The Invisible Man from Salem (15 page)

‘Take your clothes off,' she said.

‘Everything?'

‘Everything.'

I'd never been naked in front of anyone before. I was embarrassed, standing there in front of her. She must have noticed, because she pulled me towards her and stroked my arms and shoulders.

‘You are beautiful,' she whispered and something in her touch made me relax.

‘So are you. But …'

‘What?'

‘I lied to you before.'

She went stiff. ‘About what?'

‘About not being a virgin.'

‘And?'

‘What?'

‘All boys lie about that. I'm not exactly surprised. Do you mean you'd rather lose it with someone else?'

‘No,' I said. ‘No. Were you lying, too?'

‘No.'

In the darkness in front of the film, something inside me quivered.

‘I haven't got a condom. Have you?'

‘Relax. I'm on the pill.'

I wondered if Grim knew that, and realised there were lots of things I didn't know about; I realised how little I knew.

XI

I am at the station for the first time since the beginning of July. For some reason, I'm surprised to see that nothing much has changed. I'm led down the corridor by a stern constable I don't recognise. In one of the rooms we walk past, a lonely radio is playing pop music, and a printer splutters into action, starts spitting out paper. I gaze out the window, thinking about how great the distance between me and everyone else seems to be.

‘Gabriel will be along shortly,' the officer mumbles, opening the door to one of the interview rooms. ‘Can I get you anything?'

‘Coffee.'

The constable disappears and I'm left alone in the room, which is small and square, just a table and two chairs. I'm not actually alone; a hidden camera is pointing at me, recording my every move. A bookcase full of binders stands against one wall. It doesn't belong there. Maybe they're doing something in one of the other rooms. The other walls are cool and silent. The lighting is softer than I remember, almost comfortable. If I strain, I can hear the radio. I look at the texts on my phone. The constable returns with a light-blue coffee cup. I drink a mouthful; it's that taste that really makes me want to come back.

I hear footsteps, and Birck steps through the doorway, without looking at me. He's carrying a folder under one arm that he places on the table, just as his phone starts ringing.

‘Birck.' Short silence. ‘Right? ‘How did you get this number?' Birck glances at me, for the first time. ‘I have no comment to make.' He clears his throat, and goes back to the door and closes it. ‘No, I can't answer that. No comment. Thank you.'

He hangs up, and the female voice on the other end is abruptly silenced.

‘A good friend?' I venture.

‘
Expressen
.'

‘Annika Ljungmark?'

‘Yes.' He pulls out a chair and sits down, looks for something in his jacket pocket without finding it. ‘She was after you, wasn't she?' he says, still looking for something. ‘After Gotland?'

‘Yes. What did she want?'

‘She wanted to confirm a tip-off.'

‘About what?'

He takes the dictaphone out of his trouser pocket. He places it between us, runs his fingers through his dark hair, leaves the folder shut.

‘Right, Leo.' He looks up; our eyes meet. ‘We have some further questions about Rebecca Salomonsson.'

‘I had worked that out. What was the tip-off?'

‘Right now, I need to ask you the questions. Please conduct yourself appropriately.'

‘I'm doing my best.'

He gives me an icy look before wearily stating the date and time for the tape, and then says his name and mine, and the case number of the Rebecca Salomonsson investigation.

‘Leo, could you put the phone away?'

I put my phone in my pocket, and drink some of the coffee. Birck looks more tense than usual.

‘Could you please describe exactly what you did when you went into Chapmansgården?'

I do so, in short, simple sentences, expressing myself in a way that makes it hard to misunderstand what I'm saying. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Once again, I describe how I got into Chapmansgården, how I saw Matilda sitting talking to a cop, how I went up to the body.

‘According to Matilda, you touched her,' Birck interrupts. ‘I have a statement from her saying that you touched the body.'

‘I see. That is true. But I was wearing gloves.'

This takes him by surprise.

‘Your own gloves?'

‘No, I found them in a basket by the door.'

‘What were you doing, when you touched the body?'

‘Nothing really. The usual.'

‘The usual, as in …?'

‘What is this about?' I ask. ‘What are you after? If you just come out and say it, it will be easier for me to— '

‘Answer my questions, Leo.'

I think I'm rolling my eyes, because Birck bites his lip.

‘Looking for any marks,' I say. ‘Checking her pockets.'

‘Why did you do that?'

‘To steal things to flog down in Hammarby harbour.'

‘For fuck's sake, Leo!'

‘I don't know. To see if there were any … I was bored, all right? And it bothered me, the fact that someone had died right underneath me.'

Birck seems to accept this, maybe because it's actually true.

‘You didn't say this yesterday.'

‘What?'

‘When I spoke to you yesterday, you never said that you'd touched the body. Why did you lie?'

‘I … don't know. You didn't ask. It's just detail.'

He puts the palms of his hands flat on the tabletop.

‘I did ask. It's quite a crucial fucking detail. An unauthorised person has been and rifled around the crime scene before we got there. Do you know what a slick defence lawyer can do in court with a little detail like that?'

‘There was nothing in her pockets,' I say. ‘But she had something in her hand.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Because I saw it. It looked like a necklace or something.'

‘And you touched it.'

‘No,' I say, and my expression is so open that Birck doesn't manage to find a lie there, try as he might. ‘No, I didn't. I only noticed it just as you arrived.'

‘So you didn't touch it,' Birck says. ‘Have I understood correctly?'

I nod. Birck points wearily at the dictaphone.

‘Yes,' I say and lean forward. ‘You have understood correctly what I said — that I did not touch her hand or whatever she was holding in it.'

Birck opens the folder lying between us; in place of the first page is a plastic wallet, A4 size. In one corner is something small and silver. A sticker with messy notes, a description of the contents along with the case number, is stuck on the outside of the wallet.

‘If you never touched it,' he says, so slowly that it winds me up, ‘how come the fingerprint analysis came back with three different prints, one of which is 95 per cent certain to be yours?'

He lifts the wallet and puts it down in front of me. I look at the necklace inside, and an invisible blow strikes me in the stomach, making the world rock back and forth.

‘Is this what Rebecca had in her hand?' I say, without looking up from the necklace.

‘Yes.'

‘Okay.'

I've seen this necklace before, touched it. Once I even had it in my mouth.

‘Is everything okay?' Birck smiles. ‘You seem a bit shaken.'

‘No, I … I've just … I've been wondering what it looked like. You said there were three matches. Who are the other two?'

‘You need to answer my question, Leo.'

‘I'll answer your question if you answer mine.'

‘This isn't a game!'

Birck stands up with such force that the chair clatters across the bare floor. He looks back and forth, first at me, then the dictaphone, then at me again; he seems to be contemplating turning it off, so that what happens next isn't caught on the tape.

‘Annika Ljungmark, from
Expressen
,' he says, ‘has somehow been tipped off that one of the suspects in the case is a police officer. A police officer with an — how shall we put this? — infamous past. If you don't cut the crap and tell me exactly what you've done, the tip will be confirmed and you'll never get back on duty. And if you do, by some miracle, get back on duty, I'll make sure it's at the back of beyond in some shithole like Mjölby or Säter.' He sits down again. ‘How the hell do you want to fucking play this?'

I pretend to be contemplating it, but in fact I'm still just staring at the necklace. It's one of those cheap necklaces; there'll be thousands like it around, but only one has my prints on it.

It's hers.

It must be hers. I can't tell Birck. I can't.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘I touched it. I saw that she had something in her hand, and I just wanted to see what it was. I looked at it and put it back.'

‘Didn't you have gloves on?'

‘I had to take them off,' I say, to keep the lie going. ‘I had to take them off; I'd just picked them out of the basket, and they were too big and far too thick. I couldn't open her hand with them on, so I took them off.'

Birck stares at me, trying to work out whether or not I'm telling the truth.

‘We'll be doing more tests, Leo. If you're lying, we'll notice.'

‘I haven't lied,' I lie, and attempt a smile.

‘You do know what this means?'

Because I've led Birck to believe that the print on the necklace is fresh, I am, from this point on, a potential suspect. It puts me at the scene of the crime. I could have been the one who went into Chapmansgården, put a gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger, escaping through the open window.

‘Who are the other two?' I ask.

‘Don't you worry about that.'

‘Come on,' I attempt. ‘I live in the bloody building.'

‘Exactly. That's why we're sitting here.'

‘No, we're sitting here because someone has shot a woman. I live in the building; perhaps I can help. Come on. I didn't fucking shoot her — for a start, I've got no motive, and even if I did have a motive, I'm not that daft that I'd shoot her on my own doorstep.'

Birck stares at me long enough for me to start convincing myself that I am managing to persuade him. He stops the tape-recorder, sticks it back in his pocket, and looks at me again. The change in his expression is remarkable. He looks almost compassionate, and since this is Gabriel Birck, that surprises me.

‘One set were her own. The other gave no matches. But both yours and the third party were incomplete and inconclusive.'

‘She had no possessions,' I say. ‘As far as I could see.'

‘We found them this morning. Or rather, a dog did. He and his owner were out on their morning walk round Kungsholmen. Her bag was lying in a bush in Kronoberg Park. Everything was there except her phone, money, and whatever drugs she might have had.'

‘She was robbed, then,' I say. ‘On the night she was murdered?'

‘Maybe.' Birck shrugs. ‘No one saw anything.'

‘So she may have been robbed and then made her way to Chapmansgården to sleep?'

‘What would you have done in her position, homeless and with no possessions? Besides, she was probably so high that she didn't know her own name. She wasn't about to go to the police. Stranger things have happened than people in that situation going to bed. The question is whether anyone followed her — a pimp or a punter. As it stands, nothing points to that. And listen,' he adds, ‘I'm only telling you this because I believe you. If anyone asks, you are still my main suspect.'

I wonder if he does actually believe me. Perhaps, but he suspects I know more than I'm letting on; I can sense that, and cops — and above all, cops like Gabriel Birck — are sly creatures. They are taught how to play people; they learn little tricks that make it seem like they mean well. He might have just said this in the hope that I'm going to tell him more.

Or maybe he actually believes me. I don't know.

‘Okay,' I say, staring down at the desk.

He keeps looking at me; I keep avoiding eye contact. It's so quiet I can hear my own pulse.

‘Good,' Birck says flatly. ‘Get out of here.'

I'M OUTSIDE
, standing under the overcast sky. I take several deep breaths. My head's spinning, and I feel sick; it's hard to breathe. It's been so long since I thought about her. She's been there sometimes, like a ghost. Some nights.