‘What? No! It can’t be!’ I say aloud. ‘There must be some mistake.’ I look down at the newspaper cutting in my hand and then back at the restaurant I’m standing in front of. I glance left and right and check the directions on my phone for the umpteenth time.
I’m in ‘one of Stockholm’s most affluent areas’, according to the article I remember reading on the internet. There are spectacular sea views and it’s the perfect place to find high-end restaurants. Certainly the street is lined with smart buildings, some cream-coloured with ornate stonework and light green finishing on the roofs, others light terracotta. There are apartment blocks with matching awnings, and rows of bicycles parked and chained all along the wide pavements, which are dotted with slim-trunked trees. Either side of the restaurant are elegant boutiques, galleries and cafés.
There is a dusting of snow over everything, much wetter than where I’ve just come from. More slippery too, I discovered when I crossed the road to stand in front of the restaurant and nearly skidded into the gutter. Now I stand and stare open-mouthed.
The restaurant is just the same as in the picture, its woodwork painted a trendy grey. I check the name against my cutting: La Tir Bouchon in curvy lettering like a well-practised, confident signature. It means The Corkscrew, I work out in my basic French; I brushed up on it when I got my first delivery job, taking a wedding dress and hat to a chateau in the south of France. From the outside, the place is discreet and almost plain. I step forward and push my face against the cold glass of the big arched window. Inside, it’s quite a different story.
Opulent comes to mind, I think as I take in all the details. There are two huge glass chandeliers, art deco style; a patterned and painted tiled floor and bevel-edged mirrors around the walls, which boast ornate white cornices and surrounds. It oozes class. Tapestry-covered stools line one wall, for pre-dinner drinks. The tables are covered in starched white tablecloths, with unlit candles on each one and chairs leaning into them, as if resting until their next performance.
A menu board stands outside, in a gold surround with soft snow caught in the corners. The restaurant offers classic French dishes, some Italian ones and some I’ve never heard of. It looks like it’s a well-established place waiting to greet its customers – except that it’s quite clearly deserted.
I step forward and try the door, grabbing the handle and pushing it down. But it doesn’t budge. I give it another shove to be sure, bumping my shoulder against it in case it’s just stiff. But it isn’t. It’s locked.
I step back and stand in the banked-up snow in front of the window. As I bang on the glass, the wet snow starts to seep up the bottom of my trouser legs.
‘Hello?’ I bang again. ‘Hello? Anyone in?’ There must be someone working in there. The place looks like it’s ready to serve customers at any moment.
There’s no reply to my shouts or knocks. No movement at all.
Tired tears suddenly fill my eyes and my head thumps, making me feel pathetic and ridiculous. Whoever the owner is, whoever has my bag, he’s not here! No one is. And if the owner isn’t here, neither is my bag, I realise in despair.
Now what? I look around, hoping for some kind of inspiration. The smell from the coffee shop opposite makes my stomach rumble. Pull yourself together, I tell myself and blink back the self-pity I can feel welling up. I just need to sit down and gather my thoughts; work out what to do. I’ve travelled all over Europe, I can deal with the situation. ‘Yes, but you’ve never lost your bag before, with your travel essentials and the item you were supposed to be delivering in it!’ an unkind voice in my head points out.
I take a deep breath and cross the road, avoiding the slippery kerb this time, and push open the door of the café. The smell of coffee hits me right in the nostrils, filling my head and my soul.
‘You’d like fika?’ asks the hipster man behind the counter, his hair in a tidy bun and his beard neatly shaped and trimmed.
‘Yes, please.’ I manage to smile. I don’t even bother asking about the tea option. ‘Fika would be great.’ Though I don’t think I’m going to be able to taste anything. My mouth feels as if it’s full of sawdust and my heart is thundering.
He hands me a plate and points to the array of biscuits and pastries. I take a couple of biscuits, and although the sweet, warm smell is comforting, I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat them. I can hardly swallow, my throat is so tight with tension. I make my way to a small table in the window, overlooking the deserted restaurant across the road, and slide onto the seat there. I haven’t dared check my phone for messages in case Sign-Off Sybil has been in touch, wanting to know if the goods have been delivered safely. What would I say? But I do have to say something. I take another deep breath and tentatively pull out my phone from my little bag, just as it buzzes loudly at me, flashes and goes black. Dead. And my charger in my flight bag!
‘Oh bugger!’ I toss it onto the table.
‘Everything okay?’ asks the waiter, bringing over my coffee.
‘Well, it’s not going quite as well as I had hoped,’ I manage to say in a sort of cheery way. ‘Um, tell me, that restaurant over there.’ I point.
‘Ah, La Tir Bouchon. You have heard of it?’
‘Not until recently,’ I confess.
‘It’s very well known. It has one Michelin star . . . well, it did have. But as you can see, it’s closed. Overnight. No one knows what has happened, or where the owner is. You’ve heard of him? Daniel Nuhtte?’
‘He’s the chef?’
‘Not just any chef. He’s known all over Sweden. He’s like a rock god. People came for miles to see him, eat his creations. He was, how do you say, cutting edge!’ He beams at his own joke.
And it’s his case that I have. Not just a chef, but a Michelin-starred chef . . . and that means that his recipe book, hand-written and hand-sketched, could be worth a fortune!
‘I really need to find him. He has something of mine, and I have something of his I think he’ll be really keen to get back.’
The hipster waiter shrugs. ‘No one knows,’ he says, still looking at the restaurant.
‘No one knows?’ I repeat slowly, and he shakes his head and goes to move away before suddenly turning back to the window.
‘Oh, but wait!’ He points across the road. ‘That’s Camilla, his sous chef! His second in command.’
A woman in a smart dark coat and long leather boots has opened the restaurant’s grey door and is stepping inside.
‘What? That woman there? She works with Daniel whatever-his-name-is?’ I feel a tiny flicker of hope.
‘Uh-huh! Well, she did. Until the place was closed up.’
‘Sorry, I have to go.’ I stand abruptly, and the coffee slops into its saucer. ‘Oh, sorry again! I just have to . . . I mean, if there’s a chance she knows where he is, I have to take it.’ I pull out some krona and put a note on the table next to the untouched biscuits and coffee.
‘I’ll get your change,’ says the waiter.
‘Keep it,’ I say, pulling on my coat and grabbing the case.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for!’ he calls after me as I leave.
So do I, I think.
The woman in the dark coat is coming back out of the restaurant with an armful of mail and locking the door.
‘Wait!’ I cry. ‘Stop! I mean . . . sorry, hang on! Argh!’ I try and dodge the icy kerb, fail, and skate around for a couple of seconds, flapping wildly trying to right myself.
‘Excuse me!’ I call again, and the woman stands and stares at me in surprise, probably wondering what on earth I’m doing. Finally I make it across the road with the little case bouncing along behind me in the slush and snow. ‘Don’t go,’ I say. ‘I really need to speak to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she replies curtly, ‘but we’re closed. If you’re a journalist, no, I don’t know when we’ll reopen. And if you’re an investor, I don’t know if he’s selling.’ Then she looks at me and her tone softens. Maybe it’s my tired and desperate face. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she says. ‘A place with this reputation, people are desperate to snap it up.’ She looks at me with a mixture of regret and disappointment, then stuffs the post into her handbag and turns to walk away.
‘No, wait! I’m not after the restaurant, although I’m sure it’s lovely.’ I remember the reviews in the flight bag. ‘I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you can help me. The owner . . . um, Daniel.’ She stops and turns back, eyes narrowed as I struggle to pronounce his surname, the tiredness and desperation getting to me. ‘Daniel Nutty?’
Her look changes to one of mild amusement as she runs her eyes over me, assessing me, and it’s clear she’s realised I’m neither a journalist nor a professional threat if I can’t even say his name.
‘You’re looking for Daniel?’
I nod.
‘Are you a friend?’ Her eyes narrow again. ‘Or something else?’
My mouth opens and closes as I search for the words. I’m not a friend, I’m a something else, but not the kind she means.
‘I have something of his. Something it’s important I get back to him,’ I tell her. And he has something of mine, I add silently, thinking about my travel log and feeling like I’m missing a part of me, as if I’ve forgotten something essential. Like I’m walking down the road in my slippers, or worse, with no clothes on.
‘Well,’ she sniffs, still looking at me suspiciously, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I wish I knew where he was. I have something for him too. But I’ve tried ringing, texting – nothing! The only thing I can think of is that he has gone to visit his family. It’s just a hunch, but he was . . . well, he wanted to get away,’ she finishes, and I realise she’s not going to tell me why.
‘Wherever he is, I have to try and get in touch with him,’ I say. ‘I have his bag. I think they got swapped at the airport.’
‘In Stockholm airport?’ She looks more interested and suddenly far less suspicious of me.
I nod.
A thought seems to strike her. ‘Look,’ she starts to rummage in her handbag, ‘if you’re going to find him . . . I mean, if you’re serious about tracking him down . . .’
‘I have to find out where he is,’ I tell her again. I can’t just give up and go home. My whole life is in that case. Without it, I have nothing to go back for.
‘Could you give him something from me?’ she asks, suddenly sounding very urgent.
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ It’s my turn to narrow my eyes. I’ve learnt from experience never to say yes to delivering something if you don’t know what it is. The amount of offers at airports I’ve had! It’s the first rule of the job.
‘Please. I really need to find him. It’s just a letter. Honestly, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important. If I could do it myself, I would, but what with . . . well, him disappearing like that and me having to find another job . . . I mean, I’ve found one. It wasn’t hard. They all knew I was Daniel’s right-hand man. All anyone asks about is his whereabouts and what’s going on. To be honest,’ she swallows, ‘well, let’s just say that I was really cross with him at the time. He told me he was going, that he needed the space and I wasn’t to follow, and I didn’t. But now, I really need to get a message to him. To tell him I’m sorry that I didn’t believe him. Everything he needs to know is here.’
She holds out an envelope to me. There’s a slight shake in her hand, in an otherwise cool and together appearance. A large snowflake lands on it, smudging the ink. Another falls, and another, leaving more wet blobs on the paper.
I think about what she’s asked me to do. It does just look like a letter, and it’s not like I’m leaving the country or anything. I’m simply going to go and look for him at his parents’ place. I glance at her face, her expression imploring me. She clearly has things she needs to say to this man. Who am I to stand in the way of the course of true love? You have to grab your chance when you can, isn’t that what I told Holly on the train?
‘Sure,’ I say with a smile, feeling like a modern-day Cupid. I take the envelope and shove it in my little handbag along with my passport, purse and now redundant phone.
‘Thank you,’ she says with a nod, regaining her previous composure, and turns to walk away through the snow that is now falling more heavily.
‘Wait!’ I call after her. ‘I don’t know where to go. His family. Where are they? Is it far?’
She stops and turns to me, and tilts her head. ‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No.’ I take a deep breath.
‘They live up north somewhere. He never told me exactly where. Said they moved around a lot.’
‘Up north?’ I say, a cold chill of realisation washing over me. ‘What? As in Kiruna up north?’
‘Uh-huh!’ She nods. ‘A place called Tallfors, somewhere in Lapland. It’s supposed to be beautiful up there. Sweden’s snowy wilderness. Just ask around when you arrive. Someone will be able to point you in the right direction, I’m sure.’