No one says anything. Behind us, a tree is blown down, crashing into the fence that lines the road. The fence gives way, bulging out across the carriageway.
That’s when it comes to me: Christian Västerberg. I think he had a friend with an unusual surname — could have been Keyser. There was an assault in Salem, years ago, and I think they were involved. I was still living at home, but I spent almost no time there. I wonder if Grim knows about it. Maybe. I can’t remember whether Västerberg was the victim or the perpetrator. Maybe those kinds of details don’t really matter.
Christian Västerberg lives in one of the tower blocks, near a pizzeria. We climb out of the car, and the snow finds its way inside my coat, under the collar, in my eyes and mouth, everywhere.
A harder, sharper wind arrives, like a wave.
One minute, Birck and Iris are standing next to each other. He’s looking something up on his phone, she’s putting the car keys in her pocket. Then a shadow falls, fast and heavy, and the next minute, Iris has flung herself at Birck, and a deafening crash — like a skip hitting the ground — makes the earth shake, and my ears pop. A ten-centimetre-thick roof panel, several metres across, has fallen from one of the buildings.
‘Thanks,’ Birck says, shocked.
‘You’re welcome.’
I look up towards the sky, which is being torn apart. The clouds are dark and heavy. When the next gust arrives, the noise escalates to a roar and we duck, instinctively. There’s a creaking sound nearby, but I don’t know where, because the noise is too weak when it reaches us, and can’t be identified. On the other side of the road, part of the façade is being ripped off. Roof tiles drop, crash to the ground, and shatter.
Iris looks at Birck.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so.’
She turns around. The roof panel fell so close to the car that it took out one of the wing-mirrors.
‘Car’s fine, too,’ she says, ‘more or less.’
Christian turns his gaze away from the television, where pictures of the attack roll on a constant, never-ending loop. Where’s Michael? He wants to contact him, but he doesn’t dare.
The phone keeps ringing, over and over again. It’s Jonathan. He doesn’t answer.
A torrent of regret flushes through him, so strong that he almost gets carried away on it, and he realises he won’t be able to hold out for very much longer.
The time inside had left Michael with a few new scars and a new iciness to his stare. It had also strengthened his resolve: he’d made it. He’d survived. The worst scars were not visible. Later, Christian would think, Michael could get very down, introverted and absent in a completely different way than before. He got a job as a caretaker in a warehouse. He hated it, and did the bare minimum required so as to keep hold of the job.
The first meeting after Michael’s return was attended by three more people than the one before. This brought the total to seven.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Michael said, ‘that we got so small while I was inside. I know you did your best.’
Christian didn’t know what to say. Had he done all he could? He didn’t know the answer to that question. Michael had never blamed him for the failure, their dramatic decline. Michael had nodded and looked sad. He said he understood. But, he’d added, it wasn’t over yet.
‘It’s a different climate now,’ Michael went on. ‘Not just here, but across Scandinavia, too. We’ve got the whole of Scandinavia with us.’ He laughed. ‘Do you see? And soon enough, the whole of Europe.’
It was just after the general election. TV pictures showed the Man from Sölvesborg, beaming. The Sweden Democrats had passed the famous 4 per cent threshold, and had possibly succeeded in holding the balance of power in Swedish politics. That was what the election had really been about, not which of the two electoral blocs would come out on top. Sweden was split, divided. The Sweden Democrats got all the attention, both before and after election night itself.
‘It’s just a matter of time now,’ Michael said as he watched the images.
‘A matter of time till what?’
‘Till someone kills him.’
Christian glanced over, wondering what he meant. That the party leader had enemies was universally known, and in the near future that fact would become all too obvious: the far left hated him. Before long, parts of the far right would feel the same way.
Michael threw all his energy into Swedish Resistance. The membership grew to over fifty, all of whom paid subs. They were able to move to larger premises. Their warehouse moved to another area. Some of them had been involved in the past, but most of them were new recruits, who they’d enlisted via high schools and the internet, via contacts’ contacts. The media ran stories about them in what was presumably supposed to be an alarming tone. The effect was the opposite: they started becoming visible again. People joined up.
Christian and Michael were inspired by history: during the course of the year, they read Arthur Kemp’s seven hundred-page March of the Titans: the complete history of the white race, as well as the new edition of The Racial Elements of European History, first published in 1927, by the author Hans F K Günther. They made for outstanding, uncompromising reading.
Everything fell into place, and the Stockholm division grew. People signed up — not just in working-class suburbs, but in the city’s wealthiest neighbourhoods, too. They walked through central Stockholm handing out flyers, accompanied by a police escort. Christian stood at Michael’s side, shocked and overwhelmed. Before long, the membership had reached one hundred.
‘This is mental,’ said Christian.
‘And this is just the beginning,’ said Michael, smiling.
Some people end up on the sidelines of history — as spectators — just watching as it unfolds before them. Others find themselves at the epicentre, shaping events, making a mark that changes everything.
Sitting in front of the telly, Christian returns to the past, and submerges himself in memories. They blur and overlap, merge into a haze. Too much has happened. People can’t turn the chaos of reality into a neat order.
Michael had said this sort of thing before. At first it had been a joke, always followed by a laugh more than anything else: how they should throw Molotov-cocktails through the Migration Service’s windows. Burn down refugee centres — swat a load of flies in one go. It had always been like that. Even in October and November, when the plan was sketched out and the details began to take shape, Christian still didn’t believe it was actually going to happen. When Jonathan informed him that the SEPO had got wind of an imminent threat against Martin Antonsson, Christian passed it on to Michael. Michael’s eyes lit up.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor the first time they’d deployed a similar strategy.
They attacked RAF and all the others, and they were attacked just as often. Sometimes it felt like a game to Christian — a serious game, where both sides played by the same rules with violent consequences.
Their plans were always uncovered — sometimes within an hour or so, sometimes within a couple of days. Despite this, their plans had the desired effect: to irritate and to undermine their opponents.
This time there were more details, and they gradually fell into place: they could use Jonathan, his connection to SEPO, and exploit the fact that RAF were planning an attack on Martin Antonsson. A missing knife at Café Cairo would ensure that the police focused their enquiries on them, and would exacerbate the reds’ internal conflicts at the same time. All bureaucracies have finite resources, and the police’s close surveillance of RAF would temporarily give Swedish Resistance free reign.
No one apart from Michael and Christian was to find out the truth. Not even Jens Malm.
That’s not how it turned out.
They didn’t tell anyone else, but there were certain details and issues that had to be dealt wi
th on the hoof, with others nearby. Christian thought he could see their eyes widen and their ears prick up.
‘I think people suspect what’s going on,’ he said one evening in November. ‘I think it’s about to go tits up.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s more of a feeling.’ He looked at Michael. ‘Don’t you think?’
They stood in a secluded corner of a bar on Folkungagatan. A dark, heavy rain was falling outside. The neon signs glowed.
‘Yes,’ Michael said eventually.
‘Well, then, we’ll call it off.’
Michael shook his head.
‘We keep going. No one knows yet — there might be a few who suspect something, but they’re on our side. That’s what’s important.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve talked to Jens about it.’
‘And what did he think?’
Michael didn’t say anything, but the look of excitement on his face was enough of an answer.
They caught the underground home that night. Michael looked calm and collected, with his hands in his jeans pockets and a slight smile on his face. Christian tried to smile, too. The resulting grimace was tight, like a muzzle.
The fifth of December, a few weeks earlier: the tabloid Expressen published a few articles about racist abuse carried out by several active Sweden Democrats on various internet forums. All those exposed were expelled from the party. The leader threw out anyone who dared to tell the truth.
The Traitor. The Spineless Bastard. The Populist.
The hatred grew and grew, you could almost feel it.
On internet forums and in blogs written by his friends and comrades, known and unknown, the reactions erupted. Christian was sitting at his computer when the phone rang. It was only as he pulled the phone from his pocket that he noticed how slippery it was, and realised he was sweating. He stared at the forum topic he had just read, from the first post to the most recent. Michael might be right, he thought to himself. It really looks like people support what we’re planning. If he succeeds now, he could end up becoming a hero.
They really had the wind in their sails now. The dice fell in their favour, time and time again.
Christian didn’t recognise the number illuminating his phone’s display. He pressed to accept the call, and put the phone to his ear, without saying anything.
It was a male voice, deep and calm: ‘Hello? Anyone there?’
Christian snapped the lid down on his laptop.
‘Yes.’
‘Who am I talking to?’
‘Who are you calling?’
‘I was looking for Christian Västerberg. Have I called the right number?’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Thomas Heber, and I’m a researcher at Stockholm University.
‘Okay?’ Christian thought about hanging up. ‘And what do you want?’
Then he explained.
Christian said yes, but couldn’t say why. They met in a windowless seminar room at the library in Skärholmen. He refused to have the interviews recorded. Heber took notes.
He’d already interviewed lots of people before Christian, in movements like Swedish Resistance, as well as their opponents, like RAF. That was all he could say about his interviewees, and he would never reveal anything more to anyone, not even under police interrogation.
He could say whatever he liked, Heber promised. Christian was anonymous to the extent that he could reveal a crime in progress, and Heber wouldn’t do anything about it, wouldn’t do anything other than listen.
Heber explained that that was just an example, but Christian felt a strange giggle bubbling in his chest. The laugh in his throat became a silent retching. Christian’s vision became blurred.
He was close to falling apart. He was sweating. Heber didn’t seem to notice, or maybe it was just that he didn’t care.
Much of the conversation was about Christian’s own life. At first, he regretted having agreed to this. Talking about himself was unusual, uncomfortable, but Heber was skilful, Christian had to admit. He was a man who inspired trust, and the conversation soon started to make Christian feel temporarily safe, giving him a sense of security that seemed to grow. Heber always let him finish whatever he was saying before asking another question. There were a couple of times when he didn’t want to answer, and when he shook his head, Heber said that it was fine, no problem, and moved on to the next question.
Talking about himself was liberating. It was as though the angst disappeared.
The betrayal, the treachery, when it came, a few hours later, went almost unnoticed.
‘Have you heard the rumour?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Heber said, eyebrows raised.
Christian was carrying a heavy burden in his chest. It was suffocating him. And then he told Heber, in two sentences. Heber took it in with a surprised expression.
‘You mean someone’s going to have a go at the leader?’
‘Yes.’
Christian wondered what he was thinking.
‘Can you stop it happening?’ said Heber.
‘I wouldn’t dare. I can’t say any more about it, because no one knows where or when. I’ve already said too much. I’ve already … if anybody finds out …’
‘No one is going to find out,’ said Heber.
Christian was sweating. He couldn’t keep it in any longer. It had been so long, and during that time he’d done a lot of things he shouldn’t have done, hurt so many people. He felt lost.
The room tilted. He blinked.
‘I know someone who will,’ he said eventually.
He told Thomas Heber, who couldn’t pass it on, who should have kept it to himself, but who might have felt exactly the same way as Christian: this just cannot happen.
Later, Michael called him on the night of the twelfth with instructions to steal a knife. He couldn’t say no, couldn’t put up any resistance. It was only when he was told where to go after breaking into Café Cairo — the university — that he realised what was going on.
Someone is banging on his door. He walks over to open it.
Images of the attack are still rolling on the telly. He can feel his own pulse in his temples. He can feel just how close he is to history, how this story will be told, how close he is to its epicentre. It’s huge. And he feels guilt, a guilt so heavy that now, when the flat is filled with nothing but darkness, it seems impossible to bear, yet he can do nothing about it.
So he bears it, the man who is just a number, just 1601 in a dead researcher’s field notes.
Jonathan calls again. He’s keeping away from the window now. Any minute now, it’s going to get cracked by the wind, he’s sure of that. He’s rolled down the blinds, but he doesn’t know why. Perhaps to avoid shards of glass, but the blind is made from fabric. It might not help.
He starts thinking about the Dictaphone, wondering where it is now. He gave it to Ebi, but what happened after that isn’t clear. Did he keep hold of it? Did the police find it on him when he died?
Maybe it fell out of Ebi’s pocket during the demonstration. It might still be lying there, on the ground in Rålambshov Park.
They’ve duped him. That’s the only explanation. And he was taken in by it. They’re always cleverer than him, always one step ahead. Jonathan has been a pawn in Christian’s hands. He feels so predictable. So stupid.
And at the same time: so scared.
The party leader. Christ. A genuine opportunity to get rid of him for good. Jonathan has seen and heard that being discussed, in internet forums as well as amongst his friends.
But now it’s happened — Jesus, what if he dies?
It keeps ringing, until eventually there’s a click and the ringing stops.
‘Hello?’ Jonathan says. ‘Hello? Christian?’
It’s a bad line. The storm makes every
thing rasp and crackle. Then, through the noise, that voice: ‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you answer?’
‘I …’
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
‘Hello?’ says Jonathan.
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘You knew about this.’
‘Yes.’
‘This is … you, both of you, have tricked me. You’ve played me like a fucking, what’s it fucking called …’
‘I know,’ says Christian. ‘It was necessary.’
‘Swedish Resistance have had it now. You do realise that, don’t you?’
Christian doesn’t reply.
‘Do you support them doing this?’
He hears the storm, and nothing else.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
Jonathan slumps on to the bed.
‘Do you support them doing this?’
‘I can’t answer that, Jonathan.’
‘Is he there?’
‘Who?’
‘Him.’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying.’
Christian doesn’t respond.
‘How are things with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Christian says. ‘I have to go now.’
The call ends. Jonathan sits there on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.
Behind the blind, the force of the storm smashes the windowpane. The flying shards slash gaping holes in the fabric.
Christian puts his phone away and turns to Michael.
‘He knows.’
Michael’s eyes are blank.
‘Who?’
‘Jonathan.’
‘Oh, right. Good.’
‘How are you feeling?’
Michael takes the towel from his forehead.
‘I’m bleeding quite a lot. Feel a bit dizzy. But I’m glad that bastard is dead.’
‘You don’t know whether he is or not.’ Christian glances at the telly. ‘They’ve haven’t said so yet.’
‘It’s a matter of time. The knife hit its target.’
The Falling Detective Page 28