The Blood Spilt

38

M?ns Wenngren rings and wakes Rebecka Martinsson. Her voice is warm, a little bit hoarse because it’s early.
“Up you get!” he orders. “Get yourself a coffee and something to eat. Have a shower and get yourself ready. I’ll ring again in twenty minutes. You need to be ready by then.”
He’s done this before. When he was married to Madelene and still putting up with her periodic agoraphobia and panic attacks and God knows what else, he used to talk her through visits to the dentist, meals with relatives, buying shoes at the NK department store. Every cloud… at least he knows the technique by now.
He rings after twenty minutes. Rebecka answers like an obedient Girl Guide. Now she’s to get in the car, drive into town and take out enough money to pay the rent on her cabin in Poikkij?rvi.
The next time he calls, he tells her to drive down to Poikkij?rvi, park outside the bar and ring him.
“Right,” says M?ns when she calls him. “It’ll take a minute and a half, then the whole thing will be behind you. Go in and pay. You don’t need to say a word if you don’t want to. Just hold out the money. When you’ve done that, get back in the car and call me again. Okay?”
“Okay,” says Rebecka, like a child.
She sits in the car and looks at the bar. It looks white and slightly scruffy in the bright autumn sunshine. She wonders who’s there. Micke or Mimmi?