by Jens Lapidus
Josephine had footed the bill for lunch, and they had agreed to meet again soon.
The snippet of film Emelie and Katja had been forced to watch at the station was playing on her mind—it was the worst thing she had ever seen. But there was something else to it, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—as though she recognized the girls being abused. Maybe it was just that they all looked so normal, beneath the makeup, the bizarre underwear, and their tormented faces. They could have been her or any of her friends fifteen years ago.
* * *
—
The elevator had double doors, in line with some new regulation—first an ordinary door, then two automatic doors that completely sealed the metal box. The only indication that you were being carried upward was the roller-coaster-like sensation in your stomach. It was Adam’s name on the mailbox: Tagrin. Emelie wondered how much older than Katja he was; it was something she should ask Marcus to look into.
The doorbell was a classic, a small black button on the door itself. She rang it.
No one answered.
Emelie pressed her ear to the door: she couldn’t hear a sound from inside the apartment.
For some reason, she took hold of the handle. The door was unlocked.
She had an extremely bad feeling about this. “Hello, Katja?”
No reply.
The hallway was messy. There was a flimsy throw rug on the floor and shoes on the shoe rack, several of them probably Katja’s.
“Adam?” she tried.
No reply.
The light in the hallway looked old, brass and glass. It was on.
Emelie raised her voice. “Hello, is anyone home?”
She didn’t bother taking off her shoes. Something wasn’t right; she could feel it with every inch of her body.
There was a poster on one wall, depicting an old-fashioned map. Bacon’s Standard Europe, it said at the top, and Emelie had time to see that Yugoslavia was still one big country. To the left was a bedroom, but something was pulling Emelie to the right. A living room. A brown sofa, a coffee table covered in newspapers and remote controls, two floor cushions, some dry houseplants in the window.
And a body on the floor.
At first, Emelie couldn’t work out what the sound she was hearing was—then she realized that it was her, that she was screaming.
Katja was lying on the floor.
There was blood everywhere.
She didn’t need to bend down to understand.
Someone had killed Katja. Stabbed her to death.
Emelie looked up at the wall.
Huge letters, written in blood.
It said: WHORE.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 3
To: Hugo Pederson
From: Göran Blixt (boss)
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 10:10
GÖRAN: Could you come in half an hour before lunch?
HUGO: Sure.
GÖRAN: Good. I’m on my way from the golf course now, but I’ll be back by then. We’ll go through the analysis. Lots of interesting stuff there, Hugo. We could probably kill the little Dane. But we need to do it good and proper. The price is around 140 today.
HUGO: I know. But it’s going down, believe me, it’s going down. It’s just a question of timing.
GÖRAN: Like always. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. I need you to sign the new policy document Michaela and I have produced, too. We need everyone to agree to these rules.
HUGO: Okay, no problem. Wasn’t the old agreement enough?
GÖRAN: Yeah, but this one’s clearer and better, even though the content is virtually the same. No conflicts of interest, no private business and so on.
HUGO: I’d happily go in on the Dane myself if it came down 3 or 4 percent.
GÖRAN: I understand, but you know the rules. No private business, we can’t have that. Your time needs to be spent analyzing what we should be doing at Fortem Capital, that’s all. I own your brain, Hugo, haven’t you realized that?
HUGO: Ha, yeah, my brain understood that long ago.
GÖRAN: Good, glad to hear it. See you soon. Bye.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 4
To: Pierre Danielsson (co-suspect)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 13:10
HUGO: Little Pille, little Pille, liked to pull on his willy.
PIERRE: Very funny.
HUGO: Things are happening now, little Pille.
PIERRE: What?
HUGO: With the Dane.
PIERRE: Okay, then maybe we should call on the burners?
HUGO: Okay, I’ll call you.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 5
To: Pierre Danielsson (co-suspect)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 13:11
HUGO: Little Pierre, little Pierre, scratched his hairy derriere…
PIERRE: You’re very funny, everyone knows. Truly. And you sing like Céline Dion.
HUGO: Good job for these prepaid Telias…
PIERRE: Better safe than sorry, right? You never know, these burners are just to keep on the safe side. So, what’s going on?
HUGO: I’ve been analyzing Danfoss for two weeks now. They’ve been at it for years, but they’re still miles from the top. They’re the Arabs of the North, the Danes. But if you bring about some changes to the leadership, make the business more efficient and overhaul the capital structure, huge amounts could be paid out to the shareholders. We’ve checked over ten factories and gone through all their provider contracts. I know that firm like I know my own dick. And now for the fun part.
PIERRE: What does Göran say?
HUGO: Exactly. I presented the case to him at lunch and he said: “We’re going in.” So Fortem’ll be going in as a new owner. We’ll start taking position from tomorrow, Fortem’s going to take at least ten percent. So the price is going to…
PIERRE: The Danes are gonna fly. Shit man, nice. What do we do, then?
HUGO: You do what you want, so long as you do it right. No big, obvious positions, try to get as many blocks on the outside as possible, outside the market exchange systems. You’re using your guy in Switzerland, right?
PIERRE: Yeah, yeah.
HUGO: Good, speak later.
PIERRE: Yeah, hey listen…
HUGO: What?
PIERRE: Greed is good.
HUGO: Exactly. Ciao.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 6
To: Jesper Ringblad (stockbroker, Nordea)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 13:17
HUGO: ‘Sup, Jeppe. It’s Hugo P.
JESPER: Mr. Pederson, good to hear from you.
HUGO: Yup, let’s hope so.
JESPER: Ha.
HUGO: I want to buy Danfoss A/S B shares.
JESPER: The Danish heat pumps?
HUGO: Yes indeedy. I want one hundred thousand.
JESPER: Okay, wait a second…right, Danfoss B…it’s being traded on the Copenhagen Stock Exchange and the Dow Jones.
HUGO: I know.
JESPER: And you want to buy at what price?
HUGO: What’s it at now? In the U.S.?
JESPER: They haven’t opened yet.
HUGO: Of course. Copenhagen, then.
JESPER: Roughly 123.7, 123.8 Swedish kronor.
HUGO: Listen, go for two hundred thousand. I’ve got a feeling about this. Something’s going on there.
JESPER: Really? Two hundred thousand?
HUGO: Yeah, and it needs to happen pronto, you understand?
JESPER: Okay, I’ll try as quickly as possible. What’s your limit?
HUGO: One hundred twent
y-four.
JESPER: Okay, I’ll get going then.
HUGO: No, wait. There’s one more thing: you can only buy in blocks, nothing from the market’s electronic systems. Only direct from your contacts. It’s important.
JESPER: Then it might be a bit tricky getting so many.
HUGO: Yeah, yeah, but you’ll be well paid for it. It’s your job, man, isn’t it?
JESPER: Yes, of course. I’ll try.
HUGO: Perfect. I’ll call you later.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 7
To: Jesper Ringblad (stockbroker, Nordea)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 14:08
HUGO: How’s it going?
JESPER: I’ve managed one hundred thousand.
HUGO: Then you need to pick up the pace a bit now. And listen, I want another one hundred thousand.
JESPER: Are you really sure, three hundred thousand Danfoss B in all?
HUGO: I’ve never been more sure.
JESPER: You don’t have the funds in your account.
HUGO: You know what Mahatma Gandhi always said, right?
JESPER: No…
HUGO: Greed is good. I’ll borrow it.
JESPER: Mahatma Gan…?
HUGO: Or whoever the hell it was. Doesn’t matter. All you need to do is haul in three hundred thousand of those Danish bastards. And if there’s not enough dough in the account, lend it.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 8
To: Hugo Pederson
From: Jesper Ringblad (stockbroker, Nordea)
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 16:40
JESPER: Hey, it’s Jesper.
HUGO: Hey, hey.
JESPER: It’s done now. All the shares are in your account. Three hundred thousand.
HUGO: All in blocks?
JESPER: Yep, everything.
HUGO: Thanks, you’ve done a great job.
JESPER: I’m glad you’re glad. That’s the most important thing.
HUGO: Hell no, the most important thing is that I make money on this.
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 9
To: Louise Pederson (wife)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 12 October 2005
Time: 18:40
HUGO: Hey, baby.
LOUISE: Hi.
HUGO: What are you doing?
LOUISE: I’ve been to the gym, was just going to stop somewhere to get some dinner.
HUGO: Let’s go out to eat, you and me?
LOUISE: Can you?
HUGO: Yeah, of course. Where do you want to go? Should I try to book us a table at Sturecompagniet for seven?
LOUISE: Sure.
HUGO: Oh, and one more thing, Mousey. We’ll redo the bathroom, and the rest. We’ll do the whole thing.
LOUISE: But you said we couldn’t afford it.
HUGO: It’ll be okay.
LOUISE: You’re wonderful. You know that? Kisses.
12
Roksana and Z were in a car on the way to Dusky. An UberPool, of course—they couldn’t afford anything else.
“If you bring some of the stuff I tried at your place,” Billie had laughed over the phone when Roksana called her to ask about the event as subtly as she could. The address had arrived in an SMS a few hours later. The whole thing was classed as a private party, and Roksana knew it took more than paying the entry fee to be let in. The Ora Flesh collective was exclusive: everyone there was carefully chosen.
There was a food truck parked outside the industrial building. It wasn’t open yet; it was only twelve thirty, but people were guaranteed to be hungry in a few hours’ time. Above the door: a small banner covered in emojis.
They could hear music coming from inside the building. Untz-untz-untz, a powerful bass line, a rhythm echoing out into the entrance. Shit, this was going to be great.
Roksana and Z walked down a long hallway, concrete walls, people standing around in groups—maybe they hadn’t been let in. It was warmer here. The sound grew louder. After a minute or so, they saw a couple of figures standing by a metal door. The music was drumming against their eardrums now. Two girls in faux fur were each holding an iPad, checking people off the guest list. Roksana hoped they weren’t about to run into problems, but one of the girls just smiled when she said her name. “You’re Billie’s friend, right?”
* * *
—
“I think it’s an old turbine hall,” Z said, barely audible over the music. It pulsed through Roksana’s body in shock waves. She could see huge fan heaters next to the towers of speakers. Lasers created light shows in the air: hearts, geometric shapes, explosions of color. Glowing, psychedelic UV adornments hung on one of the walls. On the largest, she could see the emojis again.
“They’ve got a really sweet vibe going on here,” Z shouted, which meant that the level of irony was perfect.
Shit, it was nice.
“Can you see who’s playing?”
Roksana glanced over to the DJ booth. She was no connoisseur, but she recognized Ora Flesh herself: the model married to the photographer. The hottest couple in town. It couldn’t get any better.
There were three, possibly four hundred people in the turbine hall. The vast majority were Roksana’s age. The free spirit hippies were at one end of the room, shaking their long hair as though they were at some kind of shaman festival, but, for the most part, the people crowding the dance floor looked normal. She recognized a few of them: Billie’s friends, Billie’s friends’ friends, and even two girls who had come to her and Z’s housewarming party. She tried to wave to them, but they didn’t seem to recognize her. There were a few older people, too, even a number of old men with wrinkled faces. Keith Richards clones, almost. She assumed they were old photographers, stylists, art directors, and that kind of thing.
The music was seamless, each mix blending into the next. Roksana scrunched her North Face coat into a ball and shoved it into the bag on her back. She had bought the coat from Humana Second Hand on Timmermansgatan.
Z went over to the bar and bought two balloons and two lagers. They took a few sips of beer and then inhaled the nitrous. It made Roksana’s head tingle, and she laughed like a madwoman when Z broke out some extreme liquid and digits dance moves. His entire body was like a giant flow of energy. She could never have come here without him.
She spotted Billie and the two girls again, across the dance floor. Roksana glanced at Z: Shouldn’t they go over? But Z seemed completely lost in himself now, Roksana was dancing, too. Her arms were like electric cables in the air. She was sweating. She was breathing. She checked her watch: they had been there an hour now. She saw Billie making out with a guy who looked like Elijah Wood. The laser beams drew art on the walls. The underground feeling was intense, even though the organizers were some of the most well-known names in Stockholm. She wished she could afford a new pair of sneakers—her feet were soaking, and the soles had started to ache. Most of all, she wished that some of the people who had been at their housewarming would come over and say that the party had been sick.
“Want to go through to the other bar?” Z shouted. “Where the sofas are.”
* * *
—
The bar in the room where the sofas were was oddly quiet. “That’s new sound system technology—I saw a documentary about it,” Z began, about to launch into a lecture that Roksana managed to stop.
“I know,” she said.
There were sun loungers lined up next to the old sofas. Fabric on the walls. There was sand on the floor and incense burning on the bar, spreading its fragrant scent and positive vibes.
“It’s called Satya Sai Baba Nag Champa,” Z said, setting off again.
“Nice, very nice,” said Roksana. “Especially the sand.”
Billie wa
s already sitting next to a group of people. “Heeey, Roksy. Come and sit.”
They made small talk for a while.
“Anyone got anything good?” a girl asked after a while.
A cute guy laughed. “I have, but I paid two grand per tablet, so I’d have to charge you.”
Roksana took off her backpack and felt for the plastic bag inside.
Billie turned to her. “Ey, bish, did you and Z bring the stuff?”
Billie always wanted to sound like she came from the suburbs, even though she had grown up in the heart of bohemian Södermalm.
Roksana told the truth: “Yeah.”
Billie pouted. “Girl, I love you. For real. Can I have a hit?”
* * *
—
Half an hour later, they came down from their high. The music from the dance floor thudded faintly against the walls.
Billie shouted out with happiness, “Even better than last time!” Her partners laughed like mad. They had been crawling around in the sand during the rush, thinking they were dwarf hamsters.
The cute guy who wanted to sell E had a smile so wide that it threatened to split his face in two. He blinked at Roksana. “That stuff. I mean, it’s incredible. What’s your name?”
“I’m Roksy.”
“Aha, were you the one who had the housewarming last week?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you have fun?”
Roksana wondered why he was asking. What had he heard?
“Yeah, we had fun.”
The cute guy pushed his hair out of his eyes. In the gloom of the bar, he almost looked like Archie from Riverdale.
“Only fun? ’Cause I heard it was completely insane, off-the-hook crazy.”
The cute guy blinked with those big eyes of his. Then he cleared his throat and shouted across the chill room: “Hey, everyone! Roksy here’s my new queen. She’s the best.”
A bubbling feeling in her body. It wasn’t the ketamine. Roksana knew it was something else—it was the buzz of being on the way up.