‘Not for a while. I haven’t had time.’
‘Mm hmm,’ Sam says, her mouth full of food.
‘And,’ I go on, ‘I just can’t face it. Partly because of what happened in the summer. It’s as though … everything comes flooding back. But partly … it’s tough seeing Dad.’
‘He’s not getting better?’
‘If you’ve got Alzheimer’s, you don’t get better.’ I drink some more water, and wish it was something stronger. ‘So, no.’
‘Shit.’
‘My brother is there a lot. He probably can’t really face it either, but he does it for my mum’s sake. Micke always was mummy’s boy. He was the oldest. I was my dad’s instead. I think that might be why I’m finding it tougher, seeing him like that. Now he can’t even remember how to change the batteries in a remote control.’
‘But he,’ Sam says, hesitantly. ‘He does recognise you?’
‘For now, yes. Most of the time. Sometimes, especially when he’s tired, he’ll get me mixed up with Micke. But, then again, he always has.’ I laugh.
Sam grasps her glass tightly and takes a swig.
‘Are you still in touch with, what’s his name, Ricky?’
‘No.’ Sam puts her glass down. ‘No, not at all.’
‘Do you miss him?’
She shakes her head.
‘Not like I missed you.’ Then, as though realising she’s just revealed something significant, she says she needs to go to the loo, and stands up. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
Once she’s gone, I pop a Serax out of the blister pack and spin it between my fingertips. It’s comforting. After a few rotations, I put it back in my pocket. Outside the window, the car is still there. When it is lit up once again by a passing vehicle, this time a lorry, I manage to read the whole number plate: WHO 327. I eat another mouthful, drink some water, and I write the registration number in my phone and then send it to Birck.
I adjust myself in the chair. It’s not easy to act normally when you know you’re being watched.
where’s the car right now? Birck sends back.
outside mäster anders, SEPO?
yes
you sure?
yes
Questions buzz around my head. If it’s one of their bureaucratic pseudo-agents sitting in that car, it becomes, on one level at least, more understandable that they had us under surveillance even while Birck and I were still on the case. They are paranoid little sods, as everyone — including the general public — well knows. But now City have handed the case over, they should be happy with that. Is there a microphone, some kind of bugging device, close by? Have they been listening to my chat with Sam? I try to recall Goffman’s movements in my office, strain to picture his hands and what they might have got up to. Did he plant something when he was there? My coat? I pat down my coat, which is hanging in the back of my chair, and search the pockets and under the collar. Nothing. I think.
That’s the problem with SEPO. Their paranoia is contagious. I sigh, and my gaze falls on my phone again. Could that be …
‘Something important?’ Sam asks as she eases back into the chair opposite me, making me look up.
I put the phone away.
‘No, work, sort of.’
‘You were on call the night before last, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I read about Döbelnsgatan in the paper.’
‘We’re not on that case anymore.’ My gaze slides back towards the road outside, involuntarily. ‘It’s elsewhere in the building now.’
‘You’re doing it again,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Staring.’ She looks at the street outside. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know I’ve forgiven you, don’t you? For what happened. You don’t need to feel … whatever it is you’re feeling. If you are, you don’t need to any longer. It’s okay. But I need … I just need some time.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, cautiously. ‘I understand that you need time.’
‘You used to say that you would never make it without me. Is that still true?’
The question catches me off guard.
‘Yes.’
‘Same here.’ She laughs. ‘At least we’ve got that in common,’ she says, and something unspeakably heavy and tragic lands between us, and for a long time we are silent.
‘Do you really mean that?’ I say. ‘That you can’t make it without me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak soon,’ she says once we’ve left the restaurant.
The snow’s started falling again, and the wind is blowing. The last chime rings from a bell tower somewhere. It is ten o’clock, and I can’t find the black car. It’s disappeared.
‘Won’t we?’ Sam says.
‘Eh?’
‘Speak soon,’ she says.
‘Yes, maybe tomorrow?’
‘Yes, maybe.’ She bites her lip. ‘It won’t have to be like this forever, you do know that? It’s just that now it’s …’
‘I understand,’ I say, which probably isn’t true, but me saying so makes her smile, again, and that feels good.
I walk her to the tube, hoping that the car might appear somewhere, but the only thing that comes is yet more snow, and when I slip on an icy patch it’s Sam who helps me up, and that feels good, too.
As soon as I’ve said goodbye to her — a hug, nothing more — the tiredness crashes over me and I just need to get home, get home and get some sleep, I can’t remember when I did that last. When something moves from the shadows along the streets of Kungsholmen, I shudder; I realise that I still can’t tell what’s real, and what’s imagined.
Jonathan can’t sleep. He’s too jumpy; his nerves are too frayed. It might be down to tomorrow’s demo. The alcohol won’t have helped. Sometimes, when he’s had a drink, it’s as though his thoughts are spinning noisily round and round his head and he can’t get them to stop, or make them quiet. They’re not necessarily unpleasant or anxious thoughts, just ordinary everyday ones. He incessantly hops and dances between, from one to another, unable to slow down. Just like being on speed.
This time, though, his stomach churns.
As if that wasn’t enough, the kitchen sofa he’s lying on is so uncomfortable that the bare floor is beginning to look like a more attractive option. He can hear his leader snoring loudly in the bedroom, and despite that noise being steady and regular, it makes it impossible to sleep. He should have gone home anyway, like Christian, even though it is a long way from Enskede.
The kitchen table is next to the sofa, and the chief’s MP3 player is lying on it, complete with little in-ear headphones. You can say what you like about the leader, but he certainly has good taste in music, and Jonathan has always found that listening to music helps you nod off. If nothing else, it should mask the sound of snoring if he plays it loud enough.
He leans on the armrest, pulls the player over and pops the earphones in, and presses ‘Play’. The songs have weird titles, no words, just four-digit numbers. Maybe they went wrong when he synched with the computer? He picks one, curious to see which band the top man’s been listening to.
But Jonathan doesn’t hear music. Instead, he hears voices, a man and a woman, which makes him sit upright in the darkness and squint at the little screen.
Her: ‘Hello.’
Him: ‘Hello.’
Her: ‘Have you got a fag?’
Him: ‘No, sorry.’
Her: ‘Shit. I’m all out.’
Him: ‘We can go and buy some in a bit?’
Her: ‘I’m … we shouldn’t really be meeting like this.’
Him: ‘Why not?’
Her: ‘I have … I’ve been asking around, since we met last time, about what we talked about, and I think that some people thi
nk I’ve been a bit too curious, nosy. At times I’ve felt like I was being followed. It’s not good for your research, what with all the confidentiality and all that, if we’re seen together.’
Jonathan hasn’t got a clue what they’re talking about, but he keeps listening. Then the penny drops, and he realises what he’s listening to, and suddenly he goes cold.
It’s dark blue, the little player, and pretty worn. The blue has been worn off at the edges. He pulls out his phone and writes a text, just two sentences. He daren’t write more.
by the swings at 8am. I’ve got something you need.
As soon as he’s sent it, he leaves the flat. He can’t stay — he needs to get out of there.
15/12
Hallunda, early Sunday morning. There’s an old playground behind the shops. It’s definitely seen better days — the fence is covered in graffiti tags, the swings hang wonkily on their chains, and the wooden rocking-horses are rotting away.
Two young men make their way towards the playground from opposite directions. They are surprisingly alike, in their looks and in their clothes. One has darker skin, and the other has a few more scars on his face, but otherwise there’s nothing to tell them apart. They’re both wearing dark jackets and light jeans, they both have cropped hair, and their movements suggest a reluctance to do whatever it is they’re about to do: their hands stuffed deep in their pockets, heads down and eyes on the ground. One is coming from the underground station; the other, from the tall, pale high-rise blocks on Klövervägen.
And, even as an observer, you can almost taste it — the time that’s passed since they were children, and everything that’s happened along the way.
Hallunda, early morning. They meet. The man who came from the underground seems apprehensive. He keeps his hands in his pockets. It looks like the other guy is the one who’s asked to meet. He’s leading the conversation. They stand, an arm’s length apart, and talk, surrounded by the silence. Before long, they’re each sitting on a swing.
One of them pulls his hand from his coat pocket. In it is a small, dark-blue Dictaphone. In spite of the cold, a little bead of sweat has gathered on his narrow top-lip.
Day three. We no longer have an investigation, but the media don’t yet seem to have grasped that fact. They’re still naming Olausson as the prosecutor, although it’s someone else now. Someone has leaked the news that there’s only a handful of officers on the case, and an editorial column has expressed the broadsheet journalist’s surprise at this information. She blames the decline of the Swedish Police and a reduction in resources, which doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, because our resources have been significantly improved over the last ten years.
I keep myself to myself, hiding away in my office. I fill in the minutes of earlier meetings, print out interview transcripts, and write short reports on my movements since the start of the operation. In one note, I refer to the dead man’s missing Dictaphone, and speculate that it may be in the hands of his assailant. Then I attach a copy of the fieldwork notes, despite the fact that I don’t have permission to access them, and say that that’s the only known copy, aside from the one on Heber’s computer. It’s now their problem. I then formally cease my involvement in the investigation into Thomas Heber’s death, and send the lot over to SEPO. I do what’s been asked of me. What I’m supposed to do.
There’s a good boy.
Olausson’s not around, and nor is anyone else. An invisible hand seems to have redirected all incoming emails surrounding Heber’s death away from my account and into someone else’s. So my inbox is quiet, apart from a message that seems to have evaded the invisible hand. This informs me that Heber’s parents are coming to Stockholm today, to say farewell to their son. Chances are it won’t mean anything, other than possibly for the parents. Sometimes parents are just that — nothing more.
I call Olausson, and I rack my brain for something to say as I listen to the ringing tone. I don’t yet know what it is I want to find out, but something just isn’t right. I’m not going to try to dupe him, and not because it would be wrong, but because it would be impossible. He won’t be fooled. He’s too clever, too reserved, too careful.
As with so much else in a police officer’s life, this preparation turns out to be wasted, because Olausson doesn’t even answer. A cold, automated voice instructs me to leave a message, and I’m about to, but after the beep it’s my turn to speak and I just sit there in silence, staring at the uncomfortable wooden chair on the other side of my desk, unable to say anything. Can’t think of anything to think.
I hang up. After a few minutes, maybe just one, I ring Oscar at Café Cairo. He doesn’t answer either. Primarily to check that my phone is working — a thought that often strikes me when I ring several people and no one answers — I ring Birck. It rings for ages, and when he eventually does answer, he hisses his surname down the phone.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ I ask.
‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I was on call last night.’
‘No you weren’t.’
‘Okay,’ Birck says. ‘I wasn’t. I’m on the fucking job. Ring this afternoon.’
‘Who are you fucking?’
Birck hangs up.
Just before lunch, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Olausson, the almost skeletal prosecutor, who pushes the door handle, breathing through his nose with that characteristic whistling sound.
‘I’ve been trying to call,’ I say.
‘Handover go well?’ He asks loudly, as though he hadn’t heard me.
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’
‘You knew all along, didn’t you?’
Olausson lets go of the door handle, and takes two steps into the room. He notices the chair, and seems to be considering sitting on it before thinking better of the idea and staying on his feet.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks as he closes the door and crosses his arms, causing his expensive blazer to creak.
‘That they were going to take over the investigation.’
‘No, I had no idea about that.’
‘Why are you lying?’
‘If you’re going to accuse me of lying, you can at least have the decency to look at me while you’re doing it.’
I look up.
‘If you’re going to lead murder investigations that you know we’re not going to be allowed to hold on to, you could at least be straight about it.’
‘But I didn’t know.’
‘You and Goffman,’ I say, ‘were at law school together, at Stockholm University. A little more than twenty years later, you’re hand-picked to join SEPO by Goffman himself. You stay there until you are thrown out after the failed police operation at the Gothenburg riots in 2001. Nothing, however, points to the two of you still being friends. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but in fact the handling of this case suggests that on the contrary, you are actually very close.’ I tap the papers on the desk. ‘I’ve got my contacts in the building, too.’
Olausson is studying me with an inscrutable expression. It sounds like he’s sighing, but I can’t tell whether the situation is getting to him or not.
‘Is it okay if I sit down?’
‘At your own risk, apparently.’
Olausson slumps onto the chair, crossing one leg on top of the other.
‘Christ. You wouldn’t want to sit here for long.’ He scratches the back of his hand, making a raspy sort of noise that is almost pleasant. ‘What do you want me to say, Leo?’
‘I want to know why the case was taken off us.’
‘Because it contained certain threats to national security, which meant it was always going to end up with SEPO.’
‘National security?’
Olausson laughs out loud.
‘Hardly.’
�
��What is it then?’
‘I don’t know. Paul and I are friends, not colleagues.’
‘So you don’t know any more?’
‘I know exactly what I just said.’
He pulls a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his blazer and hands it to me.
‘That’s what I got.’
The paper is a formal request for the Thomas Heber case to be transferred from the City district’s Violent Crimes Unit to the security services. I have seen them before. They bear the signature of the Security Police: a definite air of paranoia and secrecy, combined with an absurd form of patriotism. I make a note of the date. It is signed on the thirteenth, at half-past two in the morning, just hours after Heber’s death.
As Birck and I were in Heber’s apartment, trying our best not to fall out, someone at the security services had already worked out that this was a case for them.
Olausson stretches out his hand, and I fold the letter and give it back to him.
‘Why didn’t you say something? Why did you even let us start the investigation at all, if they were always going to take over?’
‘That,’ he says slowly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer, beyond that those were Goffman’s orders. That really is as much as I know.’
It is always like this. We do the legwork and the hard graft, and then it’s handed to them on a plate. It will look good in their statistics. It’s never immediately clear which department has done what during the investigations, and only those keen enough to read the detailed reports ever find out the truth. And no one can be bothered with that. Internal criticism has come from some real heavyweights, who feel that SEPO, despite enormous resources, actually does very little in the way of field work. This is an easy way to keep everyone, including themselves, happy, since they can sit behind their desks and occupy themselves with the sorts of things that are too complicated for anyone beyond their corridors to understand.
I think about asking whether he’s aware of the two SEPO cars that have shadowed our every move since the very beginning of the operation. Olausson’s facial expression — smug, the look of a boss who has convinced his underlings that he can’t be blamed for any of what’s happened — persuades me not to bother.
The Falling Detective Page 11
