Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  He planned to wait until The Bull came home.

  * * *

  Mickey Leigh had dedicated himself to his duty as Jackie Berglund’s houseguest. He was standing in the shower now and she stuffed some toilet paper in her crotch to protect her pants. She’d gone through the menopause a couple of years ago, so there was no cause for concern about the sperm, but she didn’t want semen in her pants. She sat on the toilet and watched the man standing in her shower. The glass was frosted so she couldn’t see any details. She didn’t need to. She looked at the silhouette of his body and thought back to bygone years. A long time ago. When they’d spent time together on the continent, both of them in the same industry. She’d been a sought-after escort girl and he was good at what men like him are good at. They’d had fun. On many levels.

  It had been intense.

  Then she’d settled in Stockholm and got involved in the more administrative part of the escort business, eventually starting out on her own.

  And Mickey Leigh had stayed on the continent.

  The occasional phone call, a few letters and later emails, some rather risqué photographs every now and then. Not much more. But enough to keep in touch.

  And now he was here and they were having fun again.

  Mickey opened the shower doors and reached for a towel. Jackie smiled at him. He smiled back and dried himself.

  He didn’t have that back then, Jackie thought. That tattoo.

  A small black bull on his neck.

  I wonder when he got that?

  Chapter 19

  A newspaper page was fluttering about across the pavement. The light morning breeze was sweeping in through the blocks of flats. Abbas stretched his stiff body. He’d sat on the stone steps the whole night, his gaze focused on The Bull’s front door. A couple of people had gone in and out – none of them were him. Now it was dawn and there was still no light to be seen in the windows at the top of the building. He looked at his watch. Jean-Baptiste might well be calling the hospital soon to check whether he’d been discharged. He climbed down the steps and waited for a taxi.

  When it stopped outside the Richelieu he’d made a decision. He would check out and go underground. He still knew quite a few places in this city, where Jean-Baptiste was unlikely to find him. The only thing worrying him was Tom. He knew he’d taken advantage of Tom’s relationship with Jean-Baptiste and going behind the large policeman’s back was not going to go down too well with Tom.

  But this was a peripheral problem in the grand scheme of things – finding The Bull.

  Abbas walked past the comatose porter. He had the room key in his pocket, unlocked the door and went inside.

  ‘On your way home?’

  Jean-Baptiste was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking. Smoking was not permitted at the hotel, but Jean-Baptiste didn’t take any notice. Abbas felt a sudden urge to flee.

  ‘You’ll have a private escort to the central station.’

  Jean-Baptiste smiled as he said it, not spitefully, but somewhat dejectedly, rather.

  It was just after nine o’clock. Jean-Baptiste was on his third Gauloise at the station. He was standing by platform four observing the movements of a plump pigeon. It had just swallowed a sizeable piece of baguette lying on the floor and was trying to fly up to the high vaulted iron construction in the central station. It didn’t seem to go very well as it was forced to have a rest on one of the silver engines. Jean-Baptiste looked away and out over the noisy platform. The train was due to depart in twelve minutes and Abbas still hadn’t said a word about where he’d spent the night. It wasn’t that important any more. He was being put on a train to Paris. If he got off there it was the Parisian police’s problem.

  ‘Here.’

  Jean-Baptiste turned around. Abbas was holding out a white envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jean-Baptiste said, taking the envelope.

  ‘A picture of the guy who assaulted me. It was probably him who murdered Samira.’

  Jean-Baptiste opened the envelope and partially pulled out the picture.

  ‘His name is Mickey Leigh,’ Abbas said. ‘His contact details are on the back. He’s The Bull.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He has a bull tattooed on his neck. Do you recognise him?’

  ‘No, but I’ll check him out.’

  ‘Can’t I just hang around until you’ve done it?’

  ‘No. Did you try and get hold of him last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He has a flat on rue Protis, but he didn’t come back there.’

  ‘That was lucky.’

  They looked at each other. This was torturing Abbas. He’d just found the man who could potentially have murdered Samira and he was being forced to leave Marseille, sit on a train back to Sweden and surrender the hunt for Mickey Leigh to Jean-Baptiste.

  ‘But I’ll do everything I can to get hold of him, you can be sure of that.’

  Abbas nodded, took hold of his wheeled suitcase and looked over towards the tracks. His train had arrived. He started walking onto the platform with Jean-Baptiste by his side. Both of them stopped outside an open carriage door. Jean-Baptiste reached out his hand. Abbas shook it and Jean-Baptiste held it for a few seconds.

  ‘If he’s here we’ll catch him, you know that.’

  ‘Good.’

  Abbas climbed up into the carriage.

  Jean-Baptiste waited until the train had rolled out from the station. Finally, the thought. Then he decided to take a restorative walk back to the police station. But he didn’t go in. He went to the little bar opposite and sat down at his favourite table next to the wall. The bartender was quick to serve him his Perrier. As he lit his second cigarette, Claudette came in. He knew she’d turn up here sooner or later. She spotted Jean-Baptiste and sat down at his table. They looked at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘Tom Stilton has left,’ Jean-Baptiste said.

  ‘They always do.’

  Jean-Baptiste put his hand on Claudette’s.

  And completely covered it.

  * * *

  At first she didn’t know where she was. White-painted brick walls? She lay there, motionless, trying to centre in on what was burning inside her head. A few seconds later she succeeded.

  Alex. I’m at Alex Popovic’s. I’m lying in his bed. He’s probably lying next to me. She didn’t turn her head. We had sex. I wanted to have sex. We fucked in a large bed right in the middle of this room. It’s the one I’m lying in now. I came. It was rather unexpected. But how much did I actually drink? Three beers before he arrived, or was it four? And then I insisted on having a couple of shots. Shots? Why the hell did I want shots? She still hadn’t moved. If I move now he’ll wake up. If he’s lying in the bed. What do I say then? Hi. And then? Can you call a taxi?

  ‘Hi.’

  Olivia jumped. He was lying in the bed. He turned around a little. Alex was just lifting his head from a stripy pillow, trying to separate his eyelids. He’d also had a few shots, it seemed.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you have a shower?’

  ‘Yes. Are you getting up?’

  ‘Yes?’

  What did he think? That they were going to have sex again? She hated hangover sex. She wanted to get up and rinse it all off. She pulled off the thick duvet, put her feet down on the floor and stood up. She shouldn’t have done that. Not so quickly. Her head was really spinning. She lost her balance and half-sat down on the bed again. Alex laughed and put his hand on her back. That helped her get up.

  ‘Where’s the shower?’

  ‘In there, on the right. Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Olivia fished up her top from the floor. She couldn’t see her trousers. Had he hidden them under the pillow? She disappeared off towards the door on the other side.

  When she came back he’d laid the table, next to a large window facing out onto some water. He’d put her trousers on a chair. She pulled her
towel off and put on her trousers. Her pants were probably in her pocket, she thought, and looked out through the window.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said.

  ‘Liljeholmen. On the Gröndal side. Don’t you remember how we…’

  ‘No.’

  She couldn’t remember how they’d got here and she was totally uninterested in it. She took hold of the cup he passed over to her.

  ‘Are you hungover?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, horribly.’

  ‘Me too. But it was nice.’

  What was ‘nice’? What they’d been up to in bed? What was ‘nice’ about that? Two drunken idiots who were barely in control of their libidos? Olivia felt herself getting irritated. Calm down, she thought, you were the one who wanted this. Don’t give him shit, he was there for you and he’s a nice guy. Smile a bit.

  ‘Yes, it was nice,’ she smiled and swallowed a big gulp of strong coffee.

  ‘What are you going to do today?’

  ‘Sober up.’

  Alex smiled back. He thought he had a pretty good feeler for this woman and her temperament. He liked some bite, and he was clear about what the night had meant. Not much to her, perhaps, but rather more to him. It was OK. He wasn’t going to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It wasn’t the right approach with Olivia.

  But there were other ways.

  ‘So what did you think of the funeral?’ he said.

  ‘Tough. I don’t like funerals.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Why did you get so upset?’

  ‘Over what? You mean Borell?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You heard, did you? He’s an arsehole.’

  Probably, Olivia thought. She was just on the point of telling him about her trip out to Värmdö. But she managed to keep silent. She didn’t want to drag Alex into this, just as little now as before.

  ‘Who was that woman?’ she said. ‘What was her name, Agnes von…?’

  ‘Born. She’s a doctor.’

  ‘Did she know Bengt from school too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she there when he had that outburst at Borell?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m hungover. And there’s a phone ringing.’

  It was a mobile, over by the bed.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Alex said.

  Olivia got up. It was her ringtone. She could hear it now. She went over to the bed and tried to locate her mobile. It was lying under the sheet. Under the sheet? How had it got there? She’d got hold of her phone and was just about to answer when she saw the display.

  It was Ove.

  She didn’t answer. She picked up her jacket from the floor and looked over at Alex.

  ‘I’m off now.’

  ‘Keep in touch?’

  ‘Absolutely. Bye!’

  Olivia thought that she was going to make a swift exit until she realised that she had no idea where the front door was.

  ‘It’s through there and to the left.’

  Alex pointed at a door and tried to hide his smile.

  Olivia got out onto the road and felt that she needed oceans of water topped off with a kilo of paracetamol. To make matters worse, the sun was shining for once and the cold hard light was torturing her eyes. She’d put her phone on silent, but it was still on vibrate. She felt it massaging her thigh in her right-hand pocket. A short massage. Not a call, a text. She assumed that it must be Ove again. It wasn’t. It was a text from Sandra. Olivia started walking towards the underground station and had a look at the message.

  It wasn’t very long.

  Hi, Olivia. Thanks for taking care of me. You’re the best. Please think of me sometimes. What I wrote on that note was true. Hugs. Sandra xx

  Olivia read these few words a few times before she reacted, before panic pushed her up against a wall. She called Sandra’s mobile number and didn’t know what she was going to hear. Voicemail. She called Charlotte.

  ‘No, she’s not here. She said she was going into the city to meet a classmate.’

  ‘Has she sent you a text?’

  ‘No, why do you ask that?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Bye.’

  Olivia ended the call. She was standing on a windy, deserted road out in Gröndal and had no idea what to do. She read Sandra’s message again. It was so simple and clear, so definitive. A cry for help? She didn’t know. But she knew she had to try to get hold of Sandra.

  Quickly.

  But she had no idea how.

  The only thing she could do was send a reply: ‘Please call me!’

  * * *

  Stilton was standing on the rear deck letting the wind blow onto his face. He’d had a good night’s sleep. He also faced the sudden sunlight, but he always carried a pair of sunglasses in his leather jacket and was able to get quick relief from the cascade of sunshine. Not the wind, however. He buttoned up his jacket just as Mette called.

  ‘Hi, Tom!’

  ‘Has Abbas been in touch?’

  ‘No. Why, has something happened?!’

  So Mette didn’t know. Good. They could talk about that when Abbas got back. He didn’t want to do this alone and be harangued by Mette about how he’d failed Abbas by leaving him on his own down there.

  ‘What did you want?’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking about what Ovette Andersson said – that Forss had bought sex from other girls too.’

  ‘Yes, but she didn’t know which ones, she claimed.’

  ‘Have you asked Olivia?’

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘She contacted quite a lot of the girls that had links to Jackie Berglund when she was digging around last year.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes, she might know someone from back then.’

  ‘Oh right…’

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  ‘But you don’t want to?’ Mette said.

  ‘Talk to Olivia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Nor me either.’

  ‘Well, then. How are you anyway?’ Stilton realised he should ask.

  ‘Fine. In fact very well today. We’ve just arrested two people we’ve been looking for in relation to that drug investigation I told you about. And maybe a murder too.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mette ended the call. Stilton leant against the railings. Olivia? Who hadn’t been in touch for more than a year? Not since she’d called him a cowardly bastard and stormed out of the Olsäters’ kitchen. Nevertheless he’d tried to call, several times. She never answered. He no longer existed as far as she was concerned. Mårten had broached the subject a couple of times. In his diplomatic way, he’d tried to explain Olivia’s feelings and that these would subside with time.

  He thought.

  Stilton didn’t.

  The little contact he’d had with Olivia led him to think otherwise. She cherished grievances. He was one of them. And now Mette thought that he should contact her?

  And get a pile of shit thrown in his face?

  * * *

  Albion was having a meeting right at the top of the building on Skeppsbron. The view over the inlet and Skeppsholmen was magnificent. The building had a long history dating back to the early eighteenth century, with a slightly sloping floor and a rather low ceiling. Jean Borell had tried to charm the city council into letting him raise it by a couple of metres, but so far they’d said no due to cultural heritage considerations.

  But he was going to fix that soon.

  He had connections.

  He sat at one end of the long oval teak table. A large framed photograph of himself shaking hands with Henry Kravis was hanging above his head.

  The photograph had been taken on a helipad in New York.

  The other four people gathered around the table, three men and a woman, held different positions in the company. They were all members of the inner steering committee. They’d been sum
moned to a strategy meeting about the near future. It looked problematic. As things were looking now, the debate about profits in the welfare sector would be high up on the political agenda ahead of the 2014 election. It was still too early to predict the outcome, but what they could predict was what would happen if there were a red–green majority. Stefan Löfven and the Social Democratic Party Congress had made that quite clear. If they won the election, private companies would be subject to tough regulations. And the Swedish Trade Union Confederation actually wanted to limit profits to the equivalent of the state interest rate plus one per cent of total capital, which would make the business totally uninteresting to Albion.

  ‘So how do we deal with that risk?’ Borell said.

  ‘By signing as many contracts as possible before the election,’ said a young, brisk man called Olof Block. He continued: ‘Which highlights the importance of our contract with Stockholm, it’s absolutely essential.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because several of the municipalities across the country are waiting to see what Stockholm does. If they sign, then the rest of them will dare to do so as well, and then it looks stable.’

  Borell knew that Block was completely right. If they had enough large long-term contracts in place they would still be able to sell the organisation.

  ‘How are we doing with the Stockholm contract?’ asked Siri Anrén, a dark-haired woman sitting at the end of the table.

  ‘We’re doing quite well,’ Borell said. ‘It should be sorted soon.’

  ‘Is there anything that could jeopardise that?’

  Everyone sitting around the table knew what she was getting at. Everyone knew that Albion had been portrayed in rather unfavourable light in the media during the past year. There had been strong criticism from various quarters. Now there were several opposition politicians questioning whether the City of Stockholm was really going to sign another multi-million contract with a company like Albion. The politicians defending the contract were pointing to the fact that most parts of Albion’s operations in Stockholm were being run extremely well. Silvergården was one of the nursing homes being used as an argument in favour of a new contract.