Forss looked up for the first time.
‘It was you. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were you doing in the house?’
‘I was due to meet Borell.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. He wasn’t there. I own some land in the archipelago, he was interested in buying some of it.’
‘Was he now?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you drove out to see him in the middle of the night to talk about selling your land.’
‘Yes. Call and ask him if you don’t believe me.’
Forss looked at Stilton. Ice-cold son of a bitch.
‘So you never actually saw Borell?’
‘No.’
‘On the film you’re seen storming into the house and then running back out again. Why?’
‘I was in a rush. Can you please explain to me why I’m sitting here?’
‘Because Jean Borell was murdered in his house last night. At around about the same time as you were seen storming in and out of it. That’s why.’
‘So he’s dead?’
‘You had no idea?’
‘No.’
Forss turned off the tape recorder and leant forward.
‘This is how it is, Stilton. You know that I know that you’re lying. I’ve been counting on that. Scum like you can’t spell the word “truth”. In a while I’m going to be showing the surveillance film to a prosecutor. So you can bet your bottom dollar that you’ll be remanded in custody.’
‘Are you still into bowling?’
Forss closed the file and left the room.
* * *
Olivia’s stomach was already in knots when she got in the car. It hadn’t got any better by the time she turned into Kummelnäs and approached the large green dilapidated old mansion. But there wasn’t much else she could do, she had to tell Mette.
Tell her everything.
They sat alone in a room next to the kitchen. A small, gloomy room with drawn curtains. Mette was wearing a dressing gown. She was on sick leave. She’d made some tea and brought in a large pot. Mårten was off studying his deceased family. Mette poured them both some tea. She hadn’t said much when Olivia came in. It was written all over her face that this was not a courtesy call to see how Mette was feeling.
‘Something’s happened,’ Mette said.
‘Yes.’
‘Something to do with Tom’s arrest.’
‘You know about it?’
‘A detective called me at six-thirty wondering where to find Tom. He was to be taken in for questioning about Borell’s murder. How do you know about it?’
Mette’s voice was intentionally distant, not too personal, not too cold. She’d been waiting for this meeting a long time. She’d have preferred it to be under different circumstances, but Olivia was here now and they had to take it from there.
‘It’s because of me,’ Olivia said.
‘That Tom’s been arrested?’
‘Yes.’
Olivia hesitated for a moment. She didn’t really know how far back she should begin. It actually all started with her visit to Customs and Excise, but that was rather too far back. Then she’d have to address the scolding Mette gave her in the kitchen and she wanted to avoid that. So she began with her visit to Silvergården, and her growing suspicions about Bengt’s laptop.
And then it all came out.
Mette interjected with a few short questions.
Olivia answered them all.
Once she’d told her about her own visit to Borell’s place and Stilton’s little adventure there, Mette asked another question.
‘What was he planning to do there?’
‘He was going to get my phone. He went there for me.’
The knot in Olivia’s stomach tightened. She’d recounted the whole tale with great shame and worry. Worry about how Mette would react. So far there hadn’t been any personal reaction from Mette at all.
Then it came.
‘So you’ve finally found each other.’
That was an unexpected reaction. Olivia had been bracing herself for a lecture. A Mette lecture. That Tom had put himself at great risk just to collect a mobile phone and now he’d been arrested for a murder he seemingly hadn’t committed.
And it was all Olivia’s fault.
She digested Mette’s words: ‘So you’ve finally found each other.’
Olivia felt a lump rising in her throat. Mette put her arm around her.
‘We’ll fix this,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’
And Olivia did.
In order to fix things as she’d promised, Mette both had to get dressed and write a note to Mårten saying that she was going for a long, restorative walk.
Olivia gave her a lift into the city. On their way in Mette called Oskar Molin, an old colleague from the National Crime Squad.
‘Who’s in charge of the preliminary investigation in the Borell case?’
‘Karnerud, I think. And Forss.’
‘Forss?’
‘Yes.’
‘What technicians have they brought in?’
‘I don’t know. Aren’t you on sick leave?’
‘Yeah. Speak to you soon.’
Olivia dropped Mette off at police headquarters on Polhemsgatan. Before they parted ways, Olivia asked Mette whether she knew about Sandra Sahlmann’s attempted suicide.
‘No, when did that happen?’
‘The other day. I found her in their house. In the bath.’
Mette let out a heavy sigh and looked at Olivia. She saw the sadness in her eyes and regretted shouting at her. Perhaps I should apologise after all, she thought. When the time comes.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said and pushed the car door closed.
Olivia drove off and Mette went into the building. It didn’t take long for her to find out which technicians were working on the case out on Ingarö. She called and explained that the Borell murder may have links to a murder that was being investigated at the National Crime Squad. Bengt Sahlmann’s.
‘How far have you got?’
‘The preliminary report is almost done.’
‘Can you give me a quick rundown of it?’
Then she went looking for Rune Forss and asked to speak to him in private. Forss tried to get out of it, but Mette was already there. He was forced into it. In the corridor.
Mette was standing quite close to him.
‘You’ve arrested Tom Stilton,’ she said.
‘Detained.’
‘Because he was out at Jean Borell’s place last night.’
‘Yes. He was caught on CCTV. I’m about to speak to a prosecutor about remanding him in custody.’
‘Have you read the technical report?’
‘It’s not finished yet.’
‘It was finished about fifteen minutes ago. I know what’s in it.’
‘And?’
‘The interesting part is the finding of the murder weapon. In the boathouse, two floors below the office where Borell was shot. A Luger, with the same calibre as the bullet on the wall behind the body. How did the gun end up in the boathouse?’
‘How the hell do I know?’
‘The murderer dropping it there would be my suggestion.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Based on the times on the surveillance film, Stilton was in Borell’s house for just over four minutes, right?’
Forss looked at Mette. He understood what she was getting at. He didn’t like it. But what was he supposed to do? A fact is a fact.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘In that time he is supposed to have gone inside, found Borell upstairs in his office, shot him, gone down to the boathouse, two floors down – whatever he was planning to do there when he had the car by the entrance – then dumped the murder weapon in the boathouse, gone back up two floors, gone out of the house and driven off. In just over four minutes.’
Forss’s face was expressionless.
‘There were finge
rprints on the weapon,’ Mette said. ‘I’d be very surprised if they were Stilton’s.’
Forss went straight back into his office.
* * *
Olivia found a parking space on Tjärhovsgatan near the Kvarnen restaurant, and walked over to Coffice on the corner of Östgötagatan, a café with a separate room where you could sit and work in peace. She sank down into one of the worn armchairs, connected to the WiFi and ordered a large cappuccino. She didn’t drink coffee very often, but there was something special about the beans they used here. She accessed the Dagens Nyheter site and skimmed through the articles about the murder of Jean Borell. She wanted to check whether Alex had written anything. He hadn’t. Perhaps I should give him a ring, she thought to herself. Or maybe not, he was probably rushed off his feet. She hadn’t bothered to answer his calls, she wanted to distance herself from that drunken night. She’d ring him soon, about Borell, a murder that may have links to the murder of Sandra’s father. Mette had reacted strongly when she showed her the pictures of Borell’s office on her phone. Mette knew that the missing laptop had been in an unusual cork bag.
Just like the one in Borell’s office.
‘But can we be absolutely sure that it’s Sahlmann’s laptop in there?’ she’d asked.
‘Yes, I opened it. Sandra had stuck a sticker on the inside, a pink heart. I took a picture of that too.’
‘Good.’
Olivia put the newspaper down and sipped her cappuccino. She should probably have called Sandra to tell her she found her computer, but she felt that it would be difficult to explain the situation. And the police technicians were probably busy with it at present.
So she waited with that.
Perhaps she should call Alex after all?
* * *
The fingerprints on the murder weapon were not Stilton’s. That was confirmed quite quickly. Once that was done the prosecutor had a brief chat with Karnerud and Forss: he saw no reason to keep Stilton any longer.
Stilton was sitting on the bench thinking about Abbas. He’d be home soon, unless of course he got off somewhere along the way. I wonder how he’ll react when he hears what’s happened, that I’m sitting here and that Olivia has been subjected to attempted murder by a now-murdered man? He was deep in thought, wondering how Abbas might react, when Rune Forss opened the cell door. Stilton got up. Forss took a couple of steps back out through the open door. Stilton followed him.
‘More questioning?’ he said.
‘There will be more questions, but not now.’
‘So I can go?’
Forss didn’t answer. Stilton saw the expression on his face. It wasn’t Forss’s decision, he’d been forced into it. How? Mette? Had Olivia explained? As he walked past Forss he lowered his voice slightly.
‘I’ve been talking to one of your old girlfriends from Red Velvet.’
He saw that this shocked Forss. Not much, but he certainly reacted. And it was enough. Stilton relished this moment. It may have been hasty to say it, but he’d said it now. He was happy to let Forss sweat for a while.
He deserved it.
He didn’t just sweat. He was both furious and frightened. As soon as Stilton had gone, he left the building and took out his mobile. He stood outside police headquarters in the drizzling rain and called Jackie Berglund. He was so hasty that she hardly had time to answer.
‘Is there any way Stilton can have found out about my old contacts?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Is my name still on your list?’
‘No, I’ve deleted it.’
‘When?’
‘About a year ago, after they called me in for questioning. Why? Why do you think that…’
‘Do you think any of the women have blabbed to him?’
‘Only one of them is still alive.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Ovette Andersson. But she won’t blab.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She isn’t the type.’
‘Have you got an address for her?’
Jackie did.
* * *
It was late by the time Stilton got back to the barge. He’d spent the last hour sitting at a café on Hornsgatan, because of the weather. He was used to bad weather and it seldom bothered him, but this was a bit much. It wasn’t just a storm, it was an absolutely unbelievable downpour that exploded across the skies and came pouring down in drops the size of golf balls. People leapt into doorways and cars had to pull over, their windscreen wipers unable to cope with the sheer amount of water.
Eventually it eased off enough for him to be able to finish his coffee and head back to the barge. Wet, but in good spirits. He’d certainly shocked Forss, not enough for him to lose his balance, but a clear riposte. He stood outside his cabin and shook off the worst of the rain.
‘Were you out in that?’
Stilton turned around. Luna was sitting over in the lounge watching him.
‘No.’
‘What happened with the police?’
‘They took me in and let me go.’
Stilton walked towards the lounge. There was something he wanted to ask Luna and it was a good idea to do so straight away.
‘Can I sit down?’ he said.
That alone seemed strange. He was asking whether he could sit down. That wasn’t like Stilton. Had something happened? But she gestured and Stilton sat down.
‘Would you like a towel?’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Your hair.’
Stilton hadn’t cut his hair since returning from Rödlöga and it had grown quite a bit. Enough to look wet, it seemed.
‘It’s fine,’ he said.
‘OK.’
Stilton looked at Luna. When he was lying in his cell, half-asleep, he’d thought about her quite a lot, more or less willingly. She just popped into his thoughts. Now he could partly understand why. There was something about that woman sitting there, looking like she always did, calm and collected, that attracted him to her. Not in the same way as Claudette, that was about something else, Luna was Luna. He leant over towards her.
‘I saw that you checked the magazine before you put the gun back,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘To check whether there was a bullet missing.’
‘Yes.’
‘If there had been, it would have been me who shot Borell, right?’
‘Well, that would have been a reasonable assumption.’
‘So that possibility crossed your mind? That I could have done that?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
So he’d asked what he had to ask. Luna had made sure that he hadn’t shot Borell. So she believed that he was actually capable of it. He looked down at his wounded hand, the one that Luna had kindly tended to.
‘But all the bullets were there,’ said Luna.
Stilton nodded. So they’d sorted it out. We know where we’re at, he thought, and asked: ‘Why do you have a gun?’
‘It’s just stuck around.’
‘Since?’
‘Since I needed it.’
She gave him a taste of his own medicine.
* * *
The music hadn’t helped.
He’d been standing right in the middle of the room for more than an hour, naked, and it hadn’t helped. He was just as afraid now as when he’d got the call.
‘Jean Borell has been shot.’
Now he was sitting hunched over at the round table next to the alabaster lamp. He’d just watched a cigarillo burn out in the ashtray, he’d hardly smoked it. There was a glass on the table. He filled it with port, right up to the brim – as he moved it towards his lips, half of it spilled out. He put it down again and turned towards the large room, his gaze resting on the beautiful wall opposite.
Was it his turn now? It was only him left now.
He looked down at his arms, the scratch scars were clearly visible. Would they stay or disappear?
He sat down on the flo
or, his legs crossed, and closed his eyes. His hands were tightly gripping the table legs in front of him. He tried to disappear, tried to dive into the darkness, away from this world he no longer wanted to be part of.
He couldn’t.
He lifted his head and felt the tears run down onto his hairless chest. He got up and went over to the bookshelf. With a trembling hand he pulled out a thick book, a German dictionary, hardcover. There was a gun lying behind it.
He looked at it.
He’d used it once before.
He could use it again.
Chapter 22
It was bitterly cold. The kind of cold that’s not really about temperature, but lashing, icy, penetrating winds that forced people from open spaces to seek shelter. So there was no way Olivia could walk to the barge. At first she’d thought she would, when Stilton rang, take a nice walk and get some fresh air. She still felt the effects of that vacuum room.
‘Mette’s on her way here, it’s probably a good idea if you come as well,’ he’d said.
It probably was.
Things were actually rather muddled in her head. She could do with listening to Mette’s more analytical view of the situation to get an idea of what she should be doing herself. Because she was involved in this murder in several ways, some good and some decidedly less good.
But as soon as she got out of the door and almost got blown back in, she decided to take the car. She didn’t need that much fresh air.
She ran up the ladder so as not to be blown off and crept down into the lounge. Stilton and Mette were already sitting there. Luna was at the cemetery.
‘Hi,’ said Stilton. ‘Sit down.’
Olivia pulled her jacket off and sat down. Mette got going straight away.
‘We’ve taken over the Borell investigation,’ she said. ‘There was a fair amount of grumbling, but there always is. I went through all the material this morning and got our team up to speed. The autopsy report confirms what it says in the preliminary report. Borell was murdered. The murder must have occurred at some point after he left you, Olivia, down by the water, and before you, Tom, came back to the house. How long do you think that was?’
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