Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case

by Christoffer Carlsson (Translated by Michael Gallagher)

  Charles goes to the living room and pours a glass of whisky, no ice, stands by the window, and gazes at the student flats opposite.

  Marika loves reading; her shelves are heaving under the weight of her well-thumbed books. She’s recently started pinching his cigarettes — several times lately he’s come home and noticed how her coat sleeves smell of smoke. She’s useless in the mornings, and she prefers jeans to a skirt or a dress.

  These are the sorts of things he knows about his daughter, but he didn’t know she was violent. If she really has been, that is. He persuades himself that he has doubts, that Marika would never do something like that.

  He takes the note out of his trouser pocket again. At the bottom, Roland Rasmussen has written Patrik Olsson’s parents’ telephone number. Per and Agnetha.

  Charles paces around the flat with the glass in his hand, gulping too much whisky at a time. It stings and shreds his throat. Names, exchanges — things people said to him then and now repeatedly pop up to bounce around inside his head in no particular order: Paul, Kraus, Eva, Paul again.

  Showtime.

  It’s just rather difficult to know what one’s ends are. Particularly if one is Swedish.

  Do you have rugs or not?

  He stops for a moment, looks at his hand. He’s holding the phone and has only two digits left to dial when he realises that there’s less than half an hour to go till midnight, and that Per, Agnetha, and Patrik Olsson are probably asleep by now, and that he ought to go to bed himself.

  Pfft.

  He drains the glass. Everything is spinning, and outside the world is glittering.

  MARCH 1971

  He was always being told that he threw himself into situations and events without thinking. As he was growing up on Södermalm, his parents had constantly struggled to deal with it. Charles’ father used to say that every day he came home from work without being confronted by a note from one of the teachers, telling him about his youngest son’s latest misdemeanour, was a day he’d need one less beer to calm his nerves.

  Charles wasn’t sure whether that was true, but it probably was. After a while, and without anything significant having taken place, Charles started telling himself that he had matured, grown out of it — yet, strangely, that was often the point at which something new would happen.

  That’s what happened, for example, that time he had, at the age of twelve, borrowed Mark’s moped without asking him, due to a sudden impulse to head over the water to Gamla Stan, and the best ice-cream stand in Stockholm. Mark wasn’t home, and Charles thought he was with his girlfriend. In actual fact, he was out buying brake pads for his moped. Charles skidded and came off. He sprained his ankle, broke a rib, and was left with concussion. His right leg was badly burned by the hot engine. He also had to spend the summer earning the money to buy Mark a new moped.

  Perhaps that rashness, the impulsive streak, was still lurking inside him.

  Stockholm. Charles was home again, and Mark was the first person he told. Despite being siblings, they had always kept their distance from one another, maybe because they were so alike. The older they got, the closer they became. Now Mark knew more about Charles than anyone else did. Mark was in his first year as a doctor at Sabbatsberg Hospital, and they would meet up in the canteen and nurse a coffee each, since apparently that was the only form of family time that a junior doctor could squeeze in.

  ‘You sound excited,’ Mark said. ‘What have you done now?’

  Charles told him about Eva, and Mark smiled, and asked whether he could tell their parents. Charles laughed, shook his head — said he wanted to wait, see how things felt.

  ‘That’s probably not a bad idea,’ Mark said. ‘Try that, for once. You know what they’re like — tell them you’re going to study medicine, and the next thing they want to know is which hospital you want to work at when you’ve finished. Tell them you’ve met a girl and they want to know when you’re moving in together.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  ‘You really like her.’

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Outside the window, rain was falling.

  ‘See you soon, bro,’ Mark said a while later as they stood up to leave, putting his hand on Charles’ shoulder. It felt like a tender gesture. ‘Take care.’

  Charles walked home afterwards, despite the rain. At a building site nearby, someone turned on a pneumatic drill, which began scraping and juddering angrily. It was never quiet in the city; there was always something to disturb you. The tower blocks and the rumble of the underground, the exhaust fumes rising over the long streets and the claustrophobia you’d get in all the queues the congestion caused: in the space of a couple of days, what had once meant security and freedom now made him feel contained, stifled. So far away from Eva.

  He thought about her skin, the feel of her lips when he touched them, how her rapid breathing hit his chest. That night, they’d both been insatiable. With her, Charles had done everything he’d ever fantasised about; things he’d dreamt about but never dared attempt with anyone else.

  She counted her climaxes when they had sex, she told him; she had done since she was a girl — girl was the word she used — when she’d first discovered what her body was capable of. It was automatic, like a subconscious ticking. Something about the way she said it made him feel invincible.

  In the darkness, Charles had laid there on his back, listening to her breathing in between words. He felt her fingers stroke him around his navel until he was so hard that something deep inside him took over. When he grabbed Eva, she giggled and laughed until he pushed inside her again, making her tremble and then release a prolonged moan as she clung onto his shoulders.

  When he got home that afternoon, he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Her body and her house appeared in front of him, one merging into the other.

  The phone rang out in the hall. Charles got up and answered it.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said.

  Eva’s voice made him feel warm. He asked her how her day had been, she asked about his. Then a brief silence.

  ‘It’s a bit empty here without you,’ she said. ‘I miss you.’

  Charles leaned against the wall. Strange: the same questions and conversations as any relationship, but with the physical element reduced to a voice in your ear.

  ‘I miss you, too.’

  ‘Describe your home for me,’ she said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, you know what my house looks like. Not least the bedroom,’ she added, giggling. ‘I don’t know anything about yours.’

  ‘You can come and see it for yourself.’

  ‘But until then,’ she said. ‘I want to know now.’

  Charles looked around the hall, at his own reflection in the mirror, at the floor.

  ‘I don’t have any rugs, anyway.’

  She laughed.

  ‘You told me you lived in a flat,’ she said, realising that she’d have to help him out.

  ‘On the fourth floor, in a one-bed flat on Kungsholmen.’

  ‘Whereabouts is Kungsholmen?’

  ‘It’s central, near the Town Hall and the new Police HQ.’

  ‘Do you walk to work then?’

  ‘Yes, or take my bike.’

  ‘Okay. Where are you now?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Duh — where in the flat?’

  He liked her playful tone.

  ‘I’m standing in the hall,’ he said. ‘That’s where the phone is.’

  ‘Is that the only phone?’

  ‘No, I’ve got one in the bedroom, too.’

  ‘So you’re standing right inside the door?’

  ‘Yes, pretty much.’

  ‘What’s the first thing you see when you come in to your place?’

  During the call, he went into the
bedroom, swapped phones. When he put the receiver back on the cradle, it was after eight in the evening, and the darkness had settled onto the rooftops outside his window. His ear was warm, and the glossy phone had become slippery in his hand from the sweat. He lay on the bed, naked and hot. His ejaculate — thick and white, long strands that seemed to have come from somewhere deep inside him and then pulsed out with violent contractions — spread across his stomach, and on his chest it had dried, making his skin tight.

  He longed to be with Eva, but also to be in Bruket. He could smell the scent of the little town, as he listened to her voice taking his thoughts to the old buildings. How detached the place seemed from the rest of the world, and how liberating that sensation was.

  I’m falling, he thought to himself.

  This time, I’m really falling.

  MARCH 1984

  Charles looks at the letterbox. Just a few minutes have passed since they emptied it; nearly half an hour to go until the next time they’ll need to go out. This might be all there is to life — pointless tasks, in endless, miserable cycles.

  For a while now, an unknown criminal has been engaging in extortion in the form of elaborate bomb threats against state authorities and various companies. The sums involved add up to over one billion crowns. The threats arrive in brown A5 envelopes, and the police, including Charles and his colleagues at SEPO, have made no progress. Now though, some bright spark reckons that the suspect is posting his threats in the last-minute postbox by Central Station. The police have had it under round-the-clock surveillance since January: from an apartment across the road, they film and photograph everyone who posts anything in that box. They then empty it every half an hour, go through the letters, and then put them back.

  This photographic work is normally done by the Surveillance Unit, but for some reason most of them are on a course today. Since SEPO are in charge of the investigation, they are also ultimately responsible, which is why he and Paul are sitting there.

  Unfortunately, they are not alone.

  ‘Marika,’ says Charles. ‘Where are you?’

  There’s a sofa in the corner, and on one of the cushions is an unaccompanied copy of Goodnight, Mister Tom, open at a page somewhere near the middle.

  ‘She went to the toilet,’ says Paul. ‘Didn’t you hear her say that?’

  ‘No.’ Charles lowers his voice. ‘I’m sorry I brought her along. I couldn’t call the babysitter again.’

  Paul squints at the postbox.

  ‘Here comes another one.’

  On the other side of the road, a man is walking towards the postbox with his hands in his pockets and a thick white letter under his arm. He stops in front of the postbox, and Paul adjusts one of the rings on the stills camera, puts his eye to the viewfinder, and clicks the shutter. The man posts his letter and carries on, untroubled and innocent.

  ‘Charlie.’ Paul lowers the camera. ‘You need to be a lot more diplomatic in the company of people like Kraus. I’m serious. You need to obey my commands and follow my instructions. Don’t forget what this relationship is actually about.’

  It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it is one, a little reminder that Paul once advised Charles that their relationship was not grounded on friendship or common interests, but something else entirely. Strange, really, that you can teach yourself to live and work under such circumstances.

  ‘I know,’ says Charles. ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’

  And with that, the chill is gone from his voice.

  The toilet flushes and the pipes in the old apartment creak audibly. Marika emerges and steps out of her Converse shoes, sits down cross-legged on the sofa, and goes back to reading her book without saying a word.

  They really are alike. Marika has dark hair, she’s got that from Charles, and her nose is pronounced and hooked, a beak passed down to her from him. Everything else, though, is Eva’s.

  ‘Listen,’ Paul says quietly. ‘Sit down with her for a bit, until we’ve got to empty the box. Do it while you’ve got the chance.’

  ‘It’s alright. There’s no need.’

  ‘Er, yes, there is.’

  Charles gets up from the chair, heads for the sofa, and slumps down next to Marika. He can feel her go stiff.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she mumbles, staring at the book.

  ‘But I want to.’ Tentatively, he puts his hand on her back. ‘Why didn’t you want to go to school today?’

  Marika turns a page in Goodnight, Mister Tom, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She has a ring on her middle finger, a thin, neat, silver one. Charles studies it, tries to work out who she might have got it from, or whether she’s bought it herself, and in that case, where the money came from.

  ‘What happened yesterday?’ Charles says. ‘With …’ It takes a while for him to remember the name. ‘Patrik?’

  Not a flicker. He moves his hand about in front of Marika. Over by the window, Paul puts the camera to his face, clicks the shutter, checks that the film camera is rolling.

  ‘Marika. Could you put the book down? Marika.’

  She turns another page.

  ‘Could you please put the book down and talk to me?’

  Nothing. Charles pulls the book out of her hands and slams it shut. Marika doesn’t even seem surprised, just folds her arms across her chest.

  When she does finally look at her dad, it’s with Eva’s eyes, sparkling and clear, and he looks away.

  ‘Can you tell me about what happened yesterday, with Patrik?’

  ‘Haven’t you spoken to Pauline?’

  ‘I want to hear your version.’

  ‘My version?’

  ‘Yes?’ says Charles. ‘Your version.’

  She sighs.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Pauline already.’

  ‘You must speak to me as well.’

  ‘Must?’

  ‘Yes.’ He undoes a button on his shirt; he’s getting a bit warm. ‘Did Patrik say anything to you? Did he do something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He might have said or done something silly when you were standing in the dinner queue.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘What did you do to him, then?’

  She doesn’t respond. Instead, she looks over at Charles’ left hand, and the book, then stretches over him to reach it. He moves it further away, as if it were a game.

  ‘Did you threaten him with a knife, Marika?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I thought he was too loud.’

  ‘You thought he was too loud? You mean he was being noisy?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  Maybe. Paul’s camera clicks again. Charles looks at his watch. Quarter-to ten.

  ‘You can’t say maybe, Marika. Threatening someone is extremely serious.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, mechanically. ‘I did it because he was being too loud.’

  ‘If he was being too loud, why didn’t you just ask him to be a bit quieter?’

  No answer.

  ‘Marika.’

  ‘I don’t know, alright?’ she hisses. ‘I don’t know why I did it, I just did. It might be something to do with my upbringing.’

  ‘I have never threatened you,’ Charles says, in a strangely thin voice. ‘I have never hurt you.’

  ‘No, you have never hurt me.’

  Charles looks down at the floor. Paul takes yet another picture.

  Marika gets up from the sofa and pulls the book from her father’s hands.

  JUNE 2014

  It’s Midsummer’s eve, and the streets are deserted. Everyone is somewhere else, with people they really like. Maybe that’s why Gabriel Birck steps out onto the balcony and lights a cigarette, despite the fact that
he no longer smokes.

  Below him, Lützengatan is silent and warm, and he can just make out the hum from Karlaplan. He finishes the cigarette and heads back inside, puts on his shoes and a thin jacket. He then leaves the flat and drives towards Kungsholmen, with the window down and the radio off. As he pulls into St Göran’s, he suddenly feels weighed down by an unexpected burden.

  John Grimberg is a sick bastard, and it’s best not to think about just how deep his relationship with Leo might be. They grew up together in Salem, Birck knows that much, and Leo fell for Grimberg’s sister, Julia. She died when they were teenagers, and, according to John, that was Leo’s fault.

  ‘Was it?’ Birck asked when Leo told him.

  ‘I don’t even know anymore,’ he answered. ‘It was so long ago, and everything is so … complicated. But Grim thinks it was, and maybe that’s what counts.’

  Apparently, their split from one another happened in Salem, over fifteen years ago. Last year, though, their paths crossed again, resulting in an act of vengeance of the kind you would only expect to see in bad crime novels: for some inexplicable reason, Grimberg had decided to seek the revenge he felt entitled to exact. To get close to Leo, he used Sam. His attempt failed, and he’s been sectioned here ever since.

  Birck glances at the phone charger lying on the dashboard. He’s known about Leo visiting Grim for ages, but this — he’s bargaining with him. Fucking hell.

  He ought to tell Martin, who he’d done his national service with, and who, back then, was a real beer monster. He still is. For the last four months though, Martin Sanchez-Jankowski has also been the clinical director of the ward where Grim is resident, putting him in charge of much of what goes on in there. He and Birck still meet up now and then, but less and less often.

  Leo doesn’t know that, indeed he’s not even aware that they know each other. At times, Birck has come close to telling him, but just as often he’s been seconds away from picking up the phone to ask Martin about Grimberg’s status, how many visits he’s getting, and how often the visitor is Leo. This has to stop, and maybe Martin might be able to help him. But is it really anything to do with him? What is the right thing to do? Leo is being hurt by the grip Grimberg has on him. At work, there aren’t many people Birck can put up with, but Leo has gradually become one of them, and Birck might be in a position to help him.