The Falling Detective

by Christoffer Carlsson

  ‘We need to meet up,’ says Jonathan. ‘I’m on my way to yours.’

  Jonathan spends that night lying awake in bed, and that’s when the thought first occurs to him. He’s been so preoccupied by the information he’s received that he hasn’t had time to stop and think about what it might mean. After telling Christian, he was commended and asked to keep a low profile. He was told that Christian would tell his superiors, so that the people who needed to know would be told.

  ‘Good, Jonathan,’ said Christian. ‘That’s good. Now go home and get some sleep.’

  And it is now, lying there in the dark, listening to the sound of his own breathing, that the thought strikes him: Ebi.

  He’s in Radical Anti-Fascism, in the small black group. If Jonathan can get them to abandon their plan, Antonsson will continue supporting the nationalist struggle. And Ebi — his old friend, the one who used to protect him — will be okay. Jonathan shuts his eyes. They’ve seen each other at demos, at a distance, but have kept out of each other’s way.

  The next morning, Iris’s money has reached his account. He calls Felix. For the next week, he is constantly high, partying non-stop. It’s the only way to keep the thoughts at bay.

  By the evening of the nineteenth of October, the drugs have run out. He should leave it, take Christian’s advice and lie low, do what’s asked of him, but in the end it’s no longer an option. He’s started hallucinating, and sometimes sees Ebi in front of him, appearing on underground platforms and in the crowds on Drottninggatan, even standing at the foot of the bed when Jonathan wakes up sweating and not knowing where he is. The drugs make him disoriented. Then they run out, and give way to the anxiety.

  It falls around him, and it takes him over.

  JA: it’s jonathan, can we meet?

  EH: why?

  JA: need to talk

  EH: about what?

  JA: can’t say here.

  EH: yes you can, say here. what’s it about?

  JA: heard a rumour you’re about to lose it altogether.

  EH: what do you mean? what was the rumour?

  JA: can we meet up?

  EH: no. what’s the rumour?

  JA: attack on martin antonsson

  JA: hello?

  No answer. Fucking stupid immigrant cockroach. How the hell can Ebi not realise what a big deal it is for him to be contacting him — practically high treason?

  Jonathan deletes the messages as soon as he’s read them. What the fuck is he going to do? It’s like he’s living between the lines, a pseudo-life full of doubt.

  He asks Christian whether there’s any news on Antonsson. Nothing. Iris contacts him, asking for information, asking him to confirm or deny a rumoured attack on a Jewish school. Members of Swedish Resistance have been seen in the vicinity, as if they are doing reconnaissance. Jonathan denies it. Three days later, they carry out the attack, daubing JEWISH PIGS and 1488 on the front of the school.

  Jonathan protests his innocence when Iris calls, upset and angry, and he says he has been misinformed.

  A few weeks later:

  JA: have you even checked it out?

  EH: yes.

  JA: and?

  EH: how did you find out?

  JA: doesn’t matter. can you stop it happening?

  EH: no.

  JA: why not?

  EH: because it’s the right thing to do.

  JA: have you told anyone? that I know about it?

  EH: are you mental? if people find out that I’ve even had contact with you I’ll get kicked out, and branded a traitor.

  Jonathan reads the last sentence of Ebi’s message over and over again. He doesn’t know how to answer. Jonathan doesn’t hate Ebi. He hates what Ebi is fighting for. He calls Iris, asking for more money. She demands new information in return, and he has nothing to give her. Despair creeps up on him, gets inside him, and brings with it a new thought: maybe he should let it happen. He has at least tried. It’s the right thing to do. It’s hard to stop someone who believes in something.

  Jonathan doesn’t make up his mind until the night before the demo in Rålambshovs Park, and when he does, it’s down to a very strange coincidence.

  During the strategy meeting and the party that follows out in Enskede, Jonathan takes Christian to one side. Christian is drunk, but he looks down.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ says Jonathan.

  ‘Nothing. It’s … no, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Have you heard anything new?’ he says.

  ‘About what?’

  Whenever they discuss things like this, things that somehow relate to Jonathan’s treachery, he feels shame.

  ‘Antonsson.’

  Christian nods slowly, and puts his beer can on the worktop.

  ‘He’s got protection. Nothing’s going to happen.’

  Jonathan is in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. His nose has healed nicely. He can hear the music, the laughter, the rallying cries, and the slogans through the door. They’re geeing each other up ahead of the counter-demo.

  He hates loneliness, more than anything, but he stays calm.

  Christian’s instructions and orders are almost therapeutic. They bring order to the chaos in Jonathan’s heart.

  It gets late, far too late, that night. If he goes back to Hallunda, he’s hardly going to get any sleep at all. He asks if he can stay over.

  ‘Yeah, course.’ The leader puts his arm around Jonathan. ‘You’re one of us. You’ve shown us that you’re getting more trustworthy all the time. Take the sofa in the kitchen. You’re not the only one staying the night.’

  And there it is, lying on the table by the sofa, the little dark-blue player. He finds it in the dark, listens to it, hears the man’s voice, and the woman’s. He hears Ebi’s name, and goes rigid.

  He lies there, staring at the Dictaphone. Once he’s made up his mind, he doesn’t hesitate, which he later finds surprising.

  JA: by the swings tomorrow at 8. I’ve got something you need.

  EH: what?

  JA: you’ll find out when you get there. you have to come. alone.

  The swings were the only place he could think of where he wouldn’t need to give Ebi more details, which he wanted to avoid in case someone were to see their messages. Something’s not right, Jonathan thinks to himself. Something is very, very wrong. He waits for Ebi’s reply. Nothing arrives. What does Ebi’s silence mean? Should he trust it?

  Then he leaves the flat in Enskede, with the Dictaphone in his pocket. He holds his breath as he makes his way out.

  21/12

  That morning, the news is showing parts of yesterday’s televised debate. In the debate, the chief of the National Police Agency is doing his best to fend off a lefty criminologist, who sees Ebi Hakimi’s death as the result of an abuse of power rather than incompetence on the part of the police. Amateur footage from the demo in Rålambshov Park shows a passing glimpse of a masked Ebi Hakimi, holding one corner of a large banner. In the edge of the frame you can make out blue and yellow flags. This is before the chaos, when it was still nothing more than a demonstration and counter-demonstration between RAF and Swedish Resistance. At that point, Birck and I were sitting opposite Lisa Swedberg, seeing her alive for the last time.

  I wonder how her parents reacted when they found out about her death. Unlike Ebi Hakimi’s, Lisa Swedberg’s death has gone pretty much unnoticed by the media, possibly because the security police have done their utmost to hush it all up.

  Sooner or later, cracks will appear. They always do.

  Birck and I are both standing watching the television, each holding a cup of coffee. It’s Saturday, and I wish I was off. Outside the walls of HQ, the weather was so awful that it was impossible for me to walk here from Chapmansgatan; I had to order myself a taxi, again. The wind isn’t that strong yet; but since it�
��s minus twenty-five degrees out there, it’s still scarcely bearable. Windswept, tired policemen pass each other in the corridor with their rucksacks and bags, thick coats, and jackets.

  ‘Don’t shed a tear for Ebi Hakimi,’ Birck says, watching as the chief of the National Police Authority’s slightly smug smile fills the screen, and the criminologist’s voice patters away from out of shot. ‘Is that what he’s getting at?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Fucking ponce,’ Birck says — it’s not clear who he’s referring to — and sips his coffee.

  The TV is now showing archive footage of the violent clashes in Umeå in September. This is followed by more archive film, this time from a march in central Stockholm a week or so later. The marchers belong to The Party of Swedes, and they are accompanied by a rolling wall of police vans separating them from their opponents.

  Birck turns the telly off.

  ‘Are you going to take one, or what?’

  The tube of Halcion is in my hand, clearly visible. I must have taken it out of my pocket. Instinctively, I push it back where it came from.

  ‘Be careful with those,’ he says. ‘They don’t look like they came from the chemist’s.’

  ‘I don’t take them. I just like to know I’ve got them.’

  Birck doesn’t say anything. He heads off towards his room instead. I read the transcript of the victim’s interview — the man with the ring print on his cheek after the assault in Vasagatan — and then send it off for registration and entry into the ledger.

  Outside HQ, ambulance sirens screech past. The phone rings. I don’t bother answering. And soon Edith will be here. To mark the occasion, the radio announces that they’ll be playing music with a storm theme: ‘You’re the Storm’ by The Cardigans, ‘Call it Stormy Monday’ by T-Bone Walker, Massive Attack’s ‘Weather Storm’, and, of course, ‘Hurricane’ and ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, by Bob Dylan. I sit there listening to T-Bone Walker and the lyric the eagle flies on Friday, and Saturday I go out and play over and over again when the door swings open, and there’s Birck in the doorway.

  ‘Why don’t you answer the phone?’

  ‘Oh, was that you?’

  ‘Come to my room.’

  Birck’s room is the same size as mine, but it feels bigger. He’s got a smaller desk, and the walls are covered in binders on tightly packed shelves. It’s light, and smells faintly of his aftershave. A large dark-blue rug covers part of the floor, despite this being against Health and Safety directives. In one corner, two thriving plants thrust vigorously from their pots; in the other, a little flat-screen telly is tuned to one of the news channels.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a TV,’ I say.

  On the desk there’s a computer and a telephone. The receiver is lying to one side, and a little red lamp is flashing.

  ‘Are you on the phone?’

  ‘It’s Oscar Svedenhag.’ Birck closes the door behind him, sits down on the chair, and picks up the receiver and puts it to his ear. ‘He’s here now. I’ll put you on speaker.’

  I flop into Birck’s spare chair, an older version of the one he tried to give me. It’s even more comfortable than it looks. The speaker on the phone crackles. Otherwise there’s silence, apart from the clinking noise from the plumbing and someone singing he knows if you’ve been good, so be good for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Right,’ Birck says. ‘Say hello, Leo.’

  ‘Er, what’s this about?’

  ‘I think …’ Oscar sounds composed, but underneath the veneer of calm there’s a tremble in his voice, as though he’s just been shouting at someone. ‘It’s just the two of you there that can hear me, right?’

  ‘Just me and Leo.’

  ‘Aren’t all calls recorded, automatically?’

  ‘No,’ says Birck.

  ‘Leo,’ says Oscar, ‘when you were here, at Cairo, I was taking something out of the oven. What was it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to make sure it’s you.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise my voice?’

  ‘If you don’t answer, I’ll put the phone down.’

  I let the answer wait until Birck tuts at me.

  ‘Brownies.’

  ‘Okay,’ Oscar says, noticeably calmer. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I think something’s about to happen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. It might … there’s some really weird shit going on. Everyone … I don’t know, it could just be me getting paranoid. I’m going to have to go to three funerals next month. Thomas, Ebi, and Lisa. It might be that.

  ‘I’m really sorry about that,’ Birck says, ‘but we’re not counsellors.’

  ‘I know that, it’s just … I think something’s going to happen. That it’s going to kick off soon.’

  ‘What?’ I insist. ‘What’s going to happen?’

  The speaker crackles again. A fridge opens and closes, and a bottle-top is removed with a sharp hiss. You better be good for goodness’ sake!

  ‘I’ve got a few things here, from Ebi. I think it’s best if you come here.’

  ‘This isn’t our case,’ I say. ‘You need to talk to the Security Pol—’

  ‘No chance. Never. Not after the fucking witch-hunt they’ve put us through, with their fucking terrorism paranoia. If I show them this, they’re going to hit the roof.’

  ‘It’s gratifying to hear that you’d rather come to us, but we ca—’

  ‘I’d rather not talk to anyone. But I feel I have to.’

  Birck quickly scribbles something on a Post-it:

  lie

  ‘It’s going to take us a while to get there,’ I say. ‘What with this weather and everything.’

  It’s the morning before the demo, and Jonathan has slept far too little; in fact, he hasn’t really slept at all, and the effects of the alcohol are still evident. There’s a stinging sensation behind his eyes, and an ache round his temples. And right till the last minute he doesn’t know: is Ebi coming?’

  When he does show, as he’s walking towards the swings in Hallunda that morning, it’s like a weird dream. The last time they saw each other was at the end of one summer, a long time ago. It’s a stark contrast to the way things are now, in the middle of December, when Hallunda is grey and cold, and the snow crunches underfoot. And yet the feeling is familiar, and striking. Something inside him remembers.

  ‘What have you got?’ Ebi asks, avoiding looking at Jonathan’s shaved head.

  ‘This.’ He holds out the Dictaphone. ‘There’s a load of sound files on it, conversations between two people. You get named. Someone called Lisa says your name.’

  Ebi is surprised by this, and doesn’t even want to touch the Dictaphone.

  ‘I’m guessing you know what this is about?’ says Jonathan.

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. Listen to it. And whatever it is you’re up to, you must stop.’

  ‘We do what the fuck we want.’

  Ebi sits down on one of the swings. Jonathan stuffs the Dictaphone in his pocket, and sits on the other one. Where he always used to sit.

  ‘Why him?’ says Jonathan, quietly. ‘Why Antonsson?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘No. There are loads of other potential targets.’

  ‘The recording studio. His warehouse. His money. And so on.’ Ebi has had his head bowed, but lifts it now, his eyes meeting Jonathan’s. ‘Not to mention the fact that he’s a committed fucking Nazi.’

  National Socialist, Jonathan thinks to himself, and gets the urge to throw himself on Ebi and hit him as hard as he can. Their breath appears like white puffs of light smoke that mix together.

  He holds out the Dictaphone again.

  ‘Take it,’ he says. ‘
I don’t want it. I don’t want … I don’t want you getting in shit.’

  Ebi seems to hesitate. Then he takes the Dictaphone from Jonathan’s hand. Their fingers touch. Ebi’s skin is warm. Jonathan holds his breath.

  ‘You don’t want Antonsson getting in shit. That’s what this is about.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone getting killed.’ Jonathan breathes out. ‘That’s all.’

  Ebi’s body stiffens, and his eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I don’t want you to kill him, it wo—’

  ‘Is that what you think we’re about to do?’

  ‘What the hell else is it going to be?’

  Ebi’s reaction is laughter, but it’s neither mocking nor happy. Jonathan can tell — he can see it in his eyes.

  ‘What the fuck … we’d never do that. Who the hell’s been saying that?’

  Iris’s name rests on his tongue. He can’t say it.

  ‘He’s got a recording studio, and a warehouse full of music and merchandise. That’s all we’re after. We’re not trying to get at him personally. Well,’ Ebi corrects himself, ‘not like that, anyway.’

  ‘That’s not what it sounds like if you listen to the Dictaphone. She, what’s her name … Lisa thinks you’re going to physically hurt him.’

  ‘There are voices advocating that,’ Ebi says. ‘But they’re always shouted down. It’s way too dangerous. And wrong.’

  A sense of relief spreads through Jonathan’s body. In Ebi’s hand: the Dictaphone. He turns it round, upside down, and swipes his thumb across the blank screen.

  ‘You know … do you know what this is?’ Ebi says, seemingly a bit gentler now. ‘I mean, who it belonged to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The sociologist who was murdered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you miss that?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard about that, but I didn’t know it belonged to him.’

  ‘They think we did it. That RAF was responsible.’

  ‘Who thinks that? The cops?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘No fucking way. Definitely not.’ He laughs to himself. ‘I’m even pretty sure that one of our members had a thing going on with him.’