Third Voice (40 page)

‘Now he knows that Mickey Leigh is in town,’ she said quietly.

‘Abbas?’

‘Yes. What’s he going to do?’

‘No idea.’

‘Can you try and keep an eye on him?’

She sounded like Jean-Baptiste.

Stilton hated this situation.

Olivia drove onto the motorway towards the city. Stilton was sitting next to her. Abbas was sitting in the back seat. So far they’d all been silent, consumed by their own thoughts.

Olivia was wrestling with how to deal with Sandra.

Her father had ordered and watched porn, live porn. And he’d probably seen a woman be murdered during one such session. Without informing the police. How could she tell Sandra that? Tell her that, about her beloved father, this broken girl who’d just tried to kill herself? Did she need to tell her? Would what Sahlmann and Borell did need to come out?

Maybe not.

But she wasn’t sure.

In any case, she had to tell her that her computer had been found and that alone would prompt a stream of questions. Where? When? How? When can I have it?

It wouldn’t be a fun conversation.

Stilton thought about Abbas.

About how Mette had mercilessly, yet necessarily, presented what she knew and believed had happened. How two Swedish men had ordered a sex act during which Samira Villon was murdered in front of their eyes by Mickey Leigh.

If Mette was correct.

Abbas was convinced that she was right.

He’d steeled himself from the moment he realised what Mette was going to tell them. All the details were branded into his mind. The consequences were unbearable. Samira had died because a couple of Swedes had wanted to sit and have a wank.

He leant forward towards Stilton.

‘Where did you see him?’

‘Who?’

‘Mickey Leigh?’

‘It was at Jackie Berglund’s, right?’ Olivia said to Stilton before he had a chance to respond. Now it was too late.

‘Yes.’

‘Does he know her?’ Abbas asked.

‘Apparently.’

Abbas sank back down into his seat. Stilton tried to peer at him in the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his face.

‘Can you try and keep an eye on him?’ Mette had said.

Stilton turned his head to look at the cars whizzing by.

Olivia dropped Abbas off at Dalagatan. He left without a word. She watched him go and pulled away from the curb. ‘Maybe it was stupid of me to say that,’ she said.

‘About what? Jackie Berglund?’ Stilton said.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know. It was the truth, after all.’

‘I just hope he doesn’t go and do something stupid now.’

‘He’s a grown man. He has to take responsibility for his own actions.’

And how did that go last time? he thought, but kept quiet. Olivia nodded a little.

‘How’s it going with Rune Forss and Jackie?’ she said.

‘Forss has a son with Ovette Andersson, a prostitute he used. A son he doesn’t even know about.’

‘Is that something you can use?’

‘I think so.’

‘Great.’

Olivia glanced over and saw Stilton looking at the long red gash on his right palm.

‘How’s your hand?’ she said.

‘It’s healing. Luna put some ointment on it.’

‘I like her.’

‘She’s allergic to meat.’

‘I still like her. Is she going out with anyone?’

‘Not sure. I don’t think so.’

‘You haven’t asked her?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you care?’

Stilton didn’t reply and Olivia didn’t want to push him, she didn’t really know how much their defrosted relationship could tolerate yet. She turned into Söder Mälarstrand.

‘You want to go to the barge, right?’

‘Yes.’

Stilton wanted to go to the barge. It was almost lunchtime but he wanted to go to bed: he hadn’t slept many hours the night before. He wanted to be moderately refreshed if Ovette called.

Ovette was standing in a doorway opposite police headquarters. She’d been standing there for a while. First she’d called asking about Rune Forss and was told that he was expected back after lunch.

Now it was after lunch.

She stood there in the only coat she owned and felt her armpits fill with sweat. Not because she was warm, but because she was afraid. She held her hands tightly in her coat pockets. She wanted to hide the fact that she was shaking. She knew she had to do this, she had to get through it, she had to put the past behind her.

With Rune Forss.

He came on foot from Pipersgatan. He was carrying a bowling ball in a shabby leather bag in his hand. He’d almost reached the entrance when he saw her. In a doorway opposite. Ovette Andersson? She waved at him. Forss had a quick look around before he crossed the road and walked towards Ovette.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he hissed.

‘I want to talk to you.’

Forss took hold of her arm and dragged her further down the street, around a corner and a good way into Celsiusgatan, a much smaller street. Out of sight of police headquarters. Ovette felt as if her heart was about to explode out of her chest. Forss let go of her arm and put his face very close to hers.

‘Didn’t I make myself bloody clear the other day?’ he said. ‘Didn’t I?!’

‘Yes.’

‘So what the hell are you doing turning up here?! Get the fuck out of here and never come anywhere near me again, you fucking whore!’

Forss turned around and managed to take a couple of steps before Ovette said: ‘I met Tom Stilton.’

Forss stopped dead. It took a few seconds before he turned around. The bowling ball was swinging in his hand.

‘Stilton?’

‘Yes.’

Forss took a few steps back towards Ovette.

‘What have you said to him?’

‘What happened. That you bought sex from me and that you were a regular at Red Velvet.’

Forss looked at Ovette. It was hard to read what was going through his head. Ovette didn’t know.

But she saw that he was swinging his bowling ball down by his thigh.

‘Do you know that you are the only girl from whom I bought sex who’s still alive?’ he said.

‘Yes. Jill was murdered and Laura died of an overdose.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Ovette peered down the street. There was no one in sight.

‘That’s why I want to talk about it,’ Ovette said.

‘Talk about it? To whom? To Stilton?’

‘No. To the newspapers.’

Forss looked at Ovette for a few seconds and smiled.

‘An old expired hooker? Are you mad? Do you know who I am? I’m a detective chief inspector. Why the hell do you even think that anyone will believe you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No. Because you’re a complete and utter moron. I should probably give you a good beating, but you have a son. Maybe it’s better if something happens to him. What do you think?’

‘You’re going to harm your own son?’

‘…what did you say?’

‘Acke is your son. I got pregnant the last time we were together and I didn’t want to have an abortion. That’s why Jackie kicked me out of Red Velvet.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Do you want to do a paternity test?’

Forss was caught off balance. He wasn’t the sharpest of policemen and he couldn’t really get his head round what this whore was telling him. Father of her son?

‘Does Jackie know about it?’ he finally said. ‘That I’m supposedly the father of your fucking son?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told Stilton?’

‘Yes. We’ll be in touch.’

Ovette pushed her way past Forss just as a taxi turned into the street. Maybe it was luck.

Forss had poor impulse control and this situation was pushing him to the limit. But he let her go. He took out his mobile and rang Jackie Berglund. She answered from her shop. She claimed
that she had customers, but Forss didn’t give a shit about that. He was so incensed that she gave in after a while.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I have a child with her!’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve known this the whole time!’

‘Yes. But calm down. She’s not going to try and palm him off on you.’

Forss was anything but calm when he ended the call. He threw his bowling bag halfway across the street.

Mickey Leigh had done what he’d come for. There were no more witnesses to the murder of that Arab chick. Now he’d go underground for a while, perhaps in the Ukraine. He didn’t think it would be a problem making a living: the porn industry in eastern Europe was booming. The only problem was the suitcase. With the laptops in it. There could be dangerous information stored on them.

About him and the murder.

Maybe pictures too, he didn’t know.

What he did know was that he’d left the suitcase at Jackie’s when he ran off through the kitchen door. He’d tried calling her a few times, but she hadn’t picked up.

So he’d have to go and collect the bag himself.

He knew that Jackie kept the shop open until eight o’clock. She cared about her customers. That’s why he knew she wouldn’t be at home now, just before seven. Then again, he didn’t know whether the coppers were watching her front door, so better safe than sorry, he went through the back.

In the dark.

It wasn’t difficult to pick the lock on the back door.

When he went into the dark flat, he turned the wrong way at first and ended up in the bedroom. It smelled of heavy, sweet
perfume in there. He hated that kind of perfume. He went out again and into the hallway. He switched his torch on and looked around. No suitcase. Had she hidden it somewhere? He started looking. All over the flat. It took quite a while. But still no suitcase. Had the coppers taken it? He went to the window facing out onto the street and looked at the cars driving past below. What do I do now? Stay and ask Jackie? She won’t like that I broke in through the back door.

He decided to wait down in the back garden until the lights went on in the flat. Then he’d go upstairs. He pulled the back door closed and walked down the steps. When he opened the gate, he was hit. From behind. Hard and heavily, right in the back of his skull. He fell down onto the concrete.

He was probably already unconscious when Abbas covered his mouth with duct tape and tied his hands behind his back with blue cable ties.

It was Mårten who’d insisted, in a way that made Mette think there were other reasons than just wanting to take her out for a nice dinner.

She knew her husband.

When they sat down at the round table at the Stazione restaurant in Saltsjö-Duvnäs, Mette’s favourite private eatery, she asked him outright.

‘If you have something to say, please do so now, before we order. I want to be able to enjoy my food in peace.’

Mårten asked the waitress to bring them two glasses of house red wine and wait a while before she took their order. Then he looked at Mette. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I should hope so too.’

‘But you’re pushing it now.’

‘Pushing what?’

‘What I’m willing to put up with.’

The waitress put their glasses down and slipped away. Mette picked up her glass and gulped down half of it. Mårten’s tone and expression dissolved away any of her attitude: he was planning to say something that she didn’t want to hear and he meant it.

He waited until she’d put her glass down again.

‘This is how it is, Mette,’ he said. ‘You are who you are, and you do what you feel you need to do. I can respect that, and always have. Until now. I’m not OK with what you’re doing now. It’s extremely inconsiderate towards all those who love you. Me, your children, your grandchildren. You have rational motives for doing so, I know that, but you do so without thinking about us. You subject yourself to things you know you should absolutely not be subjecting yourself to, if you want to avoid having another heart attack. My conclusion is that you are only thinking about yourself, or that you feel you have to. You don’t think about us. We don’t seem to be worth living for.’

Mårten averted his eyes and reached for his glass of wine. Now he’d said it. Now it was up to her to process it. It might take a while or sink in very quickly.

Mette sat in silence, staring into her glass. A few minutes later she waved over the waitress and ordered a fillet steak with lobster risotto.

‘What are you going to have?’ she asked Mårten.

‘I’ll have the same. And some more wine, please,’ he said to the waitress.

When they were alone again Mette took a piece of warm bread and spread some flavoured butter onto it. When she’d finished, she rested her hand holding the bread down on the table.

‘Do you remember when we met?’ she said.

‘Yes. Like it was yesterday.’

Mette smiled thinking about it. She’d done a night shift and had been dealing with a number of left-wing protestors in Kungsträdgården, one of whom was Mårten. A couple of weeks later they’d ended up at the same restaurant on Söder. Mårten
had chatted her up, not remembering who she was, and later that night they’d ended up in bed. In the morning she’d told him that she was a police officer and then Mårten recognised her. A few years later they had four children.

And now they were sitting here.

Mette put her hand on Mårten’s. He noticed the thick blue veins on his hand – Mårten was approaching seventy.

‘You’re the only thing that makes life worth living,’ she said. ‘You and the family. You know that. The rest is just an occupational disease. Sometimes it obstructs my vision, like now. I know I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing. It’s selfish. There’s too much at risk here, with my heart and stuff. I’m sorry, I should have thought about that.’

‘Yes.’

Mette pulled her hand away and picked up her glass, as did Mårten.

‘But for now you’re still here,’ he said.

Mette nodded, without raising her glass.

Olivia lay in bed trying to sleep. She was close a couple of times, but just as she was about to drift off, those words popped into her head again: ‘He needn’t have committed the murder himself. He may have hired someone to do it for him.’

And then she was wide awake again.

Eventually she got up and sat in the kitchen. She didn’t have the energy to make tea. She lit a candle on the table and stared out into the darkness. Maybe I should go out for a run? To physically exhaust myself? She turned to have a look through the window above the sink and saw drops of rain splashing up from the windowsill outside. I won’t, she thought and turned around again. Her gaze landed on the yellow Post-it note from Sandra. It was still on the table, she read the text again: ‘I’m not as strong as you.’