I stare at one of the screens, which the constable has paused on an image of the attacker.
‘Who the hell is that?’ I say.
‘I can’t find him,’ the constable informs us. ‘I can’t pick him up anywhere after that.’ He’s dejected, as though he’s just failed an important test. ‘I’m sorry. For the time being, that’s our last picture of him.’
He’s a big man, broad-shouldered, and wearing dark clothes. That’s all we can discern from the footage.
‘We’re too far behind,’ Birck says, more to himself than to anyone else. ‘Everyone’s too far behind. To just go out looking for him is hardly going to help. He’s not going to be moving around for the hell of it.’
‘Ebi Hakimi finds out from Asplund about the rumours of an attack,’ I say. ‘Asplund is a member of Swedish Resistance. His immediate superior is Christian Västerberg.’ I look up from the floor. I need some water. ‘Where do we find him?’
Autumn. The release date had been set: three months to go. He’d got the text late last night, from a number he didn’t recognise. Christian didn’t dare respond.
A date, that was all the text consisted of. If Michael had had the chance to send him a message, wouldn’t he have written a bit more? Maybe he was scared.
It was coming up to eleven in the morning. He wasn’t due in till twelve today, having taken the morning off to sort out the dwindling stock of flyers. Jens Malm called him almost every day. Most of the time, it was hard to know what he actually wanted. It was as though he was blaming Christian for their lack of progress.
‘Those of you who make up the Stockholm division are our front line,’ he’d often say. ‘If you don’t make any progress, nor can we.’
They were severely depleted. Those who still stood with them were the ones who always would, come what may — the faithful, the most committed. And that was good, Malm said. Money, on the other hand, was in short supply.
Christian watched children chasing each other across the playground outside his block. If he’d gone back to the counsellor he would probably have told her about this, about how he found himself wanting to stand there and watch them, without being able to explain why.
The phone rang. He pulled it out and put it to his ear, answering without taking his eyes off the playground. One of the kids was being chased around by the others. At this distance, their voices seemed unnaturally small.
‘Yes, hello,’ Christian said.
‘It’s me.’
Michael. He went stiff, then took a step away from the window and sat himself down on one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Hey, what’s up?’
‘I … this is bad, Christian. Really fucking bad.’
‘But what’s up? I got your message, three months left, that’s fucking great.’
‘I don’t think I’ll make it that far. I’ve … I need money.’
He’d tried to put a brave face on things, Christian knew that. He also knew about the rumours that flourished: that during his time inside, Michael had been a target for other groups, criminal Islamists and left-wing extremists convicted of serious assaults and attempted manslaughter. As if that wasn’t enough, the director of the institution was known to be Jewish.
Now it came out: the words streamed out of the handset, and Christian struggled not to miss anything.
Michael had tried to survive by paying his way out of trouble. It had worked, until the money ran out.
‘How much do you need?’ said Christian.
‘More than you’ve got.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Shit.’
The word escaped from his mouth before he had the chance to stop it. That was considerably more money than he had.
‘Jens has helped me up to now, but I don’t think he’s got much left.’ His voice got quieter. ‘I’m not going to make it, Christian. I’m serious now — this isn’t a joke. If I don’t sort this out, I won’t be able to walk out of here.’
Christian felt the panic spreading across his chest.
‘What should I do?’
‘Talk to Jens. I’ve promised to do some legwork for him when I get out, in return for his support. And now he doesn’t have any money himself, but he does have a direct line into the Sweden Democrats. And they’ve got money.’ There’s a short silence, crackling on the line, and then, ‘I’ve got to go now.’
It was perfectly logical, really. In exchange for their help once Michael was released, Malm was to try to arrange some backhanded transfer. It was pretty straightforward, as long as it stayed under the radar: there was a year to go till the election. Right now, money was pouring into the Sweden Democrats from every conceivable source, as well as from a few inconceivable ones. Besides, there were still forces within the Sweden Democrats who supported Swedish Resistance — forces that tried to look after their own.
This was how Jens Malm explained it to Christian when they met up later that afternoon, after Christian had rung in sick. They sat in Malm’s car, a cool, silver BMW, and Christian wondered how he could afford it. The place: a layby by the southbound E4 motorway, a no man’s land on the edge of the southern suburbs.
‘All we need to do,’ Malm said, ‘is make sure we hold it together. And this must not, under any circumstances, get to the party leadership. That cunt from Sölvesborg would shit himself with fear at the thought of losing votes over this. I’ll talk to my contact, and see how much he can get his hands on. How much was it he needed?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Fifty. We should be able to sort that.’
He looked at Malm, realising that this was the first time they’d met up, just the two of them. The leadership met once a week, but there were always another two or three people present.
Malm took out his phone and sent a text. He was over forty now, but his features were still sharp: defined cheekbones, his hair as thick and as well groomed as ever. He was wearing a light autumn coat and a discreet scarf, looking more like a lawyer or an estate agent. When Malm lifted his hand to adjust the rear-view mirror, the arm of his coat slid down, and Christian could see the three words tattooed under his forearm, in discreet capitals: LOYALTY — DUTY — DESIRE. The motto and mantra of Swedish Resistance. And beside them, an older Wolfsangel.
The layby contained a little truck-stop café and a car park, and two public toilets. A handful of cars were parked a little way away. The E4 rumbled beneath them, a chain of cars shooting past.
‘Right,’ he said as he put the phone away. ‘We’ll have to see what he says. Shouldn’t take too long.’ He looked at Christian. ‘How are things with you?’
‘Yeah, okay. I suppose.’
‘You were a bit quiet at the last meeting.’
‘I was knackered — I came straight from work.’
Malm nodded thoughtfully.
‘Only a radical, uncompromising organisation is capable of overturning the current system. That’s what I’ve always said, and that’s what I’m saying now, even though we’re fighting against the tide.’ His eyes met Christian’s, and he smiled. ‘And knackered soldiers are better than no soldiers.’
Christian smiled, too. They sat in silence for a while. The door to the café swung open, and a lone, overweight woman emerged. She made her way to her car, and as she sat down in the driver’s seat, the little Opel rocked violently.
‘I really hope we can help him out,’ said Malm. ‘He deserves it, after all he’s done for us.’
The Opel drove off. Beyond the Opel was a Mazda. Christian saw something moving in the back seat. It took a minute for him to realise that it was a woman, straddling a man. She had one hand in her hair and the other round one of the headrests.
Malm’s phone beeped and buzzed. He opened the text. ‘Fifty thousand,’ he said, nodding. ‘Green light. I’ll call him to sort out
the details.’
Relief washed over Christian.
‘Who’s your contact?’
‘Niklas Persson, or Nille. He’s got himself all the way up to party headquarters.’
Christian remembered him. He was the one who had informed Michael of his expulsion from Sweden Democrat Youth. That was a long time ago, but Christian still remembered it clearly, the sadness in his eyes. How furious he had been himself.
‘I know who he is.’
‘I know you know.’ Malm laughed. ‘I think he still feels bad about chucking you two out.’
‘He never chucked me out,’ Christian said. ‘I left of my own free will, out of loyalty.’
‘Oh yes. That’s right.’ Malm nodded. ‘That’s your biggest asset, Christian, your loyalty.’
In the car a little way away, the woman’s hips moved frantically, almost in spasm, before she collapsed into the back seat. Christian thought he could hear her moans.
That same evening, the phone rang. It was Malm.
‘Not happening,’ he said. ‘We’re fucked.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that.’ Malm’s voice was cold. ‘Calm yourself down.’
‘Sorry. I apologise. What’s happened?’
Malm had spoken to Nille and explained why they needed the money, and they had agreed the details between them. They’d arranged to meet in an old factory in Solna for the handover. After waiting for half an hour, Malm had sensed something was wrong. He’d called Nille, who hadn’t answered. After fifteen minutes, Nille had called back, stressed and anxious.
Someone had heard their conversation. Had heard Swedish Resistance, had heard prison, heard the prisoner’s name.
The news had reached the party leader within five minutes. The leader had immediately put a stop to the transaction. Apparently, he had lost his temper, which was very unusual: they were at the start of an election campaign. They needed to focus on themselves and the voters. They had obligations to their donors. The money wasn’t meant to save convicted Nazi inmates. And then: Let the Nazi get beaten to death, for all he cared.
Once he’d stopped shouting, he’d sacked Nille.
‘You need to contact him,’ Malm said. ‘So he knows.’
‘But he … if he doesn’t have the money … they’re going to …’
‘I know, but what the hell are we going to do?’
‘There must be another way.’
‘He needs the money right now,’ said Malm. ‘There’s no way to get hold of it legally.’
‘Well, illegally then?’
‘Never, Christian.’ Malm’s voice darkened. ‘It would never serve the interests of the nationalist struggle, and that must always come first. Don’t forget that. Everything has to be done with that in mind. And on this occasion …’
‘What?’
‘I forbid you to do it. That’s an order. Contact him and explain.’
Malm didn’t give orders very often. He managed to get what he wanted anyway. So when he did, it felt almost like a threat.
Christian checked the time.
‘He was going to get in touch at ten. That’s when he’s allowed to make a call.’
‘That’s in twelve minutes.’ Malm cleared his throat. ‘That means you have twelve minutes to work out what you’re going to say to him.’
The line went dead. Christian looked at the phone, and it was all he could do not to sling it against the wall.
Thirteen minutes later, it rang. Christian sat on his living-room floor and tried to decide what to do. When he pressed green and put the phone to his ear, he realised he still didn’t have a clue what to say.
Michael sounded hopeful, alert, despite it being late.
‘Is it all sorted?’ he asked.
Christian closed his eyes.
‘No.’
Then he explained, and when he’d finished he went quiet. There were no more words.
‘Okay.’ Michael sounded calm. ‘I see. So it was the leadership, then?’
‘The leader himself,’ Christian said.
‘I see,’ he repeated.
Christian wondered how serious the threats against him were, but he didn’t ask, didn’t want to risk sounding like he doubted him.
‘What happens now?’ said Christian.
‘I don’t know.’
He survived, as it turned out, thanks to simple good fortune: he was moved to another institution, closer to Stockholm, to prepare him for life on the outside. The decision came from the prison authorities three days after their conversation.
Back in Mariefred, they hadn’t managed to get him on his own, and the threat to him at the new place was smaller. Instead of being beaten to death, he was punched a few times and took a few kicks in the gut.
He pissed blood for a couple of weeks, but that, outwardly, was all.
Outside Jonathan’s flat in Hallunda, the storm is raging. He’s standing by the window with his back to the telly, where updates about the attack on the party leader alternate with information about Edith’s relentless progress.
In daylight, Hallunda is no more than great concrete hulks of buildings and graffiti-covered walls — lawless country. It’s been like that for a long time, but much more so since the May riots, when cars were torched and the niggers battled the police, who called them monkeys and made everything worse. Now, in this weather, Hallunda rises in the darkness like a great, grey ruin.
Jonathan has been ripped off. Again. They’ve tricked him. Why do I have to be such an idiot, he thinks to himself.
And, at the same time, he’s ashamed.
He looks at himself in the reflection in the glass: the short hair, the pronounced eyebrows, one of which is bisected by a big scar, the bulbous nose, low cheekbones, narrow, stretched eyes. He’s wearing black, baggy jeans and a white T-shirt. Poking out from the sleeve is a tattoo — the word SWEDEN and a swastika. His arms are pale and spindly. He avoids looking at the tattoo.
He picks up the phone and calls Christian. The ring tone is choppy and scratchy, but there’s no answer.
He peers over at the door to the flat, and then at the knuckleduster on the windowsill in front of him. That’s all he’s got, if anything happens.
Jonathan moves away from the window. He doesn’t want to see himself. Standing there, close to the wall, he can feel the storm; he can feel the draught by the skirting boards. The windowpane shakes, as if it were about to give way.
He rings Christian again. He doesn’t answer.
The flat has a little hallway, a door leading to the bathroom, a kitchenette where the day’s washing up is still waiting. He’s lived here since he left home three years ago. One wall is covered with a huge Swedish flag. Jonathan has written SWEDISH RESISTANCE by hand, in the yellow cross. On the desk is a wrapped parcel, with a dressing gown inside. To Mum from Jonathan, he’s written on the tag, which is shaped like Santa’s hat and tied to the ribbon.
It just rings and rings, but no one answers.
The windscreen wipers in Iris’s car attempt to provide some visibility through the windscreen, but their motion is in vain. Christian Västerberg is registered as resident at 19 Olshammarsgatan in Hagsätra, a journey that would normally take just over fifteen minutes. In this weather, it’s a different story.
Around us, Stockholm is on the verge of collapse. The airports at Arlanda and Bromma have cancelled all flights. In the Baltic, the sea level is rising, and Edith has pushed the waters of Lake Mälaren to more than a metre over normal levels, and the great turmoil in the water is smashing huge sheets of ice onto the shore.
Emergency Service vehicles are blocking the road. Iris lowers the window and holds up her badge towards the unmoved constable.
‘Where are you going?’ the officer shouts.
‘Hagsät
ra,’ says Iris.
‘Eh?’
‘Hagsätra.’
He laughs.
‘Good luck.’
Iris closes the window again. The radio plays a festive tune, It’s worth the wait the whole year through, just to make someone happy like you.
‘Christian Västerberg,’ Birck says thoughtfully. ‘Who is that?’
‘Something of a low-profile member of Swedish Resistance. We know he acts as a go-between for the members and the leader of the Stockholm division, Keyser. Västerberg and Keyser have been friends since childhood.’
‘Keyser,’ I say. ‘Where have I heard that before?
‘About ten years back, he kicked a left-wing activist in the face, so hard that his eye popped out of its socket. He got a very harsh prison term.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t that.’
‘Considering their notoriety, we actually know very little about them. Their operation is completely closed. As I was saying, Asplund was our contact inside the movement.’
‘Shouldn’t you have been keeping an eye on them?’ says Birck.
‘You can always think that,’ Iris says, cuttingly. ‘At least you can always think that afterwards.’
‘This isn’t the boy scouts we’re dealing with. This is a militant neo-Nazi organisation. Damn right that you, with all your resources, should hav—’
‘Our department relies on two things: what happens out there, and intelligence that informs us of it. We don’t put people under constant surveillance, especially people who are not suspected of any criminal activity. And we, too, have limited resources. We have focused heavily on RAF. We have our mole within Swedish Resistance, as I said, and he was previously able to give us precise information about their plans. We have not had any indications about this.’
‘Asplund might not have known about it,’ I say.
‘No,’ Iris says stiffly. ‘Maybe he didn’t. We don’t even know if it was them. We don’t even know who the assailant was.’
The Falling Detective Page 27