‘How can you be so sure? It was so dark in there.’
‘What do you take me for? Have you told the others that it was us?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Get a message out to all the members. They need to know.’
Christian doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t send a message either. He heads to the bathroom, takes a clean towel from the cupboard, wets it, and then gives it to Michael. His face is spattered with dried blood from the wound on his forehead. He wipes himself off with the towel.
‘Did you get that message sent?’
‘Eh?’
‘The group message.’
‘Oh, right.’ Christian hesitates for a second, then pulls his phone from his pocket.
‘No, sending failed. I suppose that’ll be the storm.’
‘Try again.’
‘I will.’ He sits down opposite his friend. ‘What happened?’
‘The power went. That was my only chance, so I took it.’
‘I meant your forehead.’
‘A bit of a roof-tile hit me. It was only the size of a coin, so it didn’t knock me out, but it was fucking sharp.’ He smiles. ‘Do you realise what we’ve done? This changes everything. Whatever happens to us, things will never be the same again.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘I didn’t know where to go. I had to get inside, but I wasn’t about to go home. If they know it was me … I’m pretty sure they don’t, but if they do, then that’ll be the first place they look. But I didn’t want to be outdoors — fuck that. This storm is killing people. Once my head stops bleeding, I thought I’d go down to your basement. Is that okay? If they come, you can just say you don’t know where I am.’
Christian stands up, goes and gets the key to the basement, and puts it on the table in front of him.
He takes a deep breath.
‘Do you remember,’ he says, ‘at the beginning of December, when Heber called you? From a payphone?’
‘Yes.’ The towel has already turned a deep red. ‘Why won’t it fucking stop bleeding?’
‘That was me,’ he says.
‘Eh?’
‘I was the one who told him. He got in touch with me to ask whether I might be prepared to do an interview. I told him during that interview.’
Michael looks up from the towel. The look he gives Christian feels like a dagger. He never suspected it, Christian now realises: Michael trusted him, right to the end.
‘Eh?’
‘It was me,’ he repeats. ‘I told him your name during an interview. I told him what you were planning to do.’
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re having a laugh.’
Christian feels a burning sensation behind the eyes, feels the tears pushing their way out.
‘No.’
Michael stands up, but does so too quickly and sways wildly, putting his arm out to hold himself up against the wall.
‘Why? What did you do that for?’
‘I had to.’
‘But … how … why …?’
Winded, he collapses back onto the sofa.
‘You are dead,’ Michael says. ‘You got that? You are dead to me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Heber is dead, because of you.’
‘I know,’ Christian says.
‘You were the one who stole the fucking knife, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I didn’t know what you wanted it f—’
‘Don’t lie!’ he roars. ‘Don’t lie to me again. You knew fucking full well what I wanted it for. You even asked me if I’d chucked his phone in the water. You were the one who got Jonathan to make SEPO concentrate on RAF instead. You’re as much a part of this as I am. How the hell can you … have you called the cops as well? Are they on the way?’
‘No.’
‘Have you?’ he screams.
‘No.’
‘If you’re lying now,’ he says, his breathing shallow and laboured. ‘I’m going to shoot the first person who comes through that door. Got that? I’ll shoot everyone. Is that what you want?’
‘I haven’t called them, Michael,’ Christian says, staring at his hands.
‘Look at me, for fuck’s sake.’
He braces himself to obey. It hurts. It hurts way too much for him to be able to stand it.
‘I haven’t called them.’
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Michael shouldn’t even be here now; he should be lying low. That’s what he said. Christian wasn’t to contact him.
‘How the hell could you be so stupid?’ Michael’s voice is quiet, suddenly collected. As usual, Michael sees the big picture, knows what has to be done. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say anything?’
‘I tried. But you wouldn’t listen.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say? That you tried?’
And it is. He realises that now. There’s nothing more to say.
‘Yes.’ He stands up again, picks up his phone. ‘I’ll try and send that message again.’
This time he doesn’t bottle it. He goes to the kitchen and opens the pantry. The strip light in the kitchen blinks once, twice, three times. He feels along the top shelf with his hand. There. There it is.
He returns, phone in one hand, revolver in the other. It’s loaded. The same revolver that took Lisa Swedberg’s life. Was that Christian’s fault, too? He doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know anything.
A phrase pops into his head, something someone said, or wrote to him once, a long time ago, They can laugh if they want, sneer at us — we’re moving forward, they’re standing still. He can’t picture her face. It’s gone, like everything else.
Michael notices the weapon in Christian’s hand. Now he’s on his feet, quickly, and this time the adrenalin keeps him steady. He raises his hands, his palms facing outwards.
‘Christian …’
‘Sorry,’ he says, and takes the safety off.
Christian then puts the revolver in his mouth, the barrel against his palate.
Outside, roof-tiles whipped off by the wind swirl past, falling downwards. The sound of them crashing to the ground is masked by the thud inside the apartment.
The stairwell is in darkness when Iris forces the door. I push the glowing red switch. The lights on the landings flicker and then come on. Christian Västerberg lives on the fifth floor, one of six in the block on Olshammarsgatan 19.
Iris and Birck get out their weapons.
‘Where’s yours?’ she asks.
‘I haven’t got one,’ I say.
Her phone receives a text message. She reads it with a neutral expression.
‘It’s from Paul,’ she says, ‘His condition is unclear. They are operating now. This was fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Where is Goffman?’ says Birck.
‘He’s been going through Västerberg’s file. He’s on his way now.’ She turns to me again. ‘You don’t have your fire—’
She’s interrupted by a noise that gives all of us a start, and makes my heart race. Despite the constant rumble of the storm, the shot rings in our ears, loud and sharp.
‘One shot, no more,’ Iris says, when the only thing that follows the sound is silence and the whining of the storm outside. ‘That could mean anything.’
‘Reinforcements,’ Birck says. ‘We nee—’
‘There’s no time for that. Go first.’ She looks at me. ‘And you stay right here.’
‘No.’
‘You’re unarmed, Leo,’ Birck says. ‘Wait.’
‘I’ll follow you up.’
Neither of them protest, maybe because there’s no time for that. I follow them up the stairs, one flight at a time. Their arms are outstretched, gripping their black weapons with the barrels pointi
ng diagonally downwards. We stick close to the walls.
On the third floor, a click from behind makes me jump, and for a split-second I wish I had stayed down there by the entrance.
Someone has opened a door directly behind me — a young man. I pull out my badge, and push it to the opening.
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘Police.’
‘What …’
‘Call the police. Tell them shots have been fired at Olshammarsgatan 19. Ask them to send ambulances. And stay inside.’
Birck and Iris are a couple of steps ahead of me. I hurry to catch up with them. For the first time in ages, I’m scared. Behind me, the young man closes the door. Hopefully, he’s calling the police. Or else his first call is to the press.
We’re soon at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the first floor. From here, we can see the doors of the three apartments— one to the left at the top of the stairs, one straight ahead, and one on the right.
‘I think his is the one straight ahead,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t that say Västerberg?’
‘I don’t know,’ Birck says, squinting. ‘Maybe. In that case, we’re going to have to get closer.’
‘It says Västerberg,’ says Iris.
We cling to the wall up the last few stairs, our winter coats rustling against its uneven surface. I’m studying the floor, and there it is. I tap Birck on the shoulder, and point.
A little drop — no bigger than a coin — of blood.
Iris sweeps past the door and positions herself on one side, me and Birck on the other. The lights flicker, which makes everyone stiffen and breathe in sharply. I can smell Birck’s aftershave again. There’s no sound coming from inside the flat, but it might be being drowned out by Edith’s hissing and rumbling.
Birck points at the door handle, and nods at Iris. She carefully places her hand on it and then pushes downwards. It’s locked. She quickly withdraws her hand.
Shit.
‘Christian,’ Iris says out loud. ‘My name is Iris, and I’m a police officer. I have two colleagues with me. Their names are Leo and Gabriel. We really need to talk to you. Could you open the door?’
I’m surprised by how neutral, almost warm, she sounds, like a determined but considerate big sister.
‘Christian,’ Iris says again.
‘Christian is dead,’ says a male voice from the other side. It sounds thick and muffled, as though its owner has a cold. And is very close to the door. ‘But it wasn’t me. He did it himself.’
‘I understand,’ Iris says, looking at Birck. Her knuckles whiten around the weapon. ‘Don’t worry. What’s your name?’
No reply.
‘Can you tell us your name?’ she says. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? He might …’
The man’s laugh comes through the door. It’s empty laughter, carrying no meaning.
‘I’m sure. He shot himself in the head.’
‘Can you open the door?’
The only sound is heavy breathing, for a long time. Then: ‘Yes.’
‘We want to talk to you and see how Christian is. Nothing else. Okay?’
‘I told you, he’s dead.’
‘We want to talk to you.’ Iris repeats.
‘Can you stand in front of the peephole? I want to see you.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t do that,’ Iris says. ‘You’ll see us when you open the door.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘Yes. But we’re not going to use our weapons. We have to carry them. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to open up?’
‘I’m opening the door now.’
Iris looks down at the door handle. A lock clicks. The door opens slowly outwards. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m behind Birck, who takes a step forward as the door swings open.
‘Shit,’ Iris hisses.
She moves to one side so fast that her speed surprises me. But she’s still too slow.
A shot rings out from inside the flat, and Iris screams as the wall behind her is splattered red.
Iris grabs her arm. The black firearm falls from her grasp onto the shiny floor of the landing. Then she gets pulled into the flat.
I twist around the door and end up on the other side, where Iris was standing a moment earlier. As I pass the doorway, an arm is around Iris’s throat, and she’s being dragged further into the apartment. The arm belongs to a man who is hidden by Iris, so I can’t see his features. He’s wearing dark clothes, seems to be bleeding from the head, and his forearm is thick. Beyond the little hall is a living room, and there, on the floor, is a lifeless body. Christian Västerberg? Or is he the one holding Iris?
Now I realise.
I don’t even know what Västerberg looks like.
Where I’m standing, pressed against the wall, Iris’s blood is smeared, and it’s getting on my clothes.
‘Pick it up,’ Birck hisses, and makes a cocking gesture
Iris’s gun is lying on the floor, just in front of my shoe. I swallow and bend down, pick it up, feel the weight in my hand. My heart beats so hard that I get dizzy. It’s a P226, 357. Fuck me. I could kill a car with this.
‘Are you alright?’ he asks. ‘Cock the gun, for Christ’s sake.’
I hold my breath while I pull back the bolt, putting a round in the chamber. I hear a click as it locks in place. My back has suddenly got very, very hot.
‘Goffman’s on his way,’ I say. ‘Should we wait? We need to notify them of the hostage situation.’
‘Wait? Not a chance.’ Birck peers round the door and into the flat. ‘I don’t see him. Do you?’
I grip the weapon, and my temples are pounding. A black vignette is encroaching on my field of vision. Tunnel vision. I blink again and again; I need to control my breathing.
The lights are off in the hall. The body is lying there, lifeless, on the living-room floor. A pool of blood has formed by his head. He’s not breathing.
‘No,’ I manage. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
After the hallway, the flat divides off in a T, with the living room straight on, one room to the left and one to the right. The living-room window reflects no shadows, other than my own, just visible in the doorway. I wonder whether the room has other doors, and how many rounds he’s got left in his weapon, and whether Sam would cope, if something did happen to me now.
‘You go first,’ Birck says.
I’ve got one foot in the hall. Above me, I can just make out the shadow of a lampshade. Birck’s left hand comes into view, feeling for the switch. He finds it, and there’s a click.
The light is strong and clear. There are coats on hooks, and a neatly folded Swedish flag on the shelf. The rug on the floor is a bit crooked — perhaps after he forced Iris in with him.
I keep looking straight ahead, avoiding looking down and seeing the gun in my hand.
I follow the wall on the right-hand side, and Birck takes the left. He’s rooting through the pockets of the coats, looking for something. He eventually finds the ID-card. Christian Västerberg is staring sternly into the lens. The face is sharp and well-defined, symmetrical, and it belongs to the body lying on the floor in front of us. I find time to wonder what he was thinking about as the picture was taken.
The TV in the corner is on. It’s showing Meet Me in St. Louis.
‘Did he come yet?’ asks the little girl. ‘I’ve been waiting such a long time, and I haven’t seen a thing.’
‘Did who come?’ Judy Garland asks.
‘Santa Claus,’ says the wide-eyed girl.
The lines from the film melt into the buzz of the storm, forming a background tapestry of noise. The living-room window is creaking as though it might give way at any second. I turn to the right, around the corner, weapon first. My cheeks feel flushed and hot. The barrel of the P226 is getting slippe
ry in my grip. I can’t put my finger on the trigger — I don’t dare.
The door to the kitchen is open. An electric advent wreath lights the windowsill. The fridge door is decorated with a few Christmas cards and photos, and that’s it.
‘Leo,’ Birck says quietly, behind me.
I turn my head. Birck is standing in the same position as me, but facing the other way, towards another open door. I can make out the end of a bed, a bedspread. The light’s not on in there.
Birck scans the floor, where the bloodstain is smeared across it. It leads into the bedroom. There’s a sound of panting and grunting.
The light flickers — once, twice, three times. I struggle to focus.
‘We’re here now,’ Birck says. ‘We’re by the bedroom door. We don’t want to take you by surprise. We’re coming in.’
Behind us, the living-room window gives way with a heavy crash, like a porcelain dinner service hitting the floor.
‘Can you hear me?’ Birck says, louder.
No reply. Birck looks at me. His expression is cool, collected. The barrel of the P226 is now shaking in my hands. I can’t relax my arms. My shoulders ache. It’s as though the weapon is releasing a poison, a toxin, that’s spreading through my body.
When I blink, I see Waltersson, lying there in Visby harbour, holding his throat after I’d shot him. It wasn’t supposed to happen, I think to myself. I wasn’t supposed to be there, then, and I shouldn’t be here now. I’m not supposed to make it out of here.
In the bedroom, my hand trembles along the wall, searching for the light switch.
‘I’m going to turn the light on, okay?’
No response. It’s like he can’t hear me.
‘I’m going to turn the light on,’ I repeat. ‘But I want to know that you understand what I’m saying first. I don’t want you getting any surprises. Okay?’
I turn on the light, and finally I can see him.
It could be him, the masked man from the CCTV cameras at Central Station — the man who might have succeeded in taking the life of a party leader. I’m not sure.
One of the bedroom’s walls is covered with paintings, wardrobes, and a bookcase. In a corner are a desk and chair. The single bed, in the middle of the room, is made up and smooth. He’s waiting on the far side, holding Iris in front of him as a shield. He has his left arm around her throat, his hand level with her shoulder. His grip is so tight that she’s struggling to breathe. His right hand is holding a revolver, its barrel switching back and forth between me and Birck. A trickle of blood from a wound on his forehead has run down to his eyebrow, around his eye, and is following his cheekbone.
The Falling Detective Page 29