He remembered when they’d first met. She’d been visiting her mother, and offered to work one evening. There were people wanting a meal, and as usual his brother hadn’t turned up, although this whole bar thing had been his idea from the start, and so Micke was left on his own. She’d offered to throw together some bar food and do the serving. The word spread that same evening. The lads hadn’t wasted any time ringing their mates on their cell phones. Everybody came in to have a look at her.
And so she stayed. For a while, she always said evasively when he tried to sort things out. When he tried to say it would be good for the business if he knew, so they could plan for the future, she sounded uncomfortable.
“Best not count on me, then.”
Later, when they ended up in bed, he dared to ask her again. How long she’d be staying.
“Till something better turns up,” she answered that time, and grinned.
And they weren’t a couple, she’d made that very clear to him. He’d had quite a few girlfriends. Even lived with one of them for a while. So he knew what the words meant. You’re a wonderful person, but… I’m not ready… If I were going to fall in love with anybody at the moment, it would be you… Can’t tie myself down. They all meant one thing: I don’t love you. You’ll do for the moment.
She’d changed the whole place. Started by helping him get rid of his brother. Who neither worked nor did anything toward paying off the debts. Just came in and drank with his mates without paying. A bunch of losers who were quite happy to let his brother be king for the evening as long as he was getting the drinks in.
“It’s a very simple choice,” Mimmi had said to his brother. “Either we dissolve the whole thing, and you’re left with a pile of debts. Or you pass it over to Micke.”
And his brother signed. Red-rimmed eyes. The slightly stale body odor seeping through the T-shirt that hadn’t been changed for days. And that new tone of anger in his voice. The alcoholic’s temper.
“But the sign belongs to me,” he’d informed them, shoving the contract away from him.
“I’ve got loads of ideas,” he went on, tapping his head.
“Take it whenever you want,” Micke had said.
Thought: that’ll be the day.
He remembered how his brother had found the sign on the Internet. An old bar sign from the USA. “LAST STOP DINER,” white neon letters on a red background. They’d been ridiculously pleased with it at the time. But why should Micke care about it now? He’d had other plans even then. “Mimmi’s” was a good name for a bar. But she didn’t want any of that. It ended up as “Micke’s Bar and Diner.”
“Why do you have to do such weird stuff?”
Malte looked down at the menu, his expression troubled.
“There’s nothing weird about it,” said Mimmi. “In fact it’s just like dumplings, but smaller.”
“Dumplings and tomatoes, how much weirder can it get? No, give me something out of the freezer. I’ll have lasagne.”
Mimmi disappeared into the kitchen.
“And forget the rabbit food,” Malte shouted after her. “Did you hear me? No salad!”
Micke turned to Rebecka Martinsson.
“Will you be staying tonight as well?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Where would I go? she thought. Where would I drive to? What would I do? At least there’s nobody who knows me here.
“That priest,” she said. “The one who died.”
“Mildred Nilsson.”
“What was she like?”
“Bloody good, I thought. She and Mimmi are the best things that have happened to this village. And this place too. When I started it was full of nothing but unmarried old men from eighteen to eighty-three. But when Mildred moved here the women started to come in. She sort of gave the village a new lease on life.”
“Was it the priest who told them to come to the bar?”
Micke laughed.
“To eat! She was like that. Thought the women should get out a bit. Take a break from the kitchen. And then they brought their husbands with them and had a meal sometimes when they didn’t feel like cooking. The atmosphere in here changed completely when the women started coming in. Before the old men used to just sit around moaning.”
“No we didn’t,” interrupted Malte Alajärvi, who’d been eavesdropping.
“You moaned then and you’re still moaning now. Sitting here staring out across the river and complaining about Yngve Bergqvist and Jukkasjärvi…”
“Yes, but that Yngve…”
“And you whinge about the food and the government and the fact that there’s never anything good on TV…”
“A load of bloody game shows!”
“… and about everything else!”
“All I said about Yngve Bergqvist was that he’s a bloody con artist who’ll sell any damned thing as long as it says “Arctic” before it. It’s Arctic sled dogs and Arctic safari and I swear the bloody Japanese will pay an extra two hundred to go to a genuine Arctic shit-house.”
Micke turned to Rebecka.
“You see what I mean.”
Then he became serious.
“Why are you asking? You’re not a journalist, are you?”
“Oh no, I was just wondering. I mean, she lived here, and… No, that lawyer I was in here with yesterday evening, I work for him.”
“Carry his bag and book his flights?”
“Something like that.”
Rebecka Martinsson looked at the clock. She’d been afraid that a furious Anna-Maria Mella would turn up demanding the keys to the safe, but she’d wanted it to happen as well. But presumably the priest’s husband hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t know what the keys were for. It was a complete bloody mess. She looked out of the window. It was starting to get dark. She heard a car drive onto the gravel yard outside.
Her cell phone buzzed in her bag. She rooted it out and looked at the display. The law firm’s number.
Måns, she thought, and hurried out onto the steps.
It was Maria Taube.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Rebecka.
“I was talking to Torsten. He said you’d hooked them anyway.”
“Mmm…”
“And he said you’d stayed behind to take care of a few things.” Rebecka didn’t reply.
“Have you been to the village where your grandmother’s house is, what was it called again?”
“Kurravaara. No.”
“Problem?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Why don’t you go up there, then?”
“I just haven’t got around to it,” said Rebecka. “I’ve been a bit too busy helping our future clients sort out a load of crap.”
“Don’t snap at me, honey,” said Maria gently. “Spill. What kind of crap?”
Rebecka told her. She suddenly felt so tired she wanted to sit down on the steps.
Maria sighed at the other end of the phone.
“Bloody Torsten,” she said. “I’ll…”
“No, you won’t,” said Rebecka. “The worst thing is the locker, though. It must have the priest’s personal stuff in it. There could be letters and… anything. If anybody should have what’s in there, it’s her husband. And the police. There could be some sort of evidence, we don’t know.”
“I’m sure her boss will pass on anything that might be of interest to the police,” Maria Taube ventured.
“Maybe,” said Rebecka in subdued voice.
There was a silence between them for a moment. Rebecka kicked at the gravel with her shoe.
“But I thought you went up there to go into the lion’s den,” said Maria Taube. “That’s why you went with Torsten, after all.”
“Yeah yeah.”
“For God’s sake, Rebecka, don’t give me the yeah-yeah! I’m your friend and I’ve got to say this. You just keep on backing off. If you daren’t go into town and you daren’t go up to Kurrkavaara…”