The Invisible Man from Salem by Christoffer Carlsson Page B

… never mind.’ I pop the pill on my tongue, drink a gulp of water. ‘Go on.’
    â€˜I need to record this conversation. Is that okay?’
    I shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see me.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜I suppose so.’
    Birck pushes the button on his phone and I hear the quiet but distinctive squeak. The tape is rolling.
    â€˜Can you tell me what you did yesterday?’
    â€˜I was at home. No, I went to Salem in the afternoon.’
    â€˜What were you doing in Salem?’
    â€˜Visiting my parents. Then I came home.’
    â€˜What time did you get home?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Five, maybe six.’
    â€˜And what did you do at home?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Everyone is always doing something.’
    â€˜I wasn’t doing anything. Watched telly, ate, had a shower, fell asleep about eleven. Nothing.’
    â€˜When did you wake up?’
    â€˜I can’t remember. But it was the blue lights that woke me up.’
    â€˜They woke you up?’
    Birck sounds surprised.
    â€˜I’m a light sleeper these days,’ I mumble.
    â€˜I thought you had medicine for all that?’
    â€˜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?
    â€˜Eh?’ I say, fairly sure that Birck said something.
    â€˜What did you do when you woke up?’ he repeats, clearly irritated and impatient.
    â€˜Got dressed, and went to see what had happened.’
    â€˜Which means?’
    â€˜I went down to ChapmansgÃ¥rden.’
    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.
    â€˜And?’ says Birck. ‘What else?’
    I tell him about how I got into ChapmansgÃ¥rden 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.
    â€˜Did you examine the body?’
    â€˜Not exactly.’
    â€˜This is a formal interview,’ Birck says. ‘Conduct yourself accordingly.’
    â€˜I didn’t examine it.’
    â€˜Did you touch it?’
    â€˜No, I just looked at her.’ That’s pretty much true. ‘Why?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I don’t remember.’
    â€˜You’re lying. Was there anything in her hand?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did you touch it?’
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜I’m asking whether you touched what was in her hand.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Are you quite sure about that?’
    I wonder what he’s thinking.
    â€˜Yes,’ I say. ‘I am sure. Why?’
    â€˜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