Third Voice (13 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Are you a policeman too?’

‘No.’

‘Your English is good. Where are you from?’

‘Sweden.’

‘Ibra.’

Stilton smiled. Zlatan Ibrahimovic´ was currently a big star at PSG, in Paris, not Marseille. He ought not to be so popular here.

‘But here we think that he’s a monster,’ Claudette and smiled a little.

She had small, even teeth, not completely white, her arched lips were smooth and painted with a little red lipstick. Stilton smelled her breath over the table, it was pleasant, and then he suddenly thought about his own and hoped that it would be masked by the pastis.

‘Are you staying at a hotel?’ she asked.

‘Yes, the Richelieu.’

‘Shall we go there?’

‘No, I’m sharing a room with my colleague.’

‘Female?’

‘No. Where do you live?’

‘Rue de la Croix.’

‘Is it far?’

‘Not in a taxi.’

It took about fifteen minutes for the taxi to navigate its way through the centre before ending up in Claudette’s neighbourhood. They sat in the back seat with the windows down. Stilton looked out and saw a barrel organist waving with one hand while the other fed the organ with perforated music. Stilton heard a melancholy tune coming from the wooden contraption and put his hand on Claudette’s bare knee. He wanted to feel her skin.

‘
The Crying Soldier
,’ she said.

Stilton turned towards her.

‘That’s the name of the tune he’s playing. It’s an old folksong about a soldier who comes back from the war with no legs.’

‘Which war?’

‘One of them.’

Claudette put her hand on Stilton’s and guided it up her thigh. Stilton felt how warm she was and leant up against her.

‘We’re here now,’ she said.

Claudette paid for the taxi.

Abbas knew this area like the back of his hand, a rough area, full of poverty, where you weren’t supposed to go at the wrong time of day. Some of it had been smartened up, some new buildings here and there, but underneath it was all still the same place. The same suspicion in people’s eyes, the same small groups of frustrated men, the same smell. He remembered that smell. He didn’t know what it was, only that it had smelled like that his entire childhood. Burned rubbish, exhaust fumes, wet cement. He didn’t know. He tried hard to prevent the smell awakening emotions and memories, that’s not why he was here. He thought he’d burned his inner album of memories, but there were remnants, it seemed.

He hurried over to the high-rise buildings where Marie apparently lived, eight floors up. He hoped that the lift was working.

It was.

As he stood in front of the battered door with the name that she’d given, he suddenly felt unsure. He didn’t ring the doorbell straight away. He looked at the door. Marie had a different surname, of course, she was married with children, that much she’d told him on the phone. She was not the same woman as before, when she performed at Cirque Gruss as Bai She, the white snake woman. It was a spectacular act – the circus director introduced her with a story about a Chinese snake that had taken on human form and then she wreathed her way out of a drum to evocative chimes. She had an exceptional ability to make a human circle with her body, as though she didn’t have a skeleton. Abbas never understood how it was possible. Now she was married and had a family and her life in the circus had come to an end. But that was not why he was hesitating in front of her door.

It was because she might tell him.

About Samira.

He knew that Marie and Samira had been close at the circus, maybe even after Marie had left? Maybe until Samira was murdered?

He rang the doorbell.

Marie put some cold iced tea on the kitchen table. It was a small kitchen considering that she had four children and a husband. One wall was full of grey-green glass cupboards and there was a large circus poster on the other.

Cirque Gruss.

Abbas looked at Marie.

It was more than fifteen years since she’d been the white snake woman. It wasn’t likely that her body would bend into a circle again.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she said.

As though she knew what Abbas saw. But she was still beautiful, in his eyes. He saw her as she’d once looked. Except the eyes. There was a hint of what he’d seen in his own eyes before he’d stepped into the shower at Dalagatan and emerged with an entirely different expression.

A hint of despair.

Marie sat down right next to Abbas. To him it had already felt like time had stood still when she opened the door and hugged him. They shared a past that was always present. Now they were sitting close as children tend to do. Marie looked at Abbas.

‘Are you still…’

‘No, I stopped many years ago.’

‘I knew things would go well for you.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You never lied. Everyone else lied when it suited them, you never did. So I decided that if you don’t lie, things will go well.’

‘A half-truth.’

‘I know, but it worked for you.’

‘Until now.’

‘Yes.’

Then their despair became intertwined, their despair over Samira, and it kept hold of them until Marie reached for her glass and Abbas did the same.

Both of them knew what this moment in the kitchen was all about.

‘She grieved for you so long,’ Marie said. ‘It was agonising. The Master knew how she felt, everyone knew and no one could do anything. It was what it was. She was his wife and target girl.’

‘Yes.’

Abbas tried to remain focused. He wanted to get through this as quickly as possible, he wanted to get to the part that would feel much worse, he couldn’t crumble yet.

‘What happened when the Master died?’

‘Samira had to leave. The new knife thrower had his own target girl.’

‘So where did she go?’

‘At first we were in touch quite a bit, but I was away with the circus and she was here, in Marseille.’

‘What did she do?’

‘I’m not really sure.’

Abbas felt that Marie was hiding something, but he didn’t want to push her. She should say what she wanted and was up to telling him.

‘Did you ever meet up?’

‘Once, a couple of years after she’d left. She was so sad.’

‘Why?’

‘She wondered if I’d kept in touch with you.’

Abbas felt a mounting pressure in his chest.

‘I wrote a couple of letters,’ he said. ‘I got hold of the circus director and he gave me an address where he thought Samira lived. But I had no reply. Maybe she never got them.’

‘Or maybe her agent ripped them up?’

‘Her agent?’

Marie stood up. She went to the window and looked out. Abbas waited. Marie walked towards the sink and took a thin chopping board out of a drawer. When she was about to put it down, Abbas saw that her hands were trembling. He got up and went right up close to her. Marie dropped her head down onto his chest and cried, quietly. He stroked her short blonde hair and let her cry.

As though he was fine.

He was far from fine.

Agent?

Marie lifted her head up from Abbas’s chest and reached for some kitchen paper. She wiped her cheeks and looked at Abbas. She said it as directly as she could.

‘She made films.’

‘What sort of films?’

‘Porn films.’

It took a few seconds, perhaps minutes, before Abbas was able to comprehend this difficult news.

‘She made porn films?’

‘Yes.’

Abbas sat down at the table again and poured himself some more iced tea. Marie stayed by the sink. She knew that Abbas wanted to know. A man who never lied didn’t want other people to do so either. Or hide things. The only reason he was here was to get information about Samira. All she could do was tell him what she knew.

Abbas looked at her.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I asked her the same thing. She didn’t really know what to say. After leaving the circus, she’d met an older man who was supposed to help her and as I understood it he sold her to the agent. She was blind, poor, had to make a living – she was easy prey for people wanting to take advantage of her. And she was so beautiful.’

‘And this agent used her to make porn films.’

‘I’m not really sure how it works, he was some kind of producer too. Maybe he rented her out?’

Abbas got up and went over to the window. He brushed a finger against the window pane, from one edge to the other. In the distance he saw large swarms of black jackdaws swooping over the houses in undulating formations.

Porn films? Samira?

He carried on looking out through the window and asked, ‘Why did she agree to it?’

‘Well, why do women agree to it? I reckon he drugged her, or got her hooked on drugs.’

‘The agent?’

‘Yes. I suppose it makes most people let down their barriers.’

‘Presumably.’

Abbas drew a little cross on the windowpane with his index finger and turned to face Marie.

‘Do you know the agent’s name?’

‘Yes.’

He took the stairs down.

The lift was too slow.

They made love for a long time, in a large peaceful bedroom, on a wide Victorian steel bed. They didn’t say a word, both of them had pent-up desires that drove their bodies together. Stilton knew the reason for his own – what drove Claudette was her own business.

Eventually the heat subsided and they lay naked on the soft bed, crossways. Stilton felt the sweat trickle down onto the sheet.

He was empty, drained.

Such a great feeling, he thought, and looked at Claudette. She was lying on his arm with her eyes shut. He let his gaze move along her shiny body and over to the wall. There were several unframed oil paintings hanging on the light-blue wallpaper, some of them looked unfinished. Stilton lifted his head a little to get a better look.

Then his mobile rang.

Claudette opened her eyes. Stilton looked at her. She lifted her head and released his arm. Stilton grabbed his mobile, he assumed that it was Abbas.

‘Hi, Tom? Have you arrived?’

It was Mette Olsäter.

‘Yes.’

‘You promised you’d ring!’

‘I haven’t had time.’

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t get a chance. Have you spoken to Abbas?’

‘He’s not answering.’

‘Well, he can probably see it’s you calling.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. He wants to be left alone.’

‘Tom, please… we’re adults. We’ve known each other for donkey’s years. What are you up to?!’

Stilton didn’t answer directly, partly because he had to say something with some substance, otherwise it would be ridiculous, and partly because Claudette had leant down over his groin and begun caressing his penis.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘Abbas will have to tell you himself. I heard it on the train. It’s pretty tragic.’

‘But it’s about him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you there, then?’

‘I have a few contacts down here.’

‘Fabre? Jean-Baptiste Fabre?’

‘Yes.’

Mette had never met Fabre, but she knew that Stilton had worked with him some time ago and developed a warm personal acquaintance. They’d also met a few times as part of investigations in which Mette was also involved. So she concluded that the visit to Marseille had something to do with police business.

Which didn’t do much to assuage her concern.

‘Could it get dangerous?’ she asked.

‘For whom?’ Stilton half-groaned and felt his penis stiffen.

‘For you?’

‘I hope not. Why would it?’

‘Because I know exactly what you two…’

‘Mette, I’m sorry. I have to go, there’s a taxi waiting for me outside! I’ll be in touch!’

Stilton managed to end the call just seconds before he was about to come again. Claudette looked up at him.

‘Was that your wife?’

‘I’m not married.’

‘Me neither.’

And then he came.

Marie knew the agent’s name, Philippe Martin. But she didn’t know his address or where Abbas could find him. He had to establish that for himself. However, she did know that he was dangerous. She’d heard his name a couple of times in the last few years in connection with some brutal incidents. Each time, she’d thought about Samira. A couple of times she’d tried to get hold of her, unsuccessfully. Her husband had advised her not to be too persistent.

He’d also heard of this agent.

Abbas just had a name, but he had a pretty good idea of the circles that the man in question probably frequented. Or that he was known in at least. So, feeling extremely frustrated, he had waited for it to be evening and for the place he wanted to visit to open. Le Bar de la Plaine, a place he knew from before and he assumed would still be there. Presumably with the same clientele, a mix of pimps, musicians, gangsters and hookers. And the occasional celebrity.

Abbas went in. The bar had only been open ten minutes, but it was already packed. He elbowed his way to the bar. An older bartender brushed away some non-existent ash in front of him.

‘Hi,’ Abbas said. ‘I’m looking for Philippe Martin, do you know where I can find him?’

‘No.’

‘I owe him three grand, he’ll be annoyed if he doesn’t get it.’

‘Not just annoyed.’

‘No, exactly. So?’

‘The bar diagonally opposite the station. He tends to be there at lunchtime. What do you want to drink?’

‘I don’t drink.’

Abbas turned around and pushed his way towards the exit again. He knew that people had their eyes on him. He just hoped they weren’t the bad kind, from before, from the Arab quarter, or the port, the kind that might recognise him.

He knew that would create problems.

Stilton stopped to catch his breath. He’d been running. It was just gone eight o’clock and he’d reached the restaurant. From the front, from the road, it looked pretty wide, but from the side you could see that it must have been one of the city’s narrowest restaurants, Eden Roc, located in one of the city’s narrowest buildings, four metres wide and twenty-five metres long, on just one floor, built onto the hotel that Abbas had found online. The restaurant was also on the rock jutting out into the sea, hence the name.