren't we all?'

The autopsy on Thomas Heber confirms that he died from somebody putting a knife in him and then twisting it a quarter-turn. The blade was pretty big, somewhere between twelve and fifteen centimetres, and partly serrated. The knife tore several major arteries close to the heart, the medical names of which Birck doesn't remember.

The gist of what the autopsy told us was less complicated. It happened quickly. The assailant knew what he was doing, and Heber was unlikely to have remained conscious for more than a few seconds — half a minute at most. After just a minute or two, medics would not have been able to save his life.

Heber had drunk coffee a few hours before his death, and his intestines were in the process of digesting the remnants of a sandwich he'd grabbed along with the coffee.

‘Who conducted the autopsy?'

‘Khan, thank God.' says Birck. ‘That's why I didn't feel like I had to go down there, that a call was enough. If there was anything significant there, Khan would have found it.'

Nothing else was found on Heber's body — no usable skin particles from the assailant, no textile fibres, nothing. A few fibres had been found on Heber's coat, at shoulder height, but they had been destroyed by the elements, Mauritzon explained once Birck had read her report. They might possibly have come from a glove, but even the type of garment was unknown.

‘Destroyed by the elements,' I say. ‘The weather, in other words.'

‘That's right.'

‘Which shoulder?'

‘Eh?'

‘Which shoulder did they find the fibres on?'

‘Left.'

‘So,' I say. ‘The assailant comes from behind, puts his left hand on Heber's shoulder to get some extra force when he stabs him.'

‘Maybe,' says Birck. ‘I guess so.'

Birck parks his car in the garage back at HQ. He turns off the engine and undoes his seatbelt, but stays in his seat.

‘I've been researching Heber on the internet. Aside from the Nazi sites, which have profiles about him, there's surprisingly little out there.'

‘What did it say in the profiles?'

‘Nothing we didn't already know.
AFA
, conviction for assault, sociologist and academic, et cetera. I could try and establish who wrote those posts, but I doubt it would work. It's probably a waste of time.'

‘Yes, more than likely.'

A fluorescent lamp flickers, and the ceiling in the garage hangs low. I wonder if we'd make it out if the pillars collapsed and the ceiling fell in. I've been having a lot of thoughts like this recently. I haven't mentioned it to anyone.

‘Something's just not right,' I say.

‘Is that a feeling you've got?'

‘Yes.'

Birck goes quiet, in what becomes a long silence.

‘Me too,' he says eventually, and opens his door.

A man wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a thin, black tie is standing outside my office. His blond hair is neatly slicked back. From a distance he looks quite dapper, but up close I notice the creases in his suit and the flecks of grey in his hair. He dyes it, perhaps trying not to seem so pale, but his latest attempt has only been a partial success. He holds himself like a man who was on his way somewhere before forgetting his destination. As he spots me, he smiles weakly and pulls his hand from his trouser pocket.

‘Leo Junker, isn't it?'

‘That's correct.' I shake his hand. It is dry and cool. ‘And you are?'

‘Paul Goffman.'

‘Goffman,' I repeat. ‘Rings a bell.'

‘Have you got a minute?'

‘Do you work in the building?'

‘You could say that.' He glances at the closed door to my room. ‘Can we talk in your office? This won't take long.'

‘I'm actually pretty busy. And what do you mean you could say that?'

‘I can explain. I'm here to help you.'

‘Help me? What do you mean?'

‘Exactly that.' His eyes flit between me and the key in the door. ‘It's about Thomas Heber.'

Ah. Our reinforcements.

Goffman's stare is clear, and his eyes are such a pale blue that they look almost white, like ice in strong sunlight. This doesn't feel good at all.

Goffman surveys the room, wall by wall, as though he were looking for some detail that might tell him more about its occupant. The only problem is that, aside from a coffee cup and an empty fag-packet, the room is completely devoid of ‘details'.

‘I've been back thirteen days,' I say, for some reason feeling the need to explain myself.

‘I know.' Goffman replies enigmatically, placing his hand on the little wooden chair. ‘May I?'

‘Of course.'

The man sits down carefully, as if unsure whether it would take his weight.

‘Thomas Heber,' I say, and sit down in my own chair.

‘Yes, Heber,' says Goffman, shifting in his seat as though he's just been reminded of the purpose of his visit. ‘I would respectfully ask that you let us deal with Heber.'

‘Us?'

‘Yes?' Goffman looks puzzled. ‘Us.'

‘Who's “us”?'

‘Didn't I say?'

‘No. Are you from National Crime Unit?'

‘Sorry,' Goffman says, laughing, and shaking his head. ‘I thought I'd said. I'm wrecked, haven't slept in ages. I'm from The Bureau and we …'

‘
SEPO
.'

I attempt to conceal my surprise at the fact that he's with the Security Police. To no avail. Goffman is by no means as confused as he likes to appear.

‘That's correct.'

They no longer sit in the same building, having recently moved to their own premises, tucked away in Solna. And he says The Bureau, not
SEPO
, so he's been there for ages.

‘I understand.'

‘I thought you would. And we do need to take over.'

‘You need to take over.'

‘That's right.'

‘Need?'

Goffman is like a chess player, reading the board, trying to decipher the logic of his opponent's moves. At least that's what he would like to think.

‘That's right,' he says, again.

‘Okay.' I rest my forearms on the edge of my desk, and there's a sharp pain in my abdomen, possibly from the punch at Cairo. ‘Why? Why do you need to?'

‘Those details are not something I am at liberty to discuss with you, as I'm sure you understand.'

‘Have you cleared this higher up?'

‘That is, of course, a given.'

‘How high up? Does Olausson know?'

‘He understands full well what is going on, and has stepped aside. We'll be putting in one of our own to lead the
investigations.'

I stare at the empty cigarette packet, pick it up, and scrunch it in my fist before throwing it into the bin. ‘You ought to be dealing with Birck, he's the one leading the inves—'

‘I'll be talking to Gabriel, too.'

I hate being cut off. I glare at him, but I don't think he even notices, let alone cares.

‘What is it about Heber that makes this your case?'

‘Well,' Goffman says, laughing again, showing his clean, even teeth, crossing his legs, and waving his index finger. ‘You're a canny one. I am not permitted to discuss this with you.'

‘No details,' I say, and I'm struck by a sudden urge to smack him in the face. ‘You said you can't discuss details. If you're going to take over, I want to know why — that's not a detail.'

‘True,' Goffman says. ‘I'm sorry, but this chair is incredibly uncomfortable.'

‘I think that might be the point.'

‘Of course. Must be. Do you mind if I stand?'

‘No.'

Goffman stands up and is unnaturally tall, standing there in his crumpled suit, running his hand through his hair, studying the rickety heap of a chair he has just vacated.

‘If you want to make someone feel uncomfortable, you make them wear clothes with no pockets. It must be the same idea.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘People reveal more about themselves when they're uncomfortable?' He waves his hand, dismissively. ‘Anyway. Heber has a past in extreme-leftist groups. You know that as well as I do. Then he straightens himself out, becomes some kind of pseudo-academic at the university, and what does he research? Social movements on the far left. Himself, basically. And now someone puts a knife in his back. Do you think that's a coincidence?'

‘I think,' I reply, ‘that you are very polite and that you'd like me to believe that I know as much as you do, when in fact you know far more than you're letting on.'

Again, Goffman looks perplexed.

‘And what might that be?'

‘Well, the real reason for you taking over the case, for a start. What you've given me is just an excuse. We've dealt with cases like this before.'

‘Ah-ah-ah,' Goffman says, raising his index finger again. His fingers are long and bony, like you'd expect an accomplished pickpocket or a magician to have. ‘Details.'

‘If you're taking the case off us, I want to know why.'

‘You said,' Goffman says, this time putting his index finger back in his pocket, along with the rest of his hand. He paces back and forth in the room, as though the situation has made him restless. ‘I, however, have neither the desire nor any need to answer that. Besides, you're taking the wrong approach entirely. You talk about “us” and “you”, but that distinction is not valid. We're all working for the same ends.

‘You're the one who started talking about “us” and “you”, not me.'

He stops dead. Then he shrugs.

‘You don't have any say in the matter,' he says, in a voice that sounds almost mournful but which might very well be elusive, mocking.

‘I want to see the papers, at least.'

‘You may see the papers. I wouldn't be here if I didn't have them, but I don't have them with me right now.'

‘Shame,' I say.

‘Give me the case file. Time might be running out.'

‘It's not here, Birck's got it.'

‘Hmm,' says Goffman. ‘Send it by courier.' He opens the door. ‘Thank you for your time. Happy Lucia.'

‘Who is it?'

Goffman stops in his tracks.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Who is at risk?'

‘I'm sorry, I don't follow?'

‘Someone is at risk, a threat linked to Heber's death. That much I do understand. And that's why you're taking over. I want to know who it is.'

The index finger again.

‘Details.'

He blinks, smiles, and disappears.

I look at the wooden chair. A while passes, maybe a minute, maybe much longer, and then I stand up, walk round the desk, and slump onto it.

Goffman was right. It's seriously uncomfortable. I sit there, staring at my own empty chair on the other side of the desk.

Can't think of anything to think.