Missing (20 page)

S
he stayed in the cemetery, sitting on a bench she had picked for its good view of Rune Hedlund's final resting place, even though it was a safe distance away. Not many people had decided to visit their loved ones' graves that day and those who did come were either couples or too old.

Not that she was in a hurry. She was ready to stay until that woman came. Sooner or later she would.

At nightfall she pulled out her sleeping bag and mat. There was a stone wall at the back of the urn enclosure and she tucked herself up between it and the bare branches of shrubbery. It was reasonably out of sight, but it also allowed her to keep watch at all times. Not that she thought the woman would turn up this late, but from what she had learned about her she was well able to surprise.

She wouldn't miss this woman when she finally came.

The next day she picked another bench to sit on. It was less well placed for observing the grave, but the wife's big bouquet of tulips helped by marking it out. She left her station only once, when she ran to the nearby garage to use their toilet and buy bread. It took only ten minutes before she was back in place, resuming her guard.

No one came near Rune Hedlund's grave.

The next day she fell asleep. She did not know for how long but rushed to the grave to check. No red rose had turned up during the night.

On the Wednesday she felt her pulse beat faster, for the first time. A solitary woman in her forties turned the corner by the water tap and walked briskly along the path towards the urn enclosure.

Sibylla hurried away, taking a shortcut across a small lawn to keep an eye on what was happening. The woman disappointed her by continuing past the pink and yellow tulips to bend over a stone a little further along.

Sibylla returned to her bench with a sigh.

By that afternoon she was feeling real hunger pangs. Taking money from her savings had almost become a habit and it didn't bother her any more. With a last look at the deserted cemetery, she went off to the handy garage. She used the toilet again, just in case, and bought
two grilled hot dogs with plenty of mustard and ketchup.

When she returned, a man wearing a brown suede jacket was crouching in front of Rune Hedlund's grave. The hair on the back of his head was thinning.

It might be awkward, but she couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity. She had been watching round the clock for days to find out more and, whoever he was, he must have known Rune Hedlund well. He was bending deep over the grave in prayer or contemplation. Shoving the last piece of sausage into her mouth, she walked closer, all the time chewing and swallowing carefully. In passing, she grabbed a fresh-looking bunch of daffodils from a nearby grave. Necessity knows no law.

Hopefully, the spirit of Sigfrid Stålberg wouldn't mind too much.

She stopped just behind the man, who had shifted position and was sitting on his haunches by the grave, just as she had a couple of days ago. He was fiddling intently with something near the tombstone and seemed not to have heard her. She couldn't see what he was up to. Watching him made her suddenly feel very ill at ease. If she was to gain his confidence, sneaking up on him like this was hardly the way to go about it.

She cleared her throat.

His reaction was rather similar to her own earlier. He momentarily lost his balance, but steadied himself by leaning on one hand. She smiled apologetically.

‘I'm sorry I startled you.'

He was younger-looking than she had expected. Recovering quickly from his confusion, he turned his face up and smiled back at her.

‘You're a right menace, creeping up on people like that. I might've had a heart attack.'

‘Honestly, I didn't mean to. It's the soles on my shoes.'

He looked at her sturdy, comfy walking boots. Then his gaze wandered to her face. He sniffled a little, wiping his nose with his hand. Then he looked at the grave.

‘Are you here for Rune?'

Damn it! He had got his question in first and that was bad.

She moved her head about in a way that could have signified either a reluctant Yes or a muddled No, whatever the circumstances called for.

‘Did you know him?'

She got her question in quickly, trying to take over control.

He looked her over, neither suspiciously nor unpleasantly, but with interest. Apparently, he was feeling genuinely curious about her. Then he shook his head a little.

‘Know and know. We were workmates, down in Åbro village.'

‘I see.'

‘And you, what about you? Are you a relative?' ‘Oh no.'

Her answer had sounded far too pat. He smiled a little.

‘Now you've really made me curious. I'm sure you're not from round here.'

She shook her head and looked down. The daffodils caught her eyes. She would get a little respite if she fetched a vase and some water.

‘Hey, I'd better look after these.'

Without giving him a chance to say any more, she walked across to the small fenced-in maintenance area. He was quick – fast on the draw and inquisitive. She realised she couldn't get rid of him without telling him who she was.

So, who was she?

She took her time. She picked a sharp-tipped plastic vase from the box and rinsed it carefully under running water. Fragmented thoughts were rotating wildly in her brain, as if spun in a centrifuge. How to avoid raising his suspicions? Why had she approached him anyway?

With the vase filled for the fourth time, she walked back. She drew a deep breath. He was crouching near the grave again and pushed apart the stems in a clump of crocuses. There were paint-stains on his hands.
The fingers were long and slender. He wore no rings.

‘Why don't you put your flowers here?'

She followed his advice. A crocus flipped forward and she pushed it back. He reached out and put his finger on her watch.

‘What an unusual watch.'

She felt a little silly and pulled her sleeve down to cover the watch.

‘It's old. It doesn't even work any more.'

She glanced sideways at him. His eyes were suddenly fixed on the tombstone.

‘Ingmar!'

This time they both practically fell over backwards. ‘What are you doing here? And with her!'

Mrs Hedlund was making no bones about it – she didn't care at all for the scene at her husband's grave. Her voice held surprise, but also anger and suspicion.

‘Kerstin – please!'

The man called Ingmar took a step towards the agitated woman.

‘I'm not here “with her”. I thought she was a friend of the family.'

He was at Kerstin Hedlund's side, looking at Sibylla. His move over to the right team had been fast. Sibylla was left with the guilt, one foot still planted among the crocuses. Kerstin was staring at her now, her eyes brimming with an emotion that was composed of grief and
hatred. At the same time, her face expressed such condescension that Sibylla felt ready to apologise for just existing.

Ingmar turned his head from one woman to the other. Finally his curiosity won.

‘Who is she?'

He was clearly struggling to keep his voice neutral. Kerstin Hedlund answered, her eyes pinning Sibylla to the spot.

‘She's nobody. I'd be grateful if you got her out of here. At once.'

He looked at Sibylla, who nodded quickly and stepped across to the path. Anything to end this performance.

‘Hurry up, and come with me!'

He made an impatient gesture. Sibylla obeyed immediately, but gave the furious woman a wide berth. Mustn't get involved in anything noisy.

Neither of them spoke before reaching the parking lot. Her rucksack was still hidden in the shrubbery, but there was no way she could fetch it now. She had to come back later, somehow.

He turned to her.

‘What was all that in aid of?'

Knowing that evasiveness was pointless, Sibylla hesitated just a fraction of a second.

‘She thinks I'm Rune's mistress.'

He laughed abruptly. Maybe she ought to take offence.

‘She's convinced he had one, because somebody is putting a red rose on his grave every week.'

His smile faded and was replaced by a frown. He sighed deeply.

‘Do you know Kerstin?'

‘No.'

He glanced at the cemetery, as if to reassure himself that they had not been followed.

‘I understand that you felt very uncomfortable, but you must try to forgive her.'

‘Forgive her – I don't understand what you mean.'

He sighed again. It seemed to distress him to speak ill of the widow.

‘You see, it's Kerstin herself who puts roses on the grave. She forgets it afterwards and goes around accusing people she meets in the cemetery. She's been very distraught and unlike her usual self, ever since Rune died.'

Sibylla stared at him. He sensed her confusion and went on with his explanation before she got round to asking more questions.

‘I came here today in a reflective mood. I don't know what I can do to help her, but I feel I owe Rune the effort.'

Sibylla still didn't get it. If there was no mistress, then … the next conclusion was inevitable. ‘In what way hasn't she been her usual self?'

He looked downcast and embarrassed.

‘She's been off work for a couple of months now. She was employed at the Health Centre as a practice nurse, but they felt she was behaving irrationally and told her to take some time off. Sadly, she seems to have gone from bad to worse since she stopped working.'

Sibylla recalled the white clothes under Kerstin Hedlund's coat when they first met.

‘But I'm sure I've seen her in her uniform.'

He nodded sadly.

‘Yes. I know, I know.'

So, her instinctive reaction had been right. She was the one, that woman with hate in her eyes. The healthcare job would mean easier access to the transplant lists. Having traced the victims, all she did was to find them and bring back what she reckoned was justly hers.

That Sibylla Forsenström's life was crushed in the process was obviously of zero importance. Well, in some ways it had actually been an encouraging coincidence, which could be put to good use. She closed her eyes to hide the fury in them. The desire to hurt that woman, badly enough to mark her for life, invaded Sibylla's whole body. So much anguish, so many anxious moments – and above all, the loss of her savings and her hopes of a better future. She turned and walked towards the cemetery gates.

He called after her.

‘Where are you off to?'

Sibylla didn't answer.

Looking around the cemetery she realised that it was empty. Kerstin Hedlund must have left by another gate. She rejoined Ingmar.

‘Where does Kerstin live?'

He looked concerned.

‘Why do you ask?'

‘I'd like to speak to her for a while.'

By now his voice was carrying a distinct note of caution.

‘Is that really wise?'

She raised her eyebrows. Wise? Well, for a start it wasn't Sibylla who had laid down the rules. Maybe the determination showed in her face and manner, for he made no further attempts to dissuade her, only sighed, as if he regretted being involved at all.

‘I'll drive you. It's too far to walk.'

S
he forgot about her rucksack, for her mind was entirely dominated by the thought of revenge and punishment. Ingmar drove his old Volvo in silence through Vimmerby town centre, past blocks of flats and then a housing estate. When they had left the built-up areas behind, the road went through woodland.

Sibylla wasn't watching.

‘Accursed is he who deprives the innocent of his rights.'

The words echoed in her mind, sounding like a premonition.

She didn't even notice at first that the car had stopped.

‘It seems she isn't back home yet. At least, the car isn't here.'

His voice got through to her and took her away from her obsessional thoughts. Finding herself back in the passenger seat of the Volvo she looked outside. They had pulled up in front of a yellow wooden house. All the windows were covered by lowered Venetian blinds.

‘I'll wait.'

She fumbled with the door handle to get out.

‘It's raining.'

That was true enough. Water was rippling down the windscreen.

‘I'm a neighbour. I live in the house over there. Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee while you're waiting?'

Coffee? She couldn't care less just now. On the other hand, saying no to anything nutritious was a bad idea and the hot dogs had done little to fill her up. There was plenty of space left inside. She nodded. He got into gear and the car crawled along between the gateposts of a roughcast, green-painted house opposite the Hedlund's.

So, they weren't next-door neighbours, but lived really near each other. Sibylla stepped out into the rain and waited for Ingmar. He walked up a gravelled path towards his house. When she stood on top of the steps, she turned to look, in case Kerstin Hedlund's car was coming down the road. All seemed quiet. He reassured her.

‘You'll hear her when she comes. We're the only ones living out here.'

She stepped into the hall. A strong smell of solvents was hanging in the air.

‘Damn, I forgot to take the jar of turps away.'

He disappeared out of sight but returned
quickly, carrying a glass jar with paint-brushes left in to soak.

‘The smell will clear away soon. I'll just put the jar outside for now.'

He opened the front door, put the offending jar outside, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She found a spare hook and hung up her jacket.

‘Do you paint?'

‘It's just a hobby of mine. Why don't you come into the kitchen? We might as well have a cup of coffee.'

He bent to take off his shoes and she followed his example. He stood back to let her step into the kitchen first.

As she took it in she felt sure that this man wasn't living alone. The place wasn't just clean and tidy, but nicely looked after. There were white lace curtains in the window, drawn back by neat, pale pink ties. There were several pots of healthy-looking and quite unusual plants on the windowsill, which was protected by a crocheted runner, possibly home-made.

He was fiddling with the coffee things, filling the kettle with water.

‘Why don't you sit down – make yourself at home?'

She found a chair that allowed her to keep watch on the road. He was measuring the coffee from a pretty but worn tin. Observing him as he was pottering about, she thought that there
was something odd about the place. Everything was cared for and in good order, but curiously old-fashioned. The kitchen furnishings looked like 1950s' originals and the workbenches were far too low, barely reaching the tops of his thighs. Whoever lived here certainly had no interest in up-to-date interior decorating. Still, who was she to criticise?

‘Do you live here alone?'

He looked at her. His expression was almost shy.

‘Yes. I've been staying here on my own ever since my mother died.'

‘I'm sorry. Did she die recently?'

The coffee-maker started bubbling.

‘No, not at all. About ten years ago.'

But you still use her curtains, though.

‘Would you like a sandwich?'

‘Please. I'm quite hungry.'

He opened the fridge door. The handle was black Bakelite and the whole model looked ancient. Gun-Britt had had one of them in her flat in Hultaryd, thirty-five or so years ago. He hesitated, his hand still on the door handle.

‘Oh no – what a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.'

‘No problem.'

He opened one of the kitchen cabinets, taking out pretty cups and saucers with a blue flower pattern. He put them on the table and
started rummaging in a drawer to find the coffee spoons. A car drove past on the road. She jumped and looked out, but the car drove past at speed, disappearing beyond the next bend in the road.

By now, Ingmar was folding napkins, delicate little squares of thin cloth with scalloped edges. She hadn't seen their like since the ladies' afternoon tea-parties in Hultaryd. Maybe this was to be expected in the countryside, where time moved so much more slowly than in towns.

‘Only the best for visitors.'

She looked at him. He was busy, carefully smoothing the folds in the spotless waxed cloth covering the table. Getting the napkins from a drawer in the table had disturbed it. He was looking very pleased with himself, almost elated. Could it be that it was a long time since he experienced anything as convivial as having a guest for coffee? A female guest to boot.

Before pouring the coffee, he found a small silver tray in a cupboard. On it he placed a sugar-bowl and a cream jug in the same china as the cups. Looking very pleased with his preparations, he sat down opposite her and smiled invitingly.

‘There now. Hope you'll enjoy it.'

‘Thank you.'

She glanced at the empty cream jug. It would have been nice with a little milk out of a packet, but she realised that it was pointless to ask.
Lifting the cup by its tiny fragile handle, she drank some coffee while considering the text on the embroidered sampler behind him.

GREATEST OF ALL IS LOVE.

Then he suddenly broke the silence.

‘So what's your plan for when you meet Kerstin?'

The question threw her. During the car journey her thoughts had been so intense that she had somehow assumed that he would share her sense of urgency. Now it struck her that he still had no idea who she was. She looked into her coffee cup.

‘I just wanted to talk to her a little.'

The expression on his face didn't change, as if the smile had been glued to his face.

‘Why do you?'

She felt something like irritation creeping into her mind. So maybe he meant well, but she wasn't that dependent on his good offices.

‘It's something between her and me.'

Ingmar kept focusing on her.

‘Are you sure?'

The coffee was thin and tasteless. He had put in far too little coffee. She had no energy left for maintaining this conversation and rose from the table.

‘Thanks for the coffee and the lift. I feel like taking a little walk now, while I wait.'

He didn't answer and the smile still didn't leave his face. It suddenly came to her that there
was something not quite right about him. His incessant smiling was so silly that she had an impulse to say something nasty, just to wipe it off his mug. He looked pleased with himself, as if remembering a funny story he had no intention of sharing with her.

She walked into the hall and started putting on her boots. When she straightened up and reached for her jacket he was standing in the kitchen doorway, positively grinning at her.

‘You're not leaving already?'

His tone of voice made it sound more like an order than a question. This was the end of good manners, as far as she was concerned.

‘Yes, I am. I can't stand coffee without milk, you see.'

‘Is that so? I got the impression you weren't that picky.'

He had bitten suddenly, like a snake. Unhesitatingly ready to drop any attempt at choosing his word with care. She suddenly felt deeply uneasy. Taking down her jacket, at first she could think of nothing to say at all.

‘What do you mean?'

When she finally spoke, she no longer felt quite so sure of herself and her voice must have revealed it, for the smile came back to his face.

‘That's obvious, isn't it? People like you should be grateful for what they can get.'

She tried as best she could not to show how
frightened she was by now. He didn't look particularly strong, but that was a miscalculation she had made before and duly suffered for. If they were hungry enough for what they wanted, she had rarely had a chance. No way was she giving in without a fight, though. She backed away from him.

‘Vimmerby seems to be one hell of a place. A serial killer and a rapist living just next door to each other. Maybe there's something nasty in the water?'

She glanced towards the front door. The key had gone.

‘It's locked, in case you wondered.'

He had an informative tone to his voice.

‘Now, there's something else I should let you know. If there's one thing I haven't got the slightest inclination to do, it's keeping you here for sex.'

This did nothing to convince her. She backed away from him, hitting her back against the end of the stair railing.

‘There are other things we've got to sort out together, you and I.'

She swallowed.

‘I don't think so.'

Now he grinned again.

‘Oh yes, we do – Sibylla.'