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 canât 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 policeâs 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 didnât answer. I donât 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 wasnât sure which it was; Iâm 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. IâM OUTDOORS , and Iâve 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 thereâs 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 itâs a while before I realise that the cottages are for sale and that Iâm standing outside an estate agentâs. I grind my teeth and stand hunched against the windowpane, my forehead just a hairâs breadth from the glass. Clouds rush overhead, as though they were chasing someone.
MY PHONE RINGS . Iâm in the stairwell in front of the lift â 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.
âHello?â
Itâs Gabriel Birck. He wants to talk to me about what happened yesterday. What happened yesterday, thatâs the phrase he uses.
âI thought you had people to do the legwork for you,â I say, calling the lift.
âI always make at least one call myself.â
He sounds professional and strict. As though heâs either forgotten or doesnât mind the fact that Iâd broken in to and rummaged around his crime scene less than twelve hours earlier. This makes me uneasy.
âOkay,â I say.
âIs this a bad time?â
âI ⦠no.â
Iâm standing by my front door, looking at the lock. There are scratches around it â scratches that I donât 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 theyâre new, and carefully push down the door handle. Itâs locked. I need a Serax. I go inside and over to the kitchen worktop, fill a glass with water, and get a pill out.
âLeo?â
âEh?â
âDid you hear what I said?â
âNo, sorry, I
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 canât 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 policeâs 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 didnât answer. I donât 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 wasnât sure which it was; Iâm 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. IâM OUTDOORS , and Iâve 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 thereâs 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 itâs a while before I realise that the cottages are for sale and that Iâm standing outside an estate agentâs. I grind my teeth and stand hunched against the windowpane, my forehead just a hairâs breadth from the glass. Clouds rush overhead, as though they were chasing someone.
MY PHONE RINGS . Iâm in the stairwell in front of the lift â 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.
âHello?â
Itâs Gabriel Birck. He wants to talk to me about what happened yesterday. What happened yesterday, thatâs the phrase he uses.
âI thought you had people to do the legwork for you,â I say, calling the lift.
âI always make at least one call myself.â
He sounds professional and strict. As though heâs either forgotten or doesnât mind the fact that Iâd broken in to and rummaged around his crime scene less than twelve hours earlier. This makes me uneasy.
âOkay,â I say.
âIs this a bad time?â
âI ⦠no.â
Iâm standing by my front door, looking at the lock. There are scratches around it â scratches that I donât 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 theyâre new, and carefully push down the door handle. Itâs locked. I need a Serax. I go inside and over to the kitchen worktop, fill a glass with water, and get a pill out.
âLeo?â
âEh?â
âDid you hear what I said?â
âNo, sorry, I
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