Top Dog

by Jens Lapidus

  —

  The next day, Roksana watched as he climbed out of a car that looked both expensive and incredibly bad for the environment. He wasn’t the one driving. The way he walked—his upper body swinging forward and back with each step—was the same as it had been outside the rave. He winked when he sat down in front of her. The car tore off.

  “Okay,” he said.

  The restaurant was called Palm Village Thai Wok, and it was close to Kista. Roksana had cycled over. It was housed in a yellow wooden building, but she had sat down on one of the benches outside. She had never eaten there before, but she had assumed that Nikola wouldn’t want to talk inside, with all the other diners’ pricked ears. He seemed the type.

  “How are you?” she asked. She wanted to create as normal a mood as possible, despite it being a shady situation—she genuinely was surprised he had even agreed to meet. They weren’t friends. They had met once, for five minutes, while she was waiting for a cab.

  On Sollentunavägen, the cars roared past. The two beech trees by the entrance to the restaurant cast shade onto the bench where they were sitting, despite being almost bare.

  For a moment, Roksana thought he was about to get up and leave when she asked: “You want anything to eat?”

  Instead, to her surprise, he nodded.

  They went inside. There weren’t actually all that many seats in the restaurant—the residential area’s very own little low-price takeaway. You ordered, paid, and were given the food at the same time, over a long counter behind which the kitchen was completely visible. The Asian woman who took their order had her mouth open the entire time, showing her gums, and she was completely expressionless, as though they weren’t even there.

  Roksana asked: “Do you have any vegetarian options?”

  “You can have everything,” the woman said in halting Swedish.

  Roksana didn’t understand.

  “You can have every dish, one to fifty-seven, without meat or fish.” She said the words “meat” and “fish” in English.

  Roksana ordered the same as Nikola, only without chicken. It seemed simpler that way.

  Nikola used his knife and fork to eat. It was fascinating: he cut every piece of chicken into three, then scooped rice onto his fork and carefully speared the chicken with the very tip of it, all without spilling a single grain of rice.

  “So what’s going on?”

  Roksana put down her chopsticks. “Well, it’s like this, my friend and I, we have a lot of friends who like to party, and you asked me whether I was selling for your friend Chamon, but I wasn’t.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And, you know, people just want to be happy and dance, but sometimes they want to take stuff, too. Though you know that—you’ve been to all those clubs and raves.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ve never been in?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you came up to me outside one?”

  “I don’t go to raves. Who do you think I am? I just wanted to talk to the people hanging around there.”

  “You should try it.”

  “This wasn’t what you wanted to talk about. You said there was someone blackmailing you.”

  Roksana looked straight at him. His eyes were pale brown and round, but at the same time they seemed pitch-black. Like he only saw darkness.

  She had to explain: how, by chance, they had found the Special K; how they had started selling it to their friends at parties and raves; how the drugs had run out and Z had been hurt; what had been said at the hotel; how they had been idiots and not saved a single krona.

  “Is he your guy?” Nikola asked once she was finished.

  “No, but we live together.”

  “You live together, but he’s not your guy?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nikola raised an eyebrow.

  Roksana immediately decided not to react to that—she needed this idiot’s help.

  “You’ve got the contacts,” he said. “So why don’t you just keep going, try to get the money together?”

  “We don’t have anything to sell.”

  “You can make your own.”

  “How?”

  “Buy ketamine from the pharmacy and dry the crap.”

  “But we don’t have a recipe. It’s a narcotic. We won’t be able to buy any.”

  “Okay, then try an online pharmacy or something, what the hell do I know. Anyway, you need to think differently. You can’t just go around moaning. You did actually screw those guys out of their stash. You have to give them that. Big picture.”

  Nikola pushed the last few grains of rice onto his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

  “I’ve gotta go now. I’ve got other stuff to do.”

  * * *

  —

  Roksana called Z as she was cycling home. The pedals felt incredibly heavy, but Z sounded happy.

  “Did you meet that gangster you were talking about?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not going to help.” She briefly recapped what Nikola had said.

  Z’s voice bounced down the line. “But that’s a fantastic idea,” he said. “We try to get ahold of the ingredients and we dry up a new powder.”

  “How, though?” Roksana groaned.

  “Wait, let me check.”

  For a few seconds, all she could hear was the clicking of the keys on Z’s computer, then his voice was back on the line. “Ketaminol vet,” he said. “It’s for animals, but you can extract ketamine from it. It’s perfect.”

  21

  Teddy and Emelie were walking side by side through the arrivals hall at Gardermoen Airport, shoes squeaking on the floor. They hadn’t sat together on the plane. The color of Emelie’s face was more like printer paper than skin. Nina Ley had arranged everything much more quickly than they expected: they would be meeting Mats Emanuelsson today.

  “How are you?” Teddy asked as they passed through the barriers for the airport train.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you haven’t been especially interested these past few weeks,” she said.

  “Neither have you. But now I want to know how you’re doing. You don’t have to answer.”

  They stepped onto the platform. Emelie had been given an address by Nina, a hotel in an area of Oslo known as Tjuvholmen—Thief Islet. The hotel went by the unoriginal name of the Thief.

  When the train pulled in a few minutes later, Emelie still hadn’t answered his question. An automated voice barked out something about which station they should get off at, but Teddy didn’t manage to catch it—Norwegian had never been his strong point, never mind with blocked ears.

  They sat down in the first car, Emelie bolt upright in her seat. “I’m trying to run a law firm, but then all this crap happens. It’s dragging me down,” she said.

  Her shoulders were hunched and her neck tense, one hand constantly drumming against the fabric of the seat.

  “I know what you mean.” He sighed.

  “Why are people such bastards?”

  “You’re the one who chose to work in criminal law.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have anything to do with people who’ll never change,” she said. “Maybe I should just work with people who fit in, like me.”

  * * *

  —

  The train pulled into Oslo Central Station. The buildings surrounding it looked ultramodern: tall, slim, clad in mirrored glass. One had a completely irregular white facade on which each window was like a shard of broken mirror. There was no doubt about the intended message, any foreigner arriving here would immediately understand: things were going well for Norway—or at least they were when the building went up.

  They left the train. Central Station was huge. The Norwegians had an
“s”-theme, Teddy thought to himself: salad bars, Starbucks, sushi joints, 7-Eleven. And then a small security booth. They got into a taxi and gave the address to the driver.

  To the left, out by the water, was an enormous building with a footbridge connecting it to the quay. “That’s the opera house,” Emelie said, pointing.

  The building looked like a huge, white Formula 1 car had driven into the fjord, leaving only the top poking up above the surface. It seemed popular. Teddy could see people strolling about on its roof, which was made up of various ramps.

  Tjuvholmen consisted of newly built residential blocks on a cape in the middle of Oslo. “Most expensive homes in Norway,” their driver said in broken Norwegian. Tjuvholmen: super modern, ultra luxe. Metal railings, wooden panels, enormous balconies with views across the fjord. The streets were full of Teslas, and Anytec boats bobbed hull to hull with Axopars in its canal, despite the cool weather.

  Emelie informed the hotel reception desk that they had arrived. They didn’t know what would happen next, but the receptionist asked them to wait. Teddy could see that Emelie was studying a painting behind the desk; it looked like someone had spun a round canvas and randomly splashed as much paint onto it as they could.

  “That’s a Damien Hirst,” Emelie said.

  “What?”

  “That painting over there. He’s one of the world’s most famous contemporary artists. Those don’t come cheap.”

  “And how do you know that? Have you developed an interest in painting lately?”

  “No, but Magnus Hassel had some Hirsts. You know what it was like at Leijon.”

  Teddy wondered how Mats Emanuelsson was these days. Whether he ever got to see his children, what his life was like. Teddy had served eight years in prison for what he did to Mats, but it was like Mats himself had also been forced into some kind of prison. Seven years—that was how long he had stayed underground, first on his own, then with the help of the police. Teddy wondered how much longer it would go on.

  The receptionist waved them over. “I’ve just had a message. Apparently you should go down to the garage.”

  * * *

  —

  Mats looked different. He might have had some plastic surgery, possibly his nose, or around his eyes. Above all, he had shaved off his beard, grown his hair long enough to wear in a ponytail, and he had put on weight—he was chubby now, most visibly beneath the chin.

  Teddy and Emelie climbed into the Passat and sat down on either side of Mats. Neither of them had seen him in around a year and a half.

  In a way, Mats looked younger, more like he had when Teddy met him for the first time just over ten years earlier. Maybe it was the absence of a beard, or that his skin was smoother as a result of the fat filling out his wrinkles. Or maybe it was something else, possibly the plastic surgeries. Then it struck Teddy that Mats was probably wearing makeup—that this was his life now: having to change his appearance every day, become someone other than himself.

  They hugged.

  “It’s great to see you both,” Mats said in a cheerful voice. The driver, who had frisked them both before they climbed into the car, started the engine and pulled out of the parking garage.

  “Couldn’t we have met inside the hotel? That place seemed pretty nice.”

  Mats laughed. “The money from the Swedish state doesn’t cover that kind of thing, and if I didn’t have a bit of my own money stashed away, I probably wouldn’t have even been able to meet you here. But, believe me: hotels are like vanilla soft scoop. I’ve stayed in so many in my time. They look all welcoming and inviting, but after a few licks you get bored.” Mats’s face changed here, and he became serious. “All joking aside, we decided that the hotel wasn’t safe.”

  Emelie and Teddy nodded. She said: “We’re just happy that you and the police agreed we could meet, hotel room or not. How are you?”

  “Back to the usual, I suppose. I lived like this for several years on my own, though things were simpler then, because they thought I was dead. Now they know I’m alive.” Mats chuckled again. “If this can be called living.”

  “How’s Benjamin?” Emelie asked. Benjamin Emanuelsson: her old client from the murder case.

  “He’s okay, considering,” said Mats. “He’s studying graphic design at university abroad.”

  “Glad to hear it, do you get to see him much?”

  “Yes, we live in the same country. And Lillan is eighteen now, so she’s about to move down there, too. As long as my ex isn’t too upset about it. But I did wonder when someone would have more questions for me.”

  “Haven’t the police interviewed you?”

  “Yes, a Detective Inspector Ley, but they don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

  Teddy and Emelie began asking their questions. Whether Mats had ever heard of a girl called Katja. What he knew about Peder Hult—the man who had invited Mats to the event at the manor house roughly ten years earlier, when he had found the computer and the films of the abuse. What he knew about the other men at the event.

  Mats spoke slowly as he tried to answer their questions. He told them the names he could remember: Peder Hult, again; Fredrik O. Johansson; Gunnar Svensson; a few more. “But,” he said. “I’ve spent over ten years trying to repress the spark that started this hell.” A lot of what he had to tell them was no more than fragments, shards of memories.

  It still had to be worth something.

  “What about Adam Tagrin?” Teddy asked. “Does that name sound familiar?”

  “Tagrin?”

  Teddy bent down to search for a picture of Adam in his bag.

  There was a cracking sound. Glass shattering.

  Emelie screamed. The car swerved. There were shards of glass all over them.

  The side window was broken.

  It was then that Teddy noticed the driver: his head was lolling forward. There was blood running down the inside of the window. Something had hit him.

  Teddy threw himself forward as he glanced outside: a black Golf five yards away from them, its side window wound down. Teddy was lying across the driver, clutching at the wheel. The car lurched. He attempted to shove the driver’s body to one side as he held on to the wheel and tried to swing his legs around to the pedals. He had to keep the car going straight. Staying low as he did it.

  Emelie screamed, “Get down, Teddy!”

  Gunfire. Teddy saw the muzzle flash from the wound-down window of the Golf. Figures dressed in dark colors inside. The sound of a mini Uzi: he was almost certain. All around them, cars were sounding their horns. He didn’t know where to drive. He saw five-story brick buildings. Pedestrians, pale green buses. Water to the right. He floored the accelerator. It felt as though the car was about to rear up. The driver’s limp body bumped into him. The Golf was still driving alongside them, both cars going against the traffic.

  Horns were sounding. The scraping din of metal on metal—two cars bumping into one another. The bastard Golf was trying to drive them off the road; Teddy was going to be forced into the fjord if he didn’t do something soon.

  His vision narrowed to a tunnel: he saw the street as one long line, a light farther ahead. He couldn’t think of anything else now, shouldn’t. Just drive. He turned the wheel to the left. Thudded into the car alongside.

  He heard police sirens. He heard the engine revving.

  He heard the panic bubbling in his mind.

  He could see the white silhouette of the Oslo Opera House up ahead.

  The Golf was in front now, and it swerved toward him. Blocking off all escape routes. He had nowhere to go, only the water. And the opera house on its man-made island.

  The man in the passenger seat of the Golf had raised his weapon again. Teddy gave everything he had. Turned the wheel sharply to the right. Drove straight onto the footbridge leading to the opera house. Like some kind of Fast an
d Furious madman.

  He didn’t brake between the quay and the opera house. He sounded the horn. People saw him coming, heard the horn—they threw themselves to the sides. The footbridge was wide enough for a car. Teddy drove like a crazy person. Like a man who had allowed the panic to take over. But he continued. A glance in the rearview mirror: he almost cried out. The bastard Golf hadn’t stopped. It was on the bridge behind him.

  He slammed his foot onto the accelerator. Emelie screamed: “What are you doing, Teddy?”

  Up the sloping ramp leading to the roof of the opera house. It was bumpy: a highway to heaven. Ten yards to the top—then he braked, put the car into reverse, turned sharply. Accelerated again: up the next ramp, the roof of the glass section. Past the last protruding section of roof.

  It was insane. All he could see ahead of him now was sea and sky. They were twenty yards up.

  Emelie screamed.

  Teddy yelled.

  He saw the Golf coming up the ramp behind him. The men with their weapons drawn.

  He floored the accelerator—drove out over the edge.

  Like a bird.

  Three seconds in the air: a moment of calm. Peace. Just the whistle of the wind through the broken windows.

  Then they slammed into the downward sloping building and continued toward the water.

  Good suspension on this thing, Teddy managed to think before the airbags deployed and the car slammed to a halt.

  He glanced back. “Emelie?”

  She was stuck to the backseat like chewing gum. “You’re crazy,” she said.

  Then he glanced at Mats.

  His seat belt had held, too.

  Teddy took a closer look.

  Mats’s head was sitting at an unnatural angle.

  There was a hole in his forehead.

  On the inside of the window behind him: blood.

  TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 16

  To: Hugo Pederson

  From: Pierre Danielsson (co-suspect)

  Date: 1 December 2005

  Time: 09:03