‘If anything else to do with this case should show up on your desk,’ Olausson says, getting up from the chair, ‘which it might well do, considering the delay in handing over and all the rest of it, then get in touch with me and hand it over, and I’ll pass it on to Paul.’
‘And what happens if I don’t?’
‘Oh,’ Olausson says, ‘you might well ask. But that vomit on Döbelnsgatan shouldn’t be too difficult to test for certain substances in your blood, or piss. Blood and piss are not hard to get hold of — a routine test would be sufficient. In your case,’ he goes on, ‘it would be perfectly reasonable for someone to request such a test, considering how recently you returned to duty, and the stress which you have already been exposed to.’
He pulls something from his pocket and drops a photo onto the desk.
The picture is taken from a distance, with a poor-quality digital camera, perhaps a mobile phone. It’s the night before Lucia, in Vasastan. Incident tape flaps in the foreground, and a little way away, propped up against a wall, I spot myself, down on my knees and busy puking. My skin is pale pink, the strain of vomiting visible in my cheeks. The first thing that strikes me is how small I look.
The wind is knocked well and truly out of my sails. I hope he can’t tell, but I’m sure he can.
‘Do you understand me?’
‘How did you get hold of this?’ I ask.
‘Do you understand me?’ he repeats.
It’s as though the colours in the photo are getting stronger, sharper, right in front of me.
‘Yes.’
He opens the door.
‘Good.’
Once he’s gone, I rip the photo in half. Then I tear the halves in two, and again, into smaller and smaller pieces until they get so small it’s difficult to hold them between my fingertips. I cannot stop.
The threat makes me groggy. I make my way out into the corridor, past the Christmas tree to the coffee machine. I wait there as it spits and splutters and prepares to fill my cup.
In the room opposite, a colleague is sitting with a few documents. Next to her, the televised annual Christmas serial plays on a monitor with the sound turned off. A man with a white beard, a paunch, and ruddy cheeks is lying comatose on a kitchen sofa, in a forest cabin. He’s either drunk or delirious. This episode seems to alternate between his story and that of three children, two girls and a boy, as they hurry across a snowy landscape. Above the man is a ticking clock that presumably must have some significance.
I’m following the plot to avoid having to think, to deflect the craving for a Serax and something stronger, and to distract myself from the knowledge that the day I’m going to get caught is getting closer and closer. By the end of the episode, the kids have arrived at the cabin and are struggling to wake the man, without success.
The end-credits roll. My cup is ready. I return to my office. The seasonal programming takes me back to my childhood Christmases, the ones that always turn white when you think back but never actually were. I remember the smell of the candles and the Christmas tree, and the sound of Mum, standing in the closet and wrapping presents while my dad would entertain me and Micke. For a moment, everything just washes over me again, and perhaps it’s no coincidence that the phone starts ringing and the word SALEM is blinking on its screen.
‘Hi Mum.’
‘Er, hi Leo.’
The voice on the other end is deep and clear, serene — a voice I haven’t heard for a long, long time.
‘Hi, Dad.’ I put my cup down. ‘How … how’s it going?’
‘Good, all good. We’ve just had breakfast.’
Mum cares for her husband as my dad’s mum cared for hers, Arthur Junker, my grandfather, who was struck by the same illness. The fate of a family goes in cycles.
‘You sound well,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, bloody well actually.’
‘That’s great.’
‘What are you doing? I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No, don’t worry. I’m at work.’
‘What would you like for Christmas?’
‘I, oh, I don’t know.’
My dad is with it, in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time. How that could be possible, I have no idea, but the emotion is overwhelming.
‘We thought we’d all chip in for a holiday for Micke,’ he says now. ‘He never gets away from work any more.’
‘Okay. Yes, of course. How much should I put in?’
‘Two thousand? Maybe three. Is that too much? Your mum and I were thinking we’d put in six, so altogether it would be eight or nine thousand. That’s enough for a trip, or if he wants to go further afield he’d just need to put up another thousand or so himself.’
‘But that’s only enough if he goes on his own. Isn’t he going to go with someone?’
‘He’s been saying how he’d like to travel on his own,’ Dad says, determined.
‘Okay.’
One day, I’ve got a dad who no longer knows how to flush a toilet, because he doesn’t understand how it works. The next day, I’ve got a dad who doesn’t use loo paper, but wipes himself with his towel instead. On the third day, as though the previous days have been distorted fragments of a dream, he’s perfectly able to use a telephone and to do arithmetic.
‘What do you think?’ he says. ‘Can you chip in?’
‘Of course,’ I say, again. ‘Shall I take out some cash?’
‘That’s more fun than a voucher, don’t you think? Cash is king. Isn’t that right? Or is that just me being old-fashioned?’
‘Saying cash is king isn’t old-fashioned,’ I reassure him.
Dad laughs.
‘Are you coming down soon?’
‘I … yes. I’ll try and come over before Christmas, otherwise I’ll see you then.’
‘Good. Your mum wants a word. Here she comes.’
I hear rustling and crackling before my mum’s voice arrives.
‘Mum, what was that? He sounds perfectly n—’
‘I know, love, I know.’
I notice that I’m holding my breath.
‘What does this mean?’
‘Not a lot. He’s like this sometimes, little bursts.’ She lowers her voice. ‘It’s been … I think he can tell when he’s slipping again. That’s why he put me on now, he doesn’t want you to hear.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned this?’
‘You make it sound like a conspiracy. I just didn’t want to get your hopes up, do you understand?
‘And you wouldn’t be,’ I say.
‘I can tell that you’re not telling the truth, you know that.’
We carry on talking, but she soon sounds distracted, perhaps because Dad is nearby, fiddling with the vacuum cleaner. It sounds as though he’s decided it’s not working and he’s going to fix it.
‘I’m going to have to give him a hand,’ she says. ‘But I’ll be in touch, about Micke’s present?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Speak soon.’
Everything’s back to normal.
Sitting up here, I feel so far removed from the world down below, it could go to pieces, and no one within these walls would even notice. I think about the photo I tore up, a photo that I will never so much as name for anyone.
My computer bleeps — it’s a feed from the intranet. A demonstration in Rålambshov Park is just getting underway. Far-left activists are protesting against the deportation of asylum-seekers and refugees, whilst the far right are demonstrating against the left-wing demonstration. There’s a significant risk of clashes, so the police are there in numbers.
My phone rings again.
‘Are you finished?’
‘You should probably come to my place,’ Birck says.
‘Why? And where do you live?’
‘Lützengatan 10, fourth floor. I
have someone in my hall claiming to be 1599. And I think she’s telling the truth.’
Lützengatan is located in an understated upper-class neighbourhood, behind Karlaplan’s great plaza. These blocks have the lowest reported crime-rates in the city, but the truth is probably that there’s just as much crime here as anywhere else. Everyone knows this, but everyone keeps quiet, because no one wants to lose face.
The street is paved with cobblestones, fanning out in a classic pattern and ending in a neat turning circle. The taxi comes to a stop and I climb out, to the strains of the radio and the accompanying taxi-driver, both singing Who’s got a beard that’s long and white? Who comes around on a special night? in a strained, excitable, never-ending polka.
Further down Lützengatan, at the corner where the little strip of cobbles meets Wittstocksgatan, a dark-coloured Volvo is parked, and silhouettes are visible inside. I light a cigarette and try to decipher the number plate, but the angle at which the car is parked makes this impossible.
Santa’s got a beard that’s long and white! Santa comes around on a special night!
I get my card back, and the sound of the polka is suffocated as I close the car door. The taxi rolls off. I take a drag, and the cold makes me shudder.
Many people’s homes will tell you something about their occupants, but Gabriel Birck’s apartment isn’t one of them. It is large, with high ceilings, yet somehow it still seems small. Its many doors, cubbyholes, and nooks and crannies make it easy to get lost in. The flat contains very few books, but plenty of films, DVD box-sets, and paintings. None of the furniture is from IKEA, apart from the kitchen. The IKEA sticker is still there, on the inside of the cupboard door I open in search of a cup. The mug is blue, and features the Moderate Party emblem, and yet there are various pamphlets and flyers from a public meeting arranged by Feminist Initiative lying in the hallway. On one wall in the kitchen there’s a large photo of Twiggy, androgynous and symmetrical. On a worktop near the window is a pair of small speakers, playing music from Birck’s phone at low volume.
Above the sofa are twenty, thirty, maybe more, photos in black frames and varying sizes. They’re not arranged in a neat pattern but untidily, in a sort of collage. Some of the images depict children. Most of them feature men and women, and in some cases something unclassifiable in-between. Birck himself is not present in a single picture. These might be photos of his friends and family, but they might just as easily be complete strangers.
And sitting underneath the pictures is a woman. She has her hands in her lap and is constantly interlacing and then separating them, looking at us and then looking at the glass coffee table in front of her, where a dark-blue Dictaphone is lying.
I put the cup in front of her, take the jug, and fill her cup about half full.
‘A bit more, please.’
She takes a swig. I sit down in the armchair next to the sofa and wait. Birck is sitting in the other armchair, one leg on top of the other, and with a glass of water in his hand. The water is so cold that condensation has gathered on the glass. He’s wearing a white vest, grey tracksuit bottoms with Armani written along the thigh, and, as far as I could tell when he opened the door, no underwear. His hair is wet and tousled, and he smells of shower gel. The woman is short, and her hairstyle reminds me of Twiggy’s in the picture in the kitchen, scraped into a strict side-parting. She has big eyes and a small mouth, and freckles that spread from her nose and underneath her eyes. She’s wearing black jeans, cherry-red boots, and a thick, knitted jumper, and she doesn’t look the type to stick a knife in someone’s back, but then you never know these days. She puts the cup down.
‘How …’ I say, before changing my mind. ‘You are 1599.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Lisa Swedberg.’
‘With V or W?’
‘W.’
‘You were at Cairo the day before yesterday, when I was there. You’re the one who left.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you leave?’
She doesn’t answer straightaway. She drinks a bit more coffee, tapping thoughtfully on the cup. Her nails are short, and painted the same colour as her boots.
‘I was scared.’
‘What made you scared?’
‘It … everything. I didn’t want to see …’
She doesn’t finish her sentence. Birck drinks some water. Watery sunlight shines through the small panes that make up the large window. I feel like another cigarette.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘I saw him the day before yesterday, as I was leaving.’ She looks from Birck to me, as though she needed to explain herself. ‘Gabriel, outside Cairo. I saw the number plate, and checked it with the licensing authority — you can do that on your phone. I got his name and then checked on www.eniro.se. There aren’t that many Gabriel Bircks in Stockholm.’
‘Impressive,’ Birck says. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, but I thought that car was registered to both of us?’
‘My car is my car,’ Birck says.
‘But why?’ I say and turn to her.
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you want to trace us?’
‘It’s … I …’ She looks surprised to see the cup next to the Dictaphone, as though she thought she still had it in her hand. She grips the handle again, carefully. ‘I really don’t know where to start. No one knows I’m here. Everyone’s at the demo in Rålambshov Park. That’s why I came now, so that no one could follow me.’
‘Won’t you be missed, at the demo?’
She shakes her head.
‘I said I was ill.’
‘You knew Thomas,’ I say. ‘You were one of his subjects.’
‘Yes.’
‘What does that actually mean?’
‘Haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘We’d still like to hear it from you.’
She adjusts her fringe with two fingers.
‘He asked me about stuff, for his research.’
‘How did he get in touch with you?’
‘Someone I know, who he’d also interviewed, had apparently given Thomas my name. I can’t be reached by phone or email or anything like that, but he asked around and managed to find me.’
‘Did you know who he was?’
‘I knew of him. He used to be a big player in AFA. AFA doesn’t have formal power structures, but I know he was big. That he was important to them, when he was involved.’
‘When did you first meet?’
‘Some time in March.’
‘Where?’
‘At a café. Not Cairo, another one. It’s on Vanadisvägen, near …’
She goes quiet.
‘Near his home?’ Birck fills in.
‘Yes.’
‘Did he tell you that, that he lived nearby?’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’
‘Well, then, how do you know where he lived?’
‘I checked him out. A couple of days later, I went back to his place and slept with him.’
Birck isn’t surprised. I am. Maybe that’s why 1599, or Lisa Swedberg, is so absent from his notes, despite her apparent importance. It must be an ethical quandary to be sleeping with one of your interview subjects. He might have wanted to make sure that nobody would find out, if the notes were to fall into the wrong hands.
We had the impression that Heber was alone, surprisingly alone. And it seems that he was, yet Lisa’s eyes have become slightly moist, bearing out Grim’s theory. Everybody is missed by someone.
She blinks deliberately. Out in the kitchen, a warm voice sings, ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go.’
Lisa turns to Birck.
‘I thought you said you didn’t like Christmas songs?’
‘But everyone likes Johnny Mathis, surely?’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘One thing at a time. You started a relationship with him, then?’
‘No, that’s the wrong word. At least to describe the beginning. It was more of a … an impulse.’
‘But it gradually became a relationship?’
‘Yes. By some point in April it had become that, if you can even call what we had a relationship. We kept it quiet because he, Thomas, had to. I understood why, but it was still tough. We pretty much only ever met as his place, apart from when we went to the cinema, or some obscure club that he dared to go to with me.’
She laughs, wistfully. My phone starts vibrating, which makes Lisa go quiet. It’s Sam. I reject the call.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Go on.’
‘I don’t really know what to say. It wasn’t exactly a high-intensity relationship, if that’s the word we’re using — well, actually it was, but it went in waves. Do you know what I mean? When we did see each other, we’d see each other quite a lot. Sometimes straight after an interview. He did several with me — I think five, maybe six altogether. There were a few of his subjects who he used that way, like keys. When he’d thought of something new, or come across new leads in other interviews, he would then come back to me and ask about them. I haven’t studied much sociology, but Thomas explained that interview-based research often works that way. To begin with, I thought he was just saying it so that he could see me again. That’s how big my ego is. But, gradually, I realised it wasn’t that. Well, at least not the only reason.
‘Did you notice straightaway, the first time?’ Birck asks. ‘That he was attracted to you?’
‘I noticed … I don’t know. Thomas was difficult, or rather he was good. He could make you feel comfortable, safe, and listened to. But then that’s what an interviewer should do. I found it difficult, at first, to work out whether he was attracted to me or whether his interest was purely professional. I thought there was something there. And after the second interview I knew I had been right about that.’
The Falling Detective Page 12
