The Falling Detective by Christoffer Carlsson

she came into the yard, plunged his knife into the sociologist’s back. But it doesn’t quite make sense — something in the sequence of events doesn’t add up. Like wearing a jumper inside out, it works, but it’s not right.
    The interviewee, 1599, is the first to arrive, and waits for Heber behind the green bin. Heber slips into the alleyway and looks around, searching for his contact. Then, from out of the shadows of the capital’s streets, a third silhouette appears and sticks the knife into Heber.
    Has 1599 lured Heber into a trap? Perhaps. How much time passes between Heber going up the alley and the assailant following him? Is it a second, or a minute? Do Heber and 1599 get the chance to say anything to each other? Maybe, but probably not. Why does 1599 ring the police, if indeed it was 1599 who made that call? Why is Heber nervous and unsettled, and what is it that he’s heard? Who has been in Heber’s apartment and left shoeprints there? Was that before or after the murder?
    My questions are becoming more and more like knots. As soon as I get close to an answer to one of them, it turns out I’ve made too many assumptions, and I have to go back and start again. I need to talk to Birck — he’s more analytical than I am.
    I print off two copies of the list and then two copies of the long, diary-like document. While the printer on Heber’s desk spits out sheets of paper, I read the list of numbers and abbreviations, and circle ‘1599’.

Just before 10.00 a.m., the man arriving to open up at Café Cairo notices that something weird has happened.
    His name is Oscar Svedenhag, and he heads in the back way, through the courtyard, and unlocks the empty premises, lights the soft lighting, and weaves his way through the tables and chairs over to the counter. He dumps his rucksack, puts the keys down on the side, and starts whistling. He starts preparing the coffee machine, and checks that they have all the produce they will need for the day.
    There are a few minutes left till opening when Oscar notices: there’s a slight hum in the café. The door out onto the street, through which customers come and go, is not closed. The door handle is hanging limp, as though someone has broken it.
    As if that wasn’t enough, something else isn’t right here, behind the counter. But what? Then he realises. There’s something amiss with the black-matte handles of his set of knives sticking out from the little wooden block in the corner — one of the knives is gone.
    On top of that, the float is missing from the till.
    There are lots of ways to react to this, one of which would be to call the police. He doesn’t do that. He does, however, stop whistling.

Kele Valdez is sitting in his room, hunched over his desk, his face hidden behind black curls, reading a text very carefully. Valdez is wearing a black jacket, black shirt, and black jeans, as though the feast of St Lucia also included a funeral. It might be just as well.
    â€˜Knock knock,’ I say, feeling every inch the unpleasant surprise as Valdez lifts his stare from the page.
    â€˜Good morning,’ he says, taking off his dark-rimmed glasses. ‘How can I help you?’
    â€˜I’m from the police.’
    â€˜The police?’ Keles eyebrows rise slightly, causing his forehead to crumple. ‘What’s this about?’
    He takes the news of his colleague’s death as you might expect. During our conversation, Kele’s voice is mechanical and empty, the sound of a person in shock. That’s the voice with which he confirms that they took a walk together yesterday.
    â€˜How did he seem, on your walk?’
    â€˜I don’t know, there was something a bit … he seemed nervous, a bit snappy. Do you know what I mean?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ I say. ‘How?’
    â€˜He was a bit short, as though he had his mind on other things, I suppose. I don’t know what