‘What?’
His gaze turned to the large window. The sky outside was the same colour as the walls inside.
‘They’ve followed a straight line, while mine’s been stuttering along the whole time.’
‘What’s made yours so stop-start then?’
‘I … what I believe in, what I’m fighting for. Or believed in and fought for.’
He regretted it straightaway, could hear the follow-up question word for word in his head, before it came.
‘What did you believe in?’
He looked down at his hands. They were clenched again.
‘Nothing. Never mind.’
Swedish Resistance had taken up all his time: leafleting, putting up posters, planning parties, planning actions and demos — in spite of a dwindling membership — and the calls and the visits to Mariefred Young Offenders. Jens Malm was at him every week. He had the same job as he’d had five years ago, and lived in the same flat. When he tried to work out how many women he’d slept with over the past year, he got to twelve before he stopped counting. He could remember the names of slightly more than half of them. He met them at parties and in town. Most of them were younger; they looked up to him and Michael. He exploited that and he knew it was wrong, but he just didn’t care anymore.
It was this that scared him the most, he now realised. That he didn’t care anymore.
‘It feels like this is important to you,’ she said. ‘What you believe in, and fight for.’
‘It has … it’s taken up so much of my time. I’m almost standing still in all the other spheres of my life.’
‘But you’re having doubts, is that what you mean? It sounds a bit like it.’
Christian didn’t answer. He wondered how long he’d been sitting there, whether the hour was nearly up. He regretted it now. He should never have come here, shouldn’t have walked in when she opened the door to him.
He looked at the clock above the door. Quarter past one. He’d been there for fifteen minutes.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually, and realised that was the truth.
He remembered the assault down in Salem all those years ago, and could still feel the pain, the vulnerability. Along with the memory came the hate, mixed with all the other times he’d met them on the street, on football pitches, down dark alleys. It was a plague, a disease, even spreading to their own side: he was thinking about the Sweden Democrats. One of their most recent recruits was a Polish woman, a self-proclaimed feminist. Fucking hell. The country needed cleaning up, from the inside out.
‘We all need something to give our lives meaning,’ the counsellor said. ‘Sometimes it can take up a lot of our time, at the expense of other things. That’s just the way it is. There are twenty-four hours in a day and seven days in a week. You can’t fit it all in.’
It wasn’t as though Christian was expected to do everything. From inside the institution, Michael, with Jens’ blessing, tried to reform parts of Swedish Resistance into a prison group for convicted comrades. It didn’t work. The prison service staff and the existing prison groups made sure they never got the chance to establish themselves.
‘Apart, we’re no stronger than anyone else,’ Michael used to say. ‘But together we’re something much, much bigger.’
Which was true. At least, that’s what Christian had always convinced himself of.
‘This friend of yours, who’s inside now,’ said the counsellor.
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me about him.’
Christian chewed his bottom lip till he was afraid he was going to bite through it, and stared out the window again. The sun seemed to be about to fight its way through the clouds.
He felt nervous, for some reason he couldn’t quite put into words. Then he told her: they’d grown up a couple of streets apart. They met at a party. They had interests in common. They liked the same music, had similar taste in clothes. They found each other, and where others came apart during the transition to adulthood, he and Christian had, if anything, become closer. That was all. He looked at the counsellor, hoping that would be enough.
‘What’s he in for?’
‘Assault.’
‘And you’re worried that prison life is getting him down?’
‘I know it is. I can even hear it in his voice when we talk on the phone.’
He’d now been inside for over five years, and had only ever been given short spells on parole. As if that, watching the incarceration take its toll, wasn’t enough, Christian had heard things. During his visits, the screws would make ominous, knowing comments. They never said anything directly, but between the lines it was perfectly clear: when they met, Michael was sometimes bruised across his cheeks, around the eyes, and occasionally his lip would be busted. He made noises as he sat down or stood up, clutching at his stomach or his ribs. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did, and Christian knew why: because of what he believed in, and his decision to stand up for it.
‘You told me you’d sorted it,’ Christian said to him. ‘That you’d sorted it.’
‘It’s not that simple, Christian,’ he replied. ‘But it’s nothing to worry about.’
He wondered what Michael meant, but despite his questions he never got an answer.
After an hour, he stood up from the chair, shook the counsellor’s hand, and left her room. He thanked her, but he wasn’t coming back.
When he got back out onto the pavement, a warm gust blew between the houses, and he looked up towards the sky, and felt the sun warming his face.
At first you can’t make out any more than a hoarse sound cutting through the murmur of the crowd, but as the frames are shown again and again, the word that someone is shouting emerges.
Traitor.
It’s a weird scene. He was going to make the speech outdoors, by the Christmas market on Sergel’s Square, but, because of the storm, the party had applied to hold the meeting at Central Station, in the main hall. For some reason, the request was approved, and that’s where it happens. Maybe it’s because there are so few protesters, and they’re so harmless. They’re at the back, holding a banner. They didn’t have permission to enter the station, so those that are there have managed to evade police checks on the way in. Once they’ve made their way in, the police have apparently decided to concentrate their surveillance on them. This is unfortunate, because it’s a distraction.
There are lots of people in the hall, many of them listening, but many pass through, oblivious, laden with luggage and shopping bags, hurrying towards the train that is almost certainly going to be cancelled because of the weather. Kids are wandering around with balloons, like the ones you’d get at a fun fair — shiny, festive red, with the train company’s initials printed in white capitals. A Father Christmas shuffles back and forth in one corner, handing them out. Christmas songs fill the hall, and for those who witness it via mobile-phone footage, the start of the speech is drowned out by a beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight, walkin’ in a winter wonderland.
He gives his speech from a round stage, as wide and as round as a garden trampoline. On either side, two speakers amplify his deep voice; the backdrop is the party’s name and the blue liverwort flower that is their emblem. Three bodyguards wearing dark suits stand in front of the stage, while the audience is encircled by a couple of dozen uniformed police officers as well as countless others who are not visible, since those in charge at the personal-protection unit within SEPO have planned an exemplary surveillance operation.
He’s fairly still, occasionally taking a step forwards, or to one side, but most of the time he doesn’t move from his spot in front of the colourful backdrop. He alternates between a serious tone and a more light-hearted approach, getting a laugh for a joke about the state of Sweden’s railways. He also warns passengers to be careful in the storm, since Edith isn’t the kind of lady you want to argue wit
h.
‘This is, by all accounts, not one of those genteel little storms. Please do take care.’
He starts his speech by asking why he is here today, and refers to the latest report from The Institute for Social Research, which shows how kids in minority families are deliberately spied on and controlled by their own families, to ensure they are not exposed to a Western upbringing. From there he goes on to talk about Swedish traditions, Swedish values — so no change there. He then goes on, however, to talk about multiculturalism’s impact on social change. He talks about the positive side, but is careful to point out its more complex consequences.
In the background chimes the robotic voice announcing delays, platform alterations, and, less frequently, departures. The weather is causing chaos. The duration of the speech is extended by the interruptions of his supporters, who applaud enthusiastically each time he raises his voice to deliver a political sucker punch.
‘Being Swedish has to mean openness, generosity of spirit,’ he says, ‘welcoming people who do come, enabling them to become part of this great nation. The responsibility does not rest with them. We cannot demand it of them. What we can ask of the refugee arriving here is that he or she is prepared to adopt Swedish values and Swedish culture. But for that to even be possible, the idea of being Swedish needs to be open and inclusive. That responsibility lies squarely with us.’
Applause. He smiles.
One of the many balloons bursts. The bang is so loud that it makes people jump. Maybe that’s what set it off. Who knows?
‘Here he comes,’ Birck says, freezing the image. ‘See him?’
‘Yes.’
A shadow moves behind the stage. You can’t tell how tall he is, but he’s dressed in black, with his hood pulled up over his head.
On the face of it, this is like being in the lion’s den. It’s never going to work. Whoever it is is going to get shot, or, perhaps even worse, beaten to death, within seconds of raising his hand. But then everything goes black. No one knows why — whether it’s part of the plan, or if it’s down to the weather.
A power cut.
What we do know is that it lasted for precisely seventeen seconds.
We’re standing next to each other in a broom cupboard in the police station at Central Station, going through the mute images from CCTV, but this particular clip comes from a recording on a mobile phone.
‘You’ve got twenty-three cameras to choose from,’ I say, ‘and you go for the piddly little mobile phone?’
‘I wanted to hear the sound,’ Birck says, and glances up at the bank of screens in front of us.
‘You see this?’ the constable says, standing there in front of the screens showing the footage, visibly in shock. ‘Here he is. He’s hidden by the pillar, so you don’t get a good look. Do you think he did that on purpose?’
‘What, hid from the CCTV?’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
We watch the images captured by the surveillance camera. The man is standing still; he appears to be watching the stage. His chest is just visible, and his breathing looks heavy.
All the screens go black during the power cut. When the power comes back on, the party leader has collapsed to the floor and the microphone is rolling away from his hand. He looks surprised, and something approaching sadness spreads across his face. Someone screams, and then lots of people scream. You can tell from their faces. The knife is lying on the floor in front of the stage, and the assailant is gone. The black-and-white images make the blood appear dark grey against the white shirt.
‘Wouldn’t you say that the technique is pretty similar to the one Heber’s attacker used?’ says Birck. ‘Like the knife wound is in about the same place as Heber’s.’
‘Yes.’
And Heber died from that injury. At any second, this could become a political assassination, not merely an attempt at one.
‘One more time,’ I say, and nod to the constable.
‘The whole thing?’
‘No, just the last few seconds before the power cut.’
We study those last seconds again. The recording comes from a camera showing the area immediately to the right of the stage, from so far away that the assailant is no more than an inch tall on the screen.
All around us, in the neighbouring rooms, the phones are ringing. The office at Central Station isn’t very big, and the muted sounds seep through the dividing walls.
The knife that was lying next to the stricken party leader was recovered by a uniformed officer, who did everything right, by the book. She handled the weapon with great care and sent it immediately to HQ, who then sent it off for analysis. Before she did so, I peered at the footage over Birck’s shoulder, trying to get a look at the knife lying on the floor of the hall.
‘That’s the one, isn’t it?’ he said.
It certainly looked like it would fit right into the knife-block at Café Cairo.
‘Yes. Same knife, same method as used against Heber. I’m pretty damn sure it’s the same attacker.’
The party leader is taken to hospital, and the floor is flooded with police officers, struggling to evacuate the station and secure the crime scene. It’s pointless; any forensic evidence that might be there is going to get destroyed regardless.
The same attacker. It should be straightforward, but we’ve got nothing, and its just mayhem. Apart from Central Station, the chaos is probably worst around Västerbron Bridge. The police radio crackles into life with a voice informing us that the high winds have caused a driver to lose control and collide with a traffic light. The driver got away with concussion, but the traffic light wasn’t so lucky. Weakened by the impact, it was unable to withstand Edith’s force, slowly laying itself across the carriageway and causing a pile-up.
‘How the hell did he get away?’ I say. ‘How the fuck did he make it out of there?’
Birck leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and then pushes them, hard, with his fingertips. He grimaces. I drum on my thigh with my fingers. Can’t think of anything to think.
‘I don’t know,’ says Birck, without opening his eyes. ‘It didn’t look like there were many officers in that direction.’
‘They should have had the whole building secured.’
‘Yes. But right behind the stage? And how far can you get in, what was it, seventeen seconds?’
He turns towards the constable, his eyes still closed.
‘Yes,’ the constable says nervously, looking at Birck. ‘Seventeen.’
‘The bodyguards know what they’re doing, you can tell. But they only need to be distracted for two, three seconds. He gets seventeen here. Not only that, but it’s dark.’
My body registers the first wave of chaos ebbing away. I’m feeling light-headed, as though I need to eat or drink something to avoid blacking out, but it isn’t that. I clutch the tube of Halcion in my pocket.
We didn’t have a hope. We weren’t even close. We were heading in the wrong direction right to the very end.
‘Fuck!’ Birck screams, and slams his hand against the wall. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’
The constable looks scared. Birck’s face is red; he’s just standing there, breathing heavily. I should say something, but I don’t know what.
‘Let’s do without the hysteria,’ he eventually says, calmer, ‘and do what we’re supposed to, look at what’s actually happened and what we know.’ He opens his eyes. ‘You okay?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your forehead’s all shiny. Are you hot?’
‘Oh, right. Yes. No. I’m alright.’
I’m not really alright. I need some water.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s look at what happened. What do you say to that? And where the hell are Iris and Goffman, by the way?’
‘Iris went off to make a call to see
how they were getting on with the evacuation. As for Goffman, I’ve got no idea.’
‘Here,’ says the constable. He reels the various recordings back and forth on the screens. ‘Here he is. It’s … a couple of seconds after the power came back on.’
The camera has captured part of the area surrounding Central Station’s food court. Many people are using the torch function on their mobile phones. Those who aren’t sitting eating junk food, waiting for things to improve, are dragging heavy bags and cases back and forth. When the lights come back on and Central Station is once again bathed in cold light, people quickly return to whatever it is they’ve been doing. A masked man zigzags his way past them, the bottom part of his face covered by a scarf, and the top of his head hidden by his thick hood. He disappears out of shot.
According to the first witness statements, the man rushed out to a waiting car. Others said he boarded one of the commuter trains. According to a third account, he disappeared down into the underground.
‘Where does he go from here?’ Birck says.
‘He heads towards the trains,’ I say. ‘Check the cameras near the platforms.’
A glossy film of sweat lines the officer’s upper lip. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his mouth.
‘Who has a hanky nowadays?’ says Birck.
‘It was a present,’ the officer mumbles, staring at the screens.
It’s fifty-seven minutes since the attack. Birck puts his phone to his ear, and as soon as they answer he asks for a list of all the mainline, commuter, and bus services that have left the station in the past hour.
‘Have they?’ he says, taken aback. ‘Okay. Who was that? Well, thanks.’ He hangs up. ‘Somebody beat me to it — someone from HQ.’
The Falling Detective Page 26