A policeman stands pressed against one of the trees, and somehow his helmet has come off and is lying there on the ground. The policeman is holding his shield so close to his face that his breath condenses on it. Christian recognises Jonathan. There’s another man with him.
Christian turns around, and that’s when a shot goes off behind his back. Everything stops, and Christian turns his head. The other man is lying on the ground. The body is convulsing wildly. Jonathan is staring down at him.
The man on the ground has only one eye.
This is what they say, but no one knows for sure. A riot-policeman in Rålambshov Park with a twitchy trigger-finger somehow succeeded in shooting one of the demonstrators in the eye. The policeman started panicking when he was surrounded and then attacked by demonstrators. And when people with weapons start to panic, it always ends badly.
Those taking part in the demo were primarily Radical Anti-Fascism and Swedish Resistance. Their flyers are strewn over the snow. There are several casualties, men and women from both camps, with forearms and legs bandaged, and large dressings across cheeks and foreheads. A handful of police appear to have suffered grazing. The grubby snow is flecked with blood, spent fireworks, and the remnants of flares.
It is absolute chaos.
The smoke has dissipated, but the strong smell remains. Rows of ambulances stand waiting, and emergency-services personnel are busy patching up demonstrators, whilst police keep a close eye on them, and the media observe and record the whole scene. Beyond them are rows of terrified members of the public. Lisa Swedberg is in there somewhere.
Birck and I wait on the other side of the park, far enough away to make us spectators.
‘You see that?’
‘I can see,’ says Birck.
Lying there on the dirty snow is a RAF flag — red, white, and black.
‘Do you really think he’s been shot in the eye?’ I say.
‘Wherever it was, there’s going to be a big fucking fuss. Do you remember Gothenburg 2001?’
‘I was twenty-one.’
Birck looks puzzled.
‘Yes?’
‘It was during my training.’
‘Didn’t they talk about it?’
‘I’m sure they did. But not in front of me.’
Birck turns around.
‘And this little tail the whole time.’ He raises his hand, waves, and smiles at the dark-blue Volvo parked on the verge. ‘They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.’
I feel the Dictaphone in my coat pocket, and wonder what is waiting on it.
‘They know about us meeting Lisa,’ Birck says.
‘You mean SEPO know?’
‘Yes. We should’ve told her.’
‘We didn’t get the chance. We should have pushed her a bit more, though, tried to keep her there.’
‘Detain an anti-fascist who hates the police?’
An ambulance is moving through the park, with no sirens but with blue lights on to ease its passage through the mass of people. The crowd parts, reluctantly. A little way away, a flyer is flapping in the wind, and several identical flyers lie scattered around. Birck takes two steps forward, picks one up, and I read it over his shoulder:
Swedish culture is now in a critical condition. Our Nordic region has been invaded by foreign races over the last few decades, just as politicians and the media have frantically encouraged us to be tolerant, to accept racial and cultural integration. Every race and culture has the power to shape its own destiny, and thus the right and the duty to defend itself. We have been forced to accept a devastating occupation, and our corrupt politicians have used all their efforts to make sure that disapproval and resistance are categorised as somehow illegal. Our hands are tied, and the disciples of multiculturalism fight to silence our voices too. Desperate times call for drastic solutions. It is our responsibility to break free, to fight back. We must not fall silent. We must ensure the survival of our people and a future for our Swedish children.
At the top of the little flyer is the message: JOIN THE SWEDISH RESISTANCE — jOIN THE STRUGGLE FOR SWEDEN.
‘What do you reckon?’ Birck smiles. ‘Fancy it?’
He drops the flyer to the ground.
‘What she was saying about the night of the murder,’ I say, meaning Lisa Swedberg, ‘tallies with John Thyrell’s witness statement. Not bad, considering he’s six years old.
‘Shame there’s no suspect. That we know of. Then we would have been able to show John a picture and really put him on the spot.’
‘I don’t think he saw that much,’ I say. ‘Not from that distance. What he noticed was someone rooting around in Heber’s rucksack. I’m guessing he didn’t get a good look at the face. Not only that, it was dark as a coal shed in that yard. It’s a wonder he could see anything at all.’
Add to that the fact that this was several days ago, and time makes children’s memories even less reliable.
‘But still,’ Birck says. ‘Worth a try.’
‘Sure. If SEPO actually had anyone to try it with.’
‘They might.’
‘Who might that be then?’
‘Fuck knows.’ Birck looks sullen. ‘Fucking mess.’
We hang around the park for a while, and my thoughts drift off. I feel pessimistic and lethargic.
In the throng at the far end of the park, Lisa Swedberg flashes past. She has her hands in her pockets, but it’s probably not because of the cold. A tall, thickset man is standing next to her, telling her something. It is Oscar Svedenhag. She seems increasingly resolute, and eventually she turns and walks off, briskly. I observe what’s happening, but it doesn’t register. I’m somewhere else.
‘Oi. Hello …’
‘Yes?’
‘I asked if we should get going. What’s wrong?’
‘What do you mean what’s wrong?’
‘You look wrecked. Is everything okay?’
For a long time, I say nothing. Sirens wail. We head back to the car.
‘Olausson threatened me.’
‘What?’
‘If I stick my nose in to the Heber case, I’ll be suspended. He thinks I’m still taking Serax.’
‘Fucking hell. But then … you are still taking them.’
‘It’s other things as well,’ I say, to change the subject.
‘Such as?’
I manage to get hold of a Serax in my pocket. I grip it between my fingers. I think about Dad, about his voice.
‘No, nothing. I think I’m just a bit confused.’
Birck unlocks the car. I let go of the little pill, even though the urge is stronger than it’s been all day.
We drive away from Rålambshov Park, and the black Volvo follows us, a couple of car-lengths behind. I pull the Dictaphone from my pocket and hand it to Birck.
Dusk is falling. Somewhere in the swarm around Kungsholm Square, the Volvo loses us, and Birck looks pleased with himself, turning on the radio. A Christmas carol has just been interrupted for an update on the events in Rålambshov Park.
‘Did you know it was Sunday today?’
Birck laughs.
‘What difference does it make what day it is?’
My phone rings. That bastard phone.
It’s Birck. I should answer, but I don’t want to and I can’t, because Sam’s waiting at the door. It’s evening, and in the flat next to mine you can hear voices, people talking over each other, roaring and laughing. It makes me think of something approaching happiness.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ she says.
‘You’ve rung twice.’
‘Can I come in?’
I move to one side and she goes past me, into the hall. She sweeps a scent in with her, a mixture of Sam and the December evening outside, which makes me think of the days when
we shared a home. Apart from that last year, they were good times — perhaps the happiest times of my life.
She has unbuttoned her coat, but her handbag is still on her shoulder.
‘Can I stay over?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want to sleep alone.’
‘I said yes.’
‘But I don’t want to if you don’t want to. You’re always saying yes to things you don’t want to do.’
I close the door.
‘I want you to stay over,’ I say, and I stretch out my arm to take her coat and hang it on a hook, and it feels like she has finally come home.
That is what Sam’s scent brings with her into the flat, the smell of hope. But it was a long time ago now, yes darling, an eternity, an eternity that has passed and will never come back. Only fools and children think that everything can be fixed.
you really should listen to this
Birck is talking about the Dictaphone. I wonder what’s on there. I’m sitting, phone in hand, with Sam’s head on my shoulder. She’s asleep. The flickering light around us is coming from the film, where Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe are somewhere, surrounded by men with well-groomed hairstyles and expensive suits, and Jane Russell sings bye bye baby, remember you’re my baby when they give you the eye.
tomorrow, I reply. sam’s here
Birck doesn’t send an answer, and I’m glad about that. It took a long time for her to get to sleep, and she’s a light sleeper — always has been. Carefully, I put my lips to her hair, and she must notice, because she moves a bit, stretches, and pushes her mouth against mine. It’s unexpected, after all this time, and even though she tastes a bit metallic and her lips are dry, it still feels like Sam. Skin remembers.
When I get up to get her a blanket, she holds on to me as though she thinks I might leave her to her dream and not come back.
Three blows to the chest, that’s all. Well, not blows: sharper than that, more dangerous. The pain is everywhere. She falls on her back, and her eyes are looking up at the ceiling. Can she move her eyes? Yes, yes she can. She shifts her stare, looking at the table, the man in front of her, then back to the ceiling.
She’s surprised at this, that the body gives you so long. That she’s functioning. But she can’t move. For some reason, her legs hurt.
She doesn’t understand what’s just happened — the phone that rang, three rings, and the man asking if they could meet up. He had something to tell her, information that would turn out to be important, he claimed. Considering who he was, she was sceptical, but the conversation with the two policemen had left her shaken and afraid. Desperate, almost — that’s the word she’s looking for. The fact that it takes so long to find that word makes her realise that there isn’t long left. An image pops up: someone starting to blow out a candle, the flame about to give up and disappear.
Desperate. That’s why she went along with it. That must be why: she was desperately trying to understand what was going on. And now he’s here, she understands even less.
The one thing she does know is that she’s been tricked. That realisation fills her with rage, that something as banal as getting tricked is going to take her life.
She remembers opening the door to him. He looked at her inscrutably, and as he raised the revolver, she managed to take one, two, maybe even three steps back before the first blow struck her chest. In the corner of her eye, the man is backing away, leaving the flat, disappearing.
A little flash of realisation strikes her: she remembers Ebi Hakimi telling her, as he gave her the Dictaphone.
It is not Antonsson
She wasn’t sure he was right. Not even when she saw his anxious expression. Is that why she hadn’t told the two policemen? Maybe. Would she have done, if she’d known how it was all going to end? Did she trust them? One of them, she decides. Not the other one. That was also a factor in her keeping quiet, and now it’s too late to change her mind.
With that comes insight, and that might be what makes her let go. That makes her understand.
She’d found out that the threat wasn’t against Antonsson. That is the truth. That is what has made her dangerous.
That is why she has to die.
The cars they scratched, that winter ages ago — the fun part had hardly started before everything went wrong. They were sitting watching telly at Christian’s, images from Gävle telling the story of how the city had been paralysed by the worst snowstorm in history. People were skiing to work, gliding along at the roof-height of the snowed-in cars. Caterpillar trucks brought essential supplies through the snow.
‘I wonder if they’re bringing beer,’ Christian said, and Michael laughed.
The phone rang. Christian’s mum answered it, out in the living room. They could hear her voice through the closed door.
‘Jesus, I’m bored,’ said Michael. ‘Shall we ring Oliver?’
Oliver was one of four mobile numbers they had for people who they bought black-market booze from. Oliver was their favourite: always on time, not particularly expensive, and, unlike the others, didn’t have nasty knucklehead mates in his car.
‘I can’t be arsed tonight,’ Christian said.
‘Me neither, come to think of it.’
There was a knock on the door. Christian turned the sound off on the telly.
‘Yes?’
‘Phone, for Michael.’
‘Who is it?’
She looked over at Michael.
‘The police.’
Apparently this cop, a beat officer by the name of Patrik Törn, had first tried to contact Christian’s friend by calling his home, but no one answered. Törn had managed to put two and two together and had rung Christian instead, because he suspected that was where he’d be.
It was about a car with scratched paintwork. The owner had filed a complaint. If it hadn’t been for one of Christian’s classmates cycling past and later informing his dad what had happened, it would probably have stopped there, a complaint that led nowhere.
‘Why the hell did you tell them he was here?’ Christian hissed afterwards.
‘They would’ve caught up with him sooner or later, and he’s done something illegal, so it’s only right. I’m just happy it wasn’t you they were after.’
‘Fuck off.’
His mum looked blank.
‘I know who it is,’ Christian said a couple of days later. ‘The girl that saw you. Her name’s Natalie.’
‘I wonder whose car it was,’ said Michael. ‘How many have we scratched now?’
‘No idea,’ said Christian, despite knowing exactly how many he was guilty of. ‘Ten?’
‘Good stats, anyway, getting away with nine out of ten.’
Michael was laughing, not seeming to be taking it seriously. Christian didn’t know how to react, so he laughed, too. In fact, the total number of cars he’d scratched was no more than four.
Natalie didn’t know the name of the one who’d scratched the car, but that wasn’t going to stop an industrious man like Patrik Törn. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Natalie had also managed to give a partial description of the suspect. He had been wearing a white puffer-jacket, undone, and a dark jumper, possibly black, with Skrewdriver printed on it. The print had been clearly visible in the darkness.
‘Shit, man,’ said Michael. ‘I’m gonna get a stinking great fine.’
But that’s not how it turned out. In hindsight, Christian wishes that it had only been a fine.
It all happened quickly, much faster than Christian thought it would. That winter, a few weeks after the complaint, Michael’s phone rang. He and Christian were sitting on the bed listening to a new CD, sharing the inlay card between them, examining the photos, following the lyrics. Christian picked up the remote and pointed it at the stereo. The music stopped.
‘Hello, yes?’ said Michael.
The male voice on the other end was barely audible. It was calm and methodical, and it sounded dangerous. He asked who he was talking to. Christian’s friend said his name in a heavy tone that sounded like a confession in itself.
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, that’s right. But how did you get this number?’ The man on the other end carried on talking, and Michael raised his eyebrows higher and higher. ‘What … really? Yes. Thanks. Yes, can do. I’ll see you there.’
Michael stared at the phone, as though it had surprised him. He hung up.
‘What was that?’
‘That … that was the guy whose car we … I scratched.’
‘Shit.’ Christian sat upright on the bed. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted to meet up. If I agree to that, he’ll withdraw his complaint.’
Michael picked up the inlay card, and flipped aimlessly between its pages.
‘Are you going to do it?’
‘If it means I get off a fine, damn right I will.’
‘How had he got your number?’
‘He said he was good at finding out stuff like that. I don’t know what he meant.’
Christian didn’t say anything. Alarm bells rang.
It was the twenty-first of December. The shopping precinct in Hagsätra was decorated with green and red rope-lights suspended between the buildings, and on the square four men with guitars sang Jingle Bells in broken Swedish. Freezing rain made the ground shiny and slippery. Christian met him by the ticket barriers in the underground station, where they said hello to some people they knew. They went to the same school. Christian didn’t say where they were going.
They left Hagsätra and rolled into Rågsved. On the other side of the aisle were four Yugoslavs, or whatever, arguing with each other. It sounded like one big mess. Christian rolled his eyes at Michael, which made him laugh, silently. It felt good.
They swished past Högdalen, before the train slowed and pulled in to Bandhagen.
The Falling Detective Page 14