First of all he’d borrowed the key to the church and run down there. There was no dead priest hanging from the organ loft. Sven-Erik had almost had to sit down on a pew, he was so relieved. He’d phoned in to the station and got people out checking the rest of the churches in town. Then he’d phoned Anna-Maria.
“We need the numbers of your husband’s bank accounts-have you got those?”
“What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you listening? You need to get out there and look for him. Something’s happened, I tell you! He’d never… He might be lying…”
She fell silent and stared at her sons. Then she stormed outside. Sven-Erik went after her. Anna-Maria took the opportunity to have a look around.
She quickly opened the kitchen drawers. No wallet. No jacket in the hallway with a wallet in the pocket. She went upstairs. It was just as Kristin Wikström had said. Nobody had slept on one side of the double bed.
From the bedroom you could see the mooring where Mildred Nilsson had kept her skiff. The place where she’d been murdered.
And it was still light, thought Anna-Maria. The night before midsummer’s eve.
No watch on his bedside table.
He seemed to have had his watch and his wallet with him.
She went back downstairs. One of the rooms appeared to be Stefan’s study. She tugged at the desk drawers, they were locked. After searching for a while she found the key behind some books on the bookshelf. She opened the drawers. There wasn’t much. A few letters that she glanced through. None of them seemed to have anything to do with him and Mildred. None of them was from a lover, if he had one. She peered out through the window. Sven-Erik and Kristin were still out there talking. Good.
Normally they would have waited a few days. People usually disappeared because they wanted to.
A serial killer, thought Anna-Maria. If he’s found dead, that’s what we’re dealing with. Then we’ll know.
Outside Kristin Wikström had sunk down on a garden seat. Sven-Erik was coaxing information out of her about all kinds of things. Who they could ring to take care of the children. The names of Stefan Wikström’s close friends and relatives, maybe one of them knew more than his wife. If they had a summer cottage anywhere. If the family only owned one car, the one parked in the yard?
“No,” sniveled Kristin. “His car’s gone.”
Tommy Rantakyrö rang to report that they’d checked all the churches and chapels. No dead priest.
A big cat came strolling confidently along the path toward the house. He hardly even glanced at the stranger in his garden. He didn’t change course, nor did he slink into the tall grass. He might possibly have lowered his belly and his tail slightly. He was dark gray. His fur was long and soft, it looked almost fluffy. Sven-Erik thought he looked unreliable. Flat head, yellow eyes. If a big bastard like that had attacked Manne, Manne wouldn’t have had a chance.
Sven-Erik could see Manne in his mind’s eye, lying hidden as cats do, in a ditch maybe, or under a house. Knocked about, weak. In the end he’d be easy prey for a fox or a hunting dog. All they’d have to do was snap his spine. Snip snap.
Anna-Maria’s hand brushed against his shoulder. They went off to one side. Kristin Wikström was staring straight ahead. Right hand clenched in front of her face, chewing at the index finger.
“What do you think?” asked Anna-Maria.
“We’ll start searching for him,” said Sven-Erik, looking at Kristin Wikström. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this one. Nationally to start with. Customs too. We’ll check flights and his accounts and his cell phone. And we need to have a chat with his colleagues and friends and relatives.”
Anna-Maria nodded.
“Overtime.”
“Yes, but what the hell can the prosecutor say? When the press get wind of this…”
Sven-Erik spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“We need to ask her about the letters as well,” said Anna-Maria. “The ones she wrote Mildred.”
“But not now,” said Sven-Erik decisively. “When somebody’s come and taken the boys away.”
Micke Kiviniemi looked out over the room from his strategic position behind the bar. King of all he surveyed. His noisy, messy kingdom, smelling of fried food, cigarette smoke, beer and aftershave with undertones of sweat. He was pouring beers one after the other, with the odd glass of red or white wine or a whisky in between. Mimmi was scampering between the tables like a performing mouse, bickering happily with the customers as she wiped down tables and took orders. He could hear her saying “chicken casserole or lasagne, take it or leave it.”
The TV was on in the corner and behind the bar the stereo was doing its best. Rebecka Martinsson was sweating away in the kitchen. Food in and out of the microwave. Collecting baskets of dirty glasses from behind the bar and bringing out clean ones. It was like a really nice film. All the bad stuff seemed a long way off. The tax office. The bank. Monday mornings when he woke up feeling so bloody tired, deep in his bones, lying there listening to the rats in the garbage.
If only Mimmi could have been a little bit jealous because he’d given Rebecka Martinsson a job, everything would have been perfect. But she’d just said that was great. He’d stopped himself from saying that Rebecka Martinsson was something new for the old men to look at. Mimmi wouldn’t have said anything, but he had the feeling she had a little box hidden away somewhere. And in that little box she was collecting all the times he’d made a mistake or overstepped the mark, and when the box was full she’d pack her bags and go. Without any warning. It was only girls who cared who gave a warning.
But right now his kingdom was as full of life as an anthill in the spring.
I can do this job, thought Rebecka Martinsson as she sluiced down the plates before putting the tray into the dishwasher.
You didn’t need to think or concentrate. Just carry, work hard, get a move on. Keep up the tempo all the time. She was unaware of how her whole face was smiling as she carted a basket of clean glasses out to Micke.
“Okay?” he asked, and smiled back.
She felt her telephone buzzing in her apron pocket and got it out. No chance that it would be Maria Taube. She worked all the time, that was true, but not on a Saturday night. She’d be out and about, people buying her drinks.
Måns’ number on the display. Her heart turned over.
“Rebecka,” she yelled into the phone, pressing her hand against her other ear so she could hear.
“Måns,” he yelled back.
“Hang on,” she shouted. “Just a minute, it’s so noisy in here.”
She rushed out through the bar, waving the phone at Micke and holding up the fingers of her other hand; she mouthed “five minutes,” moving her lips clearly. Micke nodded in agreement and she slipped outside. The cool night air made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She could hear a lot of noise at the other end of the phone too. Måns was in a bar. Then things quieted down.
“Okay, I can talk now,” she said.
“Me too. Where are you?” asked Måns.
“Outside Micke’s Bar & Restaurant in Poikkijärvi, that’s a village not far from Kiruna. What about you?”
“Outside Spyan, that’s a little village bar on the edge of Stureplan in Stockholm.”
She laughed. He sounded happy. Not so damned dismissive. He was probably drunk. She didn’t care. They hadn’t spoken to each other since the evening when she’d rowed away from Lidö.
“Are you out partying?” he asked.
“No, actually I’m working illegally.”
Now he’ll get mad, thought Rebecka. Then again, maybe not, it was a gamble.
And Måns laughed out loud.