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had cut Hoffmann’s head off, saying that was what happened when you got ideas above your station. Or the story of two of his dealers who suddenly disappeared after helping themselves to a share of the goods. No one ever saw them again. There were those who claimed the fish balls from his shop had been extra tasty in the following few months. He did nothing to stop the rumours. That’s how a businessman like the Fisherman defends his territory, with a mixture of rumour, half-truths and hard facts about what happens to people who try to trick him.
    I hadn’t tried to trick the Fisherman. Even so, I was sweating like a junkie going cold turkey as I stood in his shop and told one of the older women behind the counter who I was. I don’t know if she pressed a buzzer or something, but the Fisherman came out through the swing door behind them immediately afterwards, with a broad smile, dressed from head to toe in white – a white cap, white shirt and apron, white trousers, white wooden shoes – and extended his big, wet hand to me.
    We went into the back room. White tiles on the floor and all the walls. The benches along the walls were covered with metal dishes containing corpse-pale fillets marinating in brine.
    â€˜Sorry about the smell, Jon, I’m making fish balls.’ The Fisherman pulled out a chair from under the metal table in the middle of the room. ‘Sit down.’
    â€˜I only sell hash,’ I said, as I did what he told me. ‘Never speed or heroin.’
    â€˜I know. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you killed one of my employees. Toralf Jonsen.’
    I stared at him, speechless. I was dead. I was going to become fish balls.
    â€˜Very clever, Jon. And it was a smart move to make it look like a suicide – everyone knew Toralf could be a little . . . gloomy.’ The Fisherman tore off part of one fillet and popped it in his mouth. ‘Even the police didn’t think his death was suspicious. I have to admit that I thought he’d shot himself as well. Until an acquaintance in the police quietly informed us that the pistol that was found next to him was registered in your name. Jon Hansen. So we took a closer look. That was when Toralf’s girlfriend told us he owed you money. That you’d tried to get it off him a couple of days before he died. That’s right, isn’t it?’
    I gulped. ‘Toralf smoked a fair bit. We knew each other well, childhood friends, shared a flat for a while, that sort of thing. So I let him have credit.’ I tried a smile. Then I realised how ridiculous it must have looked. ‘Always stupid to have different rules for friends in this game, isn’t it?’
    The Fisherman smiled back, suspended one fillet by a piece of sinew and studied it as it slowly turned in the air. ‘You should never let friends, family or employees owe you money, Jon. Never. Okay, so you let the debt stand for a while, but when it came down to it you knew that rules have to be upheld. You’re like me, Jon. A man of principle. Those who cross you must be punished. Doesn’t matter if the transgression is big or small. Doesn’t matter if it’s a dropout you don’t know or your own brother. That’s the only way to protect your territory. Even a shitty little business like yours over in Slottsparken. How much do you earn? Five thousand a month? Six?’
    I shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
    â€˜I respect what you did.’
    â€˜But—’
    â€˜Toralf was extremely important to me. He was my collector. And, if necessary, my fixer. He was willing to fix bad debtors. Not everyone’s prepared to do that in today’s society. People have got so soft. It’s become possible to be soft yet still survive. It’s –’ he stuffed the whole fillet in his mouth – ‘perverse.’
    While he chewed I considered my options. Getting up and running out through the shop