She turned on her heel, went back to her table, and sat down.
Patrik Ullman’s face was bright red. He muttered something to his companion, paid the bill, and stormed out of the place.
Faye waved at his back as it disappeared, drank a little more of the wine, and got ready to go up to her suite. She was longing to sink into a hot bath, wash off the TV makeup, and then slip into bed.
Her train of thought was interrupted by a throat being cleared. When she turned around she discovered David Schiller behind her. Laughter was twinkling in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed their color before. Azure blue. Like the Mediterranean. He was holding a dry martini in one hand.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said.
“For what?” said Faye, defensively.
“For what you just did. You made me think about my two daughters. I want them to grow up with the belief that the world is at their feet, the same way I did. That young woman could have been my Stina or my Felicia in a few years’ time. So I’m glad there are people like you on their side.”
Her chest tightened in response to his words. Faye raised her glass in a toast.
“What’s the point of having a fuck-load of money if I can never tell people to fuck off?” she said.
David, whose mouth had been full of dry martini, laughed so hard that the clear liquid began to seep out of the corners of his mouth.
“My best friend Chris always said that.”
“Well, here’s to Chris,” said David.
He hadn’t noticed that she had expressed herself in the past tense and she didn’t draw attention to it. The pain was still too palpable. She hadn’t even been up to staying in touch with Johan, the fine man who Chris had married on her deathbed. He was far too much of a reminder of everything she had lost.
Faye looked at him again. She shrugged—she didn’t know what about. Her previous objections, possibly.
“Want to join me?” she said.
They ordered fresh drinks: another dry martini for David and a G&T for Faye.
“How long have you been staying at this hotel?” she asked when she had set down her glass. “Because I assume you’re staying here. If not, you have an unhealthy weakness for hanging out at the Grand.”
David grimaced.
“I’ve been staying here for two weeks.”
“That’s a long time. Is there any particular reason why? Seems pretty unnecessary when you’ve got a house in Saltis.”
He sighed.
“I’m in the middle of a divorce from the girls’ mother.”
He picked the olive out of his drink and put it in his mouth.
“Things could be worse,” he said, making a sweeping gesture around himself. “I am staying at the Grand Hôtel, after all. There are homeless people sleeping on the pavement just a stone’s throw from here, because they can’t afford even the most modest accommodation. You have to see things the way they are. Johanna is a significantly better mother than I am a father, no matter how much I try. So it’s only right that she’s at home with the girls. But Jesus, I miss them.”
Faye took a sip of her G&T. She liked the way he talked about his ex-wife-to-be. It was a sign of respect—not depicting the other party as an evil monster.
David laughed. Thinking about his daughters seemed to have triggered something inside him.
“Stina and Felicia are coming here on Saturday. We’ll do the theme park at Gröna Lund and then a Harry Potter marathon. And, tragically, I think I may be looking forward to it more than they are.”
He waved an imaginary wand in the air and Faye couldn’t help smiling.
“We’ve already established that you work in finance,” she said. “What exactly is it you do?”
Faye realized reluctantly that David sparked her interest. There was something disarming—open, even—about him that appealed to her.
“I…well, I suppose I’m what they call an angel investor. I find interesting new companies and invest in them—preferably as early on as possible.”
“And what’s your most successful investment been to date?”
David named a company in the biotech sector that Faye was very familiar with. It had been meteoric on the markets. The founders were now good for hundreds of millions of kronor and heading for even more.
“Nicely done. Congratulations. How early did you get on board?”
“Gosh, it was so early that the boys weren’t even out of school. They were still at Chalmers University of Technology and it all started as a degree project. But they got a bit of press for their innovation, I happened to read it, got interested, got in touch, and, well…the rest is history. Above all, it’s the people behind a company you invest in. It’s more about having a good feel for people than being hot on your key figures. Some people just have that certain something that means they’re going to succeed, that they won’t give up until they do. It’s vital to find those people. A lot of people who pitch to me are privileged rich kids who’ve never had to fight for anything in their lives, and who think being an entrepreneur is a piece of cake.”
“Oh yes. I was at the Stockholm School of Economics with some of them.”
David pointed at her G&T.
“No matryoshka today?”
“No, I’m usually a creature of habit and mostly stick to the classics.”
“There’s a reason why they’re classics,” he said, raising his dry martini into the air.
“True.”
She contemplated David over the rim of her glass. She was impressed by his drive. Being an angel investor demanded competence, intuition, know-how, and major capital.
“But it must still be risky, right?”
“Drinking a dry martini?”
“Ha ha. No, investing in companies with your own cash. I’ve seen a lot of companies go under, no matter how good an idea or product they had. There are lots of pitfalls in business, plus a fickle market.”
“Yes, you know all about that. But I have to say that I’m incredibly impressed by what you’ve done with Revenge. It’s a textbook example of how to elevate a company into the billions in a relatively short space of time. Very impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“But to come back to your question: Sure, it’s a risky business but I love every minute of it. If you don’t dare take risks then you don’t dare live.”
“True.”
Faye ran her finger around the rim of her glass, considering. Around them, the Cadier Bar was beginning to fill up with patrons and the hubbub was rising toward the ceiling. Brasse the bartender nodded quizzically at their almost-empty glasses. Faye looked at David, who shook his head.
“I would love to stay and have a drink with you. Or two. Or three. But it just so happens that tonight I’ve got a business dinner I have to suffer my way through. And yes, it’s at Teatergrillen…”
Faye returned his smile. To her surprise, she felt disappointed. She enjoyed his company.
He waved to Brasse.
“Chalk the lady’s drink up on my tab.”
He took his coat and turned toward Faye.
“No protests. Just buy the next round.”
“I’d be happy to,” said Faye. And she meant it. As he sauntered through the room heading for the exit, she watched him for a long time.
Faye finished the contents of her smoothie glass while in her seat on the terrace and then wiped her mouth with a napkin. She reached for her phone. She knew she ought to check how many emails had arrived overnight, but the ache in her stomach was making itself felt again—the longing for Julienne. So instead, she pulled up the number and waited impatiently as it rang.
Her mother answered and, after some small talk, Faye asked her to pass the phone to Julienne. There was a warm feeling in her chest when she heard her daughter’s voice so close—she shared J
ulienne’s delight as she explained that she could now swim to the bottom of the pool.
Then the unavoidable question.
“Are you coming home today, Mommy?”
“No,” she said, feeling her voice grow thick. “I have to stay a little longer. Soon—I’ll be home soon. I love you so much, miss you loads, and I’m sending you so, so many kisses.”
After Faye had ended the call, she wiped away a few stubborn tears. Her stomach ached again; the longing was lodged there like a thorn. But she reassured herself that her daughter was having a good time in Ravi with her grandmother. Now she had to push aside thoughts of Julienne and once again adjust to a world that thought her daughter was no longer alive.
She went into her room and over to the closet, where she selected a blue pantsuit.
The sun was shining and the heat was oppressive, despite it not yet being midday. When she had leafed through the newspapers, she had seen that the weather forecasters had promised an unusually hot summer.
On Monday she was finally going to get the keys to the apartment.
“Things could be worse,” she muttered, smiling when she remembered the previous evening with David Schiller.
His charm had come as a surprise. What he had said—that if you didn’t dare take risks then you didn’t dare to live—had set her thinking. When it came to Revenge, she could take big risks without blinking, but in her personal life she surrounded herself with high walls that it would take a ladder to scale. It had been a long time since a man had said something that had made her reflect on herself. But there was something different about David Schiller.
She turned on the laptop to prepare for the meeting with Irene Ahrnell at Taverna Brillo on Stureplan. She had deliberately postponed the meeting with Irene until she had warmed up with some of the other investors. Irene had been her first investor. And her biggest. She was a legend in the world of Swedish finance—and over time they had also become firm friends.
Irene was one of the few people that Faye turned to for advice, but in the last year Faye had neglected to keep in touch with her. She no longer had the same grasp of what was going on in her life.
She googled Irene. Some of the articles from the last year were ones she had already read, but some of them she had missed. It had been a good year for Irene. Two important new board appointments, a much-discussed sale of one of the companies that she had made a success, and a new role as CEO for one of the most respected finance companies in Europe. There was also a new man in Irene’s life: the heir to an Italian auto giant. They would have a lot to talk about at lunch.
The blue Proenza Schouler pantsuit fit Faye perfectly. It had been an impulse buy at Nathalie Schuterman and had cost a small fortune, but she needed to feel fantastic today of all days. She smoothed out a couple of tiny wrinkles. She was ready to take on the day.
* * *
—
Faye put on her sunglasses as soon as she stepped into the lobby. From the corner of her eye, she saw a woman stand up from one of the sofas and approach her.
“Do you have a minute?”
Faye frowned—she vaguely recognized the woman. She assumed she was a journalist and thought it was just as well she got used to being followed again.
“Now’s not a great time,” she said, as kindly as she could.
The woman glanced over her shoulder and produced a police ID from her jeans pocket. Yvonne Ingvarsson. Faye realized it was the same police inspector who had led the investigation into Julienne’s murder. She shut her eyes for a second and assumed the role of grieving mother.
“Have you found her?” she whispered. “Have you found my Julienne?”
Yvonne Ingvarsson shook her head.
“Can we sit down somewhere we can talk in peace?”
She took Faye by the arm and led her through the revolving door, down the steps, and onto the quayside outside the hotel. They sat down on a bench.
“We haven’t found the bo— Your daughter. Yet,” the investigator said, following a ferry to Djurgården with her gaze.
Faye forced herself to maintain her composure and let Yvonne Ingvarsson take the first step. It was worrying that the woman had looked her up, but as yet it wasn’t a disaster.
“You maintain that you were in Västerås the night your ex-husband supposedly killed your daughter?”
Faye shivered. She was grateful she was wearing sunglasses.
“Yes, of course,” she said quietly.
“There’s an ATM at the corner of Karlavägen and Sturegatan here in Stockholm,” Yvonne Ingvarsson said calmly, keeping her eyes on the water.
Faye gathered her thoughts. If the police really had something on her, they would hardly have been sitting here in the sunshine chatting.
“Oh?”
“The CCTV captured a person who bears a remarkable likeness to you. You were in Västerås though?”
Yvonne Ingvarsson finally turned her head and looked at Faye, whose face didn’t change one bit.
“What are you insinuating?” said Faye. “What is it you’re sitting here and implying?”
Yvonne Ingvarsson raised her eyebrows.
“I’m not implying anything. I asked a question—whether it was at all possible that you were near the presumed murder scene and not in a hotel room in Västerås.”
There was silence for a while. Faye pulled her handbag toward her and stood up.
“I don’t understand what you mean. Do your job instead of coming to me with ridiculous claims like this. Find my daughter’s body.”
She turned away and left with her heart pounding in her breast.
Faye arrived a quarter of an hour late at Taverna Brillo, with sweat sliding down her back. Irene Ahrnell stood up smiling behind a circular table situated in the beautiful restaurant’s inner dining room. Faye held her head high, ignoring the whispers and the looks being exchanged among the lunch guests. She embraced the other woman before both of them sat down.
“Irene, it’s been way too long. And sorry for being late.”
“No problem, and I agree—but I knew you had a lot on.”
“Yes, it’s been an intense year, what with preparing for the new stock issue, the American expansion, and—well, the challenge of incorporating Chris’s company, the Queen group, into Revenge. It’s taken a fair bit of time—it’s only now that it’s starting to feel like one company, not two.”
Irene nodded and reached for the menu. She produced a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the end of her nose.
“I know what you mean—different structure, different corporate cultures, a thousand things to be streamlined. And as far as I’m concerned, don’t feel you have to get in touch with me. I’ve got a lot on the go too, but I’m always here, no matter how long the gaps in our communication. I know it must be hard for you, trying to rebuild your life after losing your daughter…”
Faye nodded and took a sip of water, then, as if the topic was still too raw to discuss, immediately changed the subject: “Talking of having a lot on, I read something about a new man.”
Irene blushed and Faye contemplated her with amusement. She had never seen Irene blush—it made the sixty-year-old woman look like a schoolgirl.
“Well, we’ll have to see what comes of that. But so far it feels good. Mario is amazing. It’s almost too good to be true. I feel like I’m constantly waiting for the skeletons to come crawling out of the closet.”
“I’m just as skeptical as you are about the male sex. You know that. But there must still be a few good ones out there. You may have found one of them.”
“We live in hope,” said Irene, putting down the menu. “I’ve kissed enough frogs over the years.”
She shook her head gently and Faye leaned toward her.
“How about we have a small glass of bubbly as well?”
Ire
ne nodded with a smile and waved the waitress over to take their order.
When the champagne arrived, Faye took a cautious sip and wondered how to start.
Before she had time to say anything, however, Irene cleared her throat.
“There’s a rumor that someone is buying up shares in Revenge.”
Faye had an uneasy feeling in her gut. Of course Irene already knew.
“That’s right. I didn’t know how much you’d heard.”
Irene shrugged, took off her glasses, and set them down on the table.
“I don’t know any details. It’s just idle gossip.”
Faye put down her glass.
“It began a while ago with small numbers of shares being bought. However, these sales are now happening with such regularity that we’ve detected a pattern—we think it’s the same buyer behind all of them.”
“And you have no idea who it is?”
“No. The acquisitions have been concealed in a jumble of buyers. But we’re digging as much as we can and we will find the answer. The only problem is, that takes time, and I don’t know how much time we have. I don’t know what the next move is.”
“And you’re worried that I’m going to sell?”
A pizza arrived and was positioned on a stand in the center of the table. It smelled heavenly. Liberal toppings of Kalix löjrom, crème fraîche, and red onion. They took a slice each; it was piping hot. But Faye wasn’t able to fully concentrate on her food. She was looking at the woman sitting across from her: urbane, sophisticated, still inaccessible in some ways.
“Yes, I don’t understand why the others have sold, and I wanted to reassure myself that you’re going to keep your holding.”
Irene was the single largest individual shareholder, second only to Faye, and it would be a disaster if she too sold.
“No one has approached me. Yet. Probably because they know we’re good friends and that the first thing I’d do is tell you. But I give you my word that I won’t sell.”
“That’s a relief to hear,” said Faye, taking another slice of pizza.
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