Third Voice (12 page)

Abbas fell silent. He’d reached an emotional barrier, a very private barrier. The barrier to Samira, to the meeting with her and the scars that it had left him with, scars that were still there, on the other side of the barrier. After a while, he looked up at Stilton again.

‘You’ve never been able to forget her,’ Stilton said.

‘No, never. Of course I’ve been with other women, in other ways, but no one has reached that same spot.’

‘She’s still in there?’

‘Yes.’

Abbas pulled a jug towards him and poured a splash of water into a tumbler. He raised the glass to his lips while gazing out through the window. He drank slowly. Stilton watched him. Abbas put the empty glass down and stared into it, for a long time, as though he was looking for what he wanted to say.

‘A few years ago, I read in a French newspaper that Jean Villon had died. I got hold of Samira’s address and wrote her a few letters. She never replied.’

‘So you don’t know what happened to her?’

‘No, not until now.’

Abbas bent down towards his bag and pulled out a newspaper and another knife. He put the newspaper on the table and unfolded it, while holding the knife in his hand. Stilton looked at the newspaper and saw that it was French.

‘What’s this?’

‘
Libé
, a French newspaper,
Libération
, I subscribe to it. This is what I found a couple of days ago.’

Abbas pointed at a long article on the front page. There was a large photograph of French police officers by a cordoned-off site in a nature reserve.

‘What’s it about?’ Stilton said. ‘I don’t speak French.’

Abbas steeled himself. His hand holding the knife had slid down around the blade, and he began translating the article. It was about the finding of a butchered female corpse. The body had been found by tourists in Callelongue, in a national park south of Marseille. A wild boar had dug up a dismembered body part, and a tourist had tripped over the gnawed bony remains. Next to the picture of the mangled body was a photograph of the victim, a very beautiful woman. Abbas pointed to it.

‘Is that Samira?’

‘Yes.’

He suddenly realised what this trip was about. Why Abbas had told him what he’d told him. He suddenly understood what was waiting. He looked at the small photograph again.

‘She was beautiful.’

‘Lunar beauty.’

Stilton looked up at Abbas.

‘That’s what her name means. Samira.’

Stilton nodded and saw a little blood trickling from the hand that was gripping the blade.

‘Abbas.’

He nodded at the knife. Abbas loosened his grip and wrapped a napkin around his hand. With his other hand he folded up the newspaper and put it back in his bag. As he sat up, Stilton saw that he had tears in his eyes. They looked at each other. They felt the train pounding along the rails and saw lights in the distance as they sped through the darkness. Stilton pulled his blue bag towards him. Luna had slipped in a bottle of whiskey for him. Wise woman. He pulled out the bottle and put it on the table. He knew that Abbas only rarely drank alcohol, but in light of what
he’d just told him, Stilton felt that this was one of those rare moments. He poured two glasses and raised his.

Abbas didn’t move.

Stilton had a swig.

‘You know Jean-Baptiste Fabre, don’t you?’ Abbas said.

‘Yes, I’m assuming that’s why I’m here.’

‘Yes.’

Jean-Baptiste Fabre was a detective in Marseille. Stilton had had close contact with him during a few joint murder investigations. It was a long time since they’d been in touch. Those years on the streets lay in between.

But Abbas knew about the contact.

‘You want information about the French murder investigation?’ Stilton asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe they’ve already arrested the perpetrator?’

‘They haven’t, it would have said. I’ve checked every single online newspaper.’

‘So what are you planning to do?’

‘What would you do?’

‘In your position?’

‘Yes.’

‘The same as you.’

And Abbas knew that. Stilton would have done the same as him. Done everything he could to catch whoever murdered and butchered Samira.

Simple as that.

‘I’m going to get some sleep now.’

Abbas curled up on the bed, turned his face against the wall and turned off his bedside lamp.

His whiskey remained untouched.

Stilton was standing on the hotel’s breakfast terrace, observing an elderly woman dressed in black carrying a metal detector. She was slowly walking back and forth along the narrow beach. Her husband was doing the same a short way out to sea, with water up to his waist. Stilton assumed that they were a couple. They could have been siblings of course, aged unmarried siblings on the hunt for a lost coin or a piece of jewellery. He sipped his bitter espresso and let his gaze wander out over the bay, before it settled on a rocky island.

The island of If.

The famous setting of
The Count of Monte Cristo
to some, a common crossword answer to others.

Stilton watched boats making their way over to the island and sat down on a plastic chair. He had a pain in his groin. The sun was just about rising behind him and Marseille, the rays of sunshine spreading out over the mountains on the other side of the bay, glistening against the large golden statue of the Madonna on the hill. He looked at the long narrow stone pier that seemed to disappear straight out into the Mediterranean. He’d been to the coast down here a couple of times before, on police business. He didn’t know about this hotel. Abbas had booked it online – Hotel Richelieu – a flaking stone building built on rocks that jutted out into the sea. The terrace was resting on a few concrete pillars that went right down into the deep. Stilton peered over the edge and saw the dark-blue waves lashing all the way up against the stone balustrade in front of him. He turned back to look at the spartan reception, a blue wooden desk and a Windsor chair. Not much of a welcome. The hotel was cramped and pokey, with a kind of flaking charm, and the porter always stood slightly too close when you talked to him.

Stilton looked at his watch.

Abbas was having a shower, a procedure that could seldom be hurried. From hot to lukewarm to freezing cold. Always the
same process – from lassitude to samurai. Sometimes it took half an hour, but he was faster today. Abbas stepped out onto the terrace with a thin jacket in his hand and a piece of fruit. Stilton had no idea what kind of fruit it was. It looked bitter, like the coffee.

‘That was where I started.’

Abbas took the fruit out of his mouth and pointed down at the narrow beach next to the hotel. The woman in black and her husband had gone.

‘The Catalan Beach – during the summer it’s full of locals and tourists. I started selling fake watches, then bags.’

‘Did you sell anything?’

‘Every so often, not much. Have you called Jean-Baptiste?’

‘Yes, we’re meeting at ten.’

‘Where?’

‘Some bar by the police station.’

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘Not the bar.’

‘Come on.’

Abbas had booked what the hotel’s website had described as a ‘suite’ with two separate bedrooms. One of them had a wide bed that stretched from wall to wall, almost. You could just about squeeze in next to it. The other was a window alcove where the owner had managed to fit in a bed at one end. These facilities were complemented with a narrow corridor, a tiled bathroom and a shared wardrobe.

Suite?

‘I’ll take the alcove,’ said Stilton.

He’d been sleeping in all sorts of places for several years and presumed that Abbas was a little more fussy. He was, normally anyway, but at the moment he could have slept on broken glass if he’d had to.

But he took the wide bed.

‘There.’

Abbas had put up a large detailed map of Marseille on the wall next to the bed. He pointed at a crossing right in the middle of the city.

‘How do I get there?’

‘Walk. It’ll take half an hour. And it won’t be any quicker to take the bus.’

‘And what are you going to do?’

‘Meet a friend.’

‘When will we meet up?’

‘I’ll call you. If we don’t speak, we’ll meet at the restaurant next door, at eight.’

‘OK.’

‘Have you charged your phone?’

‘Yes.’

Stilton noted that Abbas took charge in a very natural manner.

Good.

It was his revenge.

Not Stilton’s.

Stilton had asked the porter for a simple tourist map, as a backup. He knew roughly where he was going, but nevertheless, it was quite a distance to the police station. He stepped out onto Boulevard Kennedy and turned left, towards the old port. Just ten minutes later he realised his first mistake – his clothing. He’d left Stockholm in November where the temperature was around zero, and landed in Marseille where it was almost twenty degrees hotter. His thick leather jacket came off straight away. A few blocks later, his newly purchased Timberland boots felt like two walking sauna heaters.

But he couldn’t exactly go barefoot.

So it was a rather sweaty Stilton who arrived half an hour later at the enormous grey police building next to the Cathédrale de la Major. The bar was apparently just opposite.

And indeed it was.

There was some outdoor seating with plastic tables and two faded parasols. It was quite unlikely that the rather unkempt smoking men sitting beneath them worked in the building opposite, though they’d probably visited many a time. Stilton crossed the road over to the bar. The men under the parasols followed his movements. He was a new face in the area, with shoes that were far too heavy. It was not yet ten o’clock. Jean-Baptiste would not be here. He was invariably punctual. They’d met as part of a rather gruesome murder investigation in the late nineties, a Frenchman who’d stabbed a couple of Swedish youngsters to death at a seaside resort on the west coast and then disappeared. Jean-Baptiste had found some clues about the man in Marseille and Stilton went down there. Before they had the chance to arrest him, he’d committed another murder in Toulon.

That was the beginning of their friendship.

It had probably begun with what you’d call chemistry. They were both professional. They had the same attitude. They were both from the ‘countryside’ – Stilton from Stockholm’s outer archipelago and Jean-Baptiste from a small mountain village in Provence. They were both loners with an unsentimental attitude towards work. They kept in touch over many years, another couple of their murder investigations interlinked, and their careers advanced at roughly the same pace. But they were very different when it came to punctuality. Though not frequently late, Stilton was not a patch on Jean-Baptiste.

When there were just two minutes to go, Stilton walked into the bar. It was pretty cramped with a dirty stone floor and a stale smell of booze. A black spiral staircase led up to another floor and there were different-coloured pennons criss-crossing the ceiling. One wall was entirely covered with cigarette packets with eye-catching health warnings. There were dark round tables by another wall, with others further in towards the middle. The bar area itself was small. There were only men there and not many of them were drinking anything, just filling in tickets.

‘Everyone is playing the lottery, everyone wants to wake up in the land of milk and honey.’

Stilton turned around. It was ten o’clock precisely and Jean-Baptiste was standing in the doorway of the bar, smiling. He was big, bigger than Stilton remembered him, not far off Depardieu both in terms of size and reddish hue. Anyone who didn’t know him could have mistaken him as someone who was overfed and phlegmatic.

But Stilton knew better.

That was confirmed when they shook hands. Jean-Baptiste’s handshake reminded him of his grandfather, the seal hunter. When your hand went in you were never quite sure how it would come out.

‘Let’s sit down.’

Jean-Baptiste led the way to a table at the front of the bar. He sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.

‘There’s no smoking in the bar,’ he said. ‘But they make exceptions.’

Stilton looked at his yellowed fingers. He smoked far too much, always Gauloises, as long as Stilton had known him.

‘So where have you been, then?’ said Jean-Baptiste.

‘I went off the rails.’

‘Things happen. I got divorced and remarried.’

‘Yeah, things happen. Are you happy?’

‘On and off. At my age you lower your expectations.’

Jean-Baptiste blew a smoke ring and nodded at a slim dark-haired woman who passed by their table.

‘Hi, Claudette, how are you?’

‘I can’t complain,’ the woman replied and disappeared towards the tables further in.

Jean-Baptiste waved at the barman.

‘Two Perriers.’

Despite his reddish hue, it looked like he was just on water now. Maybe he enjoyed consuming fine wines in private, Stilton didn’t know. They’d never gone boozing together.

‘How is it down here nowadays?’ he said.

‘In Marseille?’

‘Yes.’

‘Full of contrasts, as always. Calm on the surface and a bloody shambles below. Have you heard about the corruption mess?’

‘No.’

‘A load of our own people, in the gangsters’ pockets. It’s been going on for years and it’s a major scandal down here right now. But of course there’s no sign of it on the surface – everything’s being kept spick and span up there. We’re set to be the European Capital of Culture for 2013.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘A load of bloody hassle. Half the city is being renovated and spruced up. And it’s hell for the traffic cops. It’s chaos everywhere. You must have seen that on your way here?’

‘I had other things on my mind.’

Jean-Baptiste laughed and drank half of his Perrier. When he put it down, he lowered his voice a little.

‘So how are things with el Fassi?’

‘Good. He’s a croupier.’

‘In Stockholm?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you got him back on track?’

‘Eventually. He’s even done some undercover jobs for the police.’

‘Who’d have thought it?’

Jean-Baptiste didn’t look as surprised as he sounded.

‘But at the moment he’s here.’

‘In need of help?’

That’s what he liked about Jean-Baptiste, his intuition.

‘A female acquaintance of his has been found dead here,’ said Stilton. ‘Samira Villon.’

‘Did he know her?’

‘They once worked at the same circus.’

‘She was murdered.’

‘We read about it. Do you know any more?’

‘No, other guys are dealing with it.’

‘Guys you know?’

Jean-Baptiste twiddled the bottle of water between his fingers and looked straight into Stilton’s eyes.

‘Did he bring any knives?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Jean-Baptiste observed Stilton and saw that he was lying and Stilton saw that he saw. But it was a necessary white lie to prevent Jean-Baptiste having to lie at a later stage. If they were used in a way that came to the attention of the French police.

That was a potential risk.

‘I could ask around,’ said Jean-Baptiste. ‘But you’ll have to tell me a bit more.’

‘About?’

‘El Fassi’s plans.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

Jean-Baptiste looked down at the table. The solid respect they had for each other emanated from their shared sense of right and wrong, their deep personal morals, which had once guided them into the police force and turned them into successful professionals. Now Stilton had ‘lost his way’ for a few years and Jean-Baptiste was not entirely sure what that meant. He knew that Stilton no longer worked for the police, he’d heard that following brief contact with Mette Olsäter a couple of years ago. But had he changed? Could he be trusted now?

Stilton observed Jean-Baptiste and guessed what was going on in his head. Entirely understandable. So he felt he needed to go one step further.

‘Abbas wants to catch the murderer,’ he said.

‘That’s for the French police to do.’

‘I know, but sometimes even the best policemen need some help, right?’

‘Sometimes.’

Jean-Baptiste suddenly got up and as he did so he made a decision, entirely based on his former trust in Stilton.

‘Where can I get hold of you?’ he said.

Stilton gave him his mobile number and the address of the hotel.

‘You don’t fancy coming to my house for dinner tonight?’ Jean-Baptiste asked.

‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

‘I understand. Send el Fassi my best.’

Jean-Baptiste squeezed his way out of the bar and Stilton sank down a little. One problem fewer. He’d done what Abbas had asked him to do, pretty well actually. The large policeman would be in touch, he knew that. He also knew that he had to find a way of telling Abbas that he needed to be extra discreet with the knives.

That was a considerably greater problem.

Stilton looked around the bar and caught the eye of the beautiful dark-haired woman whom Jean-Baptiste had greeted, Claudette. She sat at a table all the way in, looking at Stilton. He held her gaze. He wasn’t sure how long, but he was aware of how it felt. Suddenly he longed for a woman, for sex. He hadn’t had sex since he and One-eyed Vera had made love in her caravan just a couple of hours before she was beaten to death. That was more than a year ago. Now he was sitting in a cramped bar in Marseille in the middle of the day, looking at a woman who was looking back in a way that turned him on. Suddenly she got up and went to the bar. He followed her body through the room. She was wearing low-heeled black shoes and a tight green dress. She stood with her back facing him and ordered. After she’d been served, she went straight over to Stilton’s table with two small glasses in her hand.

‘Do you like pastis?’ she asked as she put the glasses down and sank into the chair where the large policemen had been sitting.

‘Kind of,’ Stilton replied.

‘Cheers.’

They sipped on their glasses of pastis and looked at each other, for quite a while. The woman wasn’t young – neither was Stilton. He was fifty-six and guessed that she was roughly ten years younger than him, with some first wrinkles around her make-up-free eyes.

‘Claudette,’ he said when the pastis was almost finished.

‘Yes. And your name is?’

‘Tom.’

‘You know Jean-Baptiste?’

‘Yes, and you do too?’

‘Everyone in this area knows Jean-Baptiste. He’s a good policeman.’