The Invisible Man from Salem (31 page)

It goes quieter than I'd expected.

‘Why, my friend,' says the man behind the till, apparently unmoved, ‘are you looking for him? And why do you think we know who he is?'

‘I've been told that there's only one Josef Abel, and that people out here tend to know who he is.'

‘Tend to?' The man behind the counter looks quizzically at the girl in the denim jacket, who says something —
tender
— in Spanish. ‘Ah-ha, almost the same,' he says. ‘Yes, people do … tend to.' He smiles, perhaps pleased with the new addition to his vocabulary. ‘You only go to Josef when you need help.'

‘I need help.'

The man squints at me, as though trying to decide whether or not I'm lying.

‘Are you armed?'

I shake my head.

The man in the leather jacket comes over and starts frisking me — my shoulders, down my back, hips, stomach, legs. He does it very thoroughly, and as he moves I can smell cheap aftershave. When he's done, he turns to the man behind the counter.

‘He's clean, Papi.'

‘A bit rude, disturbing old men at this hour,' Papi says, and runs his hand through his beard. ‘Whatever it is must be important.'

‘Yes. But I just need some information. A name. Nothing more.'

‘You police negotiator, eh?'

‘No, no, I'm not.'

‘How do you know that Josef can give you information?'

‘Peter Koll said so.'

He drops his head, examining the countertop — covered in stickers and adverts for cigarettes and tobacco — and seems to be contemplating something for a second, before nodding at the woman in denim.

‘Karin. Take him with you.'

She stares at me and then at her friend, who still hasn't said anything. Her eyes are brown and blank, as though she's seen too much of what the world is capable of.

‘Okay,' she says and looks at me, takes something from her coat pocket.

‘You don't need to get that out,' I attempt, looking at the knife.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘I do.'

OUTSIDE THE SHOP
, on the way to the high-rise blocks, Karin walks alongside me with the knife in one hand, the other hand stuffed in her pocket. It's a good knife, the sort you buy in a hunting shop; it gently follows the contours of the hand, with a little round trigger that releases the blade. I wonder if she's ever used it. Something tells me she has. I wonder how old she is — definitely no older than twenty, maybe not even eighteen, but she's tall, and I've always found it hard to guess how old tall women are. Karin's boots boom heavily on the tarmac. As she walks, her clothes rustle slightly.

‘How do you know Josef?' I ask.

‘He's the one who's really called “Papi”. It's just Dino and Lehel who call Goran “Papi”, because they're actually related.'

‘And what does Papi mean, then? Dad?'

‘More or less. Josef is like a dad. Well, he's more like a granddad these days. He's old, but he's still Papi. Our dads, I mean our own dads, they've got some stories about him.'

‘Is it right that he gets called “the man with no voice”?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘He can't talk.'

‘And why not?'

‘Whoa. Too many questions.'

‘SHALL WE RING
the bell?'

Karin shakes her head. We're on the top floor of one of the blocks.

‘He already knows,' she says, and opens the door. It's a simple wooden one with a letterbox and
ABEL
written on a label that was once white.

The hall is large and neat, and a red-and-brown rug with a crocheted pattern muffles our steps. Straight down the corridor, the flat divides, with a room on each side. To the right is what looks like a big kitchen with a dining table and chairs; to the left, something resembling a living room. Karin takes her boots off, and gestures to me to do the same. She goes into the room on the left, and says something in Spanish to the two young men sitting in armchairs, each holding a video-game controller. In front of them, a TV is showing a meeting between two football teams. On a little table in between them lie two black pistols. One of the men pauses the game and looks up, says Karin's name and then Papi, and something else.

‘What's he saying?' I ask.

‘That you can go in,' she says. ‘But only if I go in, too.'

Beyond the men are two doors, both closed. The man gesticulates wearily towards one of them and watches us pass.

The door is opened by yet another man, about Karin's age. He has thick black hair and pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and a pronounced, sharp nose that projects over his lip. He looks at Karin.

‘It's late,' he says.

‘I know. Thank you,' says Karin.

The room consists of a single bed, an armchair, a television, and a bookshelf. The floor is covered with a carpet. Someone is sitting in the armchair — a man with yellowish skin and a white halo of hair around his head, his eyes fixed on a book. He's wearing a white shirt, and grey suit trousers held up by simple black braces. The shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a vest and a chestful of bushy white hair. His nose is bony and low; his eyebrows, thick and straight. His shoulders are relaxed, hunched over the book. They are shoulders that once belonged to a wrestler or someone whose job involved moving pianos.

‘Josef Abel?' I ask, standing a metre or so away from him.

Abel looks up, pulls a black leather-bound pad from his shirt pocket, and finds a pen. His breathing comes in noisy puffs. As he writes, I notice the scar circling his neck like a necklace: light pink, uneven, and thick from one side to the other, just above the collar bone. He shows me the notepad.

do I know you

Then his eyes come alive, and he tilts his head slightly to one side, scanning across my legs, my hands, my shoulders. He adds two words:

do I know you mr officer

‘Leo Junker,' I say, and slight surprise is just visible in the old man's face.

you were involved in that mess on Gotland

‘Yes, unfortunately. I need your help. Daniel Berggren — does that name mean anything to you?'

The man holds up a finger and turns around. He looks over his shoulder, picks up a book that is lying on the floor next to him, and pulls an envelope out of it, which he shows to me. It's white, postcard-sized, and soft, as though it contains several sheets of paper.
leo
, is all that's written on it, written in handwriting I don't recognise.

‘It's from him, is it? From Daniel?'

Abel nods, and that makes the envelope seem warm against my fingers.

‘When did he leave this?'

came by courier don't know any more

‘I don't really believe that.'

suspicious, eh?

The old man laughs — a mocking, panting laugh.

‘You've been in contact with Daniel Berggren, then?'

has something happened?

‘How well do you know him?'

His face goes tense, sombre.

quite well please don't tell me you're bringing bad news

‘I'm afraid I am,' I say.

The old man is blinking. If he's shocked or surprised, you can't tell; maybe there's a hint of a shake in the next word he writes on the pad:

suicide?

‘Almost,' I say. ‘Murder.'

victim or murderer

‘Murderer,' I say as I look around, pull a chair over, and sit down on it.

you're lying that can't be true

‘I'm afraid it is.'

Abel shrinks into a heap, as though he'd got a puncture. As he turns the page in his pad, he discovers that he's just filled the last page. The old man opens his mouth and speaks, breathing in the words, his voice like a cracked ghost. It's a terrible noise, the sound of someone speaking with glass shards in their voice box. A little while after he's gone quiet, the words sink in:

‘New pad.'

The man who's been standing next to Karin leaves the room and comes back with a new pad. In the meantime, Karin goes over, squats down on her heels, and chats to Abel. He's pleased to see her. His eyes light up and he smiles, stroking her cheek when she tells him something. Karin is holding his hand between her palms. I'm holding the envelope. The sweat is making the envelope damp.

D isn't a murderer

‘Maybe not directly,' I say. ‘But indirectly. I need to know what you know. He was my friend, once. Now I'm afraid that he's going to hurt people.'

what do you want to know?

‘How did you come to know him?'

he came to me

Abel strains to remember, before he continues:

after Jumkil

He looks at me, curious.

‘I know about Jumkil,' I say.

his friend introduced us

‘The friend he was living with at the time, here in Alby?'

‘Yeah,' Abel hisses, nodding. The sound is hollow and wheezy, makes me think of reptiles.

D had certain skills

‘I know.'

I made sure he used them he helped a lot of people

‘He helped a lot of people to disappear?'

and he helped a lot of people get here from their home countries

Abel hesitates before adding:
for money

‘And you had money,' I say.

That makes the old man crack a smile, showing his sorry excuse for a mouth with its many missing teeth; those that are still there are crooked, deformed, and unhealthily yellow.

understatement
, he writes.

‘I see. Drugs?'

Abel tenses up in his chair, stares at me for a long while, as though this is a crucial moment.

among other things but that was then I'm old now

‘You were hardly young twelve years ago.'

I was younger mr officer

‘Did you know that Daniel was really called something else? That his name was John?'

don't remember

‘John Grimberg.'

Abel taps the words he's just written, as if to emphasise them, and adds:
we called him the invisible man

‘Why?'

The old man writes a longer reply.

he got in trouble after a thing with S, he disappeared then, didn't see him for some time, then he came back, like an apparition

‘When did you last see Daniel?'

a couple of months ago

‘Under what circumstances?'

‘Whoa.' I hear Karin's voice behind me, and feel a hand gripping my shoulder, tightly. ‘Is this an interrogation, or what?'

‘No.'

‘Take it easy, right?' she says. ‘Lean back.' She lets go of my shoulder. ‘He doesn't like being pushed.'

‘I'm not pushing.'

‘I'll be the judge of that.'

Abel smiles apologetically and blinks at Karin. On the TV, in the background, a music video is flickering. A big whale is floating through space, and looks as if it's about to swallow the earth. Looks welcoming.

‘A couple of months ago, you met Daniel,' I say. ‘What was the deal?'

he was here on business

‘Someone was going to disappear?'

Abel nods.

‘Does he still use the name Daniel Berggren?'

that's the name he's always used with me

‘How do you get in touch with Daniel if you need to get hold of him?'

send a letter

‘To what address?'

He writes something down and rips it from the pad, gives it to me. It's a P.O. box.

‘This isn't a real address.'

it's the one I've got

‘So what happens when you contact him by letter?'

he comes here

‘After how long?'

2–4 days

I look at the address in my hand and stand up from the chair. I wonder where the box is. Wherever it is, it's likely to be close to Grim's home. That box must be important for him.

‘Thank you,' I say.

you don't want to thank me you want to lock me up for drugs and violence
, he writes,
because you think I've hurt the children of Alby