The Falling Detective

by Christoffer Carlsson

  ‘I know the feeling,’ he says. ‘Keep trying. It’s near enough impossible to come off them altogether without any help. The only way is to cut down gradually.’

  ‘Do you really want me to get clean?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Why do you want that?’

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘Ever since I started trying to quit, my life has been a fucking nightmare.’

  ‘Fuck you, Leo. You’re back at work, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I mean, it’s like you enjoy this — seeing me in a state.’

  ‘I don’t. And that was a shitty thing to say.’

  ‘I never know what you’re up to. Is it any wonder I’m a bit suspicious?’

  ‘As I said, if you don’t believe me, fuck off. That’s fine by me.’

  Silence. I’m embarrassed, although I don’t want to be, about having challenged him.

  ‘What did you come for?’ he asks.

  The palms of my hands are clammy. I want to get up and walk away, but I avoid looking at the door, because that would give Grim the upper hand. It’s not that easy to talk to someone when you have to tell the truth the whole bloody time.

  ‘You know who Felix is, don’t you? The dealer on Södermalm?’

  ‘What the fuck is this? You collaborating with the drugs squad now?’

  ‘This isn’t about an investigation,’ I say. ‘I need his number.’

  ‘How come?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘How come?’ Grim insists.

  ‘You know why,’ I hiss.

  ‘I thought you had his number.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I got rid of all those numbers when I got back on duty. And I can’t get it at HQ without arousing suspicion.’

  I wonder what Grim is thinking. He might be trying to work out whether or not I’m telling the truth.

  ‘I want a TV.’

  ‘I can’t arrange that,’ I say. ‘Too big. I can get you a better phone — anything bigger than that won’t work.’

  ‘One that I can watch telly and read the news on,’ Grim says.

  ‘I’ll check with the robbery unit, see if they’ve got one lying around that they could donate.’

  Grim shakes his head.

  ‘A new one, with as pay-as-you-go SIM. Paid for with your own money. It’s nearly fucking Christmas, after all.’

  This makes me laugh. Pay-as-you-go is far harder to trace.

  ‘No, ‘fraid not. No pay-as-you-go.’

  ‘Alright. One with a contract then.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Grim’s eyes have the same quality as dolls’ eyes: what they communicate depends on the beholder. You see what you want to see. He says Felix’s number, one digit at a time.

  ‘Will you remember it?’ he asks.

  ‘If you’ve given me the wrong number, if I don’t get through to Felix, I’ll make sure they take away the phone you’ve got.’

  ‘If you don’t get through, it’ll be because you’ve dialled the wrong number.’

  The door opens, and Slog comes in. His big goatee is dense and red.

  ‘Visiting time is over. It’s time for John’s morning session.’

  ‘If you need more pills,’ Grim says quietly, hopefully quietly enough for Slog not to hear, ‘I’ve got other numbers you can call.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to get clean?’

  Grim laughs.

  ‘See you, Leo.’

  18/12

  ‘So.’ I lean forwards. ‘You mean you weren’t hitting him, you were …’ I flip through the notes. ‘Dancing with him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He tells me this happened out on the street, and I’ve got two witnesses saying the same thing. Is that right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That you were dancing in the street.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit unusual? Especially when it’s minus twenty?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was cold.’

  ‘How come, if it’s true that you were dancing, that ring on your finger looks a very good match for the mark on his cheek?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know.’

  Her blood-alcohol level was 2mg/ml when they brought her in and put her in a cell to sober up. She ended up having to sit there quite a while before being dragged down here. It doesn’t seem to have made any discernible difference. The woman still stinks of alcohol, and the stench fills the room. I feel sick.

  Four hours ago, a man lost two teeth outside a pub on Vasagatan. He claimed that a woman had hit him. The woman claimed they were dancing. It could be a matter of how you define these things, but I doubt it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and get up, because this has to end somehow. ‘I don’t have any further questions.’

  Everything is back to normal.

  I’m in my office, with the interview transcript in front of me and the door open. Phones ring in the other rooms, but not mine. A radio somewhere broadcasts a news bulletin and then plays The Beach Boys’ version of ‘Little Drummer Boy.’ The voices and the chimes send me back in time, back to that journey through Stockholm in Goffman’s car.

  Later that day, on my way home, I spot Levin on the other side of Kungsholmsgatan. His coat is wrapped tightly around his bony frame, its collar turned up towards his cheeks to shield him from the snow and the gathering wind. It’s so cold that any moisture in the air freezes, becoming tiny, glistening, fragments of pearl. Levin is walking along with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, determined but without appearing flustered or nervous. When a car rolls out onto the junction he raises one hand, getting it to stop. He jumps in the back seat, and I wait there, half a block away. The car disappears towards St Göran’s. I didn’t get a good look at the driver. It could have been Goffman.

  I remember what Grim told me, about Levin visiting someone there. How he’d asked Grim to keep quiet about it. I wonder if it’s true.

  On a brick wall covered in advertising is a big poster of the Sweden Democrats party leader. He’s smiling at the camera, under the banner THE PARTY FOR ALL SWEDES.

  I take a Serax tablet from my pocket, and realise it’s the only one I’ve got left. Fuck. I get Felix’s number out. That was close.

  If you think about it, you realise that it’s too risky, so the only way is not to think about it at all, but just to do it.

  I push the intercom buzzer and look around me. Maria Prästgårdsgata is nothing more than slush and parked cars, self-obsessed media types with mismatched outfits. No one’s bothered, because there’s nothing suspect going on here.

  ‘Yes?’ rasps a voice from the intercom.

  ‘Hi.’

  That’s all that’s needed. The lock clicks. I push the door and walk into the stairwell. Felix lives on the second floor, and I take the stairs, knock on the door, and wait. Behind the door I can hear music that sounds like it’s come from an 8-bit Nintendo game being played loudly. The electronic din finds its way out into the stairwell, and bounces off the walls.

  When the door eventually opens, Felix is beaming at me, bare-chested, but with a pair of jeans on. He is wiry and pale, like a dying man, which he might well be.

  ‘Junker,’ Felix says and licks his lips. ‘It’s been a while. Come in, come in, I’m just doing a stock-take.’

  I close and lock the door behind me. Felix disappears into the little two-bed flat, and turns the music off. It smells stuffy and sour, a mixture of sweat and weed. On a table in the living room is a packet of heroin the size of a house-brick, zip-seal bags filled with powder or mar
ijuana, and a variety of tubes in black, orange, and white, and blister-packs of tablets and capsules. Next to them is an open, half-full bottle of whisky, kept company by a heavy, low glass. Next to the table, on a wooden chair, Felix is sitting with a notebook and a pen.

  ‘Covering costs?’ I ask.

  ‘If there’s one thing that covers costs these days, this is it.’

  Felix laughs. He grabs the bottle and carefully pours a couple of fingers into the glass, then sips.

  ‘I just sold fifty grams of coke to a nightclub owner. She was going to treat her guest list. Before that, five grams of morphine to a fireman, and ten joints to a nursery nurse. He laughs again. ‘I mean, a nursery nurse? This town is fucked up. I feel like Father Fucking Christmas.’

  ‘They’re called pre-school teachers nowadays.’

  Felix takes another sip.

  ‘And I’m a pharmaceutical distribution agent.’

  I pull the roll of notes from the inside pocket of my coat and offer it to Felix.

  ‘I’m in a hurry. Can you help me out?’

  ‘Ah,’ Felix says, putting the glass to one side. He takes the notes, and counts them. ‘Serax on the wish-list.’ He squints at me like a tailor sizing up his client. ‘What sort of dose are you on now?’

  ‘Twenty-five to fifty milligrams a day. I don’t want to increase it, but I need to avoid the withdrawal symptoms.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Felix says, scratching his cheek. ‘The thing is, I haven’t got any Serax.’

  I stare at him, and take two steps towards him.

  ‘Give me the money.’

  ‘Calm down, Junker. Chill. I thought I did when you rang, okay? Then I checked.’

  Felix’s eyes are darting between me and the sofa on the far side of the table — a worn-out, pale two-seater from IKEA, with two equally pale cushions on it. Behind one of them is bound to be a weapon.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve got other benzos, okay? Believe me, you’ll be thanking me for this.’

  Felix starts rummaging around his table, and locates two tubes with white caps: one orange and one black.

  ‘OxyContin,’ he says, waving the orange one. ‘Or Halcion. I’d go with Halcion. You can barely get hold of it anymore. And it’s got a pretty flat effect curve, which should suit you if you’re just trying to keep on top of the abstinence.’

  ‘Halcion? You mean the sleeping pills from the Eighties? What the fuck would I want them for?’

  ‘Listen. In the great fables, Halcyon was this bird that could calm storms and the waves in the sea. Trust me, there’s something in it. Halcion is an extremely potent benzoid. You only need a tiny dose — never more than half a milligram, unless you want amnesia and to be wandering around like a zombie. Point 25 is enough for that wonderful chemical calm, but you’re still lucid. Not only that,’ he adds, with a wry smile, ‘Halcion was part of the cocktail that did for Heath Ledger.’

  Felix chucks me the tube. I catch it, and read the information on the side of the tube. It’s in English. I pop off the lid, and my mouth starts watering. The pills are small, oval shaped.

  ‘Those are point two-fives. I’ve got fifties, too, if you should need them. As long as you don’t lie down, you’ll be awake and really, really caned.’

  ‘How much?’ I ask. ‘How much do you want for them?’

  Felix waves the roll of notes.

  ‘Should be more. But it’s Christmas soon, isn’t it? And it’s not every day you get the honour of supplying an officer of the law. Well, actually, it is most days. But not such a corrupt copper as your good self.’

  ‘Fuck you, Felix.’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  He was seventeen, and it hurt when he breathed.

  From his bed in his room, Christian could see the pictures on the television, how his friends clashed with a load of Reds on Medborgarplatsen. The police were there. In the background, Christian could see Michael throwing the knuckleduster in a bin and then disappearing. Christian himself couldn’t take part. Pneumonia had laid him low, and that really pissed him off. He would have really loved to be there, standing by their side. He tried to get on with his homework instead, but he couldn’t concentrate.

  A couple of months later, it was summer, and it was warm. He and Michael went to the Youth Movement parties. They did Nazi salutes. They laughed, but not at that gesture.

  That evening, Christian got his first ever blowjob. Her name was Olivia, and she had the kind of breasts you dream about when you’re seventeen. She was wearing a glossy, khaki-green latex vest with a neckline that revealed her deep cleavage.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, while they were standing there in the toilet.

  She took a step backwards.

  Olivia slowly undid the zip on the tight-fitting vest.

  She smiled. She wasn’t wearing a bra. As her cleavage opened, he saw it: the swastika that revealed itself on the skin between her breasts.

  Christian and Michael kicked the fuck out of some nigger on the way home. His teeth smashed like glass.

  That night, he lay on his bed in Hagsätra, and couldn’t get to sleep. He was thinking, eyes closed. He felt a lump in his throat, and felt weird when he realised where this was going.

  They went on torch-lit marches with shaved heads and heavy boots. They got spat at by red bastards and Swede-haters, who would shout that they didn’t want Nazis on their streets. They really didn’t get it, did they?

  Christian and Michael were two of the youngest members of Sweden Democrat Youth. They were protected by the older ones, who were bigger and stronger. That’s how brotherhood works.

  He’d nearly died in Salem. His attackers were Turks. According to Michael, it was about more than the car. Michael said that those Turks had known that they were members of Sweden Democrat Youth. And, according to Michael, they hated Swedes.

  Christian had started to change: he could feel it in his chest, in his hands, within himself, as though the essence of his being had altered.

  In glossy shop windows, he could see his reflection and feel pride, belonging. As though he and his best friend had been allowed to join a group that had a secret in common, an insight. Who understood the problem and what the solution would have to be like.

  And then, in a flash, came the disorientation and the fear.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Michael said one evening in late autumn that same year. He still had the phone in his hand. ‘I don’t get what the fuck just happened.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That was Nille.’

  Nille, Niklas Persson, was a local hard man, leader of the group in south Stockholm.

  ‘Okay?’ said Christian.

  ‘He’s just been on the phone to the chairman.’

  ‘What, he has?’

  Michael nodded stiffly.

  A couple of months earlier, they’d got a new chairman, a hawk-eyed man from Sölvesborg. Those eyes shimmered with his vision of what Sweden Democrat Youth stood for and should stand for.

  ‘He’s demanding that we fall into line,’ Michael said now. ‘Exactly the kind of shit we were afraid of.’

  The rumour had been circulating for a long time, but nothing had happened. Apparently, the chairman and a small band of loyalists had been charting the members’ backgrounds — above all, their use of violence. Sweden Democrat Youth was the future of the party, and if the party proper was ever going to become a significant player in the political arena, it was going to be necessary for its members to be able to keep themselves in check. No trouble. No Nazi references. No uniforms at meetings or demos. Having a few members who could be trusted was far preferable to having an army, greater in size, but unpredictable and with an unfortunate habit of ending up on the front pages of the papers. And now the purge had started, for real.

  ‘What do you mean? Did you get kicked
out?’

  ‘Yes. Indefinitely. And I’m not the only one.’

  Something inside Christian vibrated.

  ‘Me too?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything about anyone else — he just said I wasn’t the only one. Wait and see if your phone rings.’

  ‘But I …’ Christian tried to put his feelings into words. ‘I don’t want to stay, either way.’

  Michael smiled, feebly.

  ‘I admire your loyalty. But there’s no fucking way you should leave just because I am.’

  ‘But I want to.’

  He looked at Christian.

  ‘You sure?’

  Christian looked away, down, at the phone his friend still had in his hand.

  ‘Yes.’

  Their calm conversation quickly became an enigmatic silence. Christian turned on his friend’s PlayStation, gave him one of the controllers, and took the other one himself. They played ice hockey. Christian was Finland; Michael got to be Sweden. As they played, Michael got more and more agitated, even though Christian was letting him win. He gripped the controller so hard that the colour started to drain from his knuckles.

  ‘I need to go for a fucking walk or something,’ Michael said in the middle of the third period, and slung the controller to the floor. ‘I can’t just sit here. I’m too fucking angry for that.’

  The streets were shiny from the rain, the sky was full of heavy clouds, blacker against the black sky, and they seemed to be pulsing above their heads. They walked side-by-side, hands in pockets, past Hagsätra precinct and away towards Lake Långsjön. They stopped by the tunnel and watched the commuter trains thundering past on the tracks above.

  ‘It’s such fucking … hypocrisy.’ Michael lit a cigarette. ‘Everyone who’s still there, they believe exactly the same things we do. The only difference is that they’re too chicken to show it. And how the fuck are we going to change Sweden? Do you want one?’

  Christian took a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a while, having decided that he agreed. ‘They’re hypocrites, the lot of them.’