The door opened. The judge came in with such a grim expression that Félix thought he might as well spend the fifty-centime piece he had just tossed in the air on a cup of coffee. If it had landed on tails the judge would sign. Now it looked more likely to be heads: the judge would say no. He sat down without a word, tight-lipped, his jaw set. Despite this Félix gathered together the copy of the Swordfish cheque, the address in the Cayman Islands, which hadn’t been hard to find, and the plan for an international rogatory commission that he had drawn up while he was at it. He embarked on his report like a child showing off his school work.
“I found Swordfish. Ugland House, South Church Street, George Town, Cayman Islands. You see what I mean…”
“No I don’t,” said the judge.
“It’s the postal address for about 18,000 companies. As Obama said it’s ‘either the biggest building in the world, or the biggest swindle’.”
“Look Félix, I don’t care what Obama said, I’ve got the public prosecutor on my heels. He’s taking a personal interest in the case. The people named in the logbook didn’t appreciate our visits and have made that known to him.”
“Already? News does travel fast. Well, we’ll have to work quickly. I’ve drawn up a request for an international mandate to obtain information about Swordfish. You just have to sign here…”
The judge took the paper and skimmed through it:
29th July 2010. Body of a woman taken from the sea, name Linda Stephensen. 30th July 2010. Search of vessel showed suspicious evidence… important to identify ownership of vessel… to find out who owned the account used for paying decorator… Suspicion of murder and money-laundering. Request to Cayman authorities for information vital to inquiry.
“You’re a pain in the arse,” the judge said, putting down the paper.
“Just sign it! After that you can always promise to go easy on the prosecutor’s friends.”
“You should shave.”
Félix passed a hand over his neglected chin – he could have passed for a conceptual artist at one of the trendy vernissages that Mark used to drag him to. He didn’t answer. He knew when it was time to stop. The judge took off his watch, placed it on his desk and began to bury himself in one of the sixty ongoing case files.
Silence fell, broken only by the piercing sound of a drill in the men’s lavatories. Then suddenly the door opened and a plump gendarme came in, bearing what Félix enjoyed most about this job: new and unexpected evidence. It was a CD, with Linda Stephensen’s name written on the case. Félix grabbed it and slipped it into his computer, with a suddenly humble glance towards the judge, who nodded, and signalled to him to play the recording.
“It’s settled, I’m going to divorce him. Why do you smile? You don’t believe me… You think I’ll never leave my banker husband, the servants, the yacht, the dressing room twice the size of the bedroom…”
“It’s just that this is the third time you’ve announced it.”
“I know and each time it’s been the same. When I was here I felt very determined, and then as soon as I was back in the Faroes, I became afraid and gave up…”
“Afraid of what? Of him?”
“No, it started even before arriving home. You can’t imagine how much the Falcon shakes, how terrifying the landing at Tórshavn is. There’s so much wind up there… I could see the islands through the clouds, there are eighteen of them, I know all their names, at school we learnt them at the same time as our times tables, as though it would always be useful, as though none of us would ever leave.
“I hung on in the plane, and the more I hung on, the more I gave up the idea of any other plan. I only wanted one thing – to get to the next drinks party in Tórshavn in one piece. And God only knows, you should see what a Tórshavn drinks party is like!
“But this time I’m really getting a divorce. By now Sunleif knows – I left him a message on his mobile last night. I told him I wanted a divorce, that I wasn’t going to change my mind, and that we must have a calm discussion. I added that I know plenty about his business. I want my share, I want to be comfortable.”
“Did you say why?”
“He can’t possibly understand my reasons. Sun is a simple man, he thinks I’ve had enough of all his mistresses and call girls, in London and everywhere else. If only he knew I couldn’t care less about that. Him fucking other women suits me very well – I get left in peace. I’m divorcing him because things have changed. And I’ve changed too. And it’s becoming dangerous…”
“Dangerous?”
“Sunleif has been playing with fire. He’s happy, he’s got Russian friends, big accounts, oil moguls who put their money with him… It’s all going to blow up in his face. Disaster’s about to strike, I can feel it, and I don’t want to be around when it does.
“Anyway, what matters, Doctor, is that soon you’ll be seeing me every week. That’s what happens with proper therapy isn’t it? I’m going to leave him, and settle here for good. I’ve got my gallery, people are mad about art these days. I’ll negotiate a settlement and then I’m off. It’s funny, I’ve never felt better. And I’ve never been on the verge of losing everything either…”
The recording lasted about five minutes, and contained nothing but the slightly hoarse voice of a woman speaking French with a Nordic accent, with occasional short questions from somebody who sounded like a psychotherapist.
“Let’s summon the husband. And we’ll find the shrink to authenticate the recording.”
“And while you’re at it, why don’t you sign for the rogatory commission? At least you’ll know why you’re getting into trouble,” Félix tried again.
“And what are we going to find? Plenty of millionaires’ dirty tricks, but nothing about what happened here. Rich people drown too, you know.”
“Yes but it’s only the poor who can’t swim!”
The inquiry moved along fast: the next day it was found that a man had been caught on surveillance cameras at the post office sending a packet. They matched the face against professional lists and came up with a Dr Molny, a psychoanalyst on Rue de Dijon. The police visited his consulting rooms and he gave them further recordings, explaining that he had recorded sessions with Mrs Stephensen’s full agreement, as he had with other patients, as part of research he was doing on the early stages of therapy. He asked for complete discretion, as he feared that it would be bad publicity for him.
CD number three. Linda Stephensen was telling the doctor about a dinner party at their house in the Faroes.
“The Russians arrived first, they came early and without their wives. That was a bad sign and Sunleif was surprised. He shut himself up with them in his office. There were raised voices from behind the door. Sergei was doing all the talking. Sergei is a very important man in Russia. He lost his temper. As far as I could make out it was about problems with the stock-market regulators. There were threats too. I wanted to hear more, but the servants were coming and going and I didn’t want to be caught like a housemaid listening at keyholes.”
Eventually they discovered from the central records four bank accounts in Linda Stephensen’s name. The gallery account showed several large transactions, tens of millions of euros sometimes, with Sergei Louchsky’s name making frequent appearances.
Sunleif Stephensen was pouring with sweat when he appeared at the office. He hadn’t been far away. He had come to identify his wife’s body. He gave Félix a filthy look. Félix studied the other man’s appearance: the neck as wide as the head, the shirt buttons stretched to bursting over his fat stomach – not your typical banker. Stephensen stamped over to the judge, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that he kept pulling in and out of his pocket. He was cursing them in a mixture of English and Faroese – he appeared to be protesting about the search of his boat, about being summoned at a time that didn’t suit him, and about being spoken to in this French language that he didn’t understand. A frail young man with fading blond curls trotted in behind him. This was his interpreter, whom he called Eyvin.
“Calm yourself, sir,” said the judge, inviting Sunleif to sit down.
“What’s this circus? My boat is searched, I’m summoned as though I’m a criminal – I’m a busy man!”
“Sir, your wife is dead, so—”
“I know that!”
“…so we’re exploring every avenue in order to discover the cause of her death.”
“Who authorized you to search my boat? What on earth were you looking for? I thought she drowned!”
“Drowning is certainly one hypothesis. We have begun an inquiry. When it’s the wife of an important man like yourself…”
This was the right thing to say to Sunleif. So they hadn’t forgotten what an important man he was. Once this had been translated, he began to calm down. The judge quietly opened his drawerful of supplies, which always came in useful during interrogations: alcohol, mints and cigars for the more self-important. For the moment he just handed a tissue to the still sweating Sunleif.
“Please relax, we’ve got plenty of time. She was a good swimmer, I gather?”
“Yes, very good and she knew the bay well. Her dream was to live here, rather than up there, at home. But she sometimes went out too far and I told her so.”
“She can’t have gone swimming this time, she was found in her evening dress.”
“I can’t understand what can have happened.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Several days ago…”
“What did she say?”
“Just ordinary stuff, bits of news.”
“Nothing more?”
“What do you mean, nothing more?”
“Her plans for a divorce, for example.”
There was silence. Reactions were slowed down by the intermediary of the interpreter. Especially as the interpreter looked terrified by what he was having to translate.
“No! What’s going on here? First they tell me she’s dead, now that she wants a divorce!”
The clerk and judge could communicate over the intranet, and Félix sent a note: The recording?
“According to our information, she left you a message…”
“A message?”
“Listen, Mr Stephensen, you’re an important man here, you own a bank, and some of your clients are rich and powerful people. It’s quite normal that when your wife is found dead we should ask a few questions.”
Note from Félix: Who does the boat belong to?
“What have my clients got to do with all this? I warn you that I have informed my lawyer about your intrusion onto my boat.”
“That is perfectly normal. What has your relationship with your wife been like recently?”
“Twenty years of marriage, money, demands, journeys, private jets – I don’t need to spell it out, it wasn’t exactly Romeo and Juliet. But still, we’d built everything up together, we grew up together, we had children together – all that counts, doesn’t it? We were very close, we needed each other.”
“Did you have a prenuptial agreement? Had your wife asked for a settlement?”
“A settlement for what?” yelled Sunleif.
“Well, a divorce settlement…”
“There you go again with your fucking divorce!”
The interpreter just said “divorce”. He looked at Sunleif, terrified. He seemed to be both a loyal servant and a prisoner, a willing but enslaved workhorse. His mouth was still that of a child.
“Listen to this, Mr Stephensen,” said the judge.
He signalled to Félix, who started the recording.
“But this time I’m really getting a divorce. By now Sunleif knows – I left him a message on his mobile last night. I told him I wanted a divorce, that I wasn’t going to change my mind, and that we must have a calm discussion. I added that I know plenty about his business. I want my share, I want to be comfortable.”
Sunleif listened in disbelief, and then suddenly rose and said: “She’s not dead?! Linda isn’t dead?! I knew it, I was sure. She’s somewhere here, and you’re digging around in our life and our business? Linda! Linda! It’s me, Sun!”
He got up and called her as if she was on the other side of the door. The frail interpreter had stopped translating. The judge and the clerk watched the banker striding up and down the room calling his wife; they hadn’t for a moment foreseen this reaction. “Linda, Linda, where are you?” Then he banged his fist on the judge’s desk, and leant over him pointing his finger:
“I demand to see my wife. And I demand my lawyer.”
A policeman who had come to the rescue gently and firmly forced him to sit down. The judge decided that this might be the moment to bring out the cigars.
“For your wife that’s impossible, sir, she’s dead, and believe me I’m truly sorry. I thought you had been to the morgue to identify her body.”
“Yes but it was her and not her. This is her actual voice.”
“Yes, she was seeing a psychoanalyst who recorded it and sent the recordings to us anonymously.”
“What do you mean, a shrink? I didn’t know… I’m sure she would never have divorced me, you know what women are like, they snivel and moan but in the end they stay. Doesn’t yours ever do that?”
The judge quietly closed his drawer. It was a bit soon for cigars. The Viking banker wanted a man-to-man talk. Normally the judge wasn’t up for that, but this time he heard himself say:
“Well, yes… Mr Stephensen.”
A sly note from Félix: Do I record this?
The judge continued.
“She often came to Nice, as you told us. This boat, how long have you had it?”
“The boat… well, we’ve had it since, well… it’s not really ours, we just rent it.”
“Who from?”
“Some company, I can’t remember the name. We must have the charter agreement somewhere.”
Note from Félix: How did he find out the boat was for hire?
“How did you know the boat was for hire?”
“An ad in the Herald Tribune I think. It was Linda who saw it. She loved being there, and she wanted a big boat, so I said yes, you understand…”
“Look, Mr Stephensen, we can either carry on now or continue this conversation tomorrow. But you will have to tell me more about the boat and the ad in the Herald Tribune.”
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t deal with all that!”
“If you’re the owner of the boat, why is it so important to conceal it?”
“Stop fucking me around!” (The interpreter preferred “Stop annoying me.”)
“When people put property in the name of a third party it’s often a way of laundering money.”
“What the fuck have all these questions got to do with Linda’s death? I’ve just lost my wife, twenty years of my life, the mother of my children, and now I’m being treated like a petty thief by a little provincial judge—”
“Calm down, Mr Stephensen.”
“No, I will not calm down! I will not be trampled on! I know people, you know. You’re the one who’s going to have to calm down. You’re going to regret your slanderous questions.”
And, turning to his little frightened robot, Eyvin:
“Translate that properly! Tell him I know people way above his pay grade!”
“Exactly,” the judge said, picking up the logbook. “You do seem to have some prestigious connections. What is your relationship with?…”
And the judge then read out one by one the names of those people who had been on the boat the night of Linda’s death.
“They’re my friends.”
“Do you do business with them?”
“For me business and friendship are the same thing.”
Note from Félix: I’ve got you by the short and curlies.
“Might one of them have had any reason to harm you or your wife?”
“They’re my friends!”
“You wife said in these recordings that your business was going through a difficult patch.”
“She didn’t understand anything! Just as I don’t understand anything about these stupid pictures without paint that she sells for millions of dollars. Each to his own department…”
“What can you tell me about Sergei Louchsky?”
“He’s a friend.”
“Mr Stephensen, friendships sometimes deteriorate. At least that’s what your wife seemed to be saying.”
The judge made a signal and Félix turned the voice on for the second time:
“Sergei is a very important man in Russia. He lost his temper. As far as I could make out it was about problems with the stock-market regulators. There were threats too. I wanted to hear more, but the servants were coming and going and I didn’t want to seem like a housemaid listening at keyholes. When Sun emerged he was red in the face with great patches of sweat at his armpits. I had never seen or heard of anyone speaking sharply to Sun. Normally it was everybody else who trembled before him, everybody was frightened of him. He went upstairs to change his shirt, I followed him, I told him to calm down, to tell me what was going on. He just pushed me aside. He can throw you to the ground with one hand. That evening I understood that he had lost control of the situation.”
Sunleif Stephensen was foaming with rage. If Linda had come to life there and then he would have hit her. Eyvin, beside him, would have given anything simply to disappear.
“Mr Stephensen, we’ll stop there for today. However, I am obliged to ask you for your mobile phone so that we can check the messages on it.”
“You’re joking!”
He got up, unfolding his huge frame, and leant towards the judge, both hands on the edge of the desk.
“Mr Stephensen, you’ll get it back as soon as possible. And nothing that is not pertinent to your wife’s death will be kept on the file. I’m doing my job, sir.”
“Well all right, do it then,” the ogre suddenly obeyed, throwing his mobile onto the table.
Two hours later, the commission of inquiry to be sent to the Cayman Islands had been authorized. The serial number of Stephensen’s SIM card had been sent to the listening services. The judge, in a filthy mood, pushed open the door to the prosecutor’s office – he had been summoned to see him immediately. He was greeted by an over-effusive “my dear fellow” and sat down on an ochre government-issue sofa.
“What’s going on with Mr Stephensen?” the prosecutor asked.
“Has he already been complaining?”
“Not just him! I’ve had the Senator and the President of the Chamber of Commerce on the telephone within the last hour. It appears that you impounded his logbook and his telephone. Isn’t that a bit hard on a man who has just lost his wife?”
The judge explained about the recordings and the checks that would be necessary.
“I see. But the autopsy report is quite clear, is it not? Mrs Stephensen drowned.”
“Yes, that seems likely.”
“So you agree with me?”
“Let’s say I don’t disagree.”
“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. I don’t know anything about Mr Stephensen’s affairs, but the only thing we’re interested in is his wife’s death, nothing else. Are we agreed on that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. So give him back his telephone and sign the release for the body so that we can have a bit of peace and quiet. You know what these foreigners here are like. They seem to think that because they’re helping our economy with their millions we should have to take orders from them. They don’t understand that there are procedures that must be followed. Otherwise, all well?”
“Perfectly.”
“Your wife?”
“Fine.”
“Piano coming along all right?”
The prosecutor drummed his little fat fingers on the edge of the desk. The judge didn’t remember ever having mentioned his piano lessons to him.
“It’s coming along.”
“Good, well I think that’s everything… Oh, I was just about to forget the good news! I’ve done what’s necessary to get you the Legion of Honour. In normal circumstances, and I mean normal, it should come through in this Christmas’s honours list.”