Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  But it wasn’t.

  Once he had turned around, it became pretty clear who he was. Or at least what he did. And it wasn’t anything to do with balancing books or tending to people’s souls. He was no stranger to dodgy business dealings. It was written all over his face, judging by the number of scars on his face and the look in his eyes. Both Abbas and Stilton knew that look very well. It was typical of people who lived in that world. Maybe he had beautifully long piano fingers and five pedicured toes on each foot, but he was up to his eyeballs in dodgy dealings.

  So Stilton repeated his question.

  ‘Philippe Martin?’

  ‘Are you the guy who owes me money?’

  News travels fast in tight circles, Abbas thought. But it was Stilton who replied.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t owe me money.’

  An old maxim: ‘To live outside the law you must be honest.’ Stilton didn’t owe this man any money, and so he wasn’t going to take money from him.

  ‘It was just an excuse,’ said Stilton, in his melodic Swedish accent. ‘I didn’t want to advertise what I really wanted.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  The man turned away. Stilton began again.

  ‘I’m from Sweden. I make films and I heard that you work in the same genre down here.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  Jean-Baptiste Fabre was definitely the wrong answer. Stilton rifled through his memory and said: ‘Pierre Valdoux.’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’

  ‘He imports films to Sweden. You don’t know him?’

  The man, who clearly was Philippe Martin, looked at the woman behind the bar.

  ‘Do you know who Pierre Valdoux is?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does your mother know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Martin turned towards Stilton.

  ‘You see? No one knows who Pierre Valdoux is. Did you have bullshit for breakfast?’

  ‘No. Did you?’

  Stilton could tolerate a certain amount of provocation. No more. He’d taken a big risk now and didn’t know how Martin was going to react. Maybe he was messing it all up now and it would just get worse.

  Abbas was standing right behind him.

  ‘You wanna say that again?’ Martin said and slid down off his bar stool, a kind of physical warning. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Stilton. But he looked in pretty good shape. Stilton looked him in the eye.

  ‘The thing is, Philippe, I haven’t had bullshit for breakfast and neither have you. We work in the same industry. We have attitude. Good. But if you could disengage that for a moment and listen to me, you’ll soon find out it’s about money. I’m interested in investing in a French film for the Swedish market and I have an established distribution network all over the country. I’m prepared to put up quite a bit of cash and I want some good stuff. Are you interested?’

  Maybe it was because Stilton was completely calm when he said it, his way of completely ignoring Martin’s physical warning, or maybe something else entirely, but Martin listened to what Stilton had to say. Eyes locked on his face. Then he nodded at Abbas.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A guide. He’s taking me around Marseille.’

  Martin turned to the woman behind the bar.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs.’

  The room was right above the bar, quite a big room, furnished like a small lounge, with a wide window facing out to the street. The standard of the furniture was a fraction higher than in the bar. A couple of shabby grey armchairs, a curved sofa and a chequered table in the middle. There was a round glass bowl with a goldfish on a small bureau. The light from the street was shining in between a couple of half-open window shutters made from grey wood. Martin walked over to the bureau, pulled out a box and lifted up a pretty hefty gun. He put it down next to the goldfish bowl. Another warning. He gestured towards Stilton to sit down in one of the armchairs. He completely ignored Abbas. Stilton sat down while Martin hung up his green blazer. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue T-shirt underneath that awarded glimpses of his bulging biceps. It also revealed a rather shoddy tattoo of a kitchen knife on his forearm. Why do criminals have such terrible taste? Stilton thought. He could have had a beautiful dagger instead.

  Martin sank down into the other armchair.

  ‘Invest, you said?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stilton replied.

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’

  ‘It depends. Do you make your own films or do you buy them?’

  ‘Both. Are you after any particular kind of films?’

  ‘Yes. Back home we’re mainly used to white girls, eastern Europeans. I’m looking for something a bit more exotic.’

  ‘Blacks and shit?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘That’s no problem. Do you want the movie type or just straight-up fucking?’

  ‘Straight-up fucking.’

  ‘Good. That’s less trouble.’

  ‘Do you work with some girls in particular?’

  ‘Yes, but we can get hold of anyone.’

  ‘I saw some French porn online a while ago, with a bloody gorgeous girl, quite dark, and I think that she was blind?’

  ‘That Arab whore.’

  Abbas was standing right behind Stilton, against the wall, so Stilton couldn’t see his reaction. He didn’t need to.

  ‘Can you get her?’ Stilton asked.

  ‘No, she’s dead.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Not really. You just have to accept that there’s a churn rate in this industry. But I have girls who fuck just as well as her.’

  Stilton nodded and asked how they were going to proceed. It solved itself. In the corner of his eye, he saw Abbas move over to the window to close the shutters. The noise of the traffic outside disappeared, as did much of the light. Martin saw it too and reacted.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said in French.

  ‘Closing the shutters.’

  It was the first words Abbas uttered in Martin’s presence, and he did it in an obvious song-like Marseille dialect, a dialect from the Castellane slums. Martin recognised it immediately.

  ‘And who the fuck told you to do that?’

  Stilton saw how nimbly Abbas moved around the room and how softly he smiled as he sat down on the sofa opposite Martin.

  ‘That Arab whore,’ he said tenderly.

  Stilton felt what was coming, he recognised the scene, it was like a spider spinning its web.

  ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’ Martin said to Stilton. ‘He’s no fucking guide.’

  ‘No. He’s Swedish too. He was friends with Samira Villon.’

  The penny dropped and Martin felt that this conversation was going the wrong way. He got up, took a few steps towards the goldfish and put one hand on the gun next to the fish bowl. He was still controlled. He’d been in this sort of situation before.

  Many times.

  ‘Get out,’ he said calmly. ‘Now.’

  ‘Or else?’ Abbas said.

  ‘Or else I’ll blow your Arab-Swedish brains out.’

  ‘That would be a shame.’

  Abbas got up and Stilton followed his lead. Was he planning to leave? Abbas went towards the door and Stilton went after him. Martin had lifted up the gun from the bureau a little and followed their movements with the barrel. Abbas stopped in the doorway and turned to Martin.

  ‘Your goldfish has died.’

  Martin peered at the aquarium and then a long black knife went through the top of the hand holding the gun. The gun fell to the floor and Stilton threw himself at him. He’d guessed how strong Martin would be and trusted that he was stronger. A year of island life had given him some real brute strength in his arms.

  But it took a while.

  Abbas stood still in the doorway and observed the fight. Neither of them was making any noise. When Stilton ducked a hefty punch and got behind Martin, it was
basically over. He lifted the Frenchman up off the floor and hurled him over the sofa. His many years of police training stood him in good stead, and he pulled one of Martin’s arms up so high behind his back that the Frenchman screamed for the first time.

  His arm was about to snap.

  Abbas was there in a flash. He’d prepared himself for this situation in many ways, including bringing some blue cable ties. Together they managed to bring the other arm around as well and they tied his wrists so tightly that it was cutting into his flesh. They fastened another one around his ankles.

  ‘Stand him up against the wall.’

  Abbas nodded towards the wall next to the bureau. Stilton dragged Martin up and pushed him up against the wall. Martin was just about to headbutt him when he saw the knife. The other black knife. Abbas held it right in front of his face. Martin pressed himself up against the wall.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ Abbas said in French.

  Martin spat in his face.

  Tough guy.

  Abbas didn’t flinch. He let the spit run down his cheek and onto the floor. And then he raised the knife a little closer to Martin’s face and felt its weight in his hands.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?!’

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  Martin stared at the knife in front of his nose. He shifted his gaze and saw Abbas’s eyes. Then he opened his mouth. Abbas quickly pulled out a small white towel he’d brought with him. He used his free hand to press the towel into Martin’s mouth.

  Deep inside.

  Stilton took a few steps back. This was Abbas’s show. He would have liked to leave the room now, not be there, not see, and not have to lie to Jean-Baptiste.

  And more than anything, so as not to have to bear witness to a side of Abbas that he knew existed, but always tried to let it slip from memory.

  ‘You can go outside if you want,’ Abbas said without looking at Stilton.

  ‘I’ll stay.’

  Abbas nodded and looked at Martin again. This ruthless porn producer had a different expression on his face. He was clearly the underdog now and was having trouble breathing through his nose. A keen but unhealthy cocaine habit had blocked his nasal passages. He snuffled.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Abbas said.

  Martin allowed his gaze to wander past Abbas and over to Stilton, as though he was seeking some kind of help from him. He didn’t get any. Stilton said: ‘I think you should do as he says.’

  Martin closed his eyes. Abbas leant in towards him.

  ‘Now maybe you can imagine what it’s like being blind? Not knowing where the knife is? Not being able to see whether I’m raising it to stab you or angling it to cut straight across your cheek? How does it feel?’

  A murmur could be heard from behind the towel.

  At this stage, Abbas knew whom he was dealing with – a man who wasn’t going to talk unless he was forced to, in particular about anything that could tie him to the murder and butchering of Samira. So he carefully placed the tip of the knife onto Martin’s left eyelid and pushed it in about a centimetre. The scream could be heard through the towel. Not loud, but the fact that it could be heard at all was indicative of its intensity. Stilton saw that Martin’s right leg was shaking uncontrollably. A thin stream of blood was running down his cheek from his eye.

  ‘Now you’re half blind,’ Abbas said as he moved the tip of the knife and placed it on the other eyelid. ‘Now you know who I am. I’m going to remove the towel from your mouth. If you scream, I’ll stick the knife in your other eye and you’ll be completely blind. OK? I’m going to ask you quite a few things and I want you to answer.’

  Abbas pulled the towel out of Martin’s mouth without easing the pressure of the knife against his eyelid. Martin breathed in deeply. He was shocked.

  ‘Were you the one who killed Samira?’

  It took a few seconds before Martin’s voice managed to emerge from the cave of horror that he was in, but it emerged. Broken, hoarse.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Abbas removed the tip of the knife from his eyelid. Martin’s head was shaking. He didn’t know where the knife was. He had no idea what Abbas was intending to do with it. He chewed his lips until they were bloody.

  ‘Did she get my letters?’ Abbas asked.

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘I sent four letters to her, from Sweden, in blue envelopes. Did they get here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you rip them up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you read them to Samira?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the first word in every letter?’

  Martin swallowed hard without saying a word.

  ‘You ripped them up.’

  Abbas put the tip of the knife back against Martin’s uncut eyelid. Martin’s jaw was moving up and down.

  ‘How did you get her to take part?’ Abbas asked. ‘Did you drug her?’

  Martin nodded so slightly that it was hardly noticeable.

  ‘You drugged her?’

  Another nod.

  ‘What do you know about the murder?’

  ‘I told the police what I know.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  Martin was breathing with short heavy breaths, his chest pumping under his T-shirt, the words gushing out of his mouth.

  ‘She was supposed to be part of a film shoot, I wasn’t involved in it, I was just renting her out. Someone collected her here and then she never came back.’

  ‘Who collected her?’

  ‘A taxi.’

  ‘Where was the film supposedly being shot?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who else was going to be in the film?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Philippe.’

  Abbas’s voice was still quiet and controlled.

  ‘I think you’re lying,’ he said.

  Abbas carefully wiped away the blood under Martin’s eye with the towel.

  ‘I’m almost certain you are,’ he said. ‘Can you feel the knife against your eye?’

  Martin nodded, his head shaking.

  ‘So I’m going to ask you one more time,’ Abbas said. ‘Who was there at the shooting of the film?’

  Martin was silent. What he was going to be forced to say would warrant the death penalty, but he said it nonetheless.

  In the end.

  ‘Le Taureau… I don’t know his real name.’

  ‘Philippe.’

  ‘I don’t know any more…’

  ‘Just Le Taureau?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell the police that? About Le Taureau?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t involved in any of it… I just…’

  Martin’s voice became weaker and weaker, before long he’d probably pass out. Abbas noticed. He leant forward a little and whispered in Martin’s ear.

  ‘My name is Abbas el Fassi.’

  Martin sank down against the wall, his jaw still busy moving up and down. Abbas lowered the knife and went towards the door. Martin fell down onto the floor. Stilton walked towards the open door. Martin turned his head, and with his good eye he looked at the door as it slammed shut.

  Then he turned up to look at the fish bowl.

  The goldfish was lying at the bottom, dead.

  Chapter 10

  Alex had called Olivia once he’d listened to her voicemail message, later that night. Olivia was already sleeping by then. When in turn she listened to her messages in the morning, he said that he had something to do in the city and suggested meeting for lunch at the Prinsen restaurant. If she was free.

  She was.

  Not because she thought it was an ideal venue exactly. She didn’t like meeting people at restaurants to talk about sensitive matters. There were always people sitting around and then waiters came by and you were forced to order something. Olivia wasn’t particularly keen on sitting down
to lunch at all, for that matter. She preferred wolfing down a prawn salad, or instant noodles. Everything took such an age in restaurants.

  But she was the one who’d requested a meeting, so Prinsen it was.

  In a leather booth.

  Good.

  At least there was some chance of getting some privacy.

  Alex was there before her and had ordered a beer. He was wearing a thick grey knitted jumper and was talking on his mobile when Olivia appeared. He nodded at her to sit down opposite him as he finished leaving a message. The last thing she heard him say was: ‘Check with Customs and Excise again.’

  ‘Customs and Excise?’

  Olivia took her jacket off while she asked the question.

  ‘I must remember to call them after we’re done.’

  ‘Why?’

  There she was again, he thought. She ought to be a journalist.

  ‘Because I’m working on an article about that missing stash of drugs you tipped me off about.’

  ‘Me. What do you mean me? You haven’t dragged me into this, have you?!’

  ‘No, you’re just a source.’

  ‘What do you mean, source?’

  Olivia was beginning to get worked up. She knew that she’d told him about the missing drugs and was assuming that he would keep this information to himself. And all of a sudden she was now a ‘source’?

  ‘I’m a journalist, Olivia, you’re well aware of that. What you tell me off the record remains just that. But if I need to use it I will. Without getting you involved. We do have source protection in this country.’

  Olivia was certainly familiar with that and calmed down a little.

  ‘What have you found out about the stash?’ she asked.

  Alex was under no obligation to answer. Quite the opposite, in fact. But as it Olivia was the one who’d told him about it, he felt he should be offering her something in return.

  ‘It was very large and it was only so-called internet drugs, mainly 5-IT. And it could fetch up to three million on the streets. So I understand that it caused a commotion, as you said, when it disappeared.’

  ‘And it was Bengt Sahlmann who was supposed to be investigating their disappearance?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve confirmed that.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’