Third Voice (35 page)

In November, in the middle of the night?

Stilton went through another room, smaller, full of artwork. He didn’t take note of what was on the walls, he just went straight through. Further down he saw another corridor. He went over towards it. It was dark but Stilton still had Luna’s torch in his pocket. He put it on and carried on down the corridor.

‘Hello!’

Silence. Strange. Was there no one in the house? The lights are on out there. Where the hell is Borell? He stood still in the darkest spot. Suddenly he heard a strange sound of something rolling on the floor, like a marble. He pointed the cone of light towards the sound and caught sight of the rolling object. It was a glass eye. Stilton stared at it, allowing the cone of light to follow its path across the floor until it hit a wall. He took a couple of steps towards an open door and shone the torch into a dark room.

It was Borell.

He was sitting in his office chair, facing the door, leaning back slightly. The empty eye cavity revealed a bullet hole. It had carried on out through the back of his head, splattering brain matter over a painting on the wall behind. It was still trickling down. Stilton hesitated in the doorway. Borell had been murdered. Olivia’s mobile was there. It should certainly not be there when the police came. Stilton went into the room. He shone around with the torch, the light reflecting in the large mirror on the wall and onto the desk. No mobile. He pointed the torch at Borell, bent down over the corpse and felt his pockets from outside. There was something in his right-hand pocket. He put his hand in and pulled out a mobile. Olivia’s. He recognised it. Suddenly Borell’s stomach started gurgling. Stilton stood up straight and ran out of the room.

Through the house.

Down the steps and into the car. He started the engine and sped out through the gate. He saw that Luna was standing by the Mustang a short distance away. He drove past her at full speed. Luna jumped in the car and tried to follow him. While they were still on the forest lane, she was more or less able to keep up with him. Suddenly she saw another car approaching on a short straight bit of the lane and just about managed to move over to the side of the road. It was a blue BMW racing along towards Borell’s house. Driving that fast on a road like this? she thought and caught up with Stilton’s car further down. When they turned off onto the main road Stilton disappeared into the distance.

He drove until he reached a petrol station, the same one that Olivia had stopped at. He turned in, stopped some distance away from the pumps, took out his mobile and called 112.

‘Jean Borell has been murdered at his house on Ingarö.’

Then he ended the call. He always used pay-as-you-go phones. The call would not be traceable to him.

Olivia was tossing and turning under the blankets. She was not sleeping well. As she turned over to face the wall, she came to a little and thought she heard voices, quiet voices. She lay still, facing the wall. They were Stilton and Luna’s voices. It reassured her and she closed her eyes. Then she heard Stilton make a very strange comment. He raised his voice a little.

‘But I called the police!’

His voice quietened again. Olivia turned her head and she saw Stilton and Luna standing over in the lounge, very close to one another. Called the police? Had he called the police and told them what she’d been doing out at Borell’s? He couldn’t have. Olivia propped herself up with her arms to hear better. The wooden bench was half-hidden in darkness.

‘And you’re sure he was dead?’

It was Luna’s voice.

‘Stone-cold dead.’

‘Who?’

Olivia had sat up properly now. Stilton and Luna turned around towards her.

‘Who’s stone cold?’

‘Jean Borell.’

Stilton started walking towards Olivia as he said it. He knew that he had to tell Olivia as well. He wanted to tell her. He was still shaken up himself. Not about the murder itself, but over the fact that he’d been at the murder scene.

On the way back to the barge he’d gone over the macabre sight in the office. The bullet hole where his eye had been. The trickling matter on the painting behind. The murder must have happened just before he got to the house. The murderer may well still have been at the house when he was running in and out.

He didn’t know.

What he also didn’t know was whether the murderer had arrived after he’d saved Olivia or been in the house the whole time, when Olivia went into the office. He hoped that Olivia wasn’t going to think along those lines.

‘Imagine if the murderer was there when I was there?’ she said once he’d finished.

She was thinking along those lines.

But there was no answer to that.

Yet.

When Stilton had finished, Luna told them what she’d seen and heard while standing at the gate.

‘I heard a motorboat.’

‘While I was in the house?’ Stilton asked.

‘Yes. Perhaps it was the murderer getting away?’

There was no answer to that either.

Luna went over to her simple drinks cabinet and got out a bottle of whiskey. She presumed that Stilton would be in need of some.

‘Do you want some too?’

Luna turned towards Olivia. She pulled a blanket around herself.

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

There were three small glasses on the table and a couple of minutes of silent sipping. After Olivia had swallowed the liquid with a controlled grimace she turned towards Stilton.

‘What were you doing going back there again?’

Stilton put his hand in his inside pocket.

‘Getting this.’

He handed over the mobile phone to Olivia. She took it and didn’t really know what to say. Had he just gone there to get her phone? And ended up with a corpse on his hands?

‘You’re nuts, you know that?’ she said.

‘I do, now.’

Both of them smiled at each other. Olivia turned towards Luna.

‘Do you have a charger?’

‘Absolutely.’

Luna went to get a charger and when it was plugged in Olivia turned the phone on. The pictures from the office and the laptop were still there. Borell hadn’t deleted them. Other things must have got in the way.

‘Did you see the laptop?’ she asked Stilton.

‘I didn’t think about it. I had other things on my mind.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m going to hit the sack now,’ Luna said and got up. ‘You’re going to stay over, right, Olivia?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘There’s a small cabin up next door to mine, in there.’

‘Thanks. I’ll go there in a while.’

She didn’t want to go to sleep yet. She wanted to sit and talk to Stilton a while longer. Luna walked around the table and held her hand out towards him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The gun.’

Stilton had forgotten about that. He pulled the gun out of his jacket and passed it over to Luna. She went over to her little safe behind the curtain. Just before she was about to put it in she turned her back towards Stilton. But he saw what she did – she checked the magazine. Then she closed the safe again, waved at Olivia and off she went. The bottle was still on the table and Stilton poured himself another splash of whiskey. Olivia shook her head, she’d had enough, she didn’t need much in her state.

She looked at Stilton. It wasn’t that long ago since she’d felt rather bitter thoughts whenever his name popped up. Now he was sitting opposite her and she felt very differently.

‘There’s going to be a hell of a commotion with all of this,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘Mette’s going to get dragged into it.’

‘Yes.’

‘You and I will get dragged in too.’

‘Probably.’

‘How are we going to handle that?’

‘Do we have to talk about this now?’

‘No.’

They didn’t have to, not tonight. They’d done enough for one day. Stilton sipped his whiskey. They sat in silence. A couple of minutes later, Stilton looked at Olivia.

‘Do you miss Elvis?’

She did. Often. Why was he thinking about that now?

‘Yes, very much,’ she said.

Stilton nodded. Olivia looked at his sinewy hands holding the glass. The plaster that Luna had put on his right hand was turning red. Suddenly she felt the need to ask him something. Perhaps it was that very special atmosphere in the dimly lit lounge, or the whiskey, or the dramatic events that had unfurled that night, she didn’t know, maybe all of the above. But she felt that she wanted to ask him what she’d asked once before and
never got a proper answer to: what was it that made you go off the rails?

But she decided against.

He didn’t know how long he’d slept, it felt like just a minute, but a second knock on the door of his cabin caused him to sit up. He put the light on and saw that it was half past seven in the morning.

‘Tom, can you open the door?’

It was Luna’s voice. Had something happened? He pulled on a pair of trousers, got up and undid the lock. Luna opened the door from outside. She stepped aside. There were two men in plain clothes standing in the corridor.

One of them was holding up his police ID.

There was quite some tension during
Dagens Nyheter
’s morning meeting. The murder of venture capitalist Jean Borell at his house in Värmdö the night before was big news, and there were plenty of different angles to the story. The room was full of adrenaline-pumped journalists.

One of them was Alex Popovic.

His situation was unique. The victim was a personal acquaintance of his. Not a close friend, not now, but close enough that he had information that none of his colleagues had. That’s why he kept a low profile when the speculation started. About the motive and the perpetrator. Art theft gone wrong? International links? The police had provided very little information so far. The investigation had entered a sensitive stage, so they said. There were no suspects at the moment. Details about what had happened out at Borell’s house would be released later, those that could be made public at least.

So Alex crept off to his desk.

Was this murder linked to Bengt’s? How? Why? He felt that he wanted to get in touch with Olivia. He’d called a couple of times after the night at his place. She hadn’t called back. She must have heard about the murder by now. Why wasn’t she calling? She’d been pretty full on the whole time, pressurising him to tell her that it was Borell whom Bengt had had a go at during that dinner? Why did she want to know that? He’d never got an answer to that. Perhaps he should ask the question again.

Now.

He called Olivia again and got through to her voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. When he ended the call, he noticed the hum of the heated discussions taking place among his colleagues.

Who had murdered venture capitalist Jean Borell?

There hadn’t been that kind of a hum when it was confirmed that Customs Officer Bengt Sahlmann had been murdered.

Not all men are equal, it seemed.

One of the investigators working on the Jean Borell murder was Rune Forss. He’d asked to lead the upcoming questioning of a man who’d been brought in earlier that morning. Tom Stilton. His request was approved. It was almost one o’clock now. Stilton had been sitting in a cell at Kronobergsgatan for more than five hours by this time.

‘I need to collect some more details for the interrogation,’ Forss said to the rest of the group.

He left the building. He’d planned to go bowling at half past one. He wasn’t going to miss that. The idea of the man sitting alone in the cell waiting a while longer put him in a particularly good mood.

Luna hadn’t wanted to wake Olivia, she wanted her to sleep. There wasn’t much she could do about what had happened. When Olivia did wake up, the news came as quite a shock to her.

‘They took him?!’

‘Yes.’

Olivia put on her dried clothes, her mind racing. Luna laid out some breakfast, but  Olivia couldn’t stomach more than a glass of freshly pressed juice.

‘Don’t you want some fruit?’

‘No, thanks. But why?’

‘Why did they take him?’

‘Yes! How did they know that Stilton had been at the house? It has to have something to do with that, right?’

‘Yes, probably.’

‘Did someone see him there?’

‘He said the house was empty.’

Luna topped up Olivia’s glass.

‘How do you and Tom know each other?’ she said.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘OK.’

Luna felt that Olivia’s response was reminiscent of Stilton’s way of ending a discussion. But she was curious. Stilton had acted both impulsively and violently, he’d revealed a side of himself that Luna didn’t know about. She’d suspected it existed, but there was a pressure in this man that people should not stand up against when it got too great, and now she’d seen a glimpse of it. And he’d done it for Olivia. She had to be very special to him, she thought to herself.

‘Thanks for the juice,’ Olivia said. ‘I need to go.’

She went up on deck and called Lisa Hedqvist.

‘Do you know that the police have arrested Tom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know much, it’s something to do with the murder of Jean Borell. Have you heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a rumour that Tom was caught on one of the surveillance cameras at Borell’s house.’

Olivia ended the call and looked out over the water. The CCTV at the entrance. Of course! That was the one he’d been captured on. Now he’d been arrested for going to collect her mobile and finding a corpse instead. He was in the house and ran out and got caught on some bloody camera. Her hands grabbed the railing so tightly, they almost turned white with cramp. When she finally let go she knew what she had to do.

Stilton had fallen asleep on the narrow bench in the cell. A police officer had questioned him briefly when he was brought in. There’d be a longer interview later. Exactly when ‘later’ would be was never stipulated.

And neither was the name of the person leading it.

When the cell door opened it was three o’clock. Stilton had just woken up. A young police assistant was to take him to the interrogation room. It wasn’t far. When Stilton stepped into the room there was a man already sitting down at the table.

Rune Forss.

Stilton had known it was a possibility. He knew that Forss would enjoy this. It still gave him a bit of a jolt though.

‘Sit down.’

Forss pointed at a chair opposite him without looking up. Stilton sat down. Forss started the tape recorder and went through the formalities, including his name, Tom Stilton. Then he opened a file in front of him and started reading. Stilton noted his shiny, balding head and his shoulders, covered in dandruff.

‘Jean Borell is the principal owner of the venture capital firm Albion that has its headquarters in London,’ Forss read. ‘He owns a private property on Ingarö, Värmdö. The entrance is fitted with a surveillance camera. The film shows a car braking in front of the entrance at 00.22 last night. A man was seen getting out of the car, going into the house, coming out again and driving off in the car. Unfortunately, the registration plates are not visible on the film, but the man’s face can be seen very clearly.’

Forss looked up for the first time.

‘It was you. Correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were you doing in the house?’

‘I was due to meet Borell.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. He wasn’t there. I own some land in the archipelago, he was interested in buying some of it.’

‘Was he now?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you drove out to see him in the middle of the night to talk about selling your land.’

‘Yes. Call and ask him if you don’t believe me.’

Forss looked at Stilton. Ice-cold son of a bitch.

‘So you never actually saw Borell?’

‘No.’

‘On the film you’re seen storming into the house and then running back out again. Why?’

‘I was in a rush. Can you please explain to me why I’m sitting here?’

‘Because Jean Borell was murdered in his house last night. At around about the same time as you were seen storming in and out of it. That’s why.’

‘So he’s dead?’

‘You had no idea?’

‘No.’

Forss turned off the tape recorder and leant forward.

‘This is how it is, Stilton. You know that I know that you’re lying. I’ve been counting on that. Scum like you can’t spell the word “truth”. In a while I’m going to be showing the surveillance film to a prosecutor. So you can bet your bottom dollar that you’ll be remanded in custody.’

‘Are you still into bowling?’

Forss closed the file and left the room.

Olivia’s stomach was already in knots when she got in the car. It hadn’t got any better by the time she turned into Kummelnäs and approached the large green dilapidated old mansion. But there wasn’t much else she could do, she had to tell Mette.

Tell her everything.

They sat alone in a room next to the kitchen. A small, gloomy room with drawn curtains. Mette was wearing a dressing gown. She was on sick leave. She’d made some tea and brought in a large pot. Mårten was off studying his deceased family. Mette poured them both some tea. She hadn’t said much when Olivia came in. It was written all over her face that this was not a courtesy call to see how Mette was feeling.

‘Something’s happened,’ Mette said.

‘Yes.’

‘Something to do with Tom’s arrest.’

‘You know about it?’

‘A detective called me at six-thirty wondering where to find Tom. He was to be taken in for questioning about Borell’s murder. How do you know about it?’

Mette’s voice was intentionally distant, not too personal, not too cold. She’d been waiting for this meeting a long time. She’d have preferred it to be under different circumstances, but Olivia was here now and they had to take it from there.

‘It’s because of me,’ Olivia said.

‘That Tom’s been arrested?’

‘Yes.’

Olivia hesitated for a moment. She didn’t really know how far back she should begin. It actually all started with her visit to Customs and Excise, but that was rather too far back. Then she’d have to address the scolding Mette gave her in the kitchen and she wanted to avoid that. So she began with her visit to Silvergården, and her growing suspicions about Bengt’s laptop.

And then it all came out.

Mette interjected with a few short questions.

Olivia answered them all.

Once she’d told her about her own visit to Borell’s place and Stilton’s little adventure there, Mette asked another question.

‘What was he planning to do there?’

‘He was going to get my phone. He went there for me.’

The knot in Olivia’s stomach tightened. She’d recounted the whole tale with great shame and worry. Worry about how Mette would react. So far there hadn’t been any personal reaction from Mette at all.

Then it came.

‘So you’ve finally found each other.’

That was an unexpected reaction. Olivia had been bracing herself for a lecture. A Mette lecture. That Tom had put himself
at great risk just to collect a mobile phone and now he’d been arrested for a murder he seemingly hadn’t committed.

And it was all Olivia’s fault.

She digested Mette’s words: ‘So you’ve finally found each other.’

Olivia felt a lump rising in her throat. Mette put her arm around her.

‘We’ll fix this,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

And Olivia did.

In order to fix things as she’d promised, Mette both had to get dressed and write a note to Mårten saying that she was going for a long, restorative walk.

Olivia gave her a lift into the city. On their way in Mette called Oskar Molin, an old colleague from the National Crime Squad.

‘Who’s in charge of the preliminary investigation in the Borell case?’

‘Karnerud, I think. And Forss.’

‘Forss?’

‘Yes.’

‘What technicians have they brought in?’

‘I don’t know. Aren’t you on sick leave?’

‘Yeah. Speak to you soon.’

Olivia dropped Mette off at police headquarters on Polhemsgatan. Before they parted ways, Olivia asked Mette whether she knew about Sandra Sahlmann’s attempted suicide.

‘No, when did that happen?’

‘The other day. I found her in their house. In the bath.’

Mette let out a heavy sigh and looked at Olivia. She saw the sadness in her eyes and regretted shouting at her. Perhaps I should apologise after all, she thought. When the time comes.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said and pushed the car door closed.

Olivia drove off and Mette went into the building. It didn’t take long for her to find out which technicians were working on the case out on Ingarö. She called and explained that the Borell
murder may have links to a murder that was being investigated at the National Crime Squad. Bengt Sahlmann’s.

‘How far have you got?’

‘The preliminary report is almost done.’

‘Can you give me a quick rundown of it?’

Then she went looking for Rune Forss and asked to speak to him in private. Forss tried to get out of it, but Mette was already there. He was forced into it. In the corridor.

Mette was standing quite close to him.

‘You’ve arrested Tom Stilton,’ she said.

‘Detained.’

‘Because he was out at Jean Borell’s place last night.’

‘Yes. He was caught on CCTV. I’m about to speak to a prosecutor about remanding him in custody.’

‘Have you read the technical report?’

‘It’s not finished yet.’

‘It was finished about fifteen minutes ago. I know what’s in it.’

‘And?’

‘The interesting part is the finding of the murder weapon. In the boathouse, two floors below the office where Borell was shot. A Luger, with the same calibre as the bullet on the wall behind the body. How did the gun end up in the boathouse?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘The murderer dropping it there would be my suggestion.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Based on the times on the surveillance film, Stilton was in Borell’s house for just over four minutes, right?’

Forss looked at Mette. He understood what she was getting at. He didn’t like it. But what was he supposed to do? A fact is a fact.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘In that time he is supposed to have gone inside, found Borell upstairs in his office, shot him, gone down to the boathouse, two floors down – whatever he was planning to do there when he had the car by the entrance – then dumped the murder
weapon in the boathouse, gone back up two floors, gone out of the house and driven off. In just over four minutes.’

Forss’s face was expressionless.

‘There were fingerprints on the weapon,’ Mette said. ‘I’d be very surprised if they were Stilton’s.’

Forss went straight back into his office.

Olivia found a parking space on Tjärhovsgatan near the Kvarnen restaurant, and walked over to Coffice on the corner of Östgötagatan, a café with a separate room where you could sit and work in peace. She sank down into one of the worn armchairs, connected to the WiFi and ordered a large cappuccino. She didn’t drink coffee very often, but there was something special about the beans they used here. She accessed the
Dagens Nyheter
site and skimmed through the articles about the murder of Jean Borell. She wanted to check whether Alex had written anything. He hadn’t. Perhaps I should give him a ring, she thought to herself. Or maybe not, he was probably rushed off his feet. She hadn’t bothered to answer his calls, she wanted to distance herself from that drunken night. She’d ring him soon, about Borell, a murder that may have links to the murder of Sandra’s father. Mette had reacted strongly when she showed her the pictures of Borell’s office on her phone. Mette knew that the missing laptop had been in an unusual cork bag.