The Falling Detective (8 page)

True to form, that's precisely what I'm about to do.

Mitisgatan is a narrow ribbon, just one block long and lined with old five-storey buildings that look strangely squashed compared to their neighbours. Under a troubled sky, I nip over the pedestrian crossing, my hands in my pockets, shaking from the cold.

At street-level is a dark-green steel door. It is so mute and lifeless that it must surely be the door to a storeroom, yet above it hangs a little sign:
CAIRO
.

I push down on the door handle and let the heavy door swing open. It groans like an old man woken from slumber. It could be mistaken for just another café, but that's before you realise where you've ended up, and once you do, you're gone, whoosh, you've been sucked into another world.

Café Cairo is a hangout for anarchist sub-cultures with a weakness for all things extra-parliamentary. The premises are large, with wooden walls and wooden flooring. The walls are painted black and red, and the roof is adorned with old banners and placards from earlier demos, like relics or trophies. One wall is decorated with a large, framed print of a photograph showing a masked demonstrator throwing paving stones at a wall of police on Kungsportsavenyn in Gothenburg.

People are sitting in twos and threes, evenly spread throughout the café, sitting at small tables, and when I open the door they turn their heads towards me, young men and women with serious expressions. A news bulletin is being broadcast on the radio. Now I notice that the door handle is hanging loosely — it's broken.

I don't belong here, and you can tell that by looking at me. I look like a man who has plenty of money but not enough time to wash his clothes. I'm a police officer, and at Cairo they can smell a cop a mile off. I don't share their faith in the ideology they're fighting for. I am not concerned about what the state might be capable of doing in the name of capitalism, I don't hate the fur industry or the patriarchy. I don't do resistance. I don't do anything. I'm not one of them, and therefore I'm nobody.

A guy about my age is standing behind the counter. He's as wide as a doorway, and his rectangular ribcage stretches the fabric of the shirt he's wearing. He has dark, close-cropped hair, and on the right-hand side of his chest a white badge sits proudly with the letters
RAF
written in red and black. His hands are holding a baking tray full of brownies.

‘We don't serve coppers,' he says. He has grey eyes and some sort of eczema on his chin, like a red, open wound, glistening. He puts the brownies on the worktop. ‘Go to Klara's on Hantverkargatan.'

‘Is it that obvious?'

‘That you're a cop? Yep. It's about the door, right?'

‘The door?' I say, confused.

‘Someone broke in last night. It was open when I got here.'

‘You've had a break-in? Did you report it?'

‘No.'

‘So how would I know about it?'

‘There's always some prick who rings the police whenever it's anything to do with us, doesn't matter what. I assumed you'd heard about it.'

‘No,' I reply. ‘No, this isn't about the door. This is about Thomas Heber.' Pause for effect. ‘You know about that? That he's dead?'

‘We heard this morning.'

‘Do you know how he died?'

‘As I said, we heard this morning.'

‘Who's we?'

He shrugs.

‘What's your name?' I change tack.

‘What's your name?'

‘Leo Junker.'

I put my hand out. The man hesitantly stretches out his own hand, angular and hard like a piece of timber.

‘Oscar,' he says. ‘Oscar Svedenhag.'

‘I just want to ask a few questions.' I can feel how nobody's looking, but everybody's watching. ‘Could we go somewhere else?'

‘This is fine,' Oscar says as he notices that the coffee pot is empty. ‘Hang on a minute.' He disappears through an opening in the wall and returns with a new pot, full and hot.

‘Do you want some?'

‘I'm fine, thanks. Your badge.' I stare at the little, round plastic badge sitting on his chest. ‘
RAF
.' I pronounce each letter, unsure of how it should be read. ‘As in Royal Air Force, or like the beginning of
raf
ter?'

‘
R-A-F'
Oscar says frostily. ‘As in Radical Anti-Fascism.'

‘And what exactly is Radical Anti-Fascism?'

‘A group.'

‘Like
AFA
?'

This makes him laugh — a patronising, weary laugh.

‘If you like.'

‘And what does
RAF-V
stand for?'

‘That doesn't concern you.'

‘I think it does.'

Oscar gestures silently towards a group behind me who are watching carefully. He turns to me again.

‘Don't raise your voice. I can't be arsed with any trouble here.'

I lay my forearms on the counter, smell the aroma of fresh coffee, strong and bitter, and I contemplate buying a cup after all.

‘I think we have a witness to Thomas's murder. A woman who might be involved in
RAF
.'

‘There are over one hundred active
RAF
members in and around Stockholm,' Oscar says. ‘About thirty of them are women. You're going to have to be more specific.'

There's something odd about him — something about his eyes.

‘You knew him well. You and Thomas. You knew each other.'

Oscar tilts his head slightly to one side, as though weighing up the possible implications of his answer.

‘Not well. I knew who he was.'

‘I don't really believe that.'

‘I don't give a shit. Get out of here now. People are going to start wondering what the hell you're playing at.'

‘Either we do this here,' I say, ‘or we take a stroll down to the bunker. It's your call.'

He smiles, turning his back to me again, and moves the baking tray out of the way as he cleans the worktop. In the corner of the surface is a collection of knives in a wooden knife-block.

‘Is that block normally full?'

‘Why do you ask?'

‘I'm the inquisitive type, you know.'

He stalls, well aware of what the answer could mean.

‘Yes, it is normally full. I don't know where it is.'

I can't make out the blades. It could be one of them, the missing one, the one somebody stuck in Heber's back. I try to get a look at Oscar's shoes. They could be a size 44.

‘Ultimatums don't tend to be very effective here, especially not if they come from a disgusting cop.'

‘Disgusting. That's a new one.'

‘You like your job, right?'

‘I've got nothing against it,' I say, truthfully.

‘You can tell.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Looks like you like interrogating people. It's your thing.'

‘I don't like it when people go round stabbing each other. I think it's more that that's my “thing”.'

Oscar stands up, and that's when it happens. I've seen it before, how people change as the realisation hits them. He drops his cloth. The big man seems struck with deep grief.

‘If you answer my questions, I will leave you alone.'

Oscar bites his lip, stretching the skin over his chin and causing the glossy, red eczema to change shape.

‘How much detail do I need to give you?'

‘As much detail as you can.'

His heavy shoulders slide forwards, and his posture slumps.

‘We got to know each other in Gothenburg, during the riots. Almost thirteen years ago now. We belonged to different factions within the same network and we stayed at the same guy's place down there.'

After Gothenburg they were close, until a couple of years ago. There was no particular reason why they started drifting apart. They were getting older. Thomas disappeared into academia, while Oscar was still active in
AFA
and working part-time at Cairo. A few years ago he left
AFA
and went over to
RAF
instead.

‘He was doing some research when he died.' I say. ‘Were you one of his interview subjects?'

‘Yes, I was,' Oscar says. ‘One of the people who gave him access to new people to interview. He'd been away from politics for quite a while, at least in terms of direct action. Thomas didn't know the new people, and they didn't know him either.'

‘Had you ever helped him before?'

‘No, up till then he'd managed without me, he said.' Oscar takes a mug from the cupboard behind him and pours some coffee. The mug is white, with the words
I'D TRADE MY BOYFRIEND FOR TRUE DEMOCRACY
printed in black capitals. ‘But not this time. So I pulled a few strings for him.'

‘Do you know anything about who the others were? The others who were helping him?' I clarify.

‘I asked, of course. But no, when it came to that sort of thing, he wouldn't give anything away. He said that it applied to me as well, that I would be protected by confidentiality, too. That I'd just be a number.'

‘What number?'

‘Eh?'

‘What number were you?'

‘1584.' He takes a swig from his mug, peering over my shoulder again. ‘Academics, eh? Secretive lot. Worse than
AFA
.'

‘I've been wondering,' I say, scratching my cheek. ‘I've been wondering about his family life.'

‘What about it?'

‘Well, we … He doesn't seem to have had one. Men his age, our age, they're usually at least thinking about settling down with someone. Do you know whether he was in a relationship with anyone?'

‘No, no idea.'

‘Did he often come here?'

‘Often wouldn't be the right word. Sometimes.'

‘I have a receipt that puts him here a few days ago. The eleventh. I think he met someone here, possibly someone with a first name or surname beginning with H. Were you working that day?'

‘No, I was on my way home from a demo in Jönköping that evening.'

‘Could you check who was working then?'

‘We don't have lists like that — I'd need to ring round to find out. I won't be doing that.'

‘Do you know of anyone who would have been here then? Someone who's here now?'

‘If you want to know, you'd better ask them. But I would advise you to choose your words carefully.'

I turn towards the patrons, who have gone back to their conversations. A handful are sitting and reading alone, including a man whose head is too big and whose hands look small and hard. He's wearing a light-grey leather jacket with a
RAF
badge on the chest.

‘Good book?' I ask.

‘What the fuck do you want?'

‘To talk.'

‘No thanks.'

‘That wasn't a request.'

The man still hasn't looked up.

I lose patience.

‘Right. Fancy a nice walk back to the bunker with me?'

Everything goes very quiet. Behind me, Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. On the street outside, a car pulls up. The little man puts the book to one side and stands up. His eyes are like a bird's — round and jerky, bulbous.