Third Voice (24 page)

‘Are you going to deduct that from my rent now?’ Stilton wondered aloud.

‘No, but I can make you dinner.’

‘OK.’

It was the first time she’d offered to make him dinner, so why not? Stilton went to his cabin and changed, which involved him taking off his leather jacket and putting on his woolly socks. There was a cold draught on the floor in the lounge. He went back in and sat down at the oval table. Luna had put some lights and music on.

‘Can I do something?’ he called, dutifully.

‘You can lay the table!’ was the response from the kitchen.

Stilton went to the cupboard that he knew contained crockery. He lifted out a couple of fine ivory-coloured plates and two robust glasses, assumed the cutlery was in the galley, put the plates and the glasses on the table and sat down again. The table was laid. A while later he smelled many tempting odours coming from the kitchen and he noticed how hungry he was. Starving. Hopefully she’ll come in with a fatted calf, he thought.

She didn’t.

The first thing she put in front of him was a plate of asparagus with a knob of butter. This was followed by a number of large and small plates, all filled with vegetables. The last thing she brought in was a jug of water and a large blue casserole dish.

‘What’s that?’ Stilton wondered, hoping that there were a couple of rabbits hidden in there.

‘It’s carrot soup.’

‘How delicious.’

Luna started plating up.

‘Lots of vegetables,’ Stilton said.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you vegetarian?’

‘No, I’m allergic to meat.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘No, I do, but I’m allergic. I can’t eat meat from four-legged animals.’

‘But ostrich is fine?’

‘Ostrich is fine, it’s just quite hard to get hold of.’

‘Are you being serious? You’re allergic to meat?’

‘Yes. Apparently it was caused by a tick bite, or that’s what the doctors said anyway. It’s quite an unusual allergy. Are there ticks on Rödlöga?’

‘Loads.’

Stilton helped himself to carrot soup. It was delicious, nicely seasoned, and certainly superior to seafood risotto. When Luna gave him some more he saw her hand trembling. He assumed that it was the result of all that carrying.

‘So, how are things going for you, then?’ Luna asked.

‘What things?’

‘I don’t know… you must be doing something?’

He hadn’t said a word about what the Marseille trip had been about. She’d asked whether it had gone well and he’d answered ‘I don’t know’. And changed the subject. So now she was trying again.

‘Or do you just roam the streets all day?’

‘Basically. How much did you pay for the freezer?’

Luna was tempted to throw a beetroot at Stilton, but she stopped herself. This man doesn’t divulge very much, she thought to herself, and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not.

But the freezer was in at least.

Olivia was lying in her bed reading. She’d wandered around Moderna Museet, checking out all the artwork by living Swedish artists.

And making notes.

And calling Sandra. Three times without a reply.

She’d also managed to have a proper chat with one of the museum’s curators and recorded their conversation. It had provided her with lots of useful information. She also gathered a load of different books and magazines, and borrowed an old printer from Lenni. She’d got masses of material from the Internet – she wanted to be able to scribble all over it.

Once she’d crammed all this she wouldn’t need to do a bloody course, she thought.

This is hard core.

But she was going to be well-prepared when she met Jean Borell.

That was important.

She picked up one of the thick art tomes that she’d dragged home from the library in Medborgarhuset.

It was about the golden ratio equation.

She put it down again and thought about Sandra.

Charlotte had called an hour ago. Sandra had come home. She hadn’t said much other than that she’d been wandering around the city.

‘The whole day?’

‘Yes, apparently.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s in the bath.’

‘Can you ask her to ring me when she’s done?’

‘Sure.’

Sandra still hadn’t called. Olivia looked at the clock, it was almost eleven now. Should she ring again or didn’t Sandra want to speak to her? Was she upset or angry? Why should she be?

Olivia brushed her teeth and got undressed. As she was about to creep under the covers, Sandra called.

‘Hi,’ Olivia said. ‘I’ve been trying to call you!’

‘I saw that. I haven’t been feeling very well today, I couldn’t face picking up.’

‘No worries. You’d gone when I woke.’

‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘That’s sweet. I saw the note you wrote.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what have you been up to today?’

‘Wandering. What have you done?’

Olivia felt that Sandra was distant. She heard it in her voice, in the way she expressed herself, there wasn’t any connection any more. Not like yesterday, in the kitchen.

‘I’m studying art,’ Olivia said.

‘I thought you were starting in the spring.’

‘I am, I just want to do some preparation.’

‘Oh right.’

And then there was silence. Olivia thought about Mårten. How was she going to suggest a meeting with Mårten to Sandra? Should she even mention it? How much should she involve herself in Sandra’s situation? But she already was involved, right up to her neck.

‘Sleep well.’

It was Sandra who said it and Olivia didn’t get the chance to reply before she ended the call. She sat on the edge of her bed for a while with her mobile in her hand, then she sank down on the covers. After a couple of minutes of staring at the ceiling, she’d decided. One thing at a time. Focus on what’s next on the agenda. Tomorrow it was Jean Borell.

Then she’d deal with Sandra.

He opened up the special little plastic box. There were three glass eyes sitting next to each other in a clear fluid, one with a blue iris, one with a brown one and one without an iris. He chose the brown one, it matched his good eye. He carefully rinsed the glass eye under warm running water, washed it with unscented soap, poured over a splash of sterile water and pushed it into the empty eye cavity.

Then he closed the plastic box.

Olivia had looked up the address on her phone and got a good idea of how to get to Jean Borell’s house out on Värmdö. It lay far out on Ingarö. By the water. When she turned off from the main road it started to rain. She followed a sign towards Brunn. The whole time she tried to remind herself who she was going to act like, a person who certainly didn’t allow their feelings to shine through. She was going to meet a man whom she deeply despised, without ever having met him, a man who intentionally risked other people’s wellbeing to increase his own private fortune. A first-class arsehole, as Alex had said.

An arsehole who might actually have killed Sandra’s father.

She was going to smile at him.

Her big, charming smile.

She was going to listen to him, compliment him on his exquisite taste in art, praise him for being able to see what so few others could: the depth of expression of great artists.

She was going to massage his ego.

She turned off at Brunn and carried on along a small lane through the forest. There were no road signs. She carried on down the lane for quite a while. The rain got heavier and the forest became tighter and darker. She couldn’t see any houses, no lights. He’s probably bought up all this land to make it as private as possible. People like him tended to do that sort of
thing. They don’t want other people around, they want space. Privacy. They want a little kingdom.

Out of sight.

After driving even further through the darkness she started to wonder whether she was going the right way. The windscreen wipers were on full trying to clear the rain and she had more and more trouble seeing where she was going. Then she saw it, in the distance. A large iron gate, hanging on two large marble pillars. She started slowing down. To the right of the gate was a small gravelled area. There was a dark car standing there. She pulled over in her Mustang and turned off the engine.

So this was where he lived?

She got out, locked the car and approached the iron gate. There was a little white box with a button on one of the pillars. She pressed the button. There was a crackling noise. She waited. Then she pressed again and thought the gate might open. It didn’t. She leant up to the box and said: ‘This is Olivia Rivera. I have a meeting with Jean Borell at six o’clock. I’m standing outside the gate.’

She took a few steps back. Suddenly the gate slid open, without making a sound. No creaking or scraping, it just slid open. Olivia went in. Then she saw lights. A long row of beautiful iron lanterns on tall posts leading the way. She started walking down a wide gravel path in the glow of the lanterns. It’s so strangely silent, she thought. The rain had almost stopped and she heard her own breath and a faint noise. Was it water? The house did lie next to the water apparently. But she could see no house and no water. She followed the lanterns. Soon I suppose I’ll have dogs barking at me, guard dogs, but she didn’t hear any. The lanterns took her round in a curve, and then she saw it.

The house.

Well, Olivia actually thought it looked more like something that had landed, from high up above, from outer space. Various concrete platforms overlapping each other in different directions, poorly lit, from the side, large glistening glass facades,
broken up by black angled pieces of metal. A long, hidden bank of lights made it look as though the roof was floating in the air.

She stood still.

Unbelievable, she thought, un-fucking-believable! Do buildings like this really exist? Do people live like this? I wonder how many taxpayers’ care sector millions have been ploughed into it. She shook her head and proceeded towards the spaceship. I hope I’ll find an entrance, I don’t have a remote control. But the lanterns guided her all the way to a gigantic door with silver details. The sound of her knocking would be carried all of about ten centimetres into the wood. So she searched around looking for some kind of doorbell. There was a large copper urn to the right. Perhaps you’re supposed to throw this at the door, she thought.

Then it slid open.

Again, without a sound.

There was a man standing, backlit, looking at her. Jean Borell. The man she’d seen on the news. Rather differently dressed now, a nice pair of skinny jeans and a thin beige blazer over a tight black jumper. His artistic attire, Olivia just about managed to think before she remembered who she was supposed to be. The woman with the big smile and the academic interest in art.

‘Hi. Olivia Rivera.’ She smiled.

‘Jean Borell.’

They greeted each other. He had a firm handshake and he hugged pretty hard too. But not as hard as Hilda at Silvergården, she thought.

‘Come in,’ he said.

Borell stepped to the side and Olivia went in. She noticed a pleasant sober cologne, without a hint of nutmeg. Borell allowed the door to slide closed again before he caught up with Olivia. He stopped just behind her.

‘Rivera,’ he said. ‘Do you have Latin American roots?’

Olivia turned around.

‘Yes. Mexico.’

‘I can see that. Any relation to Diego?’

‘Distantly. What a fabulous house!’

‘It was designed by Tomas Sandell. I gave him free reign. Would you like a martini?’

‘No, thanks, I’m driving.’

‘A Mustang.’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

Borell was already walking off.

‘Please have a look around in the meantime!’

He gestured towards the inner part of the spaceship.

‘Maybe I’ll have that martini after all,’ Olivia said. ‘But not too much gin.’

‘Perfect.’

Borell was on his way towards a bar further in. A large well-lit bar area with a fantastic fluorescent creation as a background. Probably a work of art. Olivia racked her brains, but she couldn’t think of a possible artist. She started walking around in the first large room. The off-white walls were sparsely decorated with art that she recognised, at least most of them. Marie-Louise Ekman. Ernst Billgren. Cecilia Edefalk. Olle Kåks. Lena Cronqvist. There was a faint sound of music, as though from outer space, electronic sounds swirling around without disturbing one’s concentration. This space was built for art, for an art lover, a large roomy space.

‘What do you think?’ Borell hollered from the bar. Olivia turned towards him. He was busy cutting up small bits of lemon peel.

‘I think it’s fantastic!’ she replied.

‘Me too.’

Borell smiled and put some lemon peel in a cocktail glass. Olivia carried on looking around and felt that she was gripped by something almost sacred in the room, the perfectly placed spotlights were carving out the paintings in front of her. This is how I’ll live one day, she thought, this beautifully, walking around in a room like this, just enjoying. And the world won’t be full of hideousness and bedsores full of fly larvae.

The image brought her back.

Remember why you’re here, Olivia! Pull yourself together! Just think how many cut care services these paintings have cost!

‘One martini.’

Borell passed the thin, low glass over to her. He raised his glass and they toasted. With his drink in hand, Borell initiated a guided tour through his collection in the room – he really adored his paintings. Once they’d come full circle he stopped and looked at Olivia. Ever since she’d come in she’d avoided looking into Borell’s glass eye. She knew he had one. Now she was dodging his gaze. Borell noticed.

‘A hunting injury,’ he said. ‘We were near Mount Kilimanjaro and I had a lion in my sights. I was a little too eager, the breech hit me in the eye. But we got the lion.’

‘Oh good.’

A hunting accident? According to Alex he’d lost his eye as a child? And he’d been at school with him. But OK, who hasn’t tweaked their CV a little?

‘You have a slight squint yourself,’ Borell said.

‘Yes.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Why?’

‘I know a specialist in Lausanne, he could fix that.’

‘It isn’t something that bothers me.’

Olivia sipped her martini. She didn’t like the private nature of this conversation. She didn’t feel in control.

Engage your intuition!

‘Shall we do the interview here?’ she said.

‘Let’s do it in the bar.’

They went over to the spectacular bar. Olivia pulled herself up onto a leather barstool, and Borell sat on the stool next to her. There was a black object at one end of the bar that immediately caught Olivia’s eye.

‘What a beautiful violin,’ she said.

‘Blackbird. Lars Widenfalk. He made it according to Stradivarius’s drawings. Touch it.’

Borell handed the beautiful violin to Olivia. She was expecting a light instrument, but she actually almost dropped it. The violin was made from stone. It was heavy.

‘What’s it made of?’ she said.

‘Black diabase,’ said Borell. ‘He made it from an old gravestone. The only violin in the world made from stone.’

‘Can you play it?’

Borell reached for the beautifully shiny diabase violin. He picked up a bow from behind the bar and turned off the fluorescent creation in the background. The gentle lighting from the art room shone onto the bar.

They were sitting in the shadows.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

Olivia hesitated for a moment, then she closed her eyes. What am I doing? Then she heard the fragile notes of the violin. The resonance from the stone body was powerful. And then a few more notes that joined together to form a melody. He could play the violin? She opened her eyes. Borell lowered the bow.

‘You
can
play it,’ he said.

He carefully put the violin down on the bar.

‘The interview,’ he said.

Olivia took out a little tape recorder and asked him whether it was OK that she recorded their conversation.

He agreed.

She also got out a pad of paper with some questions she’d prepared and started the interview after explaining to Borell what her thesis was going to be about. In a way that made Borell understand that his role in it was going to be very significant.

He appreciated that.

She’d compiled most of the questions using different articles about art and the questions that followed them. Some of them came from interviews with Borell that she’d found on the
Internet, about his passion for art. Largely in English. She also made it clear that she wasn’t even close to his level when it came to knowledge about modern Swedish art, but that she hoped he didn’t find it too basic.

He didn’t. He liked talking about his collection. And about his own relationship with it. About his deep passion for art and how much of his life he dedicated to it.

‘Have you ever dreamed of being an artist yourself?’ Olivia asked when she reached the end of her list of questions.

‘Never. My talents are rather more pecuniary.’

‘You’re a venture capitalist.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you regard your collection as an investment?’

‘Yes, but not in financial terms. It’s an investment in myself. I think I develop as a person through my art.’

‘You become a better venture capitalist?’

‘In a way.’ Borell smiled.

‘So then it is a kind of financial investment?’

Borell looked at Olivia. Does he think I’m being impudent or does he like a challenge? His work involves him taking risks after all.

‘Are we done with the interview?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll show you my L-room, as a bonus. Come.’

Borell slid down from the barstool. Olivia followed him, through various corridors and smaller rooms with beautiful watercolour paintings on the walls. A short while later they reached a long atrium with a huge glass wall facing out to the dark sea. Olivia peered outside and realised that the whole room had to have been built on a rock over the water. She saw the waves breaking below. Coastal protection laws clearly didn’t apply to everyone, she thought to herself and scurried after Borell. Suddenly she stopped. One of the gigantic glass walls had been turned into a narrow floor-to-ceiling aquarium, full of green liquid. The foetal remains of a pair of conjoined
twins were floating around inside. Their fused bodies were slowly moving towards one side of the glass.

‘That English artist,’ he said.

There was only one person this could be. That guy who shocked people with pieces about death. But this…?

She looked at the bizarre aquarium.

‘You’re not allowed to write about this,’ Borell said. ‘It’s not an official piece of art. He created it specially for this house. On site. For me.’

Olivia was struggling to find words.

‘But where did he… where are…’

‘Stillborn twins. From Manchester. Their parents received a substantial sum of money. Now the foetuses live on as a work of art.’

Borell carried on into the atrium. Olivia pulled herself away from this macabre piece of ‘artwork’ and felt a great sense of unease. What’s he going to show me over there? In the L-room?

‘Here.’

Borell had stopped in front of a metal door at the far end of the hall. He pressed a button on one side. This door slid open without a sound too.

‘After you.’

Borell gestured with his hand and Olivia stepped inside, rather hesitantly. The room wasn’t very big – square, no windows. All the walls were adorned with paintings, two on each wall. She recognised most of them and she now understood what he’d meant by L-room. There was Lena Cronqvist again, Lars Lerin, Linn Fernström and Lars Kleen.

‘Lena, Linn and Lars times two. My favourites.’

First names? Olivia thought to herself. Did he know them? It certainly wasn’t unlikely. Or was he just showing off? She looked at the valuable paintings hanging in the room. Profits from neglecting the elderly invested in exquisite artwork, she thought. Complete cynicism. I wonder how many artists have views on where their buyers get their money? Do they even
reflect on that? Or does ‘money talks’ apply here too? Are they only responsible for their own work of art? Not what happens to it? In whose hands it ends up? Their creations being bought with private blood money and hung up in a sealed-off bunker. Don’t they give a shit?