Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  What did he know about the murder of Bengt Sahlmann?

  Olivia thought about the question while she got dressed and dried her hair. She wondered how she was going to find out whether Borell was involved in the murder, which is what her entire theory was founded upon. That Borell had silenced his angry school friend who was seeking revenge for his father’s death by creating a scandal for Borell’s company. She went through the theory a few times in her head. She knew that it had major flaws, but flaws are there to be fixed.

  Should she get in touch with him?

  She let out a burst of laughter, at first, as though it was an extremely bizarre idea. A man whom the media had been chasing all over the world to no avail. How was she going to be able to meet him?

  But what if? Imagine if it were possible, one way or another. What would she do then? What would she ask him?

  ‘Listen, your old school friend Bengt has been murdered. Have you got anything to do with it?’

  She laughed again, rather more hopelessly. What should she ask?

  She sat down at the kitchen table. I’m a police officer, she thought. Not officially, but I am. So how would I act? As Mette? Did she have anything to go on?

  Not much.

  Nothing, Olivia.

  And that’s when she gave up on her idea, in ten seconds, before remembering the one thing she did have.

  Her intuition.

  And there were a number of highly qualified people who greatly respected it, including Mette Olsäter. So why shouldn’t she? How many murder cases had been solved because one investigator or other, in a chaos of nothing, had followed their intuition and suddenly uncovered the truth? Many.

  She called Albion’s Stockholm office and asked to speak to Jean Borell. The woman who answered the phone was very friendly, even though she probably thought the call was a prank. She said Olivia should speak to Magnus Thorhed.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Jean Borell’s colleague.’

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘No, he’s at Bukowskis. He’ll probably be back in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Can I reach him on his mobile?’

  ‘No.’

  And that’s where the call ended. She’d tried to reach someone who was being covered for by a person who was himself unreachable.

  I’ll go to Bukowskis, she thought to herself.

  Olivia knew that she often acted before she’d had time to catch up with her thoughts. This time she found time to do so on the bus to Kungsträdgården, largely thanks to Alex and what he’d told her before they left Prinsen, about Jean Borell. Private things. That he only had one eye, for example. He’d lost his right eye as a child. And he had a breathtaking property out on Värmdö and a small château in Antibes.

  And he also had an almost legendary art collection.

  He was a top-class collector, with a particular penchant for young modern Swedish art. According to Alex, he had the largest private collection of internationally acclaimed contemporary Swedish artists.

  Which didn’t mean much to Olivia. Yet. She wasn’t starting her history of art course until the spring.

  But it gave her a foot in the door.

  She’d caught up with her thoughts.

  It was the final exhibition day for Bukowskis autumn auction of Swedish art. The premises on Arsenalsgatan were overflowing with overflowing wallets. Olivia walked in and grabbed hold of a catalogue while surveying the people in the room. She’d googled Magnus Thorhed. Unlike his boss, he had a strong online presence. He’d written books on widely different topics including derivative analysis and Goethe’s Theory of Colours. He was an honorary member of various gentlemen’s clubs. For some time he’d run his own gallery on Nybrogatan. Olivia had seen numerous pictures of him. He was thirty-six years old and of Asian origin.

  Was he adopted too?

  She spotted him further in. He was wearing a mustard-coloured suit. As she pushed her way forward she saw a little plait running down the back of his neck and a little gold ring in his ear – a man careful about the kind of impression he made. When she was almost behind him, she smelled the distinctive aftershave emanating from the man’s body. A touch of nutmeg, she thought. He was shorter than her and quite stocky: he gave a powerful impression.

  Thorhed was quietly talking into his mobile while studying a painting hanging on the wall in front of him. Olivia looked at the small note next to it: Karin Mamma Andersson. Number 63. She looked it up in the catalogue. The reserve price was two million Swedish kronor. Not likely to be hanging at her place, even though she thought it was very… strange? Suggestive dark colours in the foreground, dull layers of ochre behind, some disconcerting shadows. Olivia pretended to study the painting, while straining to hear what Magnus Thorhed was saying.

  ‘How high will we go?’ he said quietly. ‘Good.’

  He ended the call and adjusted his discreet round glasses. Olivia stepped forward.

  ‘Isn’t it fantastic!’

  Thorhed turned his head slightly and was greeted with a gentle smile. Olivia nodded at the painting in front of them.

  ‘What suggestive contrasts!’

  Thorhed looked at the painting again. He agreed with the young woman with the naturally beautiful eyes. The painting was fantastic.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It really is. Are you planning to bid on it?’

  ‘No, not at all, I am interested in it on another level.’

  ‘What level?’

  She’d awakened a second of curiosity in Thorhed.

  ‘I’m studying history of art and I don’t look at paintings as objects for purchase. I try to put them in a bigger context. Olivia Rivera.’

  Olivia extended her hand and the rather taken aback Thorhed shook it. He had a firm handshake.

  ‘Magnus Thorhed.’

  ‘Didn’t you own a gallery on Nybrogatan?’

  ‘That was a few years ago.’

  ‘Before you started working with Jean Borell.’

  Thorhed looked at Olivia, who quickly flashed another big smile.

  ‘I was trying to reach Jean Borell today and I was told to speak to you. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to see him.’

  Thorhed’s expression stiffened considerably.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m working on a dissertation about modern Swedish artists and their impact on the international art market and I’ve been reading about Jean Borell’s fantastic collection. I’d like to do an interview with him about it. How he’s put it together, what criteria he’s used, what it is that he finds so interesting about these artists. It’s for my undergraduate dissertation.’

  Thorhed was still listening so she carried on.

  ‘And I saw on the news this morning that he was coming to Stockholm today.’

  ‘And now he’s on his way to Marrakech.’

  ‘Oh. And when’s he coming back here?’

  ‘Maybe at the weekend.’

  ‘Do you think he might be interested in meeting me then?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m in charge of his calendar and I know what it’s like. But I can certainly ask him. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Olivia Rivera. I’ll give you my number.’

  Olivia wrote her number down on the back of the catalogue and handed it over to Thorhed. Not her mobile number, she didn’t want to share that, but that of the landline in the flat on Skånegatan.

  ‘It would mean a great deal for my thesis if he’d be willing to do it,’ she said.

  Thorhed nodded and gently tugged on his plait.

  ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘An hour maybe? Any time, any place. Well, near Stockholm, not Marrakech.’

  Olivia smiled that big smile again. Thorhed didn’t smile back.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He pushed his way over to the door and Olivia exhaled. She waited a few minutes and then made her way out as well. If Borell was coming this wee
kend and would agree to a meeting, then she had a few days to cram as much as she could about young, contemporary Swedish art.

  For an interview.

  * * *

  Luna watched Muriel lift the spoon to her mouth. She’d made her some hot noodle soup, assuming that Muriel’s stomach wasn’t up to heavier food. Muriel blew on the spoon and tried to guide it into her mouth without spilling it. Stilton was sitting just on the other side of the lounge.

  ‘So do you see any of the other guys? Pärt? Benseman?’

  ‘We don’t see much of Benseman any more, he’s got into that “Housing First” scheme and he’s got a pad by Skanstull, so he spends a lot of time over at Ronny Redlös’s. I think he works there sometimes.’

  ‘And Pärt?’

  ‘He’s finished.’

  Like you, Stilton thought and turned to Luna.

  ‘It was Pärt who found One-eyed Vera in the caravan, half-dead. He’s a nice guy. Does he still sell the magazine?’ he asked Muriel.

  ‘No. He had to stop that, some shit about money. Last time I saw him he was lying under the Traneberg Bridge throwing up.

  Stilton looked at Luna. Just as well that she got a slice of his past, so he didn’t have to speak about it himself.

  Muriel finished her soup.

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘Nah, thanks.’

  Muriel’s arms starting shaking again. Luna sat down next to her and put her arm around her shoulder.

  ‘You’re welcome to sleep here if you want.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  Muriel pulled her plastic bag towards her, from the wrong end, and some of its contents fell on the floor. Stilton bent down to pick them up. A hairbrush, a small cuddly toy, a packet of condoms and some small square plastic bags filled with tablets. Stilton held one of the bags up.

  ‘What are you taking?’

  ‘5-IT. It’s fucking brilliant. Much cheaper than heroin and it’s bloody safe too.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Can I have them back?’

  Stilton passed the bag of tablets back to Muriel. Luna looked at him. She would have got rid of the bags if it were up to her.

  ‘Where did you get hold of it?’ he said.

  ‘Off that guy, Classe Hall. He’s a good bloke, sometimes I don’t need to pay. He gives me five bags for a shag.’

  Stilton looked at Muriel and she averted her gaze. She knew that Stilton had got back on his feet. She knew that he’d got revenge on the people who killed Vera. She knew that he’d left the city. Now he was back and looking at her with that expression that Vera sometimes had.

  ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do?’ she said almost inaudibly, trying to get control of her hands.

  And then she started crying.

  Stilton and Luna let her cry, that would tire her out, and when her tears finally dried up, Luna helped her up from the wooden bench and took her out towards the bow of the barge. Stilton watched them. It was a pretty stark contrast between the short scraggy Muriel and the tall and well-built Luna.

  ‘You’re really sweet, you know?’ Muriel said to Luna.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Stilton saw them disappear down into a narrow corridor. He assumed that there was some extra sleeping area there at the front, where Muriel could get a few hours’ rest. Then she’d disappear again, he knew that, out into a world that he did not have any control over.

  * * *

  Abbas had walked around half of Marseille, alert and focused. He’d scoured all the porn shops he passed. He’d talked to prostitutes along all the places he knew, the eastern European girls by the central station, the transvestites up on the West side, the lot. He’d moved from bars to gambling dens to dealer hangouts.

  And he’d asked the same question to everyone: Le Taureau?

  No one knew who he was, or dared to tell him. Some of them had reacted in a way that suggested they might know, but no one said a thing and Abbas didn’t want to wave his knives about again.

  Now he was on his way back to the hotel. Darkness had fallen over the Mediterranean and was mirrored in his thoughts. Had he been wrong? Had Martin been lying to him after all? Should he go and see him again? Pointless. He wasn’t going to get any more out of Martin than he already had. He wasn’t going to get more out of this city full stop.

  He’d failed.

  Then Marie rang.

  ‘I just remembered, have you spoken to Samira’s sister?’ she said.

  ‘Did she have a sister?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. Where does she live?’

  It was late when Abbas turned into the narrow rue Sainte. The door he was trying to find was between a bakery and a small restaurant. Samira’s sister worked at the restaurant, La Poule Noire, ‘the black hen’. She was due to finish at eleven. Abbas waited on the other side of the road. He’d had no idea that Samira had had a sister. Samira had never mentioned her. There’d been no reason to. Then he saw a short middle-aged woman emerging from the restaurant. She was wearing a grey knitted jumper and dark trousers. She stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Abbas?’

  Abbas crossed over the road and held out his hand. They greeted each other. The sister’s name was Nidal.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

  They went through the door and up two flights of stairs. Nidal lived alone. Her flat was small, and Abbas had to squeeze his way past the furniture in the small living room. When Nidal turned on one of the lamps he saw how poor she was. The furniture was shabby, there were holes in the rug, the wallpaper had loosened at the ceiling skirting and was hanging down. The only thing that stuck out in the room was a large mirror with a shiny gold frame. It was hanging above a small bureau with a statue of Christ. Nidal lit the incense next to the statue.

  Abbas sat down on a chair.

  ‘I’m going back to Sweden tomorrow,’ he said.

  Nidal nodded and placed a bottle of water down on the table in front of him. Abbas poured some water into the old glass while Nidal pulled out a box from the bureau under the mirror. When she turned around she was holding a gold necklace in her hand. Abbas recognised it straight away.

  ‘The police gave me this,’ Nidal said. ‘Samira once told me that she’d got it from you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She always wore it. I want you to have it.’

  Abbas took the necklace. He didn’t know what to say. Nidal was standing almost completely still in front of him. Her thin wrinkled face was almost frozen, as though there was something she didn’t dare, or want to, reveal. Abbas wondered how much she knew. About Samira. About what she was doing. He looked at the necklace in his hand. There was so much he wanted to know, about all the time he didn’t know anything about, but he felt it wasn’t really the right moment to ask. He lifted his head, the incense filled his nose.

  ‘She was sixteen when she ran away from the orphanage.’

  Nidal said it without looking at Abbas, her gaze was focused on the wall behind him. He turned around and saw a small photograph, a black-and-white picture of two girls holding hands, one much older than the other.

  ‘Is that you and Samira?’

  ‘Yes. She was three and I was thirteen when we came to the orphanage.’

  ‘Why did you end up there?’

  ‘Our parents died in a fire. I was thrown out of the orphanage when I was eighteen, and Samira stayed on. She was blind and they didn’t think that I could take care of her. Every time I went to see her she cried and asked me to take her with me.’

  Nidal was still standing, looking at the photograph. She was deep within her past.

  ‘Then she ran away. I still don’t understand how. Someone probably helped her. She was so beautiful, there were always boys around her. After a while she got in touch. She’d met an older man who worked at a circus and she was living with him now.’

  ‘Jean Villon.’

  ‘He was a knife thrower and she was his target girl.’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s where we met.’

  ‘I know, she told me about you.’

  Nidal said it without looking at Abbas. She turned around and went to the statue of Christ and lit some more incense. Abbas understood that she wasn’t going to tell him any more.

  ‘Thank you for the necklace,’ he said and got up to leave.

  Nidal remained seated. Abbas took a few steps towards the door out in the hallway.

  ‘She loved you.’

  The voice came from behind. Low. Toneless.

  Abbas didn’t turn around.

  On the way to his hotel, he passed a seafront restaurant, a much nicer one than Eden Roc, with fancy cars parked outside. He saw dressed up people mingling around in the garden inside the stone porch. They all had tall glasses in their hands and the hum of people could be heard all the way out on the street. He passed by the large building and started walking along the low sea wall. Dark rocks crept out into the water below. A lone fisherman sat on one of them. He had a long rod in his hand, a bright red float was bobbing about far out in the water. Abbas looked at the man for a while. He’s trying to scrape a meal together, Abbas thought to himself and started walking again.

  He didn’t turn around.

  If he had, he would have seen this lone fisherman pulling out his mobile and holding it up to his mouth.

  Abbas carried on walking along the waterside, circumnavigating a drunk who was sitting against the stone wall with a red-and-white traffic cone on his head. His hotel still lay a bit further on. He passed by a dark bus shelter. There were some people standing there waiting for a night bus. Then suddenly he stopped, something was bothering him, something he’d seen.

  What though?

  Suddenly he remembered.

  He had seen the lone fisherman’s bright float disappear under the surface, but the man hadn’t reacted. He hadn’t reeled it in. Why?

  Abbas turned around and was hit right across the face.

  It was probably an iron bar, wielded by the people standing at the bus shelter. Abbas never had the chance to see. He fell flat against the quayside. When he tried to reach for one of his knives, he was hit over the head again. Blood was spurting out. He curled up on the pavement. Through the blood he saw a large man with coarse hands leaning over him. Two other men were standing next to him. He turned towards the edge of the quay and tried to put one hand up on the wall. Then someone administered a sharp kick to his diaphragm and he collapsed.