Third Voice (38 page)

Olivia didn’t reply.

‘Have they got any suspects yet?’ Alex said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know or don’t want to say?’

Suddenly there was a harder undertone in Alex’s voice, which Olivia noticed. One of the tealights went out. She saw Alex’s face in the dark behind the other candle. He held the cigarillo in front of him. Now she was the one left wondering what he was getting at. Is this the journalist asking?

‘Do you think I’m lying?’ she said.

‘Everyone lies when they need to.’

‘You included?’

‘Me included. Would you like another Coke?’

‘No, thanks.’

Olivia got up. She felt that she wanted to get out of there, she’d heard what she needed to hear, she didn’t want to continue this conversation. She put on her jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

‘Are you going to go already?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we keep in touch?’

‘Yes, let’s do that. Call me.’

‘I have.’

Olivia waved at him.

‘I’ll show myself out.’

In the dim light she saw Alex get up and stub out his cigarillo. Olivia started walking towards the door she knew led outside. Alex walked behind her. She didn’t turn around. When she reached the front door she heard the gigantic loft behind her fill with booming classical music.

She stumbled out onto the street and leant up against the wall. She’d felt stressed and tired. A wet dog was scurrying along on the other side of the road. The owner was nowhere to be seen. When the dog disappeared around a corner she got out her mobile and called Ove Gardman. Impulsively. He didn’t answer. When she heard the beep, she didn’t know what to say so she ended the call.

‘I miss you,’ she could have said.

Abbas sat in his flat and felt empty. The long train journey was still making itself felt, but he wasn’t tired. It had felt OK seeing everyone at the barge. Now he was alone again.

The Marseille trip was over.

He didn’t have the energy to think about its possible results. He tried to move on and stop thinking about Samira. He had to. He had to force himself back into everyday life.

Whatever that was going to be like.

On the train home he’d sat holding Samira’s necklace, pulling his fingers through it like a rosary, contemplating. His own situation. His reaction when he’d read about Samira’s murder. Why had he reacted so strongly? They’d been passionately in love, yes, but it was a very brief encounter and it was many years ago. Then Jean Villon died and he had sent a few letters to her without getting a reply.

But then?

He hadn’t gone to France to try and find her. Why hadn’t he done that? If she meant so much to him? He had no answer to that. He’d read about her murder and something had exploded, deep inside him, beyond his control. He had reacted and acted. Now he didn’t really know why. Now it was all over.

That increased the feeling of emptiness.

He put his wheeled bag in the bedroom, took down the large circus poster from the wall, rolled it up and put it in a wardrobe. The area where it had hung was much whiter than the rest of the wall. It would have to be repainted. He went out to buy some paint.

When he got down onto the street, he didn’t know which way to go. A paint shop? He walked towards Odenplan in the evening darkness. No rain, just biting wind between the houses.

Repaint? Why did he have to do that tonight? He turned back and started walking towards Valhallavägen. He’d repaint tomorrow. Where should he go? For the first time ever, he felt that he didn’t want to go back to his flat, the place he normally so loved coming home to. The silence. The books. The peace. Now he didn’t want to go there. Not yet. He didn’t want to ring Stilton either. Or the Olsäters. He didn’t have the energy. To talk. When he reached Valhallavägen he saw a poster. A circus
poster. Not the like one he’d just taken down from his wall. A simpler one, more modern. Uglier.

CIRCUS BRILLOS.

That night’s performance was due to start at eight o’clock, down by the tennis club on Lidingövägen. Abbas looked at his watch. It was just gone eight.

Circus?

He hadn’t been to the circus since he’d left through the gates of Cirque Gruss in Marseille all those years ago.

Twenty minutes later he’d reached the circus. The girl in the ticket booth said that the performance had started half an hour ago. Abbas bought a ticket and went into the tent. He sat on a wooden bench towards the top. There were acrobats performing in the ring. He thought about Marie.

The snake woman.

This didn’t come close.

He looked at the audience. They were captivated by the events unfolding below. He looked up at the construction of the tent. It was made from steel, rather like Cirque Gruss. When a clown came in, he felt his stomach tighten. Pujol. What had happened to him? Did he know what had happened to Samira? Pujol had loved Samira too, secretly, he’d confessed it to Abbas one night when he was drunk.

Was Pujol still alive?

Abbas felt difficult memories popping back into his head. The voices. The smells. Strokes of laughter, tears. Life at the circus. He was about to get up when he heard the announcement of the next act.

It was knife throwing.

With a spinning wheel.

He sank back down onto the wooden bench. A little boy in front of him was waving about a large ball of candyfloss. It obscured his view slightly. Abbas leant over to one side when they dimmed the lights. The knife thrower was a woman. Abbas didn’t hear her name. Her target boy was tied to the wheel. He
looked very young. The drum roll started as soon as the wheel started spinning. Abbas felt how tense he was.

His whole body was frozen.

When the first knife hit the wheel Abbas got up and left.

On his way out he heard the audience scream every time a knife hit the wheel right next to the young boy’s body.

He regretted going.

They sat in Ovette’s kitchen. She and Acke lived in a one-bedroom flat in Flemingsberg. Acke had just gone to sleep. Stilton had waited. He didn’t want to talk about the things he needed to talk about while Acke was still awake. He waited for Ovette to return from the bedroom.

‘Do you want something?’ she asked.

‘What have you got?’

‘Water and box wine. White.’

‘I’ll have some water, please.’

Ovette poured a couple of glasses of water. Stilton lowered his voice a little.

‘How did he threaten you?’ he said.

‘He said he’d take care of us.’

‘And you felt that he meant it?’

‘Yes. Not exactly what he said, but that there’d be consequences. His eyes were all black.’

‘And no one heard this, I assume, other than you two.’

‘No.’

Stilton twirled the glass around in his hand. He’d been thinking about this new situation a great deal. Even if he could get Ovette to tell a journalist about Forss buying sex, it wasn’t certain that it would be enough. Forss would claim that these were the words of some delusional old hooker. If he even responded to them. The risk was that he’d go off bowling and let it all fizzle out.

Stilton wasn’t going to take that risk.

So he started from another angle.

‘When we had coffee the other day, you said something about Acke that I haven’t been able to forget,’ he said.

Ovette looked over at the bedroom door. Then she had a sip of water. Stilton waited. Ovette put the glass down.

‘Rune Forss is Acke’s father.’

She said it as casually as she was drinking the water. Calm and controlled. Stilton was about to ask: ‘Are you sure about that?’ But of course she was sure. Why else would she say it?

‘Does Forss know?’ he asked instead.

‘No.’

‘So he threatened his own son.’

‘In a way.’

Now it was Stilton drinking water. Not quite as calm and controlled. Ovette had confirmed what he’d suspected. Good. This was going to be part of the puzzle when it came to the Rune Forss case.

If everything went as planned.

When he got back to the barge it was dark, both inside and out. The lights were off in the lounge and there was light snowfall over Stockholm. The first snow, he thought, and went down into his cabin. He put on the little lamp on the wall and sat on his bunk. The stuffed bird was looking at him with its peculiar dead eyes. He leant back onto the wooden panelling. He felt the pain in his groin again. A dash of whiskey? He’d bought a bottle for Luna. He’d almost finished off the other one the other night. But whiskey meant going into the lounge and that meant there was a risk of Luna turning up in the dark. She did that sometimes. Not that he minded, just not tonight. So he decided against the whiskey and started taking off his trousers. Mette had called on his way to the barge and told him about the hunt for Mickey Leigh. How he’d fled, hot-foot, from Jackie’s flat, leaving behind the laptop that Olivia had seen at Borell’s place. The laptop belonging to the murdered Bengt Sahlmann.

He couldn’t quite put the pieces together.

Mette would get back to him on that, he was sure of it.

But he couldn’t really let it go.

So it could have been that bloody Bull at Borell’s almost at the same time as him. After he’d shot Borell. And now he was on the loose in Stockholm.

He wondered whether Mette had told Abbas.

He’d forgotten to ask that.

Sooner or later he’d have to bring it up – tell him about Mickey Leigh and Jackie Berglund. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. Having to explain why he’d gone behind his back, after all they’d been through in Marseille. But maybe Abbas would understand? He generally did and a few words later it was forgotten. But he might not forget quite as readily this time.

It was about Samira.

Stilton turned off the light and was about to lie down when he heard it. A scraping sound. He put the light on again. Was it Luna? But the sound wasn’t coming from that direction, it came from above, from the deck. He listened. It was silent now. He turned the light off again and lay in darkness for a few seconds. Then he turned the light on and pulled his trousers back on. He didn’t fancy lying there allowing his imagination to get him all worked up. Before leaving the cabin he turned the light off again.

He headed down the corridor towards the steps up to the deck. He stopped and listened. He couldn’t hear anything. Instinctively he grabbed a wooden basket lying on a shelf. He held it in his hand as he climbed up the steps. He stopped in the opening before he got out on deck. It was dark out there. The city lights were casting something of a glow, but most of the deck was in darkness. It had stopped snowing.

He went up on deck.

Even in the dark, he could guess the contours of the railings. He knew this part of the barge well. He hunched over, walked
a bit further and looked from one side to the other. He didn’t see a thing. Or anyone. He stood up straight and listened. All he heard was the sound of traffic in the distance. He turned back towards the steps. He was just about to climb down them when he caught sight of something just to left of the stairs.

Footprints.

In the light, white snow.

Large footsteps leading over towards the steps and then back again to the ladder. Stilton quickly walked over to them and looked down at the quayside. It was empty. There were a few cars standing a bit further away. All of them had their lights off. He followed the footsteps back to the steps. Whoever had made them had been heading below deck and then turned around. Because he heard me? But how did he get off the boat? Stilton just presumed that it was a man, judging by the size of the footprints.

But who?

Mickey Leigh was the first name to pop into his head. But how could he have found him? Did Jackie Berglund know about him? Why should she? And why would he come looking for me? Did he see me at Borell’s place? Does he think I saw him?

Stilton conjured up several more questions in his head as he went back down to the lounge. He was going to have that whiskey now. In the dark, in silence – he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep now.

Not for a long time.

He’d just poured himself a small helping when he heard footsteps coming from behind. He jumped and turned around. It was Luna. She took a few steps into the moonlight from one of the portholes, dressed in a yellow strappy nightie.

‘Have you been having nightmares?’ she said, quietly, as though the situation and the darkness muted her voice.

‘Yes, I needed a stiff drink. I’ll buy some more.’

‘It’s fine.’

Luna reached for a blanket and sat down on the bench by Stilton. Just as she was about to wrap it around her shoulders,
Stilton saw it. The tattoo that went down from her neck over one shoulder. He’d seen a glimpse of it before, of the little offshoot running up her neck. But now he saw the whole tattoo. He recognised it. He’d seen one just like it, or a similar one, before, but he couldn’t remember where. It was unique.

‘Would you like some?’

Stilton held up the bottle of whiskey.

‘No, thanks. I’m getting up early.’

‘Off to the cemetery?’

‘No.’

She didn’t say any more than that.

Lisa Hedqvist rubbed her eyes, she was tired, it was well after midnight. And she’d also spent many hours staring at computer screens. She admired the two guys sitting next to her.

Computer forensics technicians.

How did they do it?

Mette didn’t want to lose time. She had two murders on her plate and at least one murderer on the loose. She’d requested Bengt Sahlmann’s laptop be stripped down at once. She assumed that it would reveal essential information about the murders, considering that it had been stolen from two murder scenes.

But she’d also asked Lisa to help them in determining what could be regarded as relevant information for their investigations.

Moreover, she’d explicitly said that they should call her any time of night if they uncovered anything of interest.

Lisa sipped yet another cup of coffee.

So far they hadn’t found anything that was worth waking Mette for.

They wouldn’t have woken her anyway. Mette was wide awake. She’d tried getting some sleep, without success. Lying down, staring into the darkness, wondering whether she should take a sleeping pill. But that might mean she wouldn’t wake if Lisa called. Eventually she’d got up as quietly as she could.

‘Can’t you sleep?’

She was caught by Mårten’s voice.

‘No. And neither can you apparently.’

‘No. Shall we go down to the kitchen?’

It was a tried and tested method in their family. Go down and have a little something in the kitchen. To settle any hunger pangs and calm anything that needed calming.

They sat down in the kitchen and lit a candelabra. Gentle light for weary eyes. Mårten heated some milk and poured in
a dash of honey. No miracle drug exactly, but sometimes it did the trick.

‘It’s not your heart, is it?’ he dared to ask.

He knew that Mette was extremely tired of his constant anxiety. But he was asking because he cared.

‘Thanks for your concern,’ she said. ‘But it’s not my heart. When it is I’ll tell you. You’ll be the first to know.’

‘So what is it, then?’

‘What about you? Your heart?’

Mårten laughed a little. His heart was strong as an ox. It wouldn’t stop beating until something else gave up. He knew that.

‘No, it’s my family,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘They’re nuts.’

‘Do you mean the deceased or current members?’

‘The deceased ones.’

And so Mårten started telling her about his ancestral research and finally Mette felt that she could sleep. Immediately. Sitting down. She felt her eyelids closing and they were almost shut when the phone rang.

It was Lisa.

That was the first call.

There would be two more that night.

After the third one, Mette made three calls of her own. To Stilton, Abbas and Olivia.

Olivia was asleep.

Stilton was up drinking whiskey.

Abbas didn’t say what he was doing.

But all of them received the same instructions from Mette.

‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning at my place.’