The Falling Detective Read Online Free PDF Page B

The windowsills are empty, with no plants or lamps, and each window is framed by a light-blue curtain. On one windowsill is a little saucer, empty and clean.
    â€˜Did he smoke?’
    â€˜Not as far as I know,’ Birck’s voice comes back.
    I open the fridge. Inside are two bottles of Czech lager, a jar of Taco sauce, some butter, and a sad little piece of cheese with less than a day to go before its sell-by date.
    I go into the bedroom, where Birck is kneeling in front of the wardrobe and pulling out a pair of shoes. He investigates the laces, and then the soles and the inside of the shoes, before putting them back.
    â€˜Nothing?’ I ask.
    Birck shakes his head.
    The bed is unmade. I put my nose to the bed sheets and smell them. They haven’t been washed in a long time. A desk is next to the bedroom’s only window, and I flip carefully through the papers lying on it — an invoice for December’s rent, a wage slip from the Stockholm University, and a mobile-phone bill. I pick up the bill and find the number, get my phone out, dial the number, and put the phone to my ear. A cold, robotic voice tells me that the person I have called is unavailable.
    â€˜Switched off or no coverage.’
    â€˜Wasn’t expecting anything else,’ says Birck.
    Under the phone bill is a scrunched-up piece of paper. I carefully pick it up between two fingers and unfold it.
    â€˜What’s that?’ Birck asks.
    â€˜A receipt. Heber bought a coffee at Café Cairo on the eleventh of December. Looks like he paid by card. That’s it.’
    â€˜Cairo. That’s near us, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Mitisgatan,’ I read. ‘Yes, it’s near the bunker.’
    â€˜Put it back.’ Birck stares at my hand, which is heading for my coat pocket. ‘It has to be here when the technicians arrive.’
    â€˜Shall I scrunch it up for them, too?’
    Birck rolls his eyes. I leave the receipt on the desk, and we go through the bathroom and the closet together, but the flat says very little about its owner. Next to nothing, in fact.
    â€˜Do you reckon he was on his way home?’ I ask. ‘That he’d stopped off on Döbelnsgatan to see someone he’d arranged to meet there.’
    â€˜I don’t reckon anything,’ Birck says, his eyes glued to the floor in the hall.
    â€˜Everyone always thinks something.’
    â€˜I reckon that whatever has happened, we’re not going to find the answer here.’ Then he stops, and crouches down. ‘Is this yours? This shoeprint?’
    â€˜How could it be mine? We took our shoes off out there. I thought you were a good cop. Anyway, what footprint? I can’t see anything.’
    â€˜I think you need to be right over here, crouching down where I am.’
    I take two steps forward, crouch down, and it appears. The print is a bit bigger than mine, and from a heavier boot. There are two, three, four more in the hall. The pattern is smeared, as though someone has hastily tried to hide them.
    â€˜Have we ruined them?’
    â€˜I don’t think so. We walked along the wall.’
    â€˜It’s not the same person,’ I say. ‘The one who was hiding behind the bins on Döbelnsgatan, and whoever’s been here. Not the same tread.’
    â€˜How did we miss this on the way in?’ says Birck. Then he stands up, and takes two steps towards the door. He laughs. ‘Bugger me.’
    Light and shade often play games with your eyes. In Heber’s hallway the ceiling light makes the shadows scatter and the light reflect off the floor. It’s probably a coincidence but when you stand by the door, you can’t see the prints unless you know they’re there.
    Birck pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the prints.
    â€˜They’re not dry,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to get Mauritzon to check them out.’
    â€˜How the hell did they get in?’ I say. ‘The door