Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  It hadn’t been raining at all.

  She was still upset when she got into her flat, both by the experience with Hilda and the meeting with Rakel Welin, but more than anything about what Claire Tingman had told her, about how things were at Silvergården. She suspected that there was a great deal that was covered up out there. She threw her jacket down in the hallway and felt she needed a really hot bath and a cup of tea. Sadly the bath option was no-go as she didn’t have a bathtub and a hot shower just wasn’t the same. But hot tea was no problem. She put the water on, changed into some comfier clothes, got her laptop and turned it on.

  Her feet were tapping the floor, waiting for the screen to load.

  By the time it did, the water was boiling. She pulled the saucepan towards her. As she poured the hot liquid she noticed that her hand was shaking slightly. The hand that Hilda had squeezed the moment she died. It was almost as if she could still feel it. And it would be a long time before that feeling went away, she knew that.

  Likewise the shock of that weightless body.

  She started by googling Silvergården.

  Before long she’d found some sort of ownership structure. The home was ultimately owned by a venture capital firm called Albion. She looked at Albion’s website for Silvergården. It was a visual masterpiece, both in terms of design and readability, with a rousing appeal:

  Do you want to give your mum and dad what they deserve? Time for love and care? With people who love people? Give them Silvergården – the nursing home that takes care of all the details!

  They didn’t mention the fly larvae, Olivia thought to herself. But that probably wouldn’t sell quite as well.

  Two cups of tea later she closed down her laptop and thought about Claire Tingman. She would probably never come forward publicly, but she was there. If need be, maybe Olivia could get her to talk.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  Olivia jumped and looked at the clock. It was only just gone eight o’clock. She had thought it was the middle of the night. Perhaps it was Mette Olsäter coming to offer a grovelling apology.

  It wasn’t.

  It was an Olsäter, but not Mette. It was Mårten.

  ‘Hello?! Come in!’

  Mårten gave Olivia a warm hug and stepped into the flat. He’d never been there before.

  ‘Is this the flat you’re renting from your cousin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mårten had a look around, which did not take long as it was a one-bedroom flat.

  ‘A real bachelor’s pad.’

  ‘Stupid expression.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I never drink tea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I think it’s watery.’

  ‘I don’t have any red wine.’

  Mårten smiled. There was always wine on offer when they had dinner out in Kummelnäs.

  ‘I’ll make do with you,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mårten and Olivia had developed a special relationship of their own. Mårten had been the one taking care of her when her whole world was crumbling down around her, he’d been the one stitching together her broken mind and keeping her on her feet during the last part of her police training. And he had been the one to support her decision to travel to Mexico.

  So he could drink whatever he liked as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Are you finding this thing with Mette and me difficult?’ Olivia asked as they sat down at the kitchen table. She wanted to get it out of the way so they could talk about more enjoyable things.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think she should ring and apologise.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘But she won’t.’

  ‘No,’ said Mårten.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I just don’t want you to do anything silly.’

  ‘Because I’m angry at her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Well yes, why would you do that?’

  Mårten gave her a look of amusement. He’d got to know Olivia pretty well by now and he knew that she was just as stubborn as his wife. Neither of them would take the first step. But he also knew what a stern warning Mette had been given at her most recent health check-up.

  Olivia didn’t know that.

  And so she didn’t know that Mette needed all the stress relief she could get at the moment. An emotional conflict with Olivia was not what she needed. But Mårten had no intention of talking about that.

  Not now.

  That’s not why he was here.

  ‘Was that why you came here? To make sure that I wasn’t going to do something “silly”?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘No. I came here for my own sake. Yours and mine. Mette and I have been very symbiotic on many levels, you’ve probably noticed that, but I’m not Mette. Your conflict with Mette has nothing to do with our relationship. It’s ours, no matter what happens. I just want you to know that.’

  Olivia reached out her hand and put it on Mårten’s. A living hand, she thought.

  ‘I know that,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  They looked at each other, kindly. Then Olivia pulled her hand away.

  ‘So have you heard anything from Abbas?’ she asked. ‘I’ve tried to call.’

  ‘He’s gone to Marseille. With Tom.’

  ‘What’s doing there?’

  ‘Dunno. At worst he’ll get dragged into something that isn’t very nice.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Good job he has the tramp with him, then.’

  Olivia immediately heard how childish it sounded and made a gesture. Mårten gave her a little smile.

  ‘That’ll sort itself out.’

  Olivia shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t particularly interested in sorting things out with Tom Stilton, so she said: ‘Do you know a company called Albion?’

  ‘A venture capital firm. Yes. Why?’

  ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Olivia gave a brief account of her experience out at Silvergården a few hours earlier and Mårten noticed how shaken she was.

  And upset.

  He shared her sentiments, in general. He hated venture capitalists. Mårten had a solid history in various left-wing movements. He’d dropped some of his ideological beliefs over the years, but his basic feelings would never go away.

  ‘Profits in the welfare sector are problematic,’ he said. ‘There are vultures who are just looking to rob taxpayers of money, and there are ambitious and dedicated people who want to run businesses in a more personal and innovative way than municipalities and county councils are able to do. It’s a hard balancing act.’

  ‘Silvergården is run by vultures.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘I’m assuming that’s the case based on what happened today and what that woman out there told me.’

  ‘Yes, but at the same time it would be tremendously counterproductive if Albion consciously mismanaged its business: it’s against the fundamental ideas of venture capitalism.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘To take over companies, make them extremely profitable and then sell them at a big profit. That’s not really possible if they run an organisation into the ground.’

  ‘But maybe you can push it until it reaches breaking point, to be able to produce some great numbers?’

  ‘That’s possible. There’s been some rather disturbing evidence of that. How come you ended up at Silvergården?’

  ‘Bengt Sahlmann’s father died there. But you mustn’t tell Mette.’

  ‘That he died there?’

  ‘That I was there. You saw what happened when I went to Customs and Excise.’

  Mårten promised to keep quiet about Silvergården. Olivia accompanied him to the door and got another warm hug. Before pulling the door shut she said: ‘I hope that Abbas won’t get i
nto trouble down there.’

  ‘We hope so too.’

  Olivia closed the door and leant against the wall in the hallway. She thought that Mårten had been a little too vague on the topic of Albion. She wanted to know more about Silvergården, about Bengt Sahlmann’s reaction to his father’s death. She picked up her mobile and called Alex. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, it’s Olivia Rivera. Could you give me a ring? There are a couple of things I want to ask you.’

  She ended the call and went into her bedroom. And what should I do now? She felt that the energy in her body needed some release. She’d done enough googling. Alex was the next step for Silvergården. And she didn’t want to bother Sandra. Maybe I should call Ove? Or Lenni? She lay down on her bed. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,… She fell asleep before she had the chance to choose. With her clothes on.

  Chapter 9

  Stilton lay awake most of the night in the cramped window alcove, partly because of the erratically flashing green pharmacy sign shining in through the window above his bed, and partly because he’d been hit by a ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ feeling, a feeling that kicks in when everything else but the darkness is stripped away and the only thing you can hear is your own breathing and a cockroach scratching on the wall.

  But most of all he was lying awake because of the blackness in Abbas’s eyes. ‘Did he bring any knives?’ He had, and he knew what he was capable of doing with them.

  In his state.

  That kept Stilton awake.

  He’d used his personal acquaintance with Jean-Baptiste to get a favour. It was based on trust, on what Stilton had seen in the large policeman’s eyes, which meant that Stilton had to take responsibility for Abbas’s knives.

  In the middle of the night Stilton decided that he would look for the knives and hide them. And as soon as he’d thought it, he abandoned the idea, partly because it was a bloody stupid idea, in general, and partly because Abbas was probably sleeping with them under his pillow.

  So Stilton lay there tossing and turning. He stared up at the flashing green light on the wall and listened to the sea eroding the rock underneath him, trying to think about nothing at all.

  Which is basically impossible.

  Just when he’d finally fallen asleep he was awoken.

  The nature reserve was located just south of Marseille. Callelongue was large and beautiful, peaceful and wild at the same time. Cliffs and sea on one side, forest and mountains on the other. For nature lovers it was a real experience to hike there.

  For Abbas it was just torture.

  They’d taken a taxi from the hotel. Stilton had managed to swallow a couple of pieces of bread and some bitter coffee, before Abbas called him from the street. He had no idea what Abbas had eaten, probably nothing.

  He was feeding off something else.

  Both of them sat in silence the entire car journey – Stilton because he needed some time to wake up in the morning before he could be moderately sociable, and Abbas because he wasn’t really there. He was deep within himself, gathering strength for what he would experience out there.

  In Callelongue.

  The area where Samira’s dismembered body had been found.

  On the way they passed a racetrack on the outskirts of a large park. Abbas nodded out through the car window.

  ‘That’s where Cirque Gruss used to have its tent.’

  ‘Where the racetrack is?’

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t there then.’

  It was a blank statement.

  Everything changes.

  The taxi dropped them on the edge of the nature reserve and the driver wondered how they were going to get back.

  ‘Come and get us in an hour,’ Abbas said.

  Why only an hour? Stilton didn’t want to ask, he assumed that Abbas had determined a finite time that he could handle. Or maybe it was just a guess.

  But it was Abbas’s trip.

  He was the one making the decisions.

  So they headed into the beautiful surroundings of Callelongue. Stilton had learned his lesson when it came to clothes and was dressed in just a T-shirt. Abbas was wearing a thin beige jacket that he’d bought in Venice many years ago, which perfectly complemented his skin tone. It was chosen with care. Back then.

  Now he didn’t care any more.

  He could just as well have been wearing a sheet.

  Neither of them knew where to go, but both of them knew what they were looking for. Stilton was feeling a bit below par after his sleepless night and found himself admiring the beauty of the place. The scenery of sharp shadows, soft terrain and reflections from the protruding rocks. It was a sensation of something from the past, wistful, ancient times passing by.

  ‘There!’

  They’d been wandering around aimlessly for almost half an hour before Abbas caught sight of it, among trees and bushes, a piece of plastic tape that had been left behind by the police after they cordoned off the area. They squeezed through the pretty thorny bushes and saw the first hole. A large hole. Further in between the trees they could see another.

  Abbas walked over to the first hole and took out his mobile phone. With surprisingly steady hands, he began taking photographs of the hole. Stilton was standing back, in silence. He didn’t know what was going on in that tormented man’s head. What pictures were flashing in front of his eyes? Wild boar? Gnawed skeletal remains? Or Samira’s face when he threw that last knife at her?

  A few minutes passed.

  Then Abbas put away his mobile and turned to face Stilton.

  ‘Pourquoi?’ he said.

  A question that could be referring to a great many things at this point. Why was Samira murdered? Why was she buried here of all places? Why was she dismembered? Why wasn’t I there? Stilton felt he was referring to all the above.

  So he chose one of them.

  ‘Why was she murdered?’

  Abbas was crouching down. Stilton saw the marks from the French technicians’ tents over the holes. He could imagine what they’d been looking for. Jean-Baptiste would have to tell them whether or not they’d found anything.

  Hopefully.

  ‘Why was she murdered?’ Abbas said without looking at Stilton. ‘She was blind. Totally defenceless. To whom could she have been a threat?’

  It was a rhetorical question and Stilton let it fade away. He felt a warm breeze coming in from the sea, the leaves in the bushes were gently sashaying in it, and the sun cast a shadow over the hole, as though nature wanted to cover up the savagery.

  Abbas ran a hand over his face before turning to Stilton.

  ‘Well, there’s only one person who can answer that,’ he said.

  ‘Her agent?’

  Abbas got up. He looked down into the hole, looked over at the other hole further in and turned around.

  He was done.

  He was going to find Philippe Martin.

  The taxi was waiting for them as they returned, and drove them to the port right in the centre of Marseille, the Vieux Port. Abbas didn’t want to drive any further, he wanted to take the metro for the last bit of the journey.

  ‘Why?’ Stilton wondered.

  ‘To arrive in the right state.’

  Abbas was preparing himself for the meeting with Martin. The metro would put him in the right mindset, the metro where he’d lived for many years, when he was young – thieving, pickpocketing, being chased by guards and white Frenchmen, being heckled and jeered.

  He wanted to get back into that state again.

  Philippe Martin was a white Frenchman.

  ‘Why did you take pictures of the hole out there?’ Stilton asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Abbas stepped into one of the white carriages. Stilton followed him. They stood by the doors. Almost all the seats were empty. The train started moving and Stilton thought about the knives. He knew that Abbas had brought them. He didn’t know how many, but he knew he had them, and Stilton didn’t quite know how he’d deal with that. He
looked into the next carriage. It was virtually empty, a woman was reading a children’s book to a child sitting on her knee. On her way to a place called home, Stilton thought. He, on the other hand, was on his way to meet someone who’d abused Samira.

  And maybe even dismembered her.

  ‘So how are we going to approach this?’ he said.

  They got off at Gare Saint-Charles, the main railway station in Marseille. The bar that Philippe Martin allegedly frequented was just outside. The sun was beating down here as well, onto the stone steps of the central station and onto drugged-up Rasta boys sitting hunched over with their heads between their knees, lost in thought. Onto heavily made-up eastern European women leaning up against stone statues and holding their mobiles up right in front of their eyes, engulfed in a world that wasn’t their own. And onto cripples sitting with their rags and plastic cups, hoping for a slice of a world that was not theirs either.

  Abbas and Stilton passed by it all pretty quickly.

  It took Stilton a little longer though, in his head. It wasn’t so long ago since he’d been sitting hunched over like that himself, not begging, but he was there. He was an outcast, homeless, and in many respects destitute. He had lain on old rags. Maybe that’s why he stopped in front of a scraggy woman to buy a copy of Macadam, Marseille’s street newspaper. He wasn’t going to be able to read it, but it felt good.

  ‘There it is.’

  Abbas pointed at a bar a bit further down the street. Stilton followed his hand and saw a rather ordinary looking bar with a red awning and a couple of empty plastic chairs outside.

  ‘How do you know he’s there?’ he asked.

  Abbas didn’t answer and went into the bar, closely followed by Stilton. There was very tall sturdy man in a green blazer sitting at the bar, and a dark-skinned old woman standing behind him. The man sat with his back towards them. Abbas stopped and let Stilton get by. He approached the man.

  ‘Philippe Martin?’

  The man turned around. Before that, it could have been just anyone, an accountant on a short lunch break or a psychologist without any patients.