Missing (15 page)

T
hen I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth;
for the first Heaven and the first Earth had
passed away and the sea was no more. And I
saw the Holy City, a New Jerusalem, coming
down out of Heaven from God, prepared as a
bride adorned for her husband; and from afar
I heard a great voice from the throne saying:

‘Behold, the dwelling of God is with men
.
He will dwell with them and they shall be His
people, and God himself will be with them; He
will wipe away every tear from their eyes and
death shall be no more, neither shall there be
mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for
former things have passed away.'

And He who sat upon the throne said:

‘Behold, I make all things new.' Also he
said:

‘Write this down for these words are trustworthy
and true.'

And He said to me:

‘It is done. I am the Alpha and Omega, the
beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will
give water without price from the fountain
of the water of life. He who conquers shall
have this heritage and I will be his God and
he shall be my son. But as for the cowardly,
the faithless, the polluted, as for murderers,
fornicators, sorcerers and idolaters and all liars,
their lot shall be in the lake that burns with fire
and brimstone, which is the second death.'

Lord, I have done my duty
.

Now, all I can do is wait
.

S
he had been surreptitiously watching him for a long time before he woke. The cold must have troubled him during the night, because he'd put her anorak on.

During the small hours, she had made up her mind. She needed his help. Her only hope lay in telling him the truth. Then she went over what she must say again and again, trying to find the most gentle way to describe her situation.

When he woke his first move was to reach for his glasses. Then he sat up and looked at her, pulling his sleeping bag tightly around him.

‘It's so fucking cold. Thanks for the anorak, it's great. Do you want it back now?'

‘You keep it. My sleeping bag is warmer than yours.'

The clock behind him showed ten minutes past nine.

‘When do you start school?'

He smiled at her.

‘Knock, knock, anybody in? It's Saturday.'

She smiled too. It was nice to be made fun of
like that. His hand emerged from the sleeping bag again, aiming for the grill-bag. He put it in his lap and opened it.

‘Urrgh. Spare ribs for breakfast!'

‘Do you want some of my crisp-bread? I've got some yoghurt too.'

He liked the idea and shoved the grill-bag back on the floor. Still wrapped in the sleeping bag he hopped across to her.

‘Hey, take it easy. The floor could break.'

‘Yeah?'

When he reached her, he settled with a thump. She shook her head and he grinned at her, grabbing a slice of crisp-bread.

He must have been really hungry. When he was wolfing his seventh slice she put the packet away.

‘Tomorrow's another day.'

‘We'll buy some more. No problem.'

She just looked at him and he grimaced, obviously realising how silly he had been.

‘Sorry. I'll buy it. I'll give you the money, if you like.'

‘Thanks, but no thanks.'

This was the right moment. How should she best open up the subject? She steeled herself, taking a deep breath.

‘Do you follow the news, read the papers?'

He shrugged.

‘Not a lot. Mum wants me to read a proper paper like
Dagens Nyheter
, but it's way too
much. Takes hours getting through it. But I do check out
The Express
. Dad brings it back after work. Why? Do you? Read a newspaper, I mean.'

‘I do when I can. When I find one lying about. Or else I go to the Culture House. The reading room there has all the dailies.'

This was clearly news to him, but he nodded knowingly. She carried on talking.

‘Yesterday, did you look at the papers?'

He shook his head at first.

‘Wait, I did. The
DN
Friday supplement.'

How should she handle this? Did she have the right to involve him? It had seemed perfectly reasonable while he was asleep.

‘Patrik, have you ever been accused of doing something you didn't do?'

‘Suppose so. Have you got some yoghurt, or … ?'

She sighed and produced her big container.

‘Thanks. Can I have it straight from the pack?'

‘Sure. Unless you brought a nice plate, of course.'

He grinned and she started again. The introductory bit was the hardest.

‘I have, you see – been accused of something I didn't do, that is.'

He seemed focused on the yoghurt. Drinking it was hard, it was really too thick. He kept tapping the bottom of the pack.

‘Does the name Sibylla mean anything to you?'

He nodded, but still seemed more interested in the yoghurt.

‘Patrik, you mustn't feel bad about this. Be cool.'

She hesitated for one more brief moment.

‘I'm Sibylla, you see.'

He didn't react first. Then the penny dropped. He stiffened, put the yoghurt down and turned to look at her. There was real fear in his eyes.

‘Please, believe me, I didn't do it. I just happened to be in the Grand Hotel when someone killed that guy. I'm innocent.'

He was clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered round the attic for a moment, as if seeking an escape route. She must gain time. Somehow this wasn't working out the way she'd hoped. The words came spontaneously now, not in the careful order she had practised.

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Of course I'm not a serial killer. You wouldn't have been sitting here now if I had been, after all I've had all night to chop you up into little pieces.'

This was not a good way of putting it. In fact, it was pretty disastrous. Suddenly he made a move to get away, but the sleeping bag trapped him.

He mustn't go – not yet.

She leapt at him, pinning him down against the mat with her knees on his arms. His quick
breathing sounded like sobbing. His tears were not far away.

Oh God no!

‘Please. Don't hurt me.'

She closed her eyes. What was she doing?

‘You must know that I won't hurt you. Please listen to me. I'm holed up in this freezing attic with every single cop in the country after me. They've made up their minds that I'm it. I haven't got a chance. Like I said yesterday, people like me have no rights. Oh Patrik, you've got to believe me. I told you all that personal stuff yesterday because I trusted you. I thought you at least would believe in me.'

By now the sobs had quietened down.

‘I'm telling you this because I need your help. I don't dare go into a shop even.'

His wide, frightened eyes were fixed on her. She sighed.

‘OK, I'm sorry. Forgive me.'

Just imagine what anybody watching them would make of her sitting astride a defenceless fifteen year-old. She stood up, letting him go.

‘Go away now.'

He stayed where he was, very still and looking as if he hardly dared to breathe.

‘Go!'

He twitched in response to her loud voice. Then he crawled out of his sleeping bag and started slowly walking towards the door, his
back tense as if he feared she would jump on him from behind.

‘I need my anorak.'

He stopped at once, let the anorak slide to the floor and walked on. When he reached the door he suddenly leapt at it and rushed out. She could hear his running footsteps in the corridor outside.

Slumping down on her mat, she knew staying in the attic was not possible now. She had to leave, at once. She packed his things neatly and then started on her own. A few minutes later everything was tidied away. Just inside the door, she turned to cast a last glance at the clock. Bye, bye.

Into the corridor, down the stairs. On the ground floor she stopped for a moment. The mere thought of opening the door to the world outside made her feel sick. This everlasting fear would destroy her in the end. She chose to walk round to the back door leading into the school-yard. The thought of the street was too frightening.

The door slammed behind her, shutting her off from her refuge for good. Crossing the yard, she walked towards the Vitaberg Park. She had no idea what to do next. Then she heard someone shouting behind her. The sound alarmed her and she stopped, looking around for somewhere to hide.

‘Sylla! Wait!'

Then she saw him come running round the corner and waited until he reached her. At first he didn't speak and she started to walk off.

‘I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first, but I was so fucking scared.'

He was a little breathless. She turned to look at him and discovered a new expression in his eyes, a seriousness that she had not seen before. Then he stared at the ground, as if ashamed by his own admission of fear.

‘Don't worry about it.'

‘No, it's because I know you're speaking the truth, Sylla.'

She kept walking, unable to bear the thought of starting to plead with him again.

He hurried after her.

‘Sylla, please. You see, I saw the news on the poster in the Co-op window.'

She stopped. He was obviously trying hard to choose the right words.

‘The story is that you murdered someone else last night.'

S
he felt uneasy.

‘Are you absolutely sure he's asleep?'

Patrik sounded impatient.

‘Relax. He's on nightshifts and doesn't usually wake up until the afternoon.'

She was feeling uncomfortable. What would his father do if he found a woman with unnaturally jet-black hair, camping with her rucksack in his son's room? Old enough to be his mother, too.

They were in the block of flats where Patrik lived, whispering together at the bottom of the stairs.

‘And your mother, are you sure – really sure, sure – that she isn't coming home?'

‘Sure. Not until tomorrow night.'

Maybe he was right but then, maybe he wasn't. Besides, was it really right to involve him?

When she learned the latest news she'd had to go and sit down on the nearest park bench. He had followed her silently, leaving her in peace.
Sitting there looking out over the empty school-yard, she felt her courage ebbing away again. Staring at the large clock-face, she thought she should have followed her impulse of a few nights ago and made the school attic her last resting-place.

He tried to say something hopeful to cheer her up.

‘Listen. I can tell the police you were with me all last night.'

She only snorted at that, but then felt guilty because it had sounded like a put-down.

‘They would just have added pederasty to my list of crimes.'

He sounded grumpy.

‘I happen to be fifteen years old. Actually.'

What's the answer to that?

‘Patrik, I've had it. I might as well confess and put an end to the whole saga.'

‘Shit, no! Don't!'

He was really upset.

‘Listen, you can't confess to something you haven't done!'

‘What do you suggest then?'

‘Can't you go there and … like, talk to them?'

‘Same difference.'

‘I don't get it. Why?'

‘Surely you can see that? The police have already made up their minds. I
am
the murderer. They won't believe a thing I say.'

She put her head in her hands, speaking quietly to the ground in front of her.

‘Worse, I can't hack being locked up.'

He sounded less convinced now.

‘But you're just telling them what really happened.' Then she told him about Jörgen Grundberg. About how her fingerprints got on to his keycard, about the wig and the Swiss army knife she'd left behind in the hotel room. About everything in her past that had combined to make her the prime suspect. Former patient in a mental hospital, homeless and without any kind of social network, she was so utterly perfect that the police must be rubbing their hands with glee. No question about her guilt.

Anyway, to have a chance of finally persuading them of her innocence, they would have to keep her under lock and key for the duration of the inquiry. That would drive her insane. She had been there before and knew what she was talking about.

‘The murderer has got the idea too. I'm a perfect scapegoat for him. He even left a confession in my name after the Västervik murder.'

He nodded gently.

‘He did the same in Bollnäs.'

‘Was that where he struck last night?'

‘The night before. I don't know where he was last night.'

She was slumped against the backrest of the
bench. The night before last as well, while she was tucked up in the attic. Now they suspected her of four murders.

He stared at her.

‘You didn't know, did you?'

She sighed.

‘No. I didn't.'

Silence. He was thinking. The complications must be dawning on him.

‘I know. Let's go to my house and check everything they've written about you.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘We'll surf the net.'

Ah, the Internet. She had read about it in the papers, a fantastic new world she knew nothing about. She felt as doubtful about it as she did about being invited home by this helpful fifteen-year-old.

‘Why would that be any good?'

‘Maybe we'll find something that proves it couldn't have been you. I bet you haven't read everything they've written.'

‘Right enough.'

He got up.

‘Let's go.'

What other option was there?

They crept through the hall. She felt like a thief and her heart was pounding.

‘This way.'

They were outside a door in his flat. A metal
sign had been stuck on it. It said: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Fine. She hadn't wanted to come here in the first place.

They passed an open doorway to a spacious living room and then the closed door to his parents' bedroom. Patrik had put his finger to his lips as a signal to be quiet. His father was asleep in there. Then Patrik opened the door to his room and waved her on. All this was very awkward, but she followed to please him.

His room looked as if it had been in the path of a storm-force gale. The floor was practically invisible under a tidal wave of clothes, old comics, CD boxes and books. She dumped her rucksack in the middle of it all, looking quizzically at him.

‘I know, I promised Mum to keep my room tidy. I just kind of forget.'

‘Tell me about it.'

They were speaking in whispers.

He pushed a button on the PC and when it came alive with a little melody, she told him to turn it down. While the computer started up, she looked around the room. Apart from the desk, there was an unmade bed and a bookshelf. She pulled the cover over the bed to make the place look less messy.

When the screen on his desk had filled with symbols, he sat down to work. She wandered
across to an apparently empty aquarium by the window, because something moved inside it.

‘That's Batman, my Greek land-tortoise.'

Batman had crawled into a corner to munch on a lettuce leaf. He looked quite content, so the world must seem quite agreeable to his tiny mind. She felt momentarily envious.

Patrik was using the keypad to write something.

serial killer sibylla

He clicked, the computer started working and after a few seconds produced the results. 67 hits. He was smiling.

‘Great.'

‘What does it all mean?'

‘We've got 67 pages to search for stuff about you and your manic killing spree.'

She was amazed at having become unwittingly a part of this strange ‘online' world that she had been reading about. Patrik was already scrolling through what looked like pictures of newsprint.

‘I'll print the lot and then we can read it when we like.'

It was all new and weird to her, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Already another machine on the table had started humming and spitting out paper. The print was on the side she couldn't see but she grabbed the first lot of papers and settled down on the bed.
Meanwhile, Patrik kept clicking and feeding more paper into the printer.

The first sheet began with an eye-catching headline.

GRAND HOTEL WOMAN BREAKS THE
WIDOW'S PEACE

 Sibylla stopped reading. What a pack of lies! The grieving widow couldn't hold back her tears. Is that so? Screw her.

By now there was a new pile of printouts. She grabbed the lot.

ANATOMICAL KNOWLEDGE IS A
COMMON SKILL FOR SLAUGHTER
KILLERS

She rose, throwing the papers on the floor.

‘It's too much. I can't read any more.'

She had raised her voice and Patrik turned to look at her.

‘Hey, quiet!'

She sat down again, listening to the machine spitting out many more sheets of print. People had written all that, thinking about her. Nobody had paid any attention to her before and now she was suddenly the most written-about person in Sweden.

It was so fucking hateful.

‘Can't stay here. I'm off.'

He turned her way again.

‘Oh, yeah? Like, to where?'

She sighed.

The click of a door opening was heard from somewhere in the flat. They looked anxiously at each other, listening intently. They could hear the rushing water when a tap was turned on. Sibylla rose, looking for places to hide.

‘Relax, he's probably just in the loo.'

Patrik wasn't reassuring enough. The moment the tap stopped running she dived down under
the bed, just before there was a knock on the door.

‘You in there, Patrik?'

No reply. Sibylla saw his feet disappear and heard him lie down on the bed. The door opened and a pair of naked hairy legs walked in.

‘What, are you asleep?'

‘Kind of.'

‘It's past eleven o'clock, you know.'

The machine on the desk made a humming noise, producing a belated printout.

‘What's that?'

The hairy legs stepped closer. The next second, Patrik's jeans-clad legs materialised right in front of her nose. He must have grabbed the paper.

‘Just some stuff.'

‘Stuff, eh? And why are you in bed with your clothes on?'

‘I was up, really. I felt like lying down for a bit.'

‘Ah. What are you printing?'

‘I've been surfing a bit. Nothing special.'

The silence lasted for a few unbearable seconds. ‘Well, I'm going back to bed now. Are you at home today, or what?'

‘Maybe. I'm not sure.'

‘If you go out, please don't come back later than ten o'clock. And you must phone to say where you are.'

She could hear Patrik sighing. The naked male legs walked towards the door and then stopped.

‘That's not your rucksack, is it?'

Sibylla closed her eyes, while Patrik seemed to take an age replying. Christ, just say something. You've found it. Nicked it. Any bloody thing at all.

‘It's Viktor's.'

That's a good one.

‘What's it doing here?'

‘He forgot it in school and I promised to look after it.'

Better still. The legs were walking again.

‘See you later. Remember, you must tidy up in here before your Mum comes back.'

‘I will.'

Then the door finally closed behind him and Patrik's smiling face was peering at her below the edge of the bed.

‘Were you scared then?'

She crawled out. She tried to brush the dust off her front while she hissed at him,

‘Can't you lock the door?'

He was sitting on the bed studying the piece of paper he had hidden from his Dad. She looked over his shoulder.

HUNTING A KILLER.

He seemed thoughtful.

‘I know what we've got to do.'

She couldn't think what to say.

‘Think! The police are after you and nobody else. Question: who's to track down the real murderer?'

No idea.

‘Don't you see? We'll have to do it. We've got to find the murderer.'