Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

‘Of course,’ DJ says, setting out cutlery.

‘Then I’ll pick you up from Nykvarn, Sammy.’

‘Sure?’ Sammy asks with a smile, stubbing his cigarette out on the balcony railing.

‘Give me an address and a time — preferably not too late. I’m an old man these days...’

‘Is one o’clock too late? Or we can say earlier, something like—’

‘One o’clock’s fine,’ Rex replies. ‘That’ll give me time to pick up the award and get rid of it.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Can I talk to you?’ DJ says, leading Rex out into the orangery.

‘What is it?’

DJ’s face is calm, but his movements are restrained and nervous.

‘Borrowing the car might not be such a great idea,’ he says. ‘I sat in it with blood all over my clothes, and I—’

‘But you cleaned it,’ Rex interrupts.

‘I know... it must be the cleanest car in Sweden, but still, you never know... We’ve all seen CSI . They could show up with their special lights and find DNA.’

‘I don’t think the Swedish police would call in CSI,’ Rex laughs.

‘But what if he died?’ DJ whispers. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t understand how it could have come to this.’

Sammy appears in the doorway.

‘Now you’re whispering again,’ he says sternly.

A red carpet lined with burning torches leads the way to the glazed atrium of Café Opera. Rex is welcomed by a woman with a blonde plait who leads him to a backdrop made up of ads for the biggest sponsors.

The evening’s event is to present Rex with an award that he thinks he should have been given a long time ago. So much time has passed that he started to say he didn’t want it, that he wouldn’t accept the award even if they baked it inside a cake.

When he turned down the invitation to attend this time, he received a phone call from the organiser saying that a little bird had whispered the name of this year’s recipient to her.

Among the throng of people between the buffet table and champagne bars, the noise level is deafeningly high.

Rex makes his excuses and pushes his way through to the bar, where he asks for a bottle of mineral water. The music is turned down and the lights change.

A tall woman from the industry magazine Restaurant World gets up on the stage and walks into the spotlight.

Even though Rex knows he’s going to get the award, his heart starts beating harder and he can’t help running his hand through his hair.

When the woman raises the microphone to her mouth, silence spreads around the room.

‘For the twenty-fourth year in a row, we’ve reached the point where we celebrate the achievements of the Chef of Chefs,’ she says, breathing so loudly that the speaker system roars. ‘One hundred and nineteen of the finest chefs in Sweden have voted, and we have a winner...’

While she is talking Rex finds himself thinking of one birthday when Sammy hid under the kitchen table and refused to come out and open his presents. Veronica explained later that he had been so excited that his dad was going to be there that it had all become too much for him.

The audience laughs politely when the woman on stage makes a joke.

Mathias Dahlgren, who has won several times before, is sitting with his eyes closed and a tense expression on his face.

Rex feels his hand shaking as he drinks the last of the mineral water and puts the glass down on the counter.

The woman on stage breaks the seal on the envelope. Crumbs of red wax fall to the floor as she unfolds the paper, holds it up to the light and then looks up at the audience.

‘And this year’s Chef of Chefs is... Rex Müller!’

Applause and cheering break out. People turn to look at Rex. He heads towards the stage, stopping briefly to shake Mathias’s hand. He stumbles slightly on the steps, but makes it up onto the stage.

The tall woman from Restaurant World hugs him hard and hands him the microphone and a framed diploma.

He tugs at the T-shirt under his jacket to stop his stomach from showing too much. Camera flashes detonate in the darkness.

‘Can you hear me OK? Good... This is a huge surprise,’ Rex says. ‘Because I really don’t know anything about food, I just like trying things out — at least that’s what my professor at catering college in Umeå told me...’

‘He was right!’ his friend from Operakällaren calls out.

‘And when I was working at Le Clos des Cimes, head chef Régis Marcon came rushing in,’ Rex goes on with a smile, and attempts a French accent: ‘ Your services might be asked for at McDonald’s... somewhere outside the borders of France. ’

The audience applauds.

‘I love him,’ Rex laughs. ‘But you can understand why this award comes as such a surprise... I would like to thank all my very dear colleagues, and promise that next year I’ll vote for you, not just myself.’

He holds up the diploma and starts to head towards the steps, but stops and raises the microphone again in the midst of the applause:

‘I’d just like to say... I wish my son Sammy could have been here this evening, so he could have heard me tell everyone how proud I am of him for being the person he is.’

There’s scattered applause as Rex hands the microphone back to the woman and leaves the stage. People make way for him and pat him on the back as he passes.

Rex makes his way to the exit, apologising and thanking people for their congratulations, shaking hands with people he doesn’t know and moving on.

It’s cool outside, and the gentle rain forms puddles. He looks at the row of limousines, thinks that he ought to go home, but starts walking towards Gamla stan instead.

Halfway across Strömbron he launches the diploma over the railing, watches it sail across the fast-flowing water, and just has time to worry about it striking one of the swans below before it hits the surface and disappears into the swirling darkness.

Rex doesn’t know how long he walks through the glistening alleyways before he reaches a bar with a row of coloured lanterns outside. It looks like a small merry-go-round among the dark buildings that surrond it. He stops outside and reaches for the door-handle. He hesitates for a moment, then goes inside.

The bar is warm and softly lit. Rex takes a seat, says hello to the barman and reaches for the wine-list.

‘Congratulations, Rex,’ he says when he catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the bottles.

‘Congratulations,’ a woman sitting a short distance away says, raising her beer-glass in a toast.

‘Thanks,’ he replies, putting on his reading glasses.

‘I follow you on Instagram,’ she explains, and moves to the stool next to his.

Rex nods and realises that DJ has posted something about the award. He leans towards the barman and hears himself order a bottle of 2013 Clos Saint-Jacques.

‘Two glasses, please.’

He tucks his glasses away in his pocket and looks at the woman, who unbuttons her waist-length fake-fur coat. She’s a lot younger than him. Her dark hair is curly from the rain, and she has smiling eyes.

Rex tastes the wine, then fills their glasses and pushes one across to her. She puts her phone down beside the glass and looks him in the eye.

‘Cheers,’ he says to the young woman, and drinks.

He feels the taste in his mouth, then the warmth of the alcohol spreading out from his stomach, and drinks some more. It feels good, not dangerous at all, he thinks as he refills his glass. He got the damn award, and he never really wanted to stop drinking anyway.

‘You’re too quick for me,’ the woman laughs, sipping her wine slowly.

‘Life’s a party,’ Rex mumbles, and takes a large mouthful.