by Jens Lapidus
Her phone beeped, and she scanned through the email that had just arrived.
40 YEARS OF LEIJON
Dear alumnus,
Leijon Legal Services is celebrating 40 years with pomp and circumstance. As an alumnus, you are hereby invited to celebrate with us on Midsummer’s Eve. Expect mingling, lunch and Midsummer tradition.
Yours faithfully,
Josephine Söderlund, Alumni relations.
So, Emelie thought, Jossan was even advancing in the old firm’s social circles. She was responsible for the alumni now, which could be important. Many of the firm’s former employees had moved on as corporate lawyers, several of them now general counsel, which meant they became important clients for the firm—in need of Leijon’s expertise. And though Emelie would never be a particularly significant buyer of legal advice around corporate transfers or the art of setting up extremely complicated company structures in order to avoid tax, she was an alumnus. But having the party on Midsummer’s Eve? They were crazy, those corporate types. She knew she should probably go to make Jossan happy, but it wasn’t worth it. Emelie would RSVP no.
It really did bother her that the police hadn’t been in touch—Emelie had been counsel for Katja, after all. She wanted to know more about what was happening with the investigation into her murder. She pulled out her phone and called Nina Ley.
The chief inspector’s reply was surprising. “Come to the main entrance on Polhemsgatan tomorrow, before lunch, and we can talk. Wait for me outside.”
* * *
—
The motorbikes clustered along the pavement outside—it was a well-known fact: cops were inclined toward vehicles of the two-wheeled variety. Biker men, men who felt like men, who played the role of men. Emelie doubted that many of the female officers she knew had driven here on a Triumph Thunderbird XL. She wondered what Nina meant by asking her to wait by the main entrance. When she had come here with Katja, Emelie had just reported to reception.
The cold felt biting today. She caught sight of her reflection in the large glass panels that formed the main entrance: she needed a haircut. Her current style was nondescript, an attempt at a side parting that looked more like she was trying to hide her face behind her long hair.
Nina Ley’s movements were abrupt when she opened one of the tall glass doors and stepped outside. Nothing like the calm—or at least seemingly balanced—vibes she had given off during the interview with Katja. “I thought we could have a chat,” she said, pointing up toward Kronobergsparken.
Emelie’s fingers and toes felt like they had been in the deep freeze. “Not in your office?”
One of Nina’s eyebrows twitched. “No, we thought our security was tight on this case, no one should even have known that Katja was being interviewed, but then what happened happened. I can’t rule out a leak, which means I can’t really trust my own team. I’d rather do this outside.”
They walked up the gravel path between the bare trees and bushes.
“You want to know why Adam Tagrin is a suspect, and what we’re doing about it?” Nina said once they were well inside the park.
“I was Katja’s counsel, so I feel I have a certain right to know, yes.”
Nina laughed shrilly. “I’m a bad, disloyal officer.”
“Don’t say that.”
“During my fifteen years in the force, I’ve never seen anything like this. And I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing by getting you even more involved, but somehow I have to try. Besides, you and your boyfriend have already shown yourselves to be competent.”
“Teddy isn’t my boyfriend.”
“It’s like this. Adam Tagrin has been lying low for over a month now, he desperately doesn’t want to be interviewed by us, so we’re considering him a suspect.”
“But does anything point to that? Other than him not wanting to come in voluntarily?”
Nina’s nose was red with cold. “It tends to be a good reason to suspect someone, don’t you agree?”
“People might have other reasons for lying low.”
“Do you know of any reason? Something he’s told you?”
Emelie suddenly wondered whether Nina knew that Adam had called her after the murder, but it seemed unlikely; she must just mean whether Adam had said anything before the event.
“No,” she said, trying to recall what Adam had actually said during their short phone conversation. “But why do you really suspect him? You must have something?”
“Yes, of course we do. Katja was killed by two stab wounds. One penetrated her lung, the other damaged her stomach. She died within a few minutes, on the floor where you found her. The murder weapon was the carving knife you saw lying next to her. We found her blood on the knife and we’ve compared the width and depth of the wounds, so we’re ninety-nine percent sure. The stab wounds are deep, meaning they were made with force, and the kitchen knife didn’t have a hand guard, so the perpetrator’s own hand may well have slipped forward as they stabbed. That’s quite common.”
Emelie started to realize where Nina was heading.
“We have a witness who let Adam stay over for the first few nights,” the detective continued. “And this witness claims that Adam had wounds on his palms, the kind made by a knife. Scars he doesn’t want us to see. So, what do you think, does that count as reasonable grounds for suspicion?”
They continued to the highest point of the park. Below them, on the other side, the paddling pool was empty.
“I suppose so,” said Emelie. “But couldn’t you have told me that over the phone?”
“Maybe, though I just committed misconduct by giving you confidential information. If you find out anything about Adam, or if he gets in touch with you, you have to let me know.”
“I’m under no obligation to do that.”
“But you do have morals?”
Emelie didn’t reply.
“There was one more thing.”
“What?”
“I’m happy for you and your friend to continue trying to work out why Katja was killed.”
“The Police Authority wants to hire us as private investigators, is that what you’re saying?”
“No.” Nina shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “The Police Authority doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m saying right now. And you wouldn’t have any special authority. I’m speaking as myself, Nina Ley. And you can do what you like with what I’ve just told you.”
“You have doubts that Adam is the right person?”
“Not really, but there’s more to this case, there’s a background, a history, you know that.”
Emelie was no longer freezing. She felt remarkably warm.
Nina said: “Help me, Emelie. Please. Help me.”
16
They were high as cumulus clouds, both of them, sitting side by side on the sofa. The computer was open on the coffee table, they had just watched two documentaries on STV Dox. McFusk & Co and OJ: Trial of the Century, though Z had spent most of the time playing with his new phone. It was the first evening in a while that they had spent chilling at home.
More than four weeks had passed, though in a way it felt like everything had happened at once. The day after they gave Billie and her gang ketamine at Dusky, she had called Roksana. “Shit, yesterday was great. Can you and Z come to Kaboom tonight? Pleeeease?” That was new: Billie had never begged Roksana to go to a club with her before—it was usually the other way around.
* * *
—
After an hour in Kaboom, everyone seemed to know what they had. People were begging them, crowding around them, following them like Beliebers, like they were Beyoncé and “her own little Z guy” without security guards, as Z had joked. Rumor had spread faster than Roksana thought possible. People wanted her to give them some, to try it, to buy—they wanted a lot of it, to experie
nce the K high immediately. Roksana and Z had partied like they were at Gagnef and Coachella simultaneously. It was insane.
Over the days that followed, seven invites to various illegal clubs had come buzzing in on Roksana’s phone—Billie had even called Roksana to ask whether she, Billie, could tag along to some of them. By midweek, friends and friends’ friends and Billie’s friends’ friends’ friends had started calling to ask which clubs Roksana would be going to at the weekend. Everything was upside down.
She and Z had made seventy thousand kronor in under four hours. By only two thirty in the morning on that first Saturday. They had plenty of time left to party.
During the next week, twice as many invites had come in, plus a thick paper invitation to an art event: The Substance of the Void. Roksana had never even heard of it, but apparently it was an artist’s collective that aimed to “tear down all the power structures.” She didn’t know why they wrote in English when all the artists had stereotypical Swedish names, but she had asked Z if he wanted to tag along all the same.
They were living like kings—which, as Z pointed out, was actually a gendered expression, it should have been living like presidents or something equally neutral, but still. They had gone to the Paradiset supermarket by Bysistorget and bought three thousand kronors’ worth of organic raw food. Roksana had bought three pairs of patent vegan leather Doc Martens in different colors, a nylon Prada backpack and a new MacBook Air. She had even made a down payment of thirty thousand kronor to a girl who had promised to take the university aptitude exam in her name and get a score of at least 1.9—if she managed it, Roksana would pay her another thirty thousand. Z had gotten himself a couple of new My Little Pony tattoos before flying to Berlin to go to Bergheim, coming out so late the next morning that he missed his plane home. Roksana’s Instagram account had swelled from 234 followers to 12,000 in just six days, and no matter what she uploaded, the likes came flooding in.
Z had come back from Berlin with a pair of Fairphones for them: “The police might be listening in on someone who calls us.” He looked shrewd. “Plus, these phones don’t contain any minerals from conflict zones, and the workers aren’t screwed over.” It was the first time the thought had even crossed Roksana’s mind: What would happen if the police found out they were dealing? How serious a crime was it, really? But, at the same time: How would they find out? The risk was minimal. Party on.
During the third week of February, the cute guy from Dusky had gotten in touch. He really wanted to see her, he said—but Roksana didn’t have time. She had been invited to a real VIP party: DJ Ora Flesh’s birthday bash. Billie’s jaw had dropped when Roksana told her. “Ora Flesh invited you to her twenty-third birthday party? You’re friends with her? Seriously?”
Roksana had laughed. “No, but I think she bought off me once.”
The last week in February had arrived with invitations to more than twenty events. Roksana managed to make it to four of them, two a night on both Friday and Saturday. She and Z had sold K like it was candy before donating almost all of the money to Save the Children, UNHCR, and the Feminist Initiative, going to an art show, each buying a diamond nose ring, and taking a couple of trips of their own.
Roksana loved the rush like a capitalist loves money: it was simple and uncomplicated. She even forgot to call her dad on his birthday.
By early March, they had brought in more than six hundred thousand kronor, but they had already burned through two-thirds of it. Still, it had been worth it. Easily.
* * *
—
Now they were on the sofa, taking it easy. Everything had been fantastic lately. There was just one problem, and it was a big one. Far too big.
They had nothing left to sell. The ketamine was gone. It was finito—the bags were empty.
“I think it’s pretty lousy toward our friends that we don’t have any more. They’re expecting it from us,” Z said. It was the first time they had discussed it without being on a dance floor or with an apartment full of guests.
Roksana could only agree. “Still,” she said. “I guess we just have to be grateful. It’s been insane.”
Z pursed his lips—did the whole unhappy look. “But what are we going to do now?”
Roksana unfolded a bag of green. “Go back to what we used to do. I’ve missed, like, a million seminars at Södertörn. I think I’ve got an exam next week.”
They half-watched another documentary, sat in silence, continued to relax.
Roksana’s phone beeped practically every other minute: SMS, Facebook, Insta, Snapchat, and more. People wanted to know which party she would be at next weekend, if she wanted to go to Burning Man, to art shows, if she could swing by with some of the good stuff, just a quickie, please.
Roksana said: “I think we’re going to have a sweet term anyway.”
Z said nothing; he wasn’t even watching the film anymore.
After a while, he got up and went out into the hallway. “I’m going to buy breakfast. You want anything particular? Oatmeal? If we’re going back to our pure, normal lives?”
* * *
—
Roksana stayed on the sofa, laughing to herself. She felt like the film on-screen was being shown in double vision. She thought back to the weekend before last—when they were still in full swing. At seven in the morning, she had been waiting for a ride out on Råsundavägen. She could have just taken the bus, but what the hell—she and Z had brought in record amounts of money.
It was a gray and gloomy morning, and she had seen someone coming toward her. A pusher? She glimpsed the guy’s dark eyes, though maybe they weren’t actually that dark. He had also been wearing a puffa jacket, but it was a completely different cut to hers—super puffy, black, new—and he was radiating something. Oozing something that none of her other friends even came close to.
“Ey, woman,” he had said.
“What do you want?” she replied, realizing that her voice sounded strangely shrill.
“You new around here, or what?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You usually here?”
“No, not really.”
“What’s your name, then?”
“Roksana.” She had taken a step back. “I don’t want to buy anything.”
“Did I ask if you wanted to?” The guy had taken a step toward her. “I’m not a pusher. But they’re saying you’re pushing.”
Roksana could feel his presence: he was far too close to her personal space. She had wanted to get away, but she couldn’t make herself move.
“Who says that?” was all she managed.
The guy hadn’t bothered to reply. Instead, he moved even closer, like he wanted to whisper something in her ear.
“You pushing for Chamon?”
Roksana had shaken her head. “I don’t know who that is.”
The guy didn’t even seem to notice that she had replied. “ ’Cuz if you were working for Chamon, you should know that he’s done. We’ve taken over. You need a re-up anytime, or help with anything, you just call. And most of all, you hear any talk about Chamon, I want you to call me immediately. He was like a baradar to me, you know?”
“You speak Farsi?”
“No, but I think you do.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve got an ear for languages, wallah,” he said. “And you’ve got an almost inaudible deviation in your vowel sounds.”
Roksana had stared at him—was this guy for real?
He held out a note. “I’ll pay well for anything you know or hear about my brother, my baradar. So call me if you hear anything.”
Roksana had taken the scrap of paper. She squinted down at it in the morning light. There was a phone number and a name: Nikola.
* * *
—
The buzzer rang. Had Z gone out without hi
s keys? The door should still be open, Roksana hadn’t locked it after he left. She heard the buzzer again. Z was probably just messing with her: maybe this was his way of joking, saying that if he went out to get breakfast, she could at least open the door. But she had a bad feeling all the same: Z didn’t usually do that kind of thing.
She got up, went out into the hallway, and opened the door.
It was Z. But there was another guy beside him. He wasn’t someone she knew—he looked like he was of Somali origin, with a hood covering his head and a pair of Beats headphones around his neck. He was almost as broad as the doorway. “Hi?” Roksana said.
The man dragged Z into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind them. He seemed to be limping on his right leg. “Where’s the stuff?”
The bad feeling now became a really crappy feeling. Roksana took a step back, annoyed that this guy had just barged in. But at the same time, she realized something else: they’d never discussed this, her and Z—who did the ketamine they had found actually belong to?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. She was infinitely glad that they had thrown out the boxes and bags they found everything in.
“Just take it easy,” Z tried to say. But the guy was already on his way into the living room. The computer was still open on the coffee table. The intruder spoke clearly now: “You know what I’m talking about. There was a guy who lived here before you, but the cops got him. Those losers didn’t find his stash, so there were a few kilos left here, hidden away. And then the apartment was leased to you. I came here once, looking for it, but I couldn’t find shit. And my foot got so fucked-up that I had to take off. My boss thought maybe the guy had screwed him over, that he’d sold it to someone else. But he hadn’t, it was all still here. Meaning it’s actually you two who’ve screwed him over.”
Roksana felt cold.