Third Voice

by Börjlind, Cilla

  If everything went as planned.

  When he got back to the barge it was dark, both inside and out. The lights were off in the lounge and there was light snowfall over Stockholm. The first snow, he thought, and went down into his cabin. He put on the little lamp on the wall and sat on his bunk. The stuffed bird was looking at him with its peculiar dead eyes. He leant back onto the wooden panelling. He felt the pain in his groin again. A dash of whiskey? He’d bought a bottle for Luna. He’d almost finished off the other one the other night. But whiskey meant going into the lounge and that meant there was a risk of Luna turning up in the dark. She did that sometimes. Not that he minded, just not tonight. So he decided against the whiskey and started taking off his trousers. Mette had called on his way to the barge and told him about the hunt for Mickey Leigh. How he’d fled, hot-foot, from Jackie’s flat, leaving behind the laptop that Olivia had seen at Borell’s place. The laptop belonging to the murdered Bengt Sahlmann.

  He couldn’t quite put the pieces together.

  Mette would get back to him on that, he was sure of it.

  But he couldn’t really let it go.

  So it could have been that bloody Bull at Borell’s almost at the same time as him. After he’d shot Borell. And now he was on the loose in Stockholm.

  He wondered whether Mette had told Abbas.

  He’d forgotten to ask that.

  Sooner or later he’d have to bring it up – tell him about Mickey Leigh and Jackie Berglund. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. Having to explain why he’d gone behind his back, after all they’d been through in Marseille. But maybe Abbas would understand? He generally did and a few words later it was forgotten. But he might not forget quite as readily this time.

  It was about Samira.

  Stilton turned off the light and was about to lie down when he heard it. A scraping sound. He put the light on again. Was it Luna? But the sound wasn’t coming from that direction, it came from above, from the deck. He listened. It was silent now. He turned the light off again and lay in darkness for a few seconds. Then he turned the light on and pulled his trousers back on. He didn’t fancy lying there allowing his imagination to get him all worked up. Before leaving the cabin he turned the light off again.

  He headed down the corridor towards the steps up to the deck. He stopped and listened. He couldn’t hear anything. Instinctively he grabbed a wooden basket lying on a shelf. He held it in his hand as he climbed up the steps. He stopped in the opening before he got out on deck. It was dark out there. The city lights were casting something of a glow, but most of the deck was in darkness. It had stopped snowing.

  He went up on deck.

  Even in the dark, he could guess the contours of the railings. He knew this part of the barge well. He hunched over, walked a bit further and looked from one side to the other. He didn’t see a thing. Or anyone. He stood up straight and listened. All he heard was the sound of traffic in the distance. He turned back towards the steps. He was just about to climb down them when he caught sight of something just to left of the stairs.

  Footprints.

  In the light, white snow.

  Large footsteps leading over towards the steps and then back again to the ladder. Stilton quickly walked over to them and looked down at the quayside. It was empty. There were a few cars standing a bit further away. All of them had their lights off. He followed the footsteps back to the steps. Whoever had made them had been heading below deck and then turned around. Because he heard me? But how did he get off the boat? Stilton just presumed that it was a man, judging by the size of the footprints.

  But who?

  Mickey Leigh was the first name to pop into his head. But how could he have found him? Did Jackie Berglund know about him? Why should she? And why would he come looking for me? Did he see me at Borell’s place? Does he think I saw him?

  Stilton conjured up several more questions in his head as he went back down to the lounge. He was going to have that whiskey now. In the dark, in silence – he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep now.

  Not for a long time.

  He’d just poured himself a small helping when he heard footsteps coming from behind. He jumped and turned around. It was Luna. She took a few steps into the moonlight from one of the portholes, dressed in a yellow strappy nightie.

  ‘Have you been having nightmares?’ she said, quietly, as though the situation and the darkness muted her voice.

  ‘Yes, I needed a stiff drink. I’ll buy some more.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Luna reached for a blanket and sat down on the bench by Stilton. Just as she was about to wrap it around her shoulders, Stilton saw it. The tattoo that went down from her neck over one shoulder. He’d seen a glimpse of it before, of the little offshoot running up her neck. But now he saw the whole tattoo. He recognised it. He’d seen one just like it, or a similar one, before, but he couldn’t remember where. It was unique.

  ‘Would you like some?’

  Stilton held up the bottle of whiskey.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m getting up early.’

  ‘Off to the cemetery?’

  ‘No.’

  She didn’t say any more than that.

  Chapter 23

  Lisa Hedqvist rubbed her eyes, she was tired, it was well after midnight. And she’d also spent many hours staring at computer screens. She admired the two guys sitting next to her.

  Computer forensics technicians.

  How did they do it?

  Mette didn’t want to lose time. She had two murders on her plate and at least one murderer on the loose. She’d requested Bengt Sahlmann’s laptop be stripped down at once. She assumed that it would reveal essential information about the murders, considering that it had been stolen from two murder scenes.

  But she’d also asked Lisa to help them in determining what could be regarded as relevant information for their investigations.

  Moreover, she’d explicitly said that they should call her any time of night if they uncovered anything of interest.

  Lisa sipped yet another cup of coffee.

  So far they hadn’t found anything that was worth waking Mette for.

  They wouldn’t have woken her anyway. Mette was wide awake. She’d tried getting some sleep, without success. Lying down, staring into the darkness, wondering whether she should take a sleeping pill. But that might mean she wouldn’t wake if Lisa called. Eventually she’d got up as quietly as she could.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  She was caught by Mårten’s voice.

  ‘No. And neither can you apparently.’

  ‘No. Shall we go down to the kitchen?’

  It was a tried and tested method in their family. Go down and have a little something in the kitchen. To settle any hunger pangs and calm anything that needed calming.

  They sat down in the kitchen and lit a candelabra. Gentle light for weary eyes. Mårten heated some milk and poured in a dash of honey. No miracle drug exactly, but sometimes it did the trick.

  ‘It’s not your heart, is it?’ he dared to ask.

  He knew that Mette was extremely tired of his constant anxiety. But he was asking because he cared.

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ she said. ‘But it’s not my heart. When it is I’ll tell you. You’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘So what is it, then?’

  ‘What about you? Your heart?’

  Mårten laughed a little. His heart was strong as an ox. It wouldn’t stop beating until something else gave up. He knew that.

  ‘No, it’s my family,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘They’re nuts.’

  ‘Do you mean the deceased or current members?’

  ‘The deceased ones.’

  And so Mårten started telling her about his ancestral research and finally Mette felt that she could sleep. Immediately. Sitting down. She felt her eyelids closing and they were almost shut when the phone rang.

  It was Lisa.

>   That was the first call.

  There would be two more that night.

  After the third one, Mette made three calls of her own. To Stilton, Abbas and Olivia.

  Olivia was asleep.

  Stilton was up drinking whiskey.

  Abbas didn’t say what he was doing.

  But all of them received the same instructions from Mette.

  ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning at my place.’

  Chapter 24

  Olivia picked up both Stilton and Abbas in her car. Stilton looked pretty haggard, but Olivia had seen him looking far worse. But his breath reminded her of that homeless guy.

  Abbas smelled freshly showered.

  Not much was said in the car on the way to Mette’s. Everyone understood that something decisive had happened. Stilton knew about Mickey Leigh and presumed that it was about him, in one way or another.

  So did Olivia.

  She’d received a call from Mette after the raid on Jackie Berglund’s flat and the discovery of Sahlmann’s laptop. It had taken a while for her to digest the fact that Mette had told Lisa and Bosse about her break-in. But she’d understood.

  Abbas was the one who knew the least. So, on the way to Mette’s, Stilton did what he’d been dreading. But he wasn’t entirely sober.

  ‘Mickey Leigh is in Stockholm,’ he said.

  They were near Orminge and not too far from Mette’s house. Stilton knew that, so he could keep the conversation short.

  It was to be very short.

  ‘I know,’ Abbas said.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I called Jean-Baptiste yesterday and asked how things were going. He’d said you’d spoken.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t want to tell you just then.’

  ‘Well, you probably had your reasons.’

  ‘Yes.’

  So it was forgotten. Stilton hoped. But you could never be sure with Abbas, maybe he stored things up in a corner of his secretive brain for later when he needed them.

  But now it was said.

  Olivia parked some distance away from Mette’s house. There were already a few other cars there.

  ‘Who do you think is here?’ she said.

  She soon found out as she approached the gate and a group of people came trooping out through Mette’s front door. Lisa Hedqvist, Bosse Thyrén and four other people. Mette’s core investigation team. They’d met two hours ago. When Lisa hugged Olivia she saw how tired she was.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I’m going to go home and sleep now,’ Lisa said.

  The larger delegation proceeded on down towards their cars, while the smaller one headed onwards towards the open front door. No one was there to greet them so they carried on into the kitchen. The mood had been more cheery all the other times they’d been to the house.

  Mårten was standing in the kitchen in a dark-blue dressing gown. Alone. When they came in, he gestured towards another room without saying a word. He looked tired too. When they went in, they saw Mette standing in front of a large dining table. She was wearing a light, airy top and a pair of black silk trousers. There were piles of paper on the table. Emails. Faxes. Reports. Everything looked orderly, just as Mette liked it when she worked.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

  The trio sat down on various pieces of furniture. Stilton ended up in a dark armchair that had lost its padding around about the time of the Korean War. Mette picked up a virtually empty water jug from the middle of the table.

  ‘Mårten!’ she shouted towards the kitchen and Mårten appeared in the doorway. Mette held out the jug towards him without a word. He took it and disappeared again.

  ‘We went through Bengt Sahlmann’s laptop last night,’ Mette began. ‘I will be summarising what we found. You are welcome to ask questions, but only ones of substance.’

  The trio peered at each other. Who would dare to ask anything after that?

  ‘Firstly, some technical information. I don’t know how up-to-date you all are. Olivia might be pretty au fait with this having been on her way to becoming a police officer, but I’m not sure how much Tom remembers – it probably wasn’t common back then. And I’m not sure that Abbas knows much about this in particular.’

  Mette maintained a very strict tone. It was clear that she wanted their full attention. Olivia also noted the ‘on her way to becoming a police officer’.

  But she let it go.

  ‘So, here are the details,’ Mette continued. ‘Via a chat tool, such as Yahoo Messenger, someone in Sweden makes contact with people in another country who provide various sexual services. Let’s say that person is called Bengt. He orders what he’d like and then he makes use of the service via a webcam. In real time. This is a practice that has been growing in recent years. A couple of months ago, a man from Malmö was found guilty of ordering sexual abuse of children in the Philippines that he accessed online.’

  ‘Disgusting.’

  Olivia made the comment. It wasn’t a question, but she couldn’t help herself. Mette continued.

  ‘This Bengt can also communicate via the webcam about what is going on at the other end. For this service, he pays a certain sum to an American money transfer service called XOOM, which then sends the money on to the people performing the sexual services.’

  ‘So you can sit in your own country watching live porn being streamed from another country?’

  Stilton wasn’t sure whether this was a question of substance – it was rather more rhetorical. But Mette was kind enough to say yes. She knew that Stilton had been out of the game for a few years.

  ‘If the police get tipped off about such activities, and they turn out to be criminal, they can follow the transfers from Bengt’s account to XOOM and on to the end recipient. Thus far, the theoretical part. Now let’s turn our attention to the real-life Bengt Sahlmann and his laptop.’

  Mette was still standing up. She hadn’t lost her tempo for a second. Everyone started suspecting where this was going and was grateful for the freshly refilled water jug that Mårten brought in.

  ‘We have found transfers to the United States using XOOM on Sahlmann’s laptop. We’ve also found email conversations between him and Jean Borell confirming that the payments have been for orders of sexual services abroad.’

  Mette picked up a piece of paper from the table.

  ‘This is an email reply from Sahlmann to Borell: “Hi, Jean. Ordered a BDSM session as per request.”’

  ‘BDSM?’

  ‘It’s an abbreviation of bondage, discipline and sadomasochism, a very particular type of sexual practice. One party is dominant while the other is submissive. The end point for the last transfer was to an account in Marseille.’

  Everyone looked over at Abbas, as discreetly as they could. He just carried on staring straight into Mette’s eyes.

  ‘So we can surmise that these two gentlemen ordered and witnessed a pornographic act streamed live from Marseille, a so-called BDSM session.’

  Mette had agonised over this during the night. How was she going to present this to Abbas? She knew she had to do it. She’d woken Jean-Baptiste and asked for some information without going into detail about why she wanted it. Finally she’d decided to be as factual as possible. Facts. The truth. She knew that Abbas would respect that.

  And accept it.

  And he did.

  Thus far.

  ‘So now let’s leave Sahlmann’s laptop for a moment and look at what we know about the murder of Samira Villon,’ Mette continued.

  She picked up a couple of pieces of paper from the table.

  Emails from the French police.

  ‘Mickey Leigh is an English porn actor living in Marseille. He is apparently known as The Bull. According to Jean-Baptiste, you are the one who found this information, Abbas?’

  Abbas nodded almost imperceptibly. Stilton hoped that Mette didn’t know how Abbas had got this information.

  ‘Mickey Leigh engaged in some sort of pornographic ac
t together with Samira Villon. It took place the day after Sahlmann’s payment reached Marseille. After said act, Samira disappeared. Some time later, Mickey Leigh shows up here. He has been arrested in absentia.’

  Mette reached for the water jug for the first time. A few beads of sweat had started to form on her face. Olivia hoped that she was going to sit down soon. She did not want to witness her having another heart attack.

  ‘Summing up, then,’ Mette said and sat down. ‘This can lead to a number of possible theories. I will present the one I believe is most plausible.’

  Suddenly her tone had changed. The magisterial sternness had eased off: she’d trundled through the facts and now it would be more personal, less speculative. Now she’d discuss the situation with a group of people to whom she accorded a great deal of respect.

  For different reasons.

  ‘I think that Bengt Sahlmann and Jean Borell witnessed the killing of Samira Villon, in real time, during the sexual act they’d ordered in Marseille.’

  The room fell silent.

  Mette brushed her hand over the tablecloth. She understood the silence. She knew it was necessary. She herself had sat quietly for several minutes with her team of investigators at dawn – perplexed, stunned, repulsed. She knew it might take some time.

  It was Stilton who finally broke the silence.

  ‘You think they sat and watched a murder being committed? Right in front of their eyes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And kept schtum about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe they’d even ordered the murder?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve discussed that. There are rumours flying about on the Internet about something called “death sex online”, allowing people to order and watch murders in real time, but there haven’t been any reports of such cases so far.’

  ‘This might be the first?’

  ‘No. The payment made by Sahlmann is within the normal range for online porn. There would certainly have been a different sum for online sexual murder.’