The same distorted voice that threatened him, and which he’d broken off contact with.

Hoffmann had no doubt. That was the voice that spoke first.

“You got a phone, now a gift. Look at the stool next to the bed, the one anchored to the floor. You’re not supposed to be able to unscrew the seat—but you’ll be able to. And when it comes off you’ll be looking down into a hollow pole.”

And the second voice, the man who had been called, had a slight accent.

“Just tell me who the hell you are and what the fuck you want then hang up.”

He recognized the man’s voice. But couldn’t place it. However, the situation was slowly becoming clear. The man being called was in a prison or in a jail.

Who was he?

And why did someone want Piet Hoffmann to listen to this?

“I’m not hanging up. You’ll be grateful for that fact. Also, when we’re done, you’ll have a phone inside the Kronoberg jail that you can use however you want. How many of your neighbors have that?”

Kronoberg jail?

Now he knew. That voice.

Zaravic.

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.”

“Have you unscrewed the seat?”

“No.”

“Do it. And tell me what you see.”

There was a bump. Then Zaravic sounded like he was farther from the phone. And a scraping, rustling sound as paper was unfolded and smoothed out.

“You found it?”

“If it’s a bundle of papers you’re talking about, I did.”

“Good. But let’s start with you. You’re sitting in a jail cell even though there’s no reasonable evidence.”

“Not the first time.”

“But do you know why?”

“Because the idiots think I killed my friends. Or that I’m next.”

“They probably thought that was the case. And that’s the official explanation. But that was never the main reason. Okay? The main reason was there’s a cowardly little shit who instead of doing what he’s supposed to do decided to work off the record for Grens and follow a trail to Albania. And that cowardly little shit was a little worried some documents that have gone missing might reach you and mess up his pretend police work.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Piet Hoffmann had clicked on the link sent from an unknown number.

Now he realized why. The distorted voice wasn’t just talking about him indirectly—he was speaking to him.

He shouldn’t listen anymore.

He had to focus on the safe, which would soon be filled with water.

But he let the sound roll on.

Trying to understand what was happening.