Third Voice (20 page)

The two Swedes had met the well-known murder investigator Jean-Baptiste Fabre.

One of the ones you couldn’t bribe.

Why?

Were they coppers too?

Why would two Swedish coppers be interested in the murder of Samira?

He had an answer to that.

And it scared him.

Stilton was lying on Abbas’s hotel bed. He’d presumed that Abbas would get in touch if he was needed. He stared at the black television screen in front of him. The porn film had been disgusting. Mainly to Abbas, of course, but even to Stilton. Not just because of the disgusting content, but because of the associations it triggered.

Associations with Rune Forss.

The detective chief inspector of Stockholm Police who’d been sleeping with prostitutes, pimped out by the escort queen Jackie Berglund.

Stilton knew it, but it still had to be proven, something he intended to do as soon as he got home. For moral reasons, but mainly for personal ones. It was Forss who had manoeuvred Stilton away from a murder investigation in a deeply humiliating way during his psychosis. It was Forss who’d spread the rumours and talked crap behind his back when he came back. It was Forss who made sure that he was more or less frozen out by his colleagues until Stilton had had enough, handed over his service gun and left.

And Forss had done that for one reason alone: he was afraid that Stilton was going to reveal his liaisons with prostitutes. He was afraid that Stilton was going to find something that linked Rune Forss and Jackie Berglund.

That’s why.

Stilton closed his eyes. He didn’t have a hard time recalling how Forss had treated him when he was homeless. When he’d offered to help solve the case of the mobile murderers, as the media called them.

Forss had treated him like a piece of shit.

Stilton felt a longing to go home.

‘Wake up.’

Abbas was standing just inside the door. Stilton sat up in bed, feeling a little dazed. He must have dozed off.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Almost four. Your plane leaves at six.’

‘My plane?’

Abbas handed him a piece of paper. Stilton looked at it, a printed boarding pass. Abbas sat down on the chair by the wall.

‘You’ve fixed what you were going to fix,’ he said. ‘I want to stay on a couple more days. I’ll be coming back by train.’

‘What about Martin though?’

‘What about him?’

‘You heard what Abbas said about the hitmen.’

‘Yes, but I don’t feel very comfortable having a bodyguard. And I don’t think you enjoy that role much either.’

‘No, but it doesn’t feel great leaving you here on your own.’

‘You’ll just have to accept it.’

Stilton looked at Abbas’s emotionless expression and shook his head. This didn’t feel good. But what should he do? He got up off the bed.

‘What are you planning to do?’ Stilton asked.

‘Say goodbye.’

Stilton didn’t really know what he meant. Say goodbye to Marseille? To Samira? But he knew that Abbas had made up his mind. He didn’t want Stilton around.

‘Are you coming to the airport?’

‘No.’

So Stilton got in a taxi with his blue bag and told the driver where he was going. Ten minutes later he changed his mind.

‘The police station?’

‘Yes.’

The taxi stopped outside the police building. Stilton paid and got out. He looked up at the gigantic edifice and hoped that Jean-Baptiste wasn’t standing by a window smoking. Then he went into the small bar opposite. It was almost empty. He walked towards the barman.

‘Lottery ticket?’

‘No, I’m looking for Claudette.’

‘She left ten minutes ago.’

‘Oh right.’

‘But she’s coming back. Shall I leave a message?’

‘No.’

Stilton left the bar.

At roughly the same time as Stilton took off into a clear blue sky, Abbas said goodbye. He crossed a square at the edge of Marseille, on foot, with eyes in the back of his head. He knew these streets, still, not much had changed. From the outside. The people probably had. He didn’t know much about that, but the surroundings were just like they had been when he lived here.

He’d lived in many places in this city, moving around with his erratic father, from one shithole to the next. Then he left home and lived in far worse shitholes.

He was not bidding farewell to the city.

He was bidding farewell to himself.

To Jean Villon’s young apprentice.

The young knife thrower who met the love of his life at a circus. A man who no longer existed. Who had existed as long as Samira existed, and lived on forlorn hope. The unlikely dream about a man and a woman who would eventually find their way back to one another.

Now Samira was dead and the young apprentice no longer existed.

It was to him that Abbas was bidding farewell.

He was now someone else.

With a very different task in hand.

He crossed over a deserted square, past a merry-go-round spinning around in the middle of it.

When he came back to the hotel it was almost midnight. The porter was sleeping in a room just inside the tiny reception. Abbas went upstairs. It wasn’t long before he came back down. He went into the room where the porter was sleeping and
whistled. The porter managed to hit his head twice, on the wall behind him and on the bedside lamp above his head, before he got to his feet and came to stand very close to Abbas.

‘Yes?’

‘Someone’s been in my room.’

‘Your colleague perhaps?’

‘He left before I went. Someone has been here since then.’

‘Perhaps it was the maid?’

‘Does she generally clean people’s washbags?’

The porter couldn’t answer that. And he hadn’t seen any unfamiliar faces at the hotel either. But, having said that, he had been sleeping for a couple of hours, and quite soundly at that, so…

Abbas went back to his room. What had they been looking for? The knives?

Probably.

Or him.

Stilton’s plane landed just after eleven o’clock at night and he took the airport bus into the city. On the way to the barge, he saw someone selling
Situation Sthlm
, a confused-looking young guy standing outside a Konsum grocery store on Hornsgatan holding up his magazines. The shop had closed several hours ago, but this guy hadn’t noticed. Stilton bought a copy from him. He didn’t recognise this guy so he refrained from asking questions. About other sellers, friends of his just a year ago. He did tell the guy that the shop was now closed and that he’d have more luck selling magazines if he moved closer towards the underground entrance.

The guy thought that Stilton was a genius.

She’s probably asleep, Stilton thought as he climbed aboard the barge. The lights were all off. He headed down into his cabin as quietly as he could. There was a new brass sliding bolt lock on the back of the door. He pushed it closed and lay down on his
bunk. It was well after midnight. He sent a short text message to Abbas. He’d call him tomorrow to check how things were.

Then he’d call Mette.

Just the thought of that call put him in touch with the latent magma inside him. Nothing was going to get in his way now, not trips to Marseille, gouged pimps or beautiful French women.

He was going to focus now.

On Rune Forss.

He raised his voice considerably.

‘Why not today?’

‘Because I don’t have time. There is a world outside your own, you know, Tom.’

Stilton was sitting in his cabin in his underwear. It was just after nine o’clock and Mette didn’t have time to meet him today, something he just had to accept. His lowered his voice a little.

‘So what time tomorrow, then?’

‘Ten. Is Abbas back too?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘There is a world outside your own, you know, Mette. See you tomorrow.’

Stilton ended the call and threw the mobile on his bunk. He didn’t like it when his plans didn’t work out. What was he going to do the whole bloody day? Then there was a knock on the door.

‘Yes!’

‘Welcome home.’

Luna’s voice slid in through the wooden doors and Stilton pulled out a pair of trousers. He put them on with one hand while opening the bolt on the door with the other.

‘Come in.’

Luna opened the door. There wasn’t much space, so she stopped where she was standing. She was wearing her green dungarees.

‘How was Marseille?’

‘Messy. Thanks for the whiskey.’

‘Did it come in useful?’

‘All the time. Thanks for fitting that.’

Stilton was pointing at the lock on the door.

‘Do you feel safe now?’ Luna asked.

‘What do you mean? With the door?’

Luna smiled and had a look around the cabin.

‘Did you know her?’

She pointed at the little shelf behind Stilton. He turned around. The little photo of One-eyed Vera was the only thing standing on it.

‘Yes. Vera Larsson.’

‘The one who was beaten to death in a caravan?’

Stilton looked at Luna.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I remember the murder. Quite a lot was written about it. I saw her headstone.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. At Norra cemetery. I work there, remember.’

‘Was she buried at Norra?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Haven’t you ever been there?’

‘No.’

Stilton had never been to One-eyed Vera’s grave. He’d buried her in his own way.

‘But you must have known each other pretty well? If you have a photo of her there, I mean?’

Stilton was sitting on his bunk, looking at the little photo of Vera. Had they known each other well? Yes, in a way, like homeless people know each other, but in many ways no. But he’d made love to her, once, and her murder had dragged him out of his vegetative state and made space for a rage that had taken him far.

In actual fact, off the streets and out to Rödlöga.

And now back here again.

‘I want to see her grave,’ he suddenly said.

After all, he didn’t have plans.

They saw her from a distance, long before they had reached the grave, a haggard creature down on her knees in front of a simple metal plaque in the ground. Next to her was a green plastic bag.

‘Someone you know?’

Luna spoke quietly, as is customary in a cemetery.

‘I only know her first name,’ Stilton said. ‘Muriel. She’s a druggie from Bagarmossen.’

They approached the grave. Muriel had her hands together in front of her, her thin arms shaking. It was very autumnal weather with low fog and just a few degrees above zero. Muriel was only wearing a short jacket, with sleeves that were too short. Stilton and Luna stopped a couple of metres behind her.

‘Hi, Muriel.’

Muriel thrust her upper body around. She assumed it was coppers standing behind her. When she saw Stilton she stared at him for several seconds.

‘Is that you?!’ she said in a thin, broken voice.

‘It’s me.’

Muriel scrambled to her feet and flung her arms around Stilton. He hugged her and it almost made him feel sick. There wasn’t much body to hold onto. Luna looked down at the floor. Stilton felt Muriel crying, silently, on his shoulder. He let her cry. He looked down at the burial plaque. He knew that One-eyed Vera had been a kind of mother to Muriel, a substitute for her real mother. Vera had tried to keep an eye on her, keep her away from the worst shit. As much as she could. Now Vera was dead and the protective net left was gone. He guessed at how she got by. He carefully peeled Muriel off his shoulder and looked at her.

‘Are you feeling OK?’

Muriel shook her head. Her face was full of red and black blotches, her eyelids were swollen and infected, it looked like it might be some kind of disease.

‘Have you eaten today?’

‘No.’

Stilton turned towards Luna and she nodded. ‘It’s fine.’ He looked down at Vera’s grave. There wasn’t much to see. Probably a small urn buried in the ground under the metal plaque, nothing more, with some sand around it, and a new metal plaque half a metre away. He regretted coming here.

But he’d found Muriel.

Olivia pushed the front door closed and put her hands up against the wall. Her whole body was gasping for air. She’d been out running for almost an hour and her clothes were drenched in sweat. Unfit, she thought to herself, so bloody unfit! She pulled off her trainers and saw that her blister from Mexico had become sore again. Shit! During her time at the Police Academy she’d exercised every day and her body was in excellent physical shape when she finished. Then she went to Mexico. And she’d had other things on her mind than keeping fit. That morning she’d woken up and felt how stiff and sluggish she was and she dug out her running gear. She had to get fit again. At least one hour a day, she’d decided. This was day one. She peeled off her clothes and jumped in the shower.

Half an hour later she was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown with her laptop in front of her. She drank a rather disgusting sports drink while she clicked her way to a news broadcast on the Swedish TV site. When the business news came on it made her slam down the plastic bottle. The first report was about Jean Borell. He was just arriving at Albion’s head office on Skeppsbron and a journalist was standing outside the main entrance hoping to get a comment about Albion’s new contract with the City of Stockholm.

‘Do you think that it will be approved? Despite all the criticism you’ve had?’

‘No comment.’

Borell disappeared in through the door. Olivia was quite surprised. Is that what he looked like now? After some intensive googling last night she’d finally managed to find a picture of him, but it was an old picture depicting a rather slick and tidy young man with furtive eyes.

This was a very different man.

His hair was long, ash-blond and bushy, his face was tanned and the knitted sweater seemed to be hugging a trim body.
He also had a short, dark, well-groomed beard. That was quite unusual. Men like him in positions of power seldom had beards.

Looks good, she thought. A first-class arsehole according to Alex, but with interesting looks.

What did he know about the murder of Bengt Sahlmann?

Olivia thought about the question while she got dressed and dried her hair. She wondered how she was going to find out whether Borell was involved in the murder, which is what her entire theory was founded upon. That Borell had silenced his angry school friend who was seeking revenge for his father’s death by creating a scandal for Borell’s company. She went through the theory a few times in her head. She knew that it had major flaws, but flaws are there to be fixed.

Should she get in touch with him?

She let out a burst of laughter, at first, as though it was an extremely bizarre idea. A man whom the media had been chasing all over the world to no avail. How was she going to be able to meet him?

But what if? Imagine if it were possible, one way or another. What would she do then? What would she ask him?

‘Listen, your old school friend Bengt has been murdered. Have you got anything to do with it?’

She laughed again, rather more hopelessly. What should she ask?

She sat down at the kitchen table. I’m a police officer, she thought. Not officially, but I am. So how would I act? As Mette? Did she have anything to go on?

Not much.

Nothing, Olivia.

And that’s when she gave up on her idea, in ten seconds, before remembering the one thing she did have.

Her intuition.

And there were a number of highly qualified people who greatly respected it, including Mette Olsäter. So why shouldn’t she? How many murder cases had been solved because one
investigator or other, in a chaos of nothing, had followed their intuition and suddenly uncovered the truth? Many.

She called Albion’s Stockholm office and asked to speak to Jean Borell. The woman who answered the phone was very friendly, even though she probably thought the call was a prank. She said Olivia should speak to Magnus Thorhed.

‘Who is that?’

‘Jean Borell’s colleague.’

‘Is he there?’

‘No, he’s at Bukowskis. He’ll probably be back in a couple of hours.’

‘Can I reach him on his mobile?’

‘No.’

And that’s where the call ended. She’d tried to reach someone who was being covered for by a person who was himself unreachable.

I’ll go to Bukowskis, she thought to herself.

Olivia knew that she often acted before she’d had time to catch up with her thoughts. This time she found time to do so on the bus to Kungsträdgården, largely thanks to Alex and what he’d told her before they left Prinsen, about Jean Borell. Private things. That he only had one eye, for example. He’d lost his right eye as a child. And he had a breathtaking property out on Värmdö and a small château in Antibes.

And he also had an almost legendary art collection.

He was a top-class collector, with a particular penchant for young modern Swedish art. According to Alex, he had the largest private collection of internationally acclaimed contemporary Swedish artists.

Which didn’t mean much to Olivia. Yet. She wasn’t starting her history of art course until the spring.

But it gave her a foot in the door.

She’d caught up with her thoughts.

It was the final exhibition day for Bukowskis autumn auction of Swedish art. The premises on Arsenalsgatan were overflowing with overflowing wallets. Olivia walked in and grabbed hold of a catalogue while surveying the people in the room. She’d googled Magnus Thorhed. Unlike his boss, he had a strong online presence. He’d written books on widely different topics including derivative analysis and Goethe’s Theory of Colours. He was an honorary member of various gentlemen’s clubs. For some time he’d run his own gallery on Nybrogatan. Olivia had seen numerous pictures of him. He was thirty-six years old and of Asian origin.

Was he adopted too?

She spotted him further in. He was wearing a mustard-coloured suit. As she pushed her way forward she saw a little plait running down the back of his neck and a little gold ring in his ear – a man careful about the kind of impression he made. When she was almost behind him, she smelled the distinctive aftershave emanating from the man’s body. A touch of nutmeg, she thought. He was shorter than her and quite stocky: he gave a powerful impression.

Thorhed was quietly talking into his mobile while studying a painting hanging on the wall in front of him. Olivia looked at the small note next to it: Karin Mamma Andersson. Number 63. She looked it up in the catalogue. The reserve price was two million Swedish kronor. Not likely to be hanging at her place, even though she thought it was very… strange? Suggestive dark colours in the foreground, dull layers of ochre behind, some disconcerting shadows. Olivia pretended to study the painting, while straining to hear what Magnus Thorhed was saying.

‘How high will we go?’ he said quietly. ‘Good.’

He ended the call and adjusted his discreet round glasses. Olivia stepped forward.

‘Isn’t it fantastic!’

Thorhed turned his head slightly and was greeted with a gentle smile. Olivia nodded at the painting in front of them.

‘What suggestive contrasts!’

Thorhed looked at the painting again. He agreed with the young woman with the naturally beautiful eyes. The painting was fantastic.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It really is. Are you planning to bid on it?’

‘No, not at all, I am interested in it on another level.’

‘What level?’

She’d awakened a second of curiosity in Thorhed.

‘I’m studying history of art and I don’t look at paintings as objects for purchase. I try to put them in a bigger context. Olivia Rivera.’

Olivia extended her hand and the rather taken aback Thorhed shook it. He had a firm handshake.

‘Magnus Thorhed.’

‘Didn’t you own a gallery on Nybrogatan?’

‘That was a few years ago.’

‘Before you started working with Jean Borell.’

Thorhed looked at Olivia, who quickly flashed another big smile.

‘I was trying to reach Jean Borell today and I was told to speak to you. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to see him.’

Thorhed’s expression stiffened considerably.

‘Why?’

‘I’m working on a dissertation about modern Swedish artists and their impact on the international art market and I’ve been reading about Jean Borell’s fantastic collection. I’d like to do an interview with him about it. How he’s put it together, what criteria he’s used, what it is that he finds so interesting about these artists. It’s for my undergraduate dissertation.’

Thorhed was still listening so she carried on.

‘And I saw on the news this morning that he was coming to Stockholm today.’

‘And now he’s on his way to Marrakech.’

‘Oh. And when’s he coming back here?’

‘Maybe at the weekend.’

‘Do you think he might be interested in meeting me then?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m in charge of his calendar and I know what it’s like. But I can certainly ask him. What did you say your name was?’

‘Olivia Rivera. I’ll give you my number.’

Olivia wrote her number down on the back of the catalogue and handed it over to Thorhed. Not her mobile number, she didn’t want to share that, but that of the landline in the flat on Skånegatan.