Read Online The Invisible Man from Salem by Christoffer Carlsson - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜It’s me, Leo.’
    â€˜Well? I haven’t had my lunch yet, Leo, I haven’t got ti—’
    â€˜Rebecca,’ I say. ‘Her name was Rebecca, with two Cs, I think.’
    â€˜Yes, Salomonsson. Rebecca,’ Birck says, puzzled. ‘Don’t you think we know that?’
    â€˜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.
    I went on from there to the armed-response unit, as a sergeant with the city police, where serious violent crimes would end up on my desk. It was at the city police that I met Charles Levin, who was a superintendent at the time. I was there for several years, during which time I worked closely with Levin, who taught me more about police work than anyone else. He watched me go from work-a-day cop to skilled investigator. By then I’d met Sam, and Levin watched our relationship grow and then die.
    Levin’s apartment is on Köpmansgatan in Gamla Stan. When I get there, a chill rain is falling hard, and fallen leaves are swirling about in the wind. Autumn is almost here; I can taste it on my tongue. Across the front of the building, near the entrance, someone has written I KNOW I LOST in white capitals, each letter the size of a man’s face. I examine the letters, attempting to decipher their meaning, trying to imagine someone writing them. Around me is the smell of damp clothes and the constant swarm of tourists streaming along lanes too narrow to accommodate them. I take the lift up and knock on the door.
    â€˜Leo,’ Levin says as he opens the door, clearly taken aback. He studies my face. ‘When did you last shave?’
    â€˜An hour ago.’
    â€˜I thought so.’ He steps to one side and lets me past him into the hall.