The famous pop star in the Princess Lilian suite tottered over to the bar and got out yet another bottle of whisky. His medium-long blond hair was not brushed, and his jeans hung down on one side. He burped, looked at the label and got out another bottle instead. A Macallan from 1952. Down in the bar it cost 1,199 kronor for one centilitre, so that ought to go down nicely. He unscrewed the cork and took a couple of gulps before returning to the bedroom, where he put down the bottle and two glasses. The girl on the bed slept deeply, and after a moment’s indecision he took out a cigarette. On the bedside table he caught sight of the whisky bottle from the previous evening. There was still a bit left. That would go nicely with his Marlboro.
He went out onto the balcony and breathed the mild air into his lungs. Stockholm was just waking up, the sun was rising and the colours of the sky were getting lighter. In the lake between the Grand Hotel and the Riksdag building a man was putting out his net, and the pop star was astonished that it was possible to fish right in the middle of a big city. Yes, he liked Stockholm. Here you were in the middle of a city, yet still in the countryside. It was a delight to perform in Sweden too. The Swedes were so well behaved and they applauded, while in countries like Italy and France you could get booed. In Stockholm he nearly always received ovations and, whatever he did, the audience cheered. No wonder he had celebrated the previous evening. He caught sight of the whisky bottles he and the band had thrown over the balcony railing. A handful of empty bottles had collected on the edge of the metal roof, and two had rolled towards the drainpipe. He shouldn’t have kept on partying so late; he had a concert in Oslo that evening and he must be in good shape for that. But he had fallen for that girl in the Cadier bar, and they had had one drink after another. Then, she had come up to the suite. He thought she was really special. He balanced the whisky bottle in one hand and got out his lighter with the other. With his heavy hangover he had to shake the lighter a few times before he managed to get his thumb in the right position to get a flame. It was a lovely gold lighter with his name engraved on it. He held the cigarette over the flame, lit it and inhaled deeply.
Smoking, he stood still and watched the winding paths of the smoke until they dissolved and disappeared. Then he stubbed out the cigarette, drained the last drops from the bottle and threw that over the balcony rail too. It clinked as it hit the other two. Then he saw that one of those bottles hadn’t even been opened. What the hell? He released a rattling laugh. In the old days he had ventured onto rooftops and even had a party on a roof once. Now he was somewhat older but still as keen to have a drink. I’ll be damned, he thought. He must save that whisky, and then he could push the empty bottles down into the drainpipe.
The opening was right next to the edge of the balcony. He lay down and stretched out his arm, well. He reached the empties and was just about to push one of the bottles into the drainpipe when he discovered a black rope which went right down into the pipe. What if somebody had lowered a good bottle of champagne down there to have for their next visit? Or, who knows, a wealthy type might have hidden away some diamonds for a narcotics payment, a car deal or the like. His imagination went into overdrive. Now he became bolder. He crawled beyond the balcony rail and crept forward toward the drainpipe. The rope smelled of tar, so it couldn’t have been there long. He was curious and pulled it upwards. There was a scraping sound, and then it got stuck. By now he was so curious that he yanked at the rope as hard as he could. Then something loosened and the top part of what looked like a black garbage bag could be seen. He continued to pull but then it jammed again. Angrily, he gave it another yank, but then the rope snapped. He heard the black bag slide farther down the pipe before getting stuck again.
Bloody hell! He swore to himself but then finally gave up. He pushed the two empty bottles down the pipe too. He put the unopened bottle inside his T-shirt and crept backwards towards the side of the balcony rail again. Reaching the rail, he managed to put the bottle on the balcony and slowly pull himself up too. He got up, brushed the dirt off his T-shirt and examined his booty. It wasn’t a 3,000-kronor-a-glass whisky, but a 120-kronor-a-glass Lord Calvert! With a torrent of expletives, he threw it at the drainpipe and returned to the suite. That very same moment he heard a sound from the room. The girl had woken up. He immediately remembered how charming she was and hurried into the bedroom.