Top Dog

Home > Other > Top Dog > Page 9
Top Dog Page 9

by Jens Lapidus


  The glasses hung in circles above the bar—promising success in the so-called divorce bar—and there were upside-down lilies above each of the tables. A contrast: after lunch here, she would be accompanying Katja to her second police interview. Emelie had also been there for the first.

  * * *

  —

  They had met at the main entrance to police HQ on Polhemsgatan. Adam was there, too. The roof by the entrance stuck out like a long bridge over the tall glass doors, and you could make out the guard booths and security doors inside, preventing anyone without authority from getting in. The truth was that Emelie had never used that entrance before. She was normally involved in criminal cases of far less importance, which meant that the suspects were interviewed at local police stations, at Kungsholmsgatan 39 or in custody. But now she was acting as counsel for the injured party, not a defender, and the policewoman they were meeting worked for NOA—the Department of National Operations, previously known as CID.

  “She doesn’t want to go in,” Adam immediately said after they shook hands.

  Emelie had placed a hand on Katja’s shoulder; it felt frail and bony. Her leather jacket seemed far too thin for the cool weather.

  “I looked into it, Katja, and if you don’t turn up to these interviews, then they can ultimately put out a warrant for you. That’s not to say I think you should go into this without making certain demands. And I’ll be with you the whole time, making sure you feel okay.”

  “She still doesn’t want to,” Adam had said.

  “Adam,” Emelie replied, her voice louder than before. “You won’t be allowed to sit in on the interview—you know that, don’t you? So it’s better if you let Katja speak for herself. What do you say, Katja?”

  Katja had looked down at the pavement. “It’s okay.”

  It didn’t sound like she felt even close to being okay.

  * * *

  —

  Chief Inspector Nina Ley had introduced herself. Somehow, her short dark hair didn’t seem to fit with her broad face and narrow eyes; it was like she was missing something to make it all hang together, a pair of glasses, for example. She led them down hallways and along passages as though someone was watching every step she took, as though she thought she was part of some photo reportage where her poses were more important than making any progress. The way she walked had reminded Emelie of several of her clients.

  Some parts of the police station seemed relatively modern, with glass partitions from floor to ceiling, but others were old, with dark, wooden wall panels. They had passed enormous men in uniform who fit the stereotype of the crude muscle machines in the National Task Force; older men in cardigans, with glasses hanging around their necks; middle-aged women with cropped hair and exercise monitors on their wrists. Probably all police officers. Eventually, Nina had shown them down a set of stairs and punched a code into a keypad next to a metal door. They came into a smaller room with some kind of reception desk. “This is such a sensitive case that I’d like you to leave your phones, computers, and any smart watches you might be wearing here.” Nina had pointed to two ziplock bags.

  Emelie had squirmed. “But Katja is the injured party, not a suspect.”

  “Absolutely. But, like I said, the unit working on this case is special within NOA, and we have our principles.” Nina had opened one of the bags and held it out. She wasn’t particularly accommodating, this officer.

  * * *

  —

  The interview room had no visible windows, just curtains. There was a carafe of water and a thermos of coffee on the table. A large mirror on one of the walls—a one-way mirror, in all likelihood, meaning they could be watched from the other side.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Nina had said. “I’m just going to fetch the recording equipment.”

  Katja’s fingers drummed the table.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Emelie had asked. “You just need to let me know if you want a break, you know that.”

  Katja had continued her drumming. It sounded muffled, as though the room was built for screams that wouldn’t be overheard. Emelie thought of Teddy; he had been locked up behind high walls and barred windows. And though he pretended to live a life adapted to society, he was still affected by the person he had once been—or by the way the world saw him, at the very least.

  Nina had returned. She poured water for Katja and coffee for Emelie.

  “Katja, I’m so pleased you could come in. You’re very important to us.”

  “Before we get going,” Emelie had spoken up, “I just want to assure myself of a few things.”

  There was a deadly serious look on Nina’s face. Emelie had continued: “We understand that it’s a special unit handling this case, but considering the background of what happened earlier, in linked cases—and I’m thinking primarily of Benjamin Emanuelsson’s case here, where we know that at least one police officer, Joakim Sundén, was involved—I’d like to know how you will be maintaining confidentiality within the force.”

  Nina Ley hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised by Emelie’s words.

  “That’s a relevant question, and what I can say is that this case was opened by CU, the Stockholm Police authority’s internal investigation department, but that when the hard drive containing the films was handed in, it was passed to NOA. What we call our Great Wall—internal confidentiality, in other words—is even stricter here than if CU had been leading the investigation. It means that all material is handled by separate units requiring different passwords and verifications than for the usual IT system. No other officers can access our investigation—we’re even based out of different stations, as you can see—and it might be over-the-top to say it, but Katja herself is classified, so her name won’t appear in any of the documents.”

  Nina had gone on to explain the internal processes and reasons why Katja could trust her. Emelie couldn’t help but agree—this really was a special unit: an authority within the authority.

  “So, can we begin?” Nina had asked once she was done.

  Katja’s fingers hadn’t stopped drumming the table the entire time.

  “No, there’s just one more point I’d like to make,” Emelie replied. “As I’m sure you can imagine, this risks tearing open an enormous wound and bringing up painful memories for my client. I want us to agree, before we begin, that the minute my client requests a break or to pause the interview, we will do that.”

  Nina had poured more water. Her eyes were different colors: one blue and the other green. “I accept that. But Katja must also understand that it’s important that I’m able to ask my questions. We’re here to investigate a particularly serious crime, and, if I may say so, Katja is not the only victim. Within the framework of this investigation, I’ve identified more than thirty-two girls who have been abused by various men, sometimes by up to eight at a time. In total, there seem to be around fifteen men involved, and we refer to them as ‘the network.’ The films are dated from different points in time, but they stretch over a period of at least twelve months, though my understanding is that it went on for longer than that.”

  Nina fell silent. The air-conditioning hummed.

  “If I’m perfectly honest, I fear it’s still ongoing. That the network is still active.”

  Emelie had crossed her arms. “That doesn’t make the situation any less sensitive for my client.”

  * * *

  —

  The interview had taken almost three hours. Nina began by explaining that they had analyzed the people in the films using various pieces of facial recognition software. “Unfortunately, the men’s heads are rarely visible, and when they are, their faces are very blurry. We haven’t managed to identify a single one of them. We’re continuing to work on a number of other leads, though I can’t say any more about that right now.”

  Katja had also had to talk. She repeated the
same things she had told Emelie during their first meeting, but with more detail this time. Which home she had been living in, how she had met the man for the first time, which hotel by Stockholm Central Station they had met at—she couldn’t actually remember the name, but she remembered that it had a reception that was lit from beneath with blue lights. She had spoken about how he offered her Coca-Cola with whiskey and asked her whether she was a virgin, then told her a long story about his first time, how nervous he had been but also how good he felt afterward, and how he had then taken her to bed while repeating how sweet and sexy she was. As she lay on the bed covers, he had asked whether he could massage her breasts. She said that she had been slightly giddy from the whiskey, but that before she had time to reply the man’s hands were beneath her top. She hadn’t actually thought that was too dangerous at the time, because he seemed so gentle and actually pretty wimpish, but later, after she’d had a few more sips of her drink and the man had gone on about her breasts, after he had hinted at how tough she was and placed the five hundred kronor he would pay her on the bedside table, he had asked whether he could have sex with her. “The minute you feel uncomfortable, you just tell me,” he had said in a bright, almost childlike voice; he had worn a condom and it had all happened very quickly, and after a while, when she asked him to stop, he had. But then, once they were done, he wouldn’t even look at her. He had dressed quickly and then left the room before her. The five-hundred-kronor note was still there, waiting for her. She had spent every last öre of it on new clothes in H&M.

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “He called himself Henrik, but he never said his surname.”

  “Did he ever use a different name?”

  “No, I only heard Henrik.”

  “Did you tell him how old you were?”

  “No, but I said I was in the seventh grade.”

  “When did you say that?”

  “I don’t know, it might have been later, when the other stuff started.”

  Nina’s questions were direct, not introducing any leading information unnecessarily. She hadn’t worked Katja; she had just allowed her to go on. An interviewing pro.

  “Did you meet him again?”

  “What happened then?”

  “How did you agree when to meet?”

  “Do you remember what your phone number was at the time?”

  “Do you remember his phone number?”

  She had occasionally taken shorter breaks between questions, but then she got going again. “Do you still have your bank account with Nordea?”

  “Have you ever spoken to anyone about this?”

  “Did anyone earn money from it?”

  “Do you know whether they filmed that?”

  On several occasions, Katja had paused and looked down at the table. Emelie had assumed she wanted to stop; she had even asked her. But Katja had raised her head, her voice suddenly steadier. “Now that I’m here, I might as well speak.”

  The question was whether it would make any difference. Some of the events were nothing but vague memories now, and others even looser fragments. She was often incoherent, mixing up events and people. It was probably a completely normal psychological defense mechanism—if she had to remember everything she had been subjected to, she would go crazy. But Emelie knew how it would look in the interview transcript all the same. She still couldn’t comprehend why Nina and her team had been unable to identify a single man from the films in more than a year—what kind of bunglers were they, exactly?

  What Katja had been through hadn’t ended then. It had escalated. Driven her to the depths, to hell. She spoke about how she had been taken out to a country estate, dressed up in bunny underwear, and, alongside a couple of other girls, been expected to flaunt herself in front of a group of old men.

  Later, she and a few other girls had been taken down to an underground apartment of some kind, and Katja had been led into a cold room with a lonely bed in the middle. Next to the bed, on the floor, there had been a number of different objects: leather straps, whips, dildos, handcuffs.

  Emelie had recognized what she was talking about: a mansion full of old men. Mats Emanuelsson had mentioned the very same thing, only from a different perspective.

  Katja went on: “I mean, I realized someone would come in and have sex with me, but I…I…”

  Emelie had been surprised that Katja had managed to say as much as she already had without a break. But it was as though the words no longer wanted to cooperate. “They tied me to the bed, with my arms out…there were so many…” She had continued to talk, incoherently, uncontrolled. Emelie could still grasp enough of it to understand. “Urine…excrement…I shouted no, no, stop…the dildo in my buttocks, they hurt me so much, I wanted to die…”

  Emelie had put down her pen. “Even though you haven’t asked for it, Katja, I think we should take a break.”

  The room fell silent. Nina’s face had been as gray as the curtains along the wall. Katja had started to shake, her hands covering her face. Emelie put an arm around her.

  Nina broke the silence: “I think what you’ve just mentioned appears in one of the films. And I’m afraid we’ll have to show you it. You might be able to identify some of the men. Anything you can remember is valuable to us. The names of the other girls, for example, or any other information about them.”

  * * *

  —

  Josephine strutted into the bar. Emelie’s train of thought was broken, just like the interview with Katja. There hadn’t been any more questions after that, but they would start up again today.

  On the way over to Emelie’s table, Jossan kissed at least five people on the cheek. To her, this wasn’t just lunch with a friend, it was a vital networking, cluster-building, face-time opportunity. She was building up a client base for the long term. Acquisition. Again: the contrast—one moment, Katja’s story; the next, this.

  “Pippa, how goes it?” Jossan always called Emelie Pippa; she was convinced that Emelie looked a lot like Pippa Middleton.

  They hugged like normal people—to Emelie, cheek kisses were alien, particularly with a close friend.

  “I heard you hired a fully qualified assistant lawyer. You’re starting to grow, sounds fantastic,” said Josephine.

  “Yeah, I actually got ahold of him through Magnus Hassel. I bumped into him and Anders Henriksson while I was waiting for you in Pocket City a few months ago.”

  “Anders, though. He’s so shady. He’s such a nerd.”

  “I know, but why’s he shady?”

  Jossan sat down. “I’ve always thought that nerds are hiding some kind of exceptional talent, like the whole nerd thing is just a facade; they’re compensating for their nerdiness by being incredibly smart or incredibly kind, for example, only no one ever finds out because they never make any friends. But Anders Henriksson, he’s neither. He’s just a nerd—there’s nothing else to him.”

  “He’s managed to become partner.”

  “Anyone who’s willing to work eighty-hour weeks and die twenty years early can do that.”

  Their food arrived. Panko-coated pollock with soy and ginger crème for Emelie, and grilled pike with roe beurre blanc for Jossan, minus the pomme puree that was supposed to come with it. Emelie started to drop her thoughts of Katja’s interview.

  Jossan pulled a small metal tub from her designer handbag and placed it on the table. “I don’t eat any food with starch in it,” she announced, opening the tub. There was something green inside; it looked like wilted salad leaves. Jossan scooped a few onto her plate using her fork. “I’ve started a new supplement diet, too.”

  “Exciting. What is it?”

  “Algae. You’ve got to try it. Chock-full of minerals, vitamins, and antioxidants. Makes your hair better, and it boosts your immune system, too. I haven’t had a headache in two weeks. And look at my skin, it
’s like a baby’s.”

  Emelie took a bite of her fish—it tasted fantastic even without the addition of aquatic plants. She couldn’t help but like Josephine, despite how self-obsessed she was and despite her talking about Tinder dates and Little Liffner bags far more often than important things. She always made Emelie laugh.

  A while later, Emelie felt her inside pocket buzz. She pulled out her phone and saw an unknown number. It was Katja. From her voice, Emelie immediately knew something was wrong.

  “I don’t know if I’m going to go,” Katja said.

  “You mean you don’t want to go to the police interview today?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say over the phone.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  It sounded like Katja whimpered. “Yes, that would be good.”

  “Can you come to my office?”

  “I’d rather not. I just want to be at home. Can you come to our apartment? Maybe we can go to the interview together afterward. If I decide to go.”

  * * *

  —

  Katja and Adam lived in Axelsberg, on Gösta Ekmans väg. The brown buildings looked like huge Lego bricks. Flat roofs, ninety-degree angles, nothing unnecessary sticking out. Jossan had raised an eyebrow when Emelie told her what she was doing. It wasn’t exactly custom for a lawyer to go over to their client’s house like this, but it also wasn’t forbidden. And if the client wanted it, then why not?

 

‹ Prev