Third Voice (45 page)

Suddenly a floodgate opened in Stilton’s head. The memories came pouring out, intertwining with his mother’s voice:

‘Ow! You’re squeezing my hand Tom, it hurts!’

‘Sorry!’

Stilton loosened his grip on Astrid’s hand. He felt sick now. From the images and the smells. Everything. His heart was pounding and there were white spots dancing in front of his eyes. Here comes that heart attack, he thought.

Then Astrid whispered: ‘I killed him.’

Stilton looked at his mother and tried to take in what she had said.

‘Who did you kill?’

He didn’t know whether he wanted to know the answer, but there was no escape, Astrid’s eyes were staring into his. Her voice was barely audible, she was almost hissing.

‘Your father.’

‘My father?’

New images flashed through Stilton’s head.

‘Yes, the man who burned in there was your father.’ Astrid’s voice suddenly became noticeably sharper. ‘A brute.’

Stilton began having trouble breathing. He sat up to get some air.

‘You killed my father?’ he said.

‘Yes, and I don’t regret it,’ Astrid say. ‘Not even now.’

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘Because he raped me. Several times. That’s how you came about.’

The room started to sway, the white spots flickering in front of his eyes. It was an effort for him to ask the question: ‘Why are you telling me this? Why now?’

‘So that you can understand.’

‘Understand what?’

Astrid looked at him, he felt her hand gripping his more tightly, she was breathing more heavily now.

‘Understand why I haven’t always been like a mother should be. Why I’ve always had such trouble… such trouble loving you.’

He let go of her hand. He saw it fall down on the covers in slow motion. That black mark was turning into a snake again, and like a flash it was slithering up towards his mother’s neck. He staggered up. Panic gripped him. He had to get away! Out! He needed air! Quickly!

‘Tom!’

It was Olivia’s voice. She’d put a hand on his arm. He felt the sweat running over his eyes; his heart was pumping inside his chest. He emptied his wine glass and looked at her.

‘It ended with me running out of the room, screaming. The last thing I remember is throwing up in the corridor. The rest is just a haze. I was taken care of immediately. You could say that I chose the right environment in which to develop psychosis.’ Stilton’s lips curled into a crooked smile. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Tom Stilton, the fruit of a rapist and a murderer. Psychotic and totally burned out, in every respect.’

Stilton’s eyes sank down towards his hands again.

‘And then you went off the rails.’

‘No, not at first. I was put on sick leave. That’s when I cut contact with everyone around me. I didn’t want anyone to see me in this state, least of all those who cared about me. I pushed them all away. Marianne, Mette, Mårten, Abbas – I was bloody awful towards them. Marianne in particular had to put up with a lot. Then after my sick leave I was planning to carry on working at the Squad.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’

‘I tried, but it went tits up.’

‘Because of Rune Forss?’

‘Yes. He spread a load of rumours, talking shit behind my back, spouting lies here and there, until I was shut out. Friends changed tables when I sat down in the canteen, shit like that. In the end I’d just had enough and handed in my notice and lost it. Totally. I cut all ties that I still had and decided to let myself fall. And I managed that.’

Luna looked at Stilton.

‘And your mum?’

‘She died the same night she told me. I’d just been admitted as an emergency in the psych ward.’

Stilton fell silent. Luna poured some more red wine into his glass and thought about his nightmares. There was still a great
deal plaguing him, it seemed. Stilton gulped down the wine and stood up.

‘Thanks for buying the meat. And the wine. I’m off to bed now.’

Olivia got up and gave Stilton a warm hug. He peered over at Luna during the hug. She looked at him with calm eyes and moved her hand along the side of her neck, near her tattoo.

Stilton nodded and went towards his cabin. He lay stretched out on the bunk and closed his eyes. Just as he was drifting off into the sleepy fog he suddenly saw it in front of his eyes. The tattoo on Luna’s shoulder. Suddenly he remembered where he’d seen it before.

Alex Popovic was standing by the news desk, watching a BBC broadcast. It was an interview with a very stylish female representative of Albion International. She was standing on the steps of the company’s head office in London. Next to her was Magnus Thorhed. He was still wearing a black armband over his tweed jacket and his plait was blowing in the wind. They had just come from a board meeting and the woman was assuring the reporter that it was business as usual, despite the tragic loss of the former head of the company, Jean Borell. The international expansion would be proceeding as planned. Moreover, a new CEO had been appointed to take charge of the Nordic division.

The woman presented Magnus Thorhed.

He explained, in perfect English, how Albion would continue its successful welfare venture in Scandinavia. A multi-million contract was due to be signed in Stockholm during the next few days.

‘Alex!’

Alex turned around. A long-haired guy was on his way over with an envelope in his hand.

‘This arrived by courier.’

Alex opened the envelope. A USB stick, nothing more. He went over to his desk and inserted it into his computer. It contained just one document. The title was clear: ‘MATERIAL ABOUT THE CARE SCANDALS AT SILVERGÅRDEN’.

Alex looked up at the large television screen. Magnus Thorhed was just being asked the final question on the steps.

‘You don’t believe that the tough media criticism in Sweden has harmed Albion?’

‘Not in the slightest. There’s been smoke without fire. There are no problems whatsoever in our organisation. It is being impeccably managed.’

Alex clicked to open the document.

Stilton walked through the large glass passageway to the Stockholm police headquarters. He went up one flight of stairs and over to a specific door. He’d been here a year ago and presumed that Rune Forss still had the same office. He opened the door without knocking.

Forss was sitting behind his desk.

‘Normal people knock,’ he said.

Stilton closed the door behind him. Forss didn’t move: he guessed what this visit was about. It was nothing that worried him. He’d calmed down after seeing that whore and decided that she didn’t present a threat to him. He’d said it then and it was just as applicable now: it was his word against hers. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Stilton pulled out a chair on the other side of the desk and sat down.

‘What’s this about?’ said Forss.

He afforded himself a little smile. The man sitting opposite him had once been a respected policeman. Even Forss had been impressed by his investigative ability. Then the man had made a wrong move and ended up down in the gutter. Now he was trying to claw his way up again.

Pathetic.

‘It’s about your relations with prostitutes,’ Stilton said.

‘Is that so?’

‘One of them was Ovette Andersson.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘She’s the only one still alive out of those girls you bought sex from.’

‘Is that what you spend your time doing these days? Gossiping with old hookers?’

‘She’s willing to talk.’

‘Are you done?’

‘No,’ said Stilton.

‘There’s the door.’

Forss raised his hand towards the door. He was still very calm. Stilton didn’t move. He glanced over at the family photo next to the phone, Forss with his wife and two grown-up sons. He knew that one of his sons was on his way into the police profession.

‘This is how it is,’ he said. ‘A high-ranking chief inspector buying sex from a prostitute is going to sell newspapers. You know that. You also know what verbal assault is. Or threats, to put it simply. That’s a prosecutable offence.’

‘It is,’ Forss smiled. ‘And who is said to have been threatening whom?’

‘You threatened Ovette Andersson, to prevent her from revealing your sexual relations with her.’

Forss leant forward a little. His patience was beginning to wear thin. He wanted to put an end to this.

‘You can tell that whore that she can say whatever the fuck she likes to whomever the fuck she likes because it’s all a bloody lie. If you want to believe what she’s saying, that’s your business. No one else will.’

Now Stilton’s patience was wearing thin also. He pulled out a mobile phone from his pocket and put it down on the table in front of him. When he played a sound file it was totally silent in the room.

What the hell are you doing here?

The hissing voice belonged to Rune Forss. Stilton watched him on the other side of the desk. Forss didn’t move a muscle. His brain was buffering feverishly, it took him quite a few seconds to get what was going on. Finally, the realisation sank into his brain like a spike: that whore had recorded their conversation on the street!

Stilton played that whole conversation. It wasn’t very long, but there were a few key statements.

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

He also said:
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?

Just after Stilton turned the recording off, he put his mobile back in his pocket. Forss hadn’t uttered a word. He didn’t need to. The beads of sweat trickling down towards his eyebrows did a good job of describing what was going on inside him. Stilton got up. Forss followed him with his eyes.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ he said.

His voice was wavering. He couldn’t find the right pitch. He was in shock.

‘Keep it,’ Stilton said.

‘Keep it?’

‘Yes, until you’ve resigned. You have two days. If you’re not out of this place before then I’ll send this file to a journalist at
Dagens Nyheter
, and a copy to the county police commissioner. That also applies if you go anywhere near Ovette Andersson ever again.’

Stilton headed for the door.

He’d delivered his ultimatum. He had done what Forss did to him. Pushed him out of the police.

He turned around in the doorway.

‘Scum like you have no place here.’

Olivia had left the barge and gone home in the middle of the night. Luna had tried to stop her: it wasn’t a great idea crossing half of Söder as a woman on your own at that time of night. Olivia knew that, so she walked down streets she knew. At Mariatorget she was joined by a middle-aged man who tried to convert her. He was a Mormon and obviously drunk, and one of the few things that Olivia knew about Mormons was that they were teetotal, so his efforts seemed a little hollow. She told him to go to hell somewhere near Götgatan.

But she clearly felt the effects of the night before as she stood in the shower. She had a headache and an annoying burning pain in her stomach, which was not soothed when she thought about what she would have to deal with as soon as she’d had some breakfast.

Sandra.

She knew she had to meet up with her: she didn’t want to do it over the phone, and she was dreading it. At the same time, she knew that time was running out. It could reach the media any time that a priest called Tomas Welander had confessed to the murder of Customs Officer Bengt Sahlmann.

And maybe even the background to it all.

She wanted to get there first.

She took a glass of juice with her into the bedroom and started getting dressed. Afterwards she looked at the bed, at the place where Sandra had been lying not so long ago. So small and alone. She leant against the wall and looked around the room. ‘You don’t have any photos.’ She heard Sandra’s thin voice inside her. But I do, she thought, and put her glass of juice down. She bent down and pulled out a cardboard box from under the bed. It was full of photographs. She lifted up a handful and went over to the wall above the bed. The small white pins were still there. She put the photographs up where they’d been before. She grabbed more and put them up. Finally, all of them were back in place, as they’d hung before they were taken down. Before the big shock. Pictures of her and Maria, with Arne and Maria, of the whole family at their summer house out on Tynningö. She looked at the wall and the pictures and thought about Sandra again.

Then her mobile started vibrating.

It was a short text message from Alex. He thanked her for the material about Silvergården. He assumed that she’d been the one who sent it. She didn’t reply. When the time came she’d get in touch with him in person: he was a good contact whom she’d mishandled, or misinterpreted – she’d realised that when
the whole Welander story unravelled. Alex had always been straightforward and she’d mistrusted him at times. But he was a journalist, it wasn’t always easy to navigate their waters.

She went out into the kitchen and sat with her mobile in her hand. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She was just about to key in Charlotte’s number when she herself called. Charlotte. A very shaken Charlotte, who told her that Sandra was beside herself and had locked herself in and was crying uncontrollably.

‘I can’t reach her! She’s just screaming! Could you come here and help me to talk to her?!’

Olivia drove as quickly as she dared. In the car on the way out to Huvudsta she went through what she had to do. What Tom hadn’t dared to do last year. Tell the truth. She didn’t want to be like him.

But she understood him now.

She understood what he hadn’t been able to do. Recount something that would seriously damage a young woman. Now she was the one who’d be hurting Sandra. Not through any fault of her own, but still. She’d be the one who’d sit in front of Sandra and look her in the eye when she found out the truth. See her face, and know the long path that Sandra had ahead of her.

As she had had.

She drove into Johan Enbergs Väg and parked the car. Charlotte’s flat was in the block furthest away.

She’d gone through it a thousand times, how she’d present this, how she’d soften the blow, how she’d formulate it as gently as possible.

The only thing she’d decided was to say it straight out.

‘Your father and Tomas witnessed a murder during a live porn session. Tomas murdered your father to cover it up.’

She approached the building and looked up at Charlotte’s flat.

‘SANDRA!!!’

It was Olivia who screamed. Her scream made Sandra look down. She was standing on the edge of the balcony, nine floors
up, barefoot, her body swaying gently. Then she lifted her head and looked up at the sky, for a few seconds, before she leant over and fell, with her hands outstretched, as though she wanted to fly.

She screamed all the way down.