She lied.
Although she didn’t actually know where he’d gone, or whether he knew other people in Stockholm.
‘No idea.’
But she called him as soon as she was released from police headquarters. Furious. And she made it quite clear that he was never to come anywhere near her again.
‘Do you have any idea what you’ve dragged me into, you fucking idiot?’
Mickey Leigh knew.
‘Just one question,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll leave you in peace. That guy standing down on the street outside your place, how do I get hold of him?’
‘Go to hell!’
Jackie ended the call.
That was the end of all that amazing sex.
* * *
Olivia drove Abbas back to Dalagatan. She hoped that he was going to invite her up for tea, but he just gave her a kiss on the cheek and got out.
He seemed pretty exhausted.
On her way back she started thinking about Magnus Thorhed.
The man who’d been creeping around the house when she visited Borell the first time, and then sat smoking in the bar without turning around when she left.
The man who turned up at the murder scene, just like that, in the middle of the night.
She felt instinctively repulsed at the thought of him. There was something evasive and calculating that she couldn’t put her finger on. She called Stilton.
‘You know that car we drove past in the woods, on the way back from Borell’s place, did you see what make it was?’
‘A BMW.’
‘Dark blue?’
‘Maybe, I don’t know. It was travelling so bloody fast.
Why?’
Olivia ended the call. A BMW? The car parked next to Borell’s gate when she was there the first time, was it Thorhed’s and not Borell’s? What if he was the one at the Sahlmanns’ house the night of the murder?
She called Alex as soon as she reached the next red light. There were a few things she wanted to ask him, but he was in the middle of a heated news meeting and whispered: ‘Come over to mine tonight.’
‘Can’t we meet at Kristallen?’
‘We’ll just get drunk if we go there.’
He had a point.
So Olivia listened to herself arranging a time to meet at Alex’s. In his flat. A place that, just ten seconds ago, she’d never thought she’d return to.
* * *
The brown suitcase had been put in Mette’s office, on her orders. She felt personally responsible for everything to do with Mickey Leigh right now. She’d heard Abbas’s story.
Bosse and Lisa took care of Jackie Berglund. Mette took care of the suitcase.
She put on a pair of rubber gloves and opened the suitcase.
What she saw in there was lightyears away from what she expected. Clothes at the bottom and two computers on the top. One computer was a silvery-grey colour, the other one was in a bag made from pressed cork.
She sat down at her desk. A cork bag? That sent her head spinning. She just waited, unable to make sense of her thoughts.
Eventually she picked up the cork bag and lifted out a MacBook Pro. When she opened it up, she saw the little pink heart. Sandra’s sticker.
It was Bengt Sahlmann’s laptop that had first been stolen from Sahlmann and then Borell. Now it was lying in a suitcase belonging to this wanted English porn actor.
Mickey Leigh.
Mette’s analytical ability was pretty legendary at the National Crime Squad. It had seen her advance to become one of Sweden’s best murder detectives. Now it was off course – all she could muster were elementary questions.
Had Mickey Leigh murdered Jean Borell? Had he murdered Bengt Sahlmann too? But he’d been in Marseille then? Or hadn’t he? What would his motive have been anyway?
And then her analytical ability got a hold over her thoughts.
If Mickey Leigh had murdered Sahlmann and stolen the laptop, it wouldn’t have been lying in Borell’s office that long afterwards. Which it clearly was when Olivia was there. It would have been in the suitcase by then.
Then Bosse and Lisa stepped into the office.
‘Was that in the suitcase?’ Bosse asked, pointing at the laptop in front of Mette.
‘Yes.’
Then Lisa spotted the laptop bag lying next to it.
‘Is that Sahlmann’s?!’
‘Yes.’
Mette immediately sensed where this was going.
‘So was it Mickey Leigh who stole it from Sahlmann?!’
‘Did he murder Sahlmann?!’ Lisa asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Mette replied. ‘He was probably in Marseille then.’
‘So where the hell did he got hold of the laptop, then?’ Bosse said.
Mette looked at her two talented, young murder investigators. She had complete faith in them. And she knew that it was one hundred per cent reciprocated.
They’d get there after chipping away at it for a couple of minutes.
‘I think that Mickey Leigh stole the bag from Jean Borell,’ she said.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘It was in Borell’s office just before he was murdered.’
‘And how the hell do you know that?’ Bosse said.
And now Mette had to tell them.
‘Because Olivia saw it there.’
Just how much of the faith they had in her dissipated at that moment was hard to tell, but Mette knew that it was quite a considerable amount.
When she’d finished telling them about Olivia breaking into Borell’s house, the attempted murder, and how she’d intentionally kept this information from her colleagues there was quite a long silence.
‘Poor Olivia.’
It was Bosse who said it. It probably reflected what Lisa felt too. Both of them knew Olivia. Both of them also knew how close she and Mette were.
Both of them got it.
And returned to work mode.
‘So you think that this Mickey Leigh was in the house when Borell was murdered, is that what you’re saying?’ Lisa said.
‘The theft of the computers certainly points to that.’
‘And do you think he murdered him as well?’
‘Well, it’s not unlikely.’
Lisa sat down on the edge of the table and shook her head a little.
‘Why would an English porn actor based in Marseille come up here to murder Jean Borell?’
‘Maybe he’s a hitman?’ Bosse said.
‘Maybe.’
‘On whose orders would he have shot Borell then?’
‘No idea. We’ll have the computer guys go through the laptops, maybe they’ll find some clues.’
Mette took out her mobile.
* * *
Olivia had decided to lie low, take it easy. She’d been rather prickly towards Alex last time she was here and she hadn’t been answering his calls since then. This time she needed him for something very different. And she actually liked him too. It wasn’t his fault they’d ended up in bed. It was hers. Well, not a ‘fault’ as such – the sex had been good even though she was so drunk.
She wasn’t now.
She even declined his offer of a martini. It didn’t resonate particularly well with her.
‘But a Coke would be great.’
‘Sure.’
Alex got a Coke from the fridge and made himself a martini. He claimed that he needed it. Things had been pretty manic at the office, there was some climate summit in Doha that had presented some rather alarming information about the effects of global warming.
Olivia just listened with one ear. But she did listen, smiling occasionally. When he’d finished he lit a couple of tealights. They sat at the kitchen table in the large hangar-like space. She could smell a gentle waft of aftershave. Olivia noticed a packet of cigarillos at the other end of the table.
‘Don’t you use nicotine gum?’
‘Yes, but I cheat every now and again. You had some questions for me?’
�
��Yes, thanks for the other night, by the way.’
Alex didn’t really know how to interpret that. What was she thanking him for? The whole visit? Or was she trying to smooth over her terrible mood the next morning?
‘Well, thank you.’
Then he waited. He knew she wanted something and that it wasn’t what she’d come for last time. She was just as fired up as she was when she came up to the office the first time. He could see it in her eyes. What was she after?
‘Magnus Thorhed,’ Olivia said.
‘What about him?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘But you know of him?’
‘He’s Jean’s personal arse-licker.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he there at the dinner when Bengt had his outburst?’
‘Yes.’
What was she getting at?
‘Do you know whether he was personally acquainted with Bengt?’ Olivia said.
‘Yes, I think so. Through Jean. Now it’s my turn.’
‘For what?’
‘To ask questions. One. Why are you interested in Thorhed?’
‘He smells of nutmeg.’
‘Olivia.’
‘He has a blue BMW. Sandra saw one at the house the night that Bengt was murdered.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I think so too. Any more questions?’
‘Yes.’
Alex reached for the little packet on the table and lit a cigarillo. He tried not to blow the smoke at Olivia. Then he asked: ‘Do you know how the investigations are progressing?’
‘Into the murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would I know that?’
‘I get the feeling that you have plenty of conveniently placed sources, am I right?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Has any connection been made between the murders?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re interested in Thorhed, who’s a link between Jean and Bengt. Who’ve both been murdered.’
Olivia didn’t reply.
‘Have they got any suspects yet?’ Alex said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know or don’t want to say?’
Suddenly there was a harder undertone in Alex’s voice, which Olivia noticed. One of the tealights went out. She saw Alex’s face in the dark behind the other candle. He held the cigarillo in front of him. Now she was the one left wondering what he was getting at. Is this the journalist asking?
‘Do you think I’m lying?’ she said.
‘Everyone lies when they need to.’
‘You included?’
‘Me included. Would you like another Coke?’
‘No, thanks.’
Olivia got up. She felt that she wanted to get out of there, she’d heard what she needed to hear, she didn’t want to continue this conversation. She put on her jacket hanging on the back of the chair.
‘Are you going to go already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shall we keep in touch?’
‘Yes, let’s do that. Call me.’
‘I have.’
Olivia waved at him.
‘I’ll show myself out.’
In the dim light she saw Alex get up and stub out his cigarillo. Olivia started walking towards the door she knew led outside. Alex walked behind her. She didn’t turn around. When she reached the front door she heard the gigantic loft behind her fill with booming classical music.
She stumbled out onto the street and leant up against the wall. She’d felt stressed and tired. A wet dog was scurrying along on the other side of the road. The owner was nowhere to be seen. When the dog disappeared around a corner she got out her mobile and called Ove Gardman. Impulsively. He didn’t answer. When she heard the beep, she didn’t know what to say so she ended the call.
‘I miss you,’ she could have said.
* * *
Abbas sat in his flat and felt empty. The long train journey was still making itself felt, but he wasn’t tired. It had felt OK seeing everyone at the barge. Now he was alone again.
The Marseille trip was over.
He didn’t have the energy to think about its possible results. He tried to move on and stop thinking about Samira. He had to. He had to force himself back into everyday life.
Whatever that was going to be like.
On the train home he’d sat holding Samira’s necklace, pulling his fingers through it like a rosary, contemplating. His own situation. His reaction when he’d read about Samira’s murder. Why had he reacted so strongly? They’d been passionately in love, yes, but it was a very brief encounter and it was many years ago. Then Jean Villon died and he had sent a few letters to her without getting a reply.
But then?
He hadn’t gone to France to try and find her. Why hadn’t he done that? If she meant so much to him? He had no answer to that. He’d read about her murder and something had exploded, deep inside him, beyond his control. He had reacted and acted. Now he didn’t really know why. Now it was all over.
That increased the feeling of emptiness.
He put his wheeled bag in the bedroom, took down the large circus poster from the wall, rolled it up and put it in a wardrobe. The area where it had hung was much whiter than the rest of the wall. It would have to be repainted. He went out to buy some paint.
When he got down onto the street, he didn’t know which way to go. A paint shop? He walked towards Odenplan in the evening darkness. No rain, just biting wind between the houses.
Repaint? Why did he have to do that tonight? He turned back and started walking towards Valhallavägen. He’d repaint tomorrow. Where should he go? For the first time ever, he felt that he didn’t want to go back to his flat, the place he normally so loved coming home to. The silence. The books. The peace. Now he didn’t want to go there. Not yet. He didn’t want to ring Stilton either. Or the Olsäters. He didn’t have the energy. To talk. When he reached Valhallavägen he saw a poster. A circus poster. Not the like one he’d just taken down from his wall. A simpler one, more modern. Uglier.
CIRCUS BRILLOS.
That night’s performance was due to start at eight o’clock, down by the tennis club on Lidingövägen. Abbas looked at his watch. It was just gone eight.
Circus?
He hadn’t been to the circus since he’d left through the gates of Cirque Gruss in Marseille all those years ago.
Twenty minutes later he’d reached the circus. The girl in the ticket booth said that the performance had started half an hour ago. Abbas bought a ticket and went into the tent. He sat on a wooden bench towards the top. There were acrobats performing in the ring. He thought about Marie.
The snake woman.
This didn’t come close.
He looked at the audience. They were captivated by the events unfolding below. He looked up at the construction of the tent. It was made from steel, rather like Cirque Gruss. When a clown came in, he felt his stomach tighten. Pujol. What had happened to him? Did he know what had happened to Samira? Pujol had loved Samira too, secretly, he’d confessed it to Abbas one night when he was drunk.
Was Pujol still alive?
Abbas felt difficult memories popping back into his head. The voices. The smells. Strokes of laughter, tears. Life at the circus. He was about to get up when he heard the announcement of the next act.
It was knife throwing.
With a spinning wheel.
He sank back down onto the wooden bench. A little boy in front of him was waving about a large ball of candyfloss. It obscured his view slightly. Abbas leant over to one side when they dimmed the lights. The knife thrower was a woman. Abbas didn’t hear her name. Her target boy was tied to the wheel. He looked very young. The drum roll started as soon as the wheel started spinning. Abbas felt how tense he was.
His whole body was frozen.
When the first knife hit the wheel Abbas got up and left.
<
br /> On his way out he heard the audience scream every time a knife hit the wheel right next to the young boy’s body.
He regretted going.
* * *
They sat in Ovette’s kitchen. She and Acke lived in a one-bedroom flat in Flemingsberg. Acke had just gone to sleep. Stilton had waited. He didn’t want to talk about the things he needed to talk about while Acke was still awake. He waited for Ovette to return from the bedroom.
‘Do you want something?’ she asked.
‘What have you got?’
‘Water and box wine. White.’
‘I’ll have some water, please.’
Ovette poured a couple of glasses of water. Stilton lowered his voice a little.
‘How did he threaten you?’ he said.
‘He said he’d take care of us.’
‘And you felt that he meant it?’
‘Yes. Not exactly what he said, but that there’d be consequences. His eyes were all black.’
‘And no one heard this, I assume, other than you two.’
‘No.’
Stilton twirled the glass around in his hand. He’d been thinking about this new situation a great deal. Even if he could get Ovette to tell a journalist about Forss buying sex, it wasn’t certain that it would be enough. Forss would claim that these were the words of some delusional old hooker. If he even responded to them. The risk was that he’d go off bowling and let it all fizzle out.
Stilton wasn’t going to take that risk.
So he started from another angle.
‘When we had coffee the other day, you said something about Acke that I haven’t been able to forget,’ he said.
Ovette looked over at the bedroom door. Then she had a sip of water. Stilton waited. Ovette put the glass down.
‘Rune Forss is Acke’s father.’
She said it as casually as she was drinking the water. Calm and controlled. Stilton was about to ask: ‘Are you sure about that?’ But of course she was sure. Why else would she say it?
‘Does Forss know?’ he asked instead.
‘No.’
‘So he threatened his own son.’
‘In a way.’
Now it was Stilton drinking water. Not quite as calm and controlled. Ovette had confirmed what he’d suspected. Good. This was going to be part of the puzzle when it came to the Rune Forss case.
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