Third Voice (17 page)

‘That Arab whore.’

Abbas was standing right behind Stilton, against the wall, so Stilton couldn’t see his reaction. He didn’t need to.

‘Can you get her?’ Stilton asked.

‘No, she’s dead.’

‘Shame.’

‘Not really. You just have to accept that there’s a churn rate in this industry. But I have girls who fuck just as well as her.’

Stilton nodded and asked how they were going to proceed. It solved itself. In the corner of his eye, he saw Abbas move over to the window to close the shutters. The noise of the traffic outside disappeared, as did much of the light. Martin saw it too and reacted.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said in French.

‘Closing the shutters.’

It was the first words Abbas uttered in Martin’s presence, and he did it in an obvious song-like Marseille dialect, a dialect from the Castellane slums. Martin recognised it immediately.

‘And who the fuck told you to do that?’

Stilton saw how nimbly Abbas moved around the room and how softly he smiled as he sat down on the sofa opposite Martin.

‘That Arab whore,’ he said tenderly.

Stilton felt what was coming, he recognised the scene, it was like a spider spinning its web.

‘Who the fuck is this guy?’ Martin said to Stilton. ‘He’s no fucking guide.’

‘No. He’s Swedish too. He was friends with Samira Villon.’

The penny dropped and Martin felt that this conversation was going the wrong way. He got up, took a few steps towards the goldfish and put one hand on the gun next to the fish bowl. He was still controlled. He’d been in this sort of situation before.

Many times.

‘Get out,’ he said calmly. ‘Now.’

‘Or else?’ Abbas said.

‘Or else I’ll blow your Arab-Swedish brains out.’

‘That would be a shame.’

Abbas got up and Stilton followed his lead. Was he planning to leave? Abbas went towards the door and Stilton went after him. Martin had lifted up the gun from the bureau a little and followed their movements with the barrel. Abbas stopped in the doorway and turned to Martin.

‘Your goldfish has died.’

Martin peered at the aquarium and then a long black knife went through the top of the hand holding the gun. The gun fell to the floor and Stilton threw himself at him. He’d guessed how strong Martin would be and trusted that he was stronger. A year of island life had given him some real brute strength in his arms.

But it took a while.

Abbas stood still in the doorway and observed the fight. Neither of them was making any noise. When Stilton ducked a hefty punch and got behind Martin, it was basically over. He lifted the Frenchman up off the floor and hurled him over the sofa. His many years of police training stood him in good stead, and he pulled one of Martin’s arms up so high behind his back that the Frenchman screamed for the first time.

His arm was about to snap.

Abbas was there in a flash. He’d prepared himself for this situation in many ways, including bringing some blue cable ties. Together they managed to bring the other arm around as well and they tied his wrists so tightly that it was cutting into his flesh. They fastened another one around his ankles.

‘Stand him up against the wall.’

Abbas nodded towards the wall next to the bureau. Stilton dragged Martin up and pushed him up against the wall. Martin was just about to headbutt him when he saw the knife. The
other black knife. Abbas held it right in front of his face. Martin pressed himself up against the wall.

‘Open your mouth,’ Abbas said in French.

Martin spat in his face.

Tough guy.

Abbas didn’t flinch. He let the spit run down his cheek and onto the floor. And then he raised the knife a little closer to Martin’s face and felt its weight in his hands.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘Who the hell are you?!’

‘Open your mouth.’

Martin stared at the knife in front of his nose. He shifted his gaze and saw Abbas’s eyes. Then he opened his mouth. Abbas quickly pulled out a small white towel he’d brought with him. He used his free hand to press the towel into Martin’s mouth.

Deep inside.

Stilton took a few steps back. This was Abbas’s show. He would have liked to leave the room now, not be there, not see, and not have to lie to Jean-Baptiste.

And more than anything, so as not to have to bear witness to a side of Abbas that he knew existed, but always tried to let it slip from memory.

‘You can go outside if you want,’ Abbas said without looking at Stilton.

‘I’ll stay.’

Abbas nodded and looked at Martin again. This ruthless porn producer had a different expression on his face. He was clearly the underdog now and was having trouble breathing through his nose. A keen but unhealthy cocaine habit had blocked his nasal passages. He snuffled.

‘Close your eyes,’ Abbas said.

Martin allowed his gaze to wander past Abbas and over to Stilton, as though he was seeking some kind of help from him. He didn’t get any. Stilton said: ‘I think you should do as he says.’

Martin closed his eyes. Abbas leant in towards him.

‘Now maybe you can imagine what it’s like being blind? Not knowing where the knife is? Not being able to see whether I’m raising it to stab you or angling it to cut straight across your cheek? How does it feel?’

A murmur could be heard from behind the towel.

At this stage, Abbas knew whom he was dealing with – a man who wasn’t going to talk unless he was forced to, in particular about anything that could tie him to the murder and butchering of Samira. So he carefully placed the tip of the knife onto Martin’s left eyelid and pushed it in about a centimetre. The scream could be heard through the towel. Not loud, but the fact that it could be heard at all was indicative of its intensity. Stilton saw that Martin’s right leg was shaking uncontrollably. A thin stream of blood was running down his cheek from his eye.

‘Now you’re half blind,’ Abbas said as he moved the tip of the knife and placed it on the other eyelid. ‘Now you know who I am. I’m going to remove the towel from your mouth. If you scream, I’ll stick the knife in your other eye and you’ll be completely blind. OK? I’m going to ask you quite a few things and I want you to answer.’

Abbas pulled the towel out of Martin’s mouth without easing the pressure of the knife against his eyelid. Martin breathed in deeply. He was shocked.

‘Were you the one who killed Samira?’

It took a few seconds before Martin’s voice managed to emerge from the cave of horror that he was in, but it emerged. Broken, hoarse.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Who did it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Abbas removed the tip of the knife from his eyelid. Martin’s head was shaking. He didn’t know where the knife was. He had no idea what Abbas was intending to do with it. He chewed his lips until they were bloody.

‘Did she get my letters?’ Abbas asked.

‘What letters?’

‘I sent four letters to her, from Sweden, in blue envelopes. Did they get here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you rip them up?’

‘No.’

‘Did you read them to Samira?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the first word in every letter?’

Martin swallowed hard without saying a word.

‘You ripped them up.’

Abbas put the tip of the knife back against Martin’s uncut eyelid. Martin’s jaw was moving up and down.

‘How did you get her to take part?’ Abbas asked. ‘Did you drug her?’

Martin nodded so slightly that it was hardly noticeable.

‘You drugged her?’

Another nod.

‘What do you know about the murder?’

‘I told the police what I know.’

‘And what was that?’

Martin was breathing with short heavy breaths, his chest pumping under his T-shirt, the words gushing out of his mouth.

‘She was supposed to be part of a film shoot, I wasn’t involved in it, I was just renting her out. Someone collected her here and then she never came back.’

‘Who collected her?’

‘A taxi.’

‘Where was the film supposedly being shot?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who else was going to be in the film?’

‘No idea.’

‘Philippe.’

Abbas’s voice was still quiet and controlled.

‘I think you’re lying,’ he said.

Abbas carefully wiped away the blood under Martin’s eye with the towel.

‘I’m almost certain you are,’ he said. ‘Can you feel the knife against your eye?’

Martin nodded, his head shaking.

‘So I’m going to ask you one more time,’ Abbas said. ‘Who was there at the shooting of the film?’

Martin was silent. What he was going to be forced to say would warrant the death penalty, but he said it nonetheless.

In the end.

‘Le Taureau… I don’t know his real name.’

‘Philippe.’

‘I don’t know any more…’

‘Just Le Taureau?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you tell the police that? About Le Taureau?’

‘No. I wasn’t involved in any of it… I just…’

Martin’s voice became weaker and weaker, before long he’d probably pass out. Abbas noticed. He leant forward a little and whispered in Martin’s ear.

‘My name is Abbas el Fassi.’

Martin sank down against the wall, his jaw still busy moving up and down. Abbas lowered the knife and went towards the door. Martin fell down onto the floor. Stilton walked towards the open door. Martin turned his head, and with his good eye he looked at the door as it slammed shut.

Then he turned up to look at the fish bowl.

The goldfish was lying at the bottom, dead.

Alex had called Olivia once he’d listened to her voicemail message, later that night. Olivia was already sleeping by then. When in turn she listened to her messages in the morning, he said that he had something to do in the city and suggested meeting for lunch at the Prinsen restaurant. If she was free.

She was.

Not because she thought it was an ideal venue exactly. She didn’t like meeting people at restaurants to talk about sensitive matters. There were always people sitting around and then waiters came by and you were forced to order something. Olivia wasn’t particularly keen on sitting down to lunch at all, for that matter. She preferred wolfing down a prawn salad, or instant noodles. Everything took such an age in restaurants.

But she was the one who’d requested a meeting, so Prinsen it was.

In a leather booth.

Good.

At least there was some chance of getting some privacy.

Alex was there before her and had ordered a beer. He was wearing a thick grey knitted jumper and was talking on his mobile when Olivia appeared. He nodded at her to sit down opposite him as he finished leaving a message. The last thing she heard him say was: ‘Check with Customs and Excise again.’

‘Customs and Excise?’

Olivia took her jacket off while she asked the question.

‘I must remember to call them after we’re done.’

‘Why?’

There she was again, he thought. She ought to be a journalist.

‘Because I’m working on an article about that missing stash of drugs you tipped me off about.’

‘Me. What do you mean
me
? You haven’t dragged me into this, have you?!’

‘No, you’re just a source.’

‘What do you mean,
source
?’

Olivia was beginning to get worked up. She knew that she’d told him about the missing drugs and was assuming that he would keep this information to himself. And all of a sudden she was now a ‘source’?

‘I’m a journalist, Olivia, you’re well aware of that. What you tell me off the record remains just that. But if I need to use it I will. Without getting you involved. We do have source protection in this country.’

Olivia was certainly familiar with that and calmed down a little.

‘What have you found out about the stash?’ she asked.

Alex was under no obligation to answer. Quite the opposite, in fact. But as it Olivia was the one who’d told him about it, he felt he should be offering her something in return.

‘It was very large and it was only so-called internet drugs, mainly 5-IT. And it could fetch up to three million on the streets. So I understand that it caused a commotion, as you said, when it disappeared.’

‘And it was Bengt Sahlmann who was supposed to be investigating their disappearance?’

‘Yes, they’ve confirmed that.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘A woman, among other people. Gabriella Forsman, she was the one who raised the alarm when the drugs went missing.’

‘Have you met her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘Overly red hair, overly large breasts, and overly red lips.’

I like this guy, Olivia thought.

‘And I’ve talked to the woman in charge of the murder investigation,’ Alex said. ‘Mette Olsäter.’

I don’t like this guy, Olivia thought.

‘Why did you talk to her?!’

‘You know her?’

‘Why?’

‘Your reaction.’

‘I know her and would be damn grateful if you would keep me completely out of any chats you have with her. Both as a source and whatever else you bloody call it.’

‘Of course. I said that, didn’t I? Sources remain anonymous. Mentioning your name would be an offence. Would you like a beer?’

‘No.’

Both of them looked at each other. Alex smiled a little. Olivia did not. For the life of her she didn’t want to be linked with this journalist Alex Popovic when it came to Customs and Excise or the Sahlmann murder investigation. Things were messy enough with Mette as they were.

‘I’ll have some mineral water,’ she said.

Alex ordered some sort of soup and a mineral water for Olivia. When it arrived, Olivia had cooled off a little and reminded herself it was she who’d requested this meeting.

But it was Alex who changed the subject and starting talking about what she wanted to discuss.

‘So you wanted to ask something?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Olivia felt that she needed to back down a little and soften up around the edges. She wanted their conversation to have another tone. A private tone. An off-the-record tone, as he said.

‘Listen, I’m sorry if I snapped,’ she said. ‘I have my reasons. I’ll tell you about that some other time, somewhere else.’

‘Yes, please.’

Alex smiled at her. Olivia smiled back a few seconds later. There, that felt a bit better. He was probably ready now.

‘Well,’ she began. ‘When we met last time, you told me about a private dinner during which Sahlmann had had some outburst over his father’s death, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it directed at anyone in particular?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

Alex slurped a couple of spoonfuls of soup. Somewhat too carefully. Olivia saw that he was thinking, deliberating. Why? Was he trying to protect someone?

‘Is it sensitive?’ she asked.

‘Yes and no.’

‘Was it directed at you?’

‘No.’

Alex laughed, as though it was a fairly legitimate question.

‘It was directed at a mutual acquaintance,’ he said. ‘And I’m not that keen on revealing his name.’

‘Because?’

‘Because it feels like gossip.’

Oh my god, you’re a journalist, Olivia thought. Don’t you live on gossip? But she didn’t say it.

‘I understand. But you have source protection,’ she said and smiled.

Alex looked at Olivia. Reversed roles. He actually had no problem telling her who this person was, far from it. He just wanted to keep her on her toes. She was pretty full on.

‘It won’t go any further,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

‘OK. It was Jean Borell.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘You don’t know him?’

‘No?’

‘He’s a very successful venture capitalist.’

‘Why did Bengt have a go at him?’

‘Because his company owns the nursing home where Bengt’s father died. Albion.’

Olivia was having a sip of water. She pressed the glass against her lips extra firmly and leant back. If she hadn’t had back support she would probably have ended up on the floor. She swallowed the water and hoped that she sounded as she did before.

‘Albion?’ she said.

‘Yes.
Dagens Nyheter
did an investigative series of articles about it a while back, did you read it?’

‘No, I was abroad then.’

Why didn’t I find it online?

‘What was it about?’ she said.

‘It went through its organisation here in Sweden. Some heavy stuff. I can send it over if you want.’

‘Yes, please,’ Olivia said. ‘How did Borell react to Bengt’s outburst?’

‘Bengt was quite drunk and Borell is a first-class arsehole. He was bloody condescending and Bengt was close to attacking him. It was really awkward.’

Olivia nodded and smiled.

‘So you hang out with some first-class arseholes?’

‘Very occasionally. Borell also went to Lundsberg, at the same time as Bengt and me. That’s why we had the dinner. A few of us tend to get together for reunion dinners every now and again.’

Alex peered at his watch while popping some nicotine gum into his mouth.

‘Thank you for taking the time to meet me,’ Olivia said.

‘Are we done?’

‘I’m done.’

‘Why did you want to know who Bengt had had a go at?’

‘I was just curious.’

Alex looked at her and Olivia knew that it was the wrong answer. Just like last time.

Even if it was true.

‘It’s all a bit confused in my mind right now,’ she said. ‘I need to sort it out. Why don’t we have a beer some time?’

That generally worked.

‘Absolutely!’

It worked.

She didn’t trust Alex. Not after that business with Customs and Excise and Mette. She didn’t want to initiate him into her thoughts, she just wanted to use him as a source of information.

Nothing more.

They parted ways just after one o’clock. Alex was heading back to the office and took a taxi. Olivia started walking towards Söder.

Feeling rather overwrought.

Bengt Sahlmann and Albion’s owner Jean Borell were personal acquaintances?

Bengt had accused Borell of being responsible his father’s death?

Borell had been bloody condescending towards him?

What did that mean?

That’s when the thought hit her: Bengt Sahlmann had also talked to Claire Tingman at Silvergården! Had he been told the same things as Olivia? Maybe he’d found out a load more shit about how the nursing home was run? Were Alex’s suspicions correct, then? Had Bengt’s material been about the negligent care at Silvergården? Had he threatened Jean Borell with publicising it as revenge for his father’s death?

It was certainly possible.

Olivia quickly developed a theory: had Borell murdered Sahlmann and stolen his computer? Because it contained explosive material about Silvergården? Could that really be a motive for murder?

How much was at stake? Surely more than just a poorly run nursing home? There had to be more to it.

How could she find out?

Olivia stopped at the quayside and looked out over Stockholm. She knew herself pretty well, and she was all too aware of her tendency towards fanciful theories.

But theories can be proven, she thought. Or disproven. For now, she still wanted to try and prove hers. It could be correct after all.

Then Sandra called.

‘Hi! How are you?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ Sandra said. ‘Charlotte and I are sitting with a priest, talking about Dad’s funeral and we’re wondering when we can have it.’

‘I don’t know, but I can ask someone who’ll know.’

‘Thanks. Maybe you can ask about the computer too? Whether they’ve found it?’

‘Will do. Say hi to Charlotte.’

Olivia ended the call and rang Lisa Hedqvist at the National Crime Squad, not Mette. After some small talk about her trip abroad, Olivia asked about the funeral. Lisa promised to get back to Charlotte and Sandra.

‘And she asked about the laptop too. Have you found it?’ Olivia enquired.

Without thinking about the implications. But Lisa knew. And she’d been there when Mette had bemoaned the occurrences at Customs and Excise, and Lisa knew that Olivia wasn’t very high up on Mette’s list of favourite people. So she didn’t really know what to say. And Olivia picked up on that pretty quickly.

‘You don’t need to answer that,’ she said.

‘We haven’t found it.’

‘Thanks. Bye.’

The laptop was still missing.

It was still possible that Jean Borell had stolen it.

Her theory was still relevant.