Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  But he couldn’t exactly go barefoot.

  So it was a rather sweaty Stilton who arrived half an hour later at the enormous grey police building next to the Cathédrale de la Major. The bar was apparently just opposite.

  And indeed it was.

  There was some outdoor seating with plastic tables and two faded parasols. It was quite unlikely that the rather unkempt smoking men sitting beneath them worked in the building opposite, though they’d probably visited many a time. Stilton crossed the road over to the bar. The men under the parasols followed his movements. He was a new face in the area, with shoes that were far too heavy. It was not yet ten o’clock. Jean-Baptiste would not be here. He was invariably punctual. They’d met as part of a rather gruesome murder investigation in the late nineties, a Frenchman who’d stabbed a couple of Swedish youngsters to death at a seaside resort on the west coast and then disappeared. Jean-Baptiste had found some clues about the man in Marseille and Stilton went down there. Before they had the chance to arrest him, he’d committed another murder in Toulon.

  That was the beginning of their friendship.

  It had probably begun with what you’d call chemistry. They were both professional. They had the same attitude. They were both from the ‘countryside’ – Stilton from Stockholm’s outer archipelago and Jean-Baptiste from a small mountain village in Provence. They were both loners with an unsentimental attitude towards work. They kept in touch over many years, another couple of their murder investigations interlinked, and their careers advanced at roughly the same pace. But they were very different when it came to punctuality. Though not frequently late, Stilton was not a patch on Jean-Baptiste.

  When there were just two minutes to go, Stilton walked into the bar. It was pretty cramped with a dirty stone floor and a stale smell of booze. A black spiral staircase led up to another floor and there were different-coloured pennons criss-crossing the ceiling. One wall was entirely covered with cigarette packets with eye-catching health warnings. There were dark round tables by another wall, with others further in towards the middle. The bar area itself was small. There were only men there and not many of them were drinking anything, just filling in tickets.

  ‘Everyone is playing the lottery, everyone wants to wake up in the land of milk and honey.’

  Stilton turned around. It was ten o’clock precisely and Jean-Baptiste was standing in the doorway of the bar, smiling. He was big, bigger than Stilton remembered him, not far off Depardieu both in terms of size and reddish hue. Anyone who didn’t know him could have mistaken him as someone who was overfed and phlegmatic.

  But Stilton knew better.

  That was confirmed when they shook hands. Jean-Baptiste’s handshake reminded him of his grandfather, the seal hunter. When your hand went in you were never quite sure how it would come out.

  ‘Let’s sit down.’

  Jean-Baptiste led the way to a table at the front of the bar. He sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.

  ‘There’s no smoking in the bar,’ he said. ‘But they make exceptions.’

  Stilton looked at his yellowed fingers. He smoked far too much, always Gauloises, as long as Stilton had known him.

  ‘So where have you been, then?’ said Jean-Baptiste.

  ‘I went off the rails.’

  ‘Things happen. I got divorced and remarried.’

  ‘Yeah, things happen. Are you happy?’

  ‘On and off. At my age you lower your expectations.’

  Jean-Baptiste blew a smoke ring and nodded at a slim dark-haired woman who passed by their table.

  ‘Hi, Claudette, how are you?’

  ‘I can’t complain,’ the woman replied and disappeared towards the tables further in.

  Jean-Baptiste waved at the barman.

  ‘Two Perriers.’

  Despite his reddish hue, it looked like he was just on water now. Maybe he enjoyed consuming fine wines in private, Stilton didn’t know. They’d never gone boozing together.

  ‘How is it down here nowadays?’ he said.

  ‘In Marseille?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Full of contrasts, as always. Calm on the surface and a bloody shambles below. Have you heard about the corruption mess?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A load of our own people, in the gangsters’ pockets. It’s been going on for years and it’s a major scandal down here right now. But of course there’s no sign of it on the surface – everything’s being kept spick and span up there. We’re set to be the European Capital of Culture for 2013.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘A load of bloody hassle. Half the city is being renovated and spruced up. And it’s hell for the traffic cops. It’s chaos everywhere. You must have seen that on your way here?’

  ‘I had other things on my mind.’

  Jean-Baptiste laughed and drank half of his Perrier. When he put it down, he lowered his voice a little.

  ‘So how are things with el Fassi?’

  ‘Good. He’s a croupier.’

  ‘In Stockholm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you got him back on track?’

  ‘Eventually. He’s even done some undercover jobs for the police.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  Jean-Baptiste didn’t look as surprised as he sounded.

  ‘But at the moment he’s here.’

  ‘In need of help?’

  That’s what he liked about Jean-Baptiste, his intuition.

  ‘A female acquaintance of his has been found dead here,’ said Stilton. ‘Samira Villon.’

  ‘Did he know her?’

  ‘They once worked at the same circus.’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘We read about it. Do you know any more?’

  ‘No, other guys are dealing with it.’

  ‘Guys you know?’

  Jean-Baptiste twiddled the bottle of water between his fingers and looked straight into Stilton’s eyes.

  ‘Did he bring any knives?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Jean-Baptiste observed Stilton and saw that he was lying and Stilton saw that he saw. But it was a necessary white lie to prevent Jean-Baptiste having to lie at a later stage. If they were used in a way that came to the attention of the French police.

  That was a potential risk.

  ‘I could ask around,’ said Jean-Baptiste. ‘But you’ll have to tell me a bit more.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘El Fassi’s plans.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Jean-Baptiste looked down at the table. The solid respect they had for each other emanated from their shared sense of right and wrong, their deep personal morals, which had once guided them into the police force and turned them into successful professionals. Now Stilton had ‘lost his way’ for a few years and Jean-Baptiste was not entirely sure what that meant. He knew that Stilton no longer worked for the police, he’d heard that following brief contact with Mette Olsäter a couple of years ago. But had he changed? Could he be trusted now?

  Stilton observed Jean-Baptiste and guessed what was going on in his head. Entirely understandable. So he felt he needed to go one step further.

  ‘Abbas wants to catch the murderer,’ he said.

  ‘That’s for the French police to do.’

  ‘I know, but sometimes even the best policemen need some help, right?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Jean-Baptiste suddenly got up and as he did so he made a decision, entirely based on his former trust in Stilton.

  ‘Where can I get hold of you?’ he said.

  Stilton gave him his mobile number and the address of the hotel.

  ‘You don’t fancy coming to my house for dinner tonight?’ Jean-Baptiste asked.

  ‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand. Send el Fassi my best.’

  Jean-Baptiste squeezed his way out of the bar and Stilton sank down a little. One problem fewer. He’d done what Abbas had
asked him to do, pretty well actually. The large policeman would be in touch, he knew that. He also knew that he had to find a way of telling Abbas that he needed to be extra discreet with the knives.

  That was a considerably greater problem.

  Stilton looked around the bar and caught the eye of the beautiful dark-haired woman whom Jean-Baptiste had greeted, Claudette. She sat at a table all the way in, looking at Stilton. He held her gaze. He wasn’t sure how long, but he was aware of how it felt. Suddenly he longed for a woman, for sex. He hadn’t had sex since he and One-eyed Vera had made love in her caravan just a couple of hours before she was beaten to death. That was more than a year ago. Now he was sitting in a cramped bar in Marseille in the middle of the day, looking at a woman who was looking back in a way that turned him on. Suddenly she got up and went to the bar. He followed her body through the room. She was wearing low-heeled black shoes and a tight green dress. She stood with her back facing him and ordered. After she’d been served, she went straight over to Stilton’s table with two small glasses in her hand.

  ‘Do you like pastis?’ she asked as she put the glasses down and sank into the chair where the large policemen had been sitting.

  ‘Kind of,’ Stilton replied.

  ‘Cheers.’

  They sipped on their glasses of pastis and looked at each other, for quite a while. The woman wasn’t young – neither was Stilton. He was fifty-six and guessed that she was roughly ten years younger than him, with some first wrinkles around her make-up-free eyes.

  ‘Claudette,’ he said when the pastis was almost finished.

  ‘Yes. And your name is?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘You know Jean-Baptiste?’

  ‘Yes, and you do too?’

  ‘Everyone in this area knows Jean-Baptiste. He’s a good policeman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a policeman too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your English is good. Where are you from?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘Ibra.’

  Stilton smiled. Zlatan Ibrahimovic´ was currently a big star at PSG, in Paris, not Marseille. He ought not to be so popular here.

  ‘But here we think that he’s a monster,’ Claudette and smiled a little.

  She had small, even teeth, not completely white, her arched lips were smooth and painted with a little red lipstick. Stilton smelled her breath over the table, it was pleasant, and then he suddenly thought about his own and hoped that it would be masked by the pastis.

  ‘Are you staying at a hotel?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the Richelieu.’

  ‘Shall we go there?’

  ‘No, I’m sharing a room with my colleague.’

  ‘Female?’

  ‘No. Where do you live?’

  ‘Rue de la Croix.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Not in a taxi.’

  It took about fifteen minutes for the taxi to navigate its way through the centre before ending up in Claudette’s neighbourhood. They sat in the back seat with the windows down. Stilton looked out and saw a barrel organist waving with one hand while the other fed the organ with perforated music. Stilton heard a melancholy tune coming from the wooden contraption and put his hand on Claudette’s bare knee. He wanted to feel her skin.

  ‘The Crying Soldier,’ she said.

  Stilton turned towards her.

  ‘That’s the name of the tune he’s playing. It’s an old folksong about a soldier who comes back from the war with no legs.’

  ‘Which war?’

  ‘One of them.’

  Claudette put her hand on Stilton’s and guided it up her thigh. Stilton felt how warm she was and leant up against her.

  ‘We’re here now,’ she said.

  Claudette paid for the taxi.

  * * *

  Abbas knew this area like the back of his hand, a rough area, full of poverty, where you weren’t supposed to go at the wrong time of day. Some of it had been smartened up, some new buildings here and there, but underneath it was all still the same place. The same suspicion in people’s eyes, the same small groups of frustrated men, the same smell. He remembered that smell. He didn’t know what it was, only that it had smelled like that his entire childhood. Burned rubbish, exhaust fumes, wet cement. He didn’t know. He tried hard to prevent the smell awakening emotions and memories, that’s not why he was here. He thought he’d burned his inner album of memories, but there were remnants, it seemed.

  He hurried over to the high-rise buildings where Marie apparently lived, eight floors up. He hoped that the lift was working.

  It was.

  As he stood in front of the battered door with the name that she’d given, he suddenly felt unsure. He didn’t ring the doorbell straight away. He looked at the door. Marie had a different surname, of course, she was married with children, that much she’d told him on the phone. She was not the same woman as before, when she performed at Cirque Gruss as Bai She, the white snake woman. It was a spectacular act – the circus director introduced her with a story about a Chinese snake that had taken on human form and then she wreathed her way out of a drum to evocative chimes. She had an exceptional ability to make a human circle with her body, as though she didn’t have a skeleton. Abbas never understood how it was possible. Now she was married and had a family and her life in the circus had come to an end. But that was not why he was hesitating in front of her door.

  It was because she might tell him.

  About Samira.

  He knew that Marie and Samira had been close at the circus, maybe even after Marie had left? Maybe until Samira was murdered?

  He rang the doorbell.

  Marie put some cold iced tea on the kitchen table. It was a small kitchen considering that she had four children and a husband. One wall was full of grey-green glass cupboards and there was a large circus poster on the other.

  Cirque Gruss.

  Abbas looked at Marie.

  It was more than fifteen years since she’d been the white snake woman. It wasn’t likely that her body would bend into a circle again.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ she said.

  As though she knew what Abbas saw. But she was still beautiful, in his eyes. He saw her as she’d once looked. Except the eyes. There was a hint of what he’d seen in his own eyes before he’d stepped into the shower at Dalagatan and emerged with an entirely different expression.

  A hint of despair.

  Marie sat down right next to Abbas. To him it had already felt like time had stood still when she opened the door and hugged him. They shared a past that was always present. Now they were sitting close as children tend to do. Marie looked at Abbas.

  ‘Are you still…’

  ‘No, I stopped many years ago.’

  ‘I knew things would go well for you.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You never lied. Everyone else lied when it suited them, you never did. So I decided that if you don’t lie, things will go well.’

  ‘A half-truth.’

  ‘I know, but it worked for you.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then their despair became intertwined, their despair over Samira, and it kept hold of them until Marie reached for her glass and Abbas did the same.

  Both of them knew what this moment in the kitchen was all about.

  ‘She grieved for you so long,’ Marie said. ‘It was agonising. The Master knew how she felt, everyone knew and no one could do anything. It was what it was. She was his wife and target girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abbas tried to remain focused. He wanted to get through this as quickly as possible, he wanted to get to the part that would feel much worse, he couldn’t crumble yet.

  ‘What happened when the Master died?’

  ‘Samira had to leave. The new knife thrower had his own target girl.’

  ‘So where did she go?’

  ‘At first we were in touch quite a bit, but
I was away with the circus and she was here, in Marseille.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  Abbas felt that Marie was hiding something, but he didn’t want to push her. She should say what she wanted and was up to telling him.

  ‘Did you ever meet up?’

  ‘Once, a couple of years after she’d left. She was so sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wondered if I’d kept in touch with you.’

  Abbas felt a mounting pressure in his chest.

  ‘I wrote a couple of letters,’ he said. ‘I got hold of the circus director and he gave me an address where he thought Samira lived. But I had no reply. Maybe she never got them.’

  ‘Or maybe her agent ripped them up?’

  ‘Her agent?’

  Marie stood up. She went to the window and looked out. Abbas waited. Marie walked towards the sink and took a thin chopping board out of a drawer. When she was about to put it down, Abbas saw that her hands were trembling. He got up and went right up close to her. Marie dropped her head down onto his chest and cried, quietly. He stroked her short blonde hair and let her cry.

  As though he was fine.

  He was far from fine.

  Agent?

  Marie lifted her head up from Abbas’s chest and reached for some kitchen paper. She wiped her cheeks and looked at Abbas. She said it as directly as she could.

  ‘She made films.’

  ‘What sort of films?’

  ‘Porn films.’

  It took a few seconds, perhaps minutes, before Abbas was able to comprehend this difficult news.

  ‘She made porn films?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abbas sat down at the table again and poured himself some more iced tea. Marie stayed by the sink. She knew that Abbas wanted to know. A man who never lied didn’t want other people to do so either. Or hide things. The only reason he was here was to get information about Samira. All she could do was tell him what she knew.

  Abbas looked at her.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I asked her the same thing. She didn’t really know what to say. After leaving the circus, she’d met an older man who was supposed to help her and as I understood it he sold her to the agent. She was blind, poor, had to make a living – she was easy prey for people wanting to take advantage of her. And she was so beautiful.’