Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case

by Christoffer Carlsson (Translated by Michael Gallagher)

  Charles’ eyes met Eva’s. Her chest was flushed red with arousal. She said something, he could see her lips moving, but he didn’t register any words.

  He remembered how he’d felt young when he moved down here, how he had plenty of time to find his way to that moment when he would actually start his proper life.

  Somewhere along the way, he had turned thirty, soon thirty-three, and become an adult. His age was really the wrong place to start. What actually defined where he’d got to, more than the number of years he’d been alive, was his everyday life, with its attendant obligations and responsibilities: what he talked to his wife about, his daughter and their relationship, how much he had to do with his neighbours, how many of his colleagues he also considered friends, how many white envelopes the postman brought, and the sum recorded on his payslip.

  And which decisions he took at critical moments, whether to split up and run off or to stick around.

  In order to understand one’s life, it’s necessary to examine the details, and when he did so he realised that he’d become somebody he no longer recognised.

  He should break it off.

  He booked into a hotel in the city nearby and stayed for several nights, grateful for the fact that he was on leave and could visit the alcohol store whenever he felt like it. Nevertheless, he went only once, bought a bottle that he drained, and then regretted doing so. It felt like another defeat, and he didn’t have anywhere left to go.

  When he returned to Bruket, he was convinced that Eva wouldn’t be there, that the house would be locked, with the lights off. It wasn’t: the lights were on and the door was open.

  She had tears in her eyes when she met him in the hall.

  Charles looked past her. He wanted to hit her in the face, but didn’t.

  He really should break it off.

  They sat there on the sofa, an arm’s length apart. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting like that — half an hour? An hour? Maybe half the night. Apart from Eva, no one could hear him, so he screamed until he was hoarse. Eva sobbed silently, without looking at him, until he insisted. When she did so, Charles clenched his fists.

  He looked away. He launched a beer bottle against the wall.

  ‘I have to go to the toilet,’ Eva said.

  She stood up slowly and walked away. When she’d locked the door behind her, Charles crawled over to the shards covering the floor close to the wall and gathered them all up.

  He asked about details — how long it had been going on, where and when they would normally meet, what they would do. He asked whether the man had any tattoos. Charles asked her if she’d let him come inside her, in her mouth.

  Eva looked at him as though he was sick. Maybe he was. He didn’t want to know, but could see how she was tormented by answering the questions, how ashamed she was, and he did want that. She deserved to be punished.

  ‘Do you plan to keep seeing him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No.’ Tears pushed their way out into her eyes again. ‘No, I am not lying. I am not going to see him.’

  ‘Why did you do it then? Would you rather be with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then why did you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I just feel so …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  ‘I can never trust you again. You do realise that? This can’t be fixed.’

  She looked him in the eye. He reciprocated with a blank stare.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Charles left the house and went and got in the car.

  In the evenings, he would say goodnight to Marika and push his lips to her forehead. It was always warm, smooth, and so soft. Then he’d get in the car and drive off.

  He’d spend the short hours of summer darkness at the wheel, sleeplessly gliding up and down Bruket’s streets and byways. He’d have the radio on, and the music struck something deep inside him, close to the void where he still told himself that he kept his soul.

  July had become August, and the end was getting closer.

  NOVEMBER 1984

  Stockholm: despite the cold, the air is suffocatingly damp at lunchtime on the eighteenth of November 1984. The sky hangs heavy, like sheet metal, close.

  He stays in the background at Paul’s, who is on the phone. He lives in Gärdet, two streets down from Charles and Marika. On the table is a Russian doll that seems to be observing you regardless of where you are standing in the room.

  ‘I’ll put the speaker on,’ Paul says. ‘There’s only the two of us here.’ He perches on the edge of the desk, and gestures to Charles to come over.

  ‘Herr Levin,’ the Resident’s muffled voice crackles through the speaker.

  ‘Herr Kraus,’ says Charles. ‘Good day.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  The Resident coughs sharply. More crackling.

  ‘What is this about?’ says Paul.

  ‘An unfortunate coincidence.’

  Kraus pauses for effect.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Paul says, weakly.

  ‘I have been in contact with Berlin. They are asking me to withdraw Heffler.’

  Charles and Paul look at each other. No.

  ‘Asking you?’ Paul manages.

  ‘That was how they put it. But I happen to know, gentlemen, that when Berlin ask, they do so with a noose in their hands and a roof beam in their mind’s eye. The Master himself was in the room, in the background — I could hear him.’

  The Resident says it as though he has had a close encounter with a supernatural being. Perhaps he has. Erich Mielke sits on the top floor of the Stasi’s tower, and has done so since 1957. Presidents and prime ministers arrive, stay a while, and then move on, but no one dares touch Mielke.

  ‘Why …’ Charles’ voice doesn’t make it, and he has to clear his throat and start again. ‘Why are they pulling Heffler now?’

  ‘That, I’m afraid, is something that I do not have a view on,’ Kraus says. ‘The most immediate consequence, as far as we are concerned, is that it puts this evening’s operation in rather a different perspective.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul says slowly.

  ‘It does need to be carried out, as you will understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul repeats.

  ‘I fail to see any candidates other than you two.’

  Paul blinks. Charles walks over to the window, holding his breath. He strains to see his own reflection in the windowpane but can’t make out anything except the grey sky, the cold buildings, and the colourless trees.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Paul says in a surprisingly steady voice, ‘exactly what Heffler’s plan was.’

  ‘Of course not. I assume that he kept that to himself.’

  ‘And then we do not have the necessary experience. We don’t have the resources required.’

  ‘Now I think you are selling yourselves short.’

  ‘Herr Kraus …’

  ‘I do not wish to patronise you,’ he interrupts again, ‘but one naïve journalist versus two clearly competent operatives … I don’t see the problem.’

  ‘The problem,’ Paul insists, running his fingers through his hair. ‘The problem …’

  He runs out of steam. Suddenly, he seems remarkably small.

  ‘You know the consequences that will await if you do not solve this problem, and I am not alluding to the journalist’s so-called scoop.’

  Church bells chime in the distance.

  Paul stares at the speaker.

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  A click. The line goes dead. Morality is a strange concept, rather a robust word for such a capricious phenomenon.

  Paul stares at the telephone. Then he gra
bs hold of it and hurls it with some force, leaving an ugly crater in the wall.

  ‘Shit,’ he screams. ‘Fucking bollocks! Fuck!’

  The veins on Paul’s neck, and those around his temples are clearly visible. He’s red in the face and his lips are glossy with saliva. He slams his clenched fist onto the tabletop.

  ‘Damned fucking shit,’ he roars.

  Charles moves away from the window, examines the telephone. The plastic on the receiver is cracked. Paul is shouting himself hoarse.

  Charles slumps to the floor, leans his head against the wall, and shuts his eyes. The bells ring.

  Sometimes it’s as if he isn’t even there.

  ‘You know,’ Paul says, his arms hanging limp by his sides and his voice strained, ‘what I have done for you.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘You know what you owe me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If this blows up … It’s going to be huge, Charlie.’

  ‘I know.’

  A little part of him wants to see it happen. A part of Charles wants to witness it all exploding.

  ‘Think about Marika.’

  It’s Paul’s last resort, and that’s how Charles knows just how desperate he really is.

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘So …’ Paul swallows hard. ‘It’s on?’

  Paul waits.

  Charles wonders how long it’ll be before the bells start ringing again.

  JUNE 2014

  The real effect of the morphine comes when I’m sitting in the meeting room, after the constables at the scene have found the chassis number on the burned-out car and reported that the car in question was stolen from a Helsingborg address in February. Its actual registration is XJP 396, and the owner is a Lars Ingvar Rönnerud.

  ‘So,’ Tove says, ‘what do you reckon? After shooting Levin, Bredström leaves Alvavägen and heads off to get shot of the car?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  And that’s when the morphine kicks in, wrapping not just my body, but also my soul — if I possess anything worthy of the name — in warm wool. Everything gets calmer, warmer. Softer, somehow.

  I’ve been given a top that someone has dug out from one of the old lockers. It’s a washed-out T-shirt featuring Garfield’s surly face and torso. He has his paws crossed in front of his chest, next to the words You’ve cat to be kitten me right meow.

  ‘If Bredström’s our man,’ says Tove, ‘how does he get home from the spot where he torches the car?’

  ‘Bike?’ I suggest.

  ‘What, that he’s put there in advance?’ she shakes her head. ‘No, that’s not it. He must have walked, and that’s a fair old trek.’

  ‘And what do you think the connection between Levin and Bredström is?’

  ‘Easy. Bredström and Eva Levin have a fling in summer 1980.’

  My phone rings, and Birck’s name flashes up.

  ‘My colleague.’ I look at the time. ‘I have to take this. He might have spoken to Marika Alderin by now.’

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ she says.

  ‘Wait a sec.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Just hold on. Hey, Gabriel. How did it go?’

  ‘Depends what you mean. I’ve spoken to Marika Alderin. She basically doesn’t say anything, and the few words you do get are pretty incoherent.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case.’

  ‘Well, why the fuck didn’t you say so then?’ He sighs. ‘I showed her a picture of Levin. She recognised him, you could tell. But, apart from that, nothing. The only thing she talks about is a car, which apparently burned up leaving only soot and ash.’

  ‘And here they’ve just found a burnt-out car.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘A Volvo. Could be the perpetrator’s car — it was used around the murder, anyway. In which case, we might have the guilty party.’

  ‘Must be two different cars,’ Birck says. ‘She’s been here since August 2009, and she’s been sectioned since 2005, and as I said is anything but lucid. She cannot possibly know about a car fire down there. According to the staff, she’s been like this all along. That’s what I’m calling about. According to Plit, she’s only ever made sense on a handful of occasions, and that was during their association hour, talking to another resident. You’ll never guess who.’

  It takes a second for Birck’s words to land at my end.

  No.

  ‘John Grimberg,’ says Birck.

  No. I close my eyes.

  Everything’s a circle. Everything’s standing still.

  ‘Okay. Talk to him.’

  ‘Again?’ I hear Birck’s voice, disconsolate, over the static.

  ‘Yes, and check Marika’s visiting history. They keep lists of visitors.’

  ‘I’ve got no right to demand to see them.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Do your best.’

  ‘But I don’t know what to ask him,’ Birck says.

  ‘All I know is that Levin visited her on countless occasions and that he told her things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll call again soon.’

  We finish the call and I open my eyes. Everything is a circle.

  ‘I’m not interested in talking to you again,’ Grimberg says.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual. But this is how it is.’

  ‘This is for his sake, too. Am I right?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And it’s about Levin’s death?’ Grimberg raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, whaddya know. You want information. And what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘A monthly day-release,’ Grimberg says. ‘Twelve hours at a time.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Birck, without giving it any thought.

  Grimberg nods slowly. Then he turns towards the door, and shouts for Plit. The man opens the door and peers in.

  ‘Plit,’ Grimberg says. ‘Would you be so kind and show this friendly officer out?’

  Plit gives Birck a puzzled look.

  ‘Eh?’ says Birck. ‘No, not yet. I said yes, didn’t I? We’ll arrange it. Close the door, please.’

  A black veil has fallen over Grimberg’s face.

  ‘You’re going to trick me.’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. “Okay”? Do you think I’m thick, or what? You should never say something like that, because you don’t have any say in what day-release I might get. And you know that I know. You should’ve said, “I don’t have the authority to arrange that, but I’ll do my best” or “I’ll have a word with the clinical director.” Thinking I’m going to swallow a simple “okay” is an insult.’

  Plit stands there next to Grimberg, powerless. They don’t wear gloves here, Birck thinks to himself. They really should. What the hell do they do if Grimberg bites them?

  ‘It’s up to you, John,’ Plit says gently. ‘You don’t have to talk to him.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Birck says to Plit. Then to Grimberg: ‘Believe me, I don’t want to talk to you for a second longer than is necessary.’

  ‘It must be important, this mission of yours, if you’re prepared to lie about it.’ Grimberg squints. ‘It’s unusual for you to lie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Normal people do tell the truth most of the time.’

  Grimberg looks at his hands.

  ‘No, they do not.’

  Plit waits there for a second, before he slowly leaves the room. Birck can hear his own pulse, feel his heart beating against his ribcage.

  ‘Okay, John, one more time. It’s about Marika Alderin, a name that you’re rather more familiar with than you wanted to let on when we were sitting here yest
erday.’

  ‘If I answer your questions now, considering that you just tried to trick me, how will you know I’m not lying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Birck. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to trust you. When did you first meet Marika Alderin?’

  ‘Do you mean, in here?’

  ‘No. I mean ever.’

  Grimberg looks off to one side. Either he’s straining to recall it or he’s pretending to.

  ‘You’re asking about my dark years.’ He gives a crooked smile. ‘I haven’t … I don’t have very clear memories of that time. I think it was 2002. It was after the World Trade Centre, but before Anna Lindh.’

  ‘And how did you meet?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yes. We ended up in the same flat for a while.’

  ‘Which flat?’

  ‘Somewhere in Bandhagen. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Was it just the two of you there?’

  ‘No, this was a place lots of people went to, to get loaded and have a good time, if you know what I mean. Forget everything for a while. I think it must have been autumn, September in fact, because I remember hearing a thing on the radio about Ground Zero in New York, one year on.’

  ‘And Marika Alderin was there then, too?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘John. Was she or wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was there. She was doing speed, I was on smack. I think there were about fifteen people there by the end, like some kind of fucking commune. Then the Drug Squad raided the flat, and the ones that happened to be there got done. I was lucky.’

  Bandhagen. 2002. The Drug Squad’s clearing of the flat. That bit matches the records at least.

  ‘If we go back to the time before the Drug Squad emptied the place. Were you a couple, you and Marika?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Were you together?’