The Invisible Man from Salem (7 page)

Levin came to see me later that same afternoon, and looked regretful. He pulled a chair over to the bedside, put one leg over the other, and leant forward.

‘How are things, Leo?'

‘They've pumped me full of pills.'

‘Do they make you feel better?'

‘Good as new.'

He laughed.

‘Good. That's good.'

‘What happened?'

‘I was going to ask you the same thing.'

‘There were no weapons,' I mumbled. ‘Just toys and newspapers. I don't know which side started shooting, but once it started, it just carried on.' I hesitated and looked at Levin.

‘I was down in the harbour the night before.'

‘Okay?'

‘Lasker was there.'

Levin didn't react.

‘He told me to get out of there,' I went on. ‘That something was wrong.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Nothing.' My lips were dry, and I licked them with the tip of my tongue. ‘I thought he'd just got scared. But he probably knew something was going to go wrong.'

‘Or not. Lasker was a paranoid bastard — you know that yourself. He might well have said the same thing even if everything had gone according to plan.'

‘That's what I've been wondering. What was it that was supposed to happen?'

‘You're wondering if someone set you up?'

‘Did they?'

‘No.'

I looked at Levin and tried not to blink. When that failed, I looked the other way.

‘Why weren't there any weapons?'

‘No idea.'

‘Someone must know.'

‘Someone must. Someone always does. But I don't know who that might be.'

I didn't believe him, but I didn't know why. Something wasn't right. Everything went quiet. He looked at his watch and poured some water from the jug, then drank it, before filling the cup again and giving it to me. I shook my head.

‘You need to drink water.'

‘I'm not thirsty.'

Levin pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and wrote something, then pushed it over to me.

I think the room is
bugged

I looked at him.

‘Now you tell me?'

good they're getting your version

‘Who are they?'

Levin didn't react. I leant back again, and sighed. The room tilted, and I felt drawn towards the window, but I was too tired to move.

They were worried that I might talk, I think, even though I'd been told not to. Exactly who ‘they' were remained a mystery. They were police — that much I did understand. In the circumstances, controlling the flow of information was vital. They wanted control over what I said and to whom.

Levin wrote something else on his pad, then laid it on my chest. I picked it up and held it out, straining to focus.

I can't save you now, Leo

THEY NEEDED A SCAPEGOAT
, and they got one. Officially, according to the version given to the media, I was put on sick leave until the end of the year, after which I would be redeployed, if indeed I wanted to remain in the force. Both the media and the organisation itself were happy with that, since unofficially I was suspended. Everyone knew it. The blame for the botched raid was pinned on me, the new boy at IA. It was the simplest, most watertight, thing for them to do. Since the police's role in the whole affair was to be investigated by Internal Affairs, where I was already, I had no one to turn to. I was put on sick leave, with Serax for the acute anxiety, and Temazepam to help me sleep and to deal with my nervous tension, as the doctor put it. I tried to call Levin, but he didn't answer. I don't think he dared have anything to do with me. That was late spring, and I was discharged; summer came along and swished past, in a series of foggy days and long nights.

Either the tablets were making me paranoid, or they were making me realise what had actually happened. I wasn't sure which it was; I'm still not. I began to suspect that I had been sent to Gotland not to check up on the internal investigators, but rather for just this reason. I was useful for them; they could get out of the spotlight, hidden behind one another, leaving me alone out there if something went wrong.

OUTDOORS. I'M OUTDOORS
, and I've stopped by a shop window on Kungsholmen that has a display of summer cottages. I look at the images, the little red wooden houses with the white detailing. In some of the pictures there's even a Swedish flag hanging from the roof. I imagine glasses being raised by people as they toast, smiling and laughing; I imagine children with floral wreaths in their hair. Everything is as it always has been, as though time has stood still. I imagine glasses on the table round the back of the cottage, as empty as words. How a shredded, red-splattered shirt lies on the lawn, out of the sight of passers-by. I am captivated by the pictures, and it's a while before I realise that the cottages are for sale and that I'm standing outside an estate agent's. I grind my teeth and stand hunched against the windowpane, my forehead just a hair's breadth from the glass. Clouds rush overhead, as though they were chasing someone.

MY PHONE RINGS
. I'm in the stairwell in front of the lift — I came in the back way after studying the cordoned-off scene around Chapmansgatan 6. I stand there with my phone ringing; the call is from a withheld number.

‘Hello?'

It's Gabriel Birck. He wants to talk to me about what happened yesterday. What happened yesterday, that's the phrase he uses.

‘I thought you had people to do the legwork for you,' I say, calling the lift.

‘I always make at least one call myself.'

He sounds professional and strict. As though he's either forgotten or doesn't mind the fact that I'd broken in to and rummaged around his crime scene less than twelve hours earlier. This makes me uneasy.

‘Okay,' I say.

‘Is this a bad time?'

‘I … no.'

I'm standing by my front door, looking at the lock. There are scratches around it — scratches that I don't recognise. I take a step back and look at the floor near the door. Reveals nothing. I rub my finger over the scratches, wonder if they're new, and carefully push down the door handle. It's locked. I need a Serax. I go inside and over to the kitchen worktop, fill a glass with water, and get a pill out.

‘Leo?'

‘Eh?'

‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘No, sorry, I … never mind.' I pop the pill on my tongue, drink a gulp of water. ‘Go on.'

‘I need to record this conversation. Is that okay?'

I shrug, despite the fact that he can't see me.

‘Hello?'

‘I suppose so.'

Birck pushes the button on his phone and I hear the quiet but distinctive squeak. The tape is rolling.

‘Can you tell me what you did yesterday?'

‘I was at home. No, I went to Salem in the afternoon.'

‘What were you doing in Salem?'

‘Visiting my parents. Then I came home.'

‘What time did you get home?'

‘I don't know. Five, maybe six.'

‘And what did you do at home?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Everyone is always doing something.'

‘I wasn't doing anything. Watched telly, ate, had a shower, fell asleep about eleven. Nothing.'

‘When did you wake up?'

‘I can't remember. But it was the blue lights that woke me up.'

‘They woke you up?'

Birck sounds surprised.

‘I'm a light sleeper these days,' I mumble.

‘I thought you had medicine for all that?'

‘Doesn't really help,' is all I manage, distracted, because something in the flat has caught my attention, but I can't work out what.

I go to the bathroom door and push it open slightly. Everything looks untouched. I step in, seeing my confused face in the mirror, my hand holding the phone.

The light. It's on. Did I leave it on?

‘Eh?' I say, fairly sure that Birck said something.

‘What did you do when you woke up?' he repeats, clearly irritated and impatient.

‘Got dressed, and went to see what had happened.'

‘Which means?'

‘I went down to Chapmansgården.'

I open the bathroom cabinet with my free hand, and study the contents: toiletries and powerful medicines; a little box containing a ring that I used to wear every day and which at that time was my most prized possession. I close the cabinet.

‘And?' says Birck. ‘What else?'

I tell him about how I got into Chapmansgården after talking to the two police officers; how I went past Matilda as she sat talking to a third cop. Birck listens, asks follow-up questions, more urgent than before. I realise I'm close to something important, and stop talking.

‘Did you examine the body?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘This is a formal interview,' Birck says. ‘Conduct yourself accordingly.'

‘I didn't examine it.'

‘Did you touch it?'

‘No, I just looked at her.' That's pretty much true. ‘Why?'

‘Her hand,' Birck goes on, as though he hadn't heard me. ‘Did you see if she had anything in her hand?'

I hesitate, and sit down on the edge of the bed.

‘I don't remember.'

‘You're lying. Was there anything in her hand?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you touch it?'

‘Eh?'

‘I'm asking whether you touched what was in her hand.'

‘No.'

‘Are you quite sure about that?'

I wonder what he's thinking.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘I am sure. Why?'

‘Thank you.' He breathes out. ‘That's everything.'

When Birck hangs up, I just sit there with the phone in my hand. My head's spinning; I'm trying to untangle everything, without any success. Deductive reasoning has never been my strongest suit; I'm too slow, not logical enough, too irrational. I scan the flat instead, looking for signs that someone has been here. I'm certain that there must be some, waiting there right in front of me. I just can't see them. Or else I'm just paranoid. I look up at the bathroom light again. It might have been on when I went out. I feel the Serax flood out and start buzzing at my temples. Nothing happens, and I open the balcony door, smoke a cigarette.

A surname. I need her surname. If I get that, I'll be one step further on. When I call the switchboard on Kungsholmsgatan, I'm put through to Birck's office and the call is then forwarded to his mobile. He's the type of cop who answers by just saying his surname.

‘It's me, Leo.'

‘Well? I haven't had my lunch yet, Leo, I haven't got ti—'

‘Rebecca,' I say. ‘Her name was Rebecca, with two Cs, I think.'

‘Yes, Salomonsson. Rebecca,' Birck says, puzzled. ‘Don't you think we know that?'

‘Good,' I say. ‘Thanks. I just wanted to give you all the information I have.'

I think he realises that I've tricked him, but he doesn't say so. Rebecca Salomonsson. Standing at the bathroom mirror, razor in hand, I'm surprised to see my eyes looking clear and alert, as though the fog has lifted and they've caught sight of something to focus on.

WHEN I WAS NEW
to the force I had to do long nights on the beat, on the streets around Medborgarplatsen. To keep myself awake, I used to use prescription caffeine tablets that a colleague and I had confiscated from a rave out in Nacka. I smoked cigarettes while no one was looking and sent texts to Tess, my girlfriend at the time. She had the reddest hair I've ever seen, and worked in the cloakroom at Blue Moon Bar. My partner on the beat was a man from Norrland who everyone called Tosca, because he'd once attempted to become an opera singer. He was gentle and kind to everyone, yet thick-set and sturdy. He voted for the Centre Party and he always claimed that I thought like a conservative voter, which I may have done. We didn't have an awful lot to talk about, but when Tess and I split up he was the first person to know. I guess that's only natural when two men spend hours and hours in a car together, just waiting for something useful to do.

But when I started on those patrols, one of the first things I learnt was the importance of contacts — junkies, whores, moles inside the organised gangs, teenagers kicking around the concrete estates, old soaks sitting on the steps outside the methadone clinic every morning. A couple of well-chosen individuals can give you more useful information on a case than three hundred others. The challenge is identifying them, and if there's one thing I'm good at, it's that: judging whether someone is useful or not. It's not a trait that makes you well liked, but it's what I've got.