Missing (6 page)

‘How did he die?'

The other woman coughed.

‘She slit his throat first. Then she cut him open and spread out his organs all over the floor.'

She might have been describing a new recipe.

Sibylla felt she needed air. Now. Nausea came in waves. She rose.

‘I've got to go.'

The widowed Mrs Grundberg stayed in her armchair.

‘I suppose I didn't exactly meet your expectations?'

For once she could answer truthfully.

‘No, not really.'

Lena Grundberg nodded, looking down.

‘We all deal with things differently.'

Sibylla nodded too.

‘Of course … thank you for letting me talk to you.'

She put her shoes on in the hall. Lena Grundberg remained sitting where she was and without another word being said, Sibylla quietly left the house.

H
er walks were her salvation. ‘Going out for a walk' was a legitimate reason to leave the house and the fresh air blew away some of her stale teenage angst. Her routes were always taking her to the edge of town, avoiding the hot-dog stall in the centre. It was
the
Hultaryd meeting-place for those who cared about meeting up. Sibylla wasn't one of them. It was a long time since she had positively wanted to meet anybody she knew from school in the evening. Seeing them there during the day was more than enough.

The Young People's Society for Motor Sports ran a community centre in the outskirts. It was a shabby two-storey house with its ground floor turned into a mechanics' workshop. The distance from central Hultaryd was a measure of the low status of the YPSMS members, but at least in some cases alienation seemed to be what was wanted.

She would probably never have noticed him, if she hadn't happened to pass just when he was bending over the engine of a souped-up old banger with very fancy paintwork. She
stopped some twenty metres away to admire the effect. The car was pea-green with vivid flames streaming from below towards the rear wings. She had never seen anything like it.

She was trying to hang about casually, but after a while he looked up and spoke to her.

‘Cool, isn't it?' He was wiping his oily hands on a rag.

She nodded.

‘De Soto Firedome, from '59. I just had it back after a re-spray.'

She couldn't think of any response. There seemed to be nothing to say. Most of all, she was amazed that anyone in Hultaryd had been able to paint the flames so beautifully.

‘Want a go? Just try sitting in it?' When she still didn't answer he shut the bonnet and waved at her. ‘Come on, have a look. The seats are covered in real leather.'

She came closer. He was obviously keen to show off his car, which seemed innocent enough. She had never been in a car like that and couldn't remember ever having seen him before. He looked quite a bit older than her.

He threw the oily rag away. Then he wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and opened the passenger door for her. After only a few seconds' hesitation she did what he obviously wanted her to do. The seat upholstery felt like an armchair.

‘It's a great car. V-eight engine, 305 horsepower.'

‘Great.' She smiled cautiously at him.

He went round to the driver's side and opened the door.

‘Can you reach the blanket on the back seat?'

Sibylla got hold of the brown, checked blanket and handed it to him. He put it on the seat before he jumped in.

‘Coming along for a drive?' He was already turning the key.

She stared at him.

‘I'm not sure … I should go back home …'

The engine was humming. He pressed a button and her window went down.

‘Electric circuit operating the windows. You want to check it out?'

She pressed the button. The window closed smoothly. She looked at him again, meeting his smiling face. Two dimples had appeared in his cheeks.

He got into gear and put his arm along the back of her seat. Her heart was beating harder now, because his gesture seemed so intimate even though it was probably just practical. Looking out through the rear window, he reversed into the road.

How come she was suddenly sitting in a suspect-looking car next to a complete stranger? What if anyone saw her?

‘I'll drive you home. Where do you live?'

Sibylla swallowed.

‘No, don't. Let's just go for a drive,' she replied quickly.

They drove towards the centre. Sibylla was watching him surreptitiously. There were spots of oil in his face.

‘I'm Mick, but I won't shake hands. Unless you want to get oil on yours.'

‘Sibylla.'

‘Sure. Forsenström's daughter. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

He was driving down Tull Street and soon they would be passing the hot-dog stall.

‘Hey, listen, isn't she sounding just great?'

Fantastic. Sibylla wasn't going to say the car sounded about as smooth as Gun-Britt's little Renault. The usual crowd had gathered around the hot-dog stall. Sibylla kept her head down.

‘Those are your mates, right?'

At first she didn't answer and he looked quickly at her.

‘Like, they're hanging out at your place.' He was grinning at his own joke.

She didn't even smile. Noticing her reaction, he too became serious.

‘Come on, I was just kidding. Don't worry about it.'

She looked at him, realising that he really had meant it as a joke, not sarcasm aimed at her. The difference was obvious and she smiled back at him.

‘No, they're not my mates.'

Not much more was said between them at that first meeting.

He took her back to the YPSMS place and she thanked him for the drive. He pulled the handle that released the bonnet just moments after she'd got out of the car. When she had walked away a bit, she turned. He already had his head down, tinkering with the engine.

A new, expectant feeling was growing inside her, making her certain that something important had happened, something good. Whatever it was, it mattered to her.

How right she was.

Of course, she couldn't have known that if the car hadn't been delivered that day, or if the paint had taken just an hour longer to dry so that Mick wouldn't have been outside working on it or if she'd taken her walk in another direction … or if, if, if … then, if things had happened differently, her life might have turned out quite differently.

That afternoon she had arrived at one of life's significant forks in the road, unremarkable-looking at the time, but where the effect of turning one way or the other is fully understood only afterwards. It would take her a long time before she realised it.

Then – much later on – it would become clear to her how wrong her choice of direction had been on that critical afternoon.

S
he walked away from the smart villa environment of the Grundbergs, following directions to the town centre. That night, she slept outside the door to the attics of an apartment block. The entrance door hadn't been locked. This vulnerability was one of the nice things about trips to the provinces. In Stockholm people were so careful that she usually had to stick to familiar addresses where she knew the score.

She was woken by some kid screaming further down the stairway, followed by the noise of a door opening and a woman's voice saying crossly that if he was going to be like that, he couldn't come along, so there. A little later the main door slammed and the place became silent again. She checked her watch, but it still didn't work. She really needed a new one, but watches were expensive.

When she got up from her camping mat, the world went black around her. She had to lean against the wall until the dizziness went away. Food – she needed food at once.

The station was only a few blocks away.

She went into the Ladies' Room to wash, comb her hair and put on mascara and lipstick. The green suit was creased from being in her rucksack, but never mind. Without it she'd go without breakfast. After putting it on, she held her hands under the tap and flattened the creases with her wet palms. It helped with the worst ones, anyway.

Putting the rucksack into Left Luggage meant that she'd have to pay to get it back later, but she'd fix it somehow. Food was top of the agenda now.

Surveying the scene from the station steps, she decided on the nearby City Hotel. She hurried across the street, then drifted into the foyer at a much slower pace. The male receptionist hurried towards her at once and she smiled at him.

‘Goodness, it's so chilly today,' she said and shivered.

He smiled back. His golden name-tag told her that he was called Henrik.

‘I just popped across to the station to check the train times, but I really needed a jacket.'

‘Do ask us here in the reception next time, we've got all the timetables.'

She leaned confidingly towards him across the counter.

‘Don't tell, but to be honest I took the chance to smoke a cigarette.'

He looked benignly at her, as if to reassure her that her secret was safe with him. The guest is always right.

So far, so good.

The hook for the key to room 213 was empty, but 214 was still in place. She looked at her watch.

‘Please phone room 214 for me.'

‘Of course.' He handed her the receiver. The signals rang out, but nobody answered. Henrik turned to check the keys.

‘He should be in, his key is still here. Perhaps he's already gone down to breakfast?'

He nodded in the direction of a corridor.

‘It's unlike him to be early, I must say. There's a first time for everything I suppose … But thanks. Have you got a morning paper I could have, please?'

He gave her a copy of
Dagens Nyheter
and she walked off towards the corridor, which would surely lead to the breakfast room. Easy-peasy.

Half an hour later she leaned back in the chair feeling full and relaxed. There were four other guests, all at separate tables and engrossed in their newspapers. Nothing new, it seemed, or at least
Dagens Nyheter
ran only a small column on an inside page referring to the police search for the woman who got away from the Grand Hotel.

The breakfast buffet was generous. She went up for a refill of coffee and managed to smuggle several breakfast rolls and three bananas into her handbag.

Back at her table, she thought about the excursion to Eskilstuna. Had she gained anything by coming all this way to let Jörgen Grundberg's widow insult her? She drank another mouthful of coffee, looking vacantly through the window.

Actually, she knew perfectly well what her trip had been in aid of. She had made herself believe that, equipped with some first-hand information and a contact with somebody who knew Jörgen Grundberg, she would be able to explain the whole story of their encounter in the hotel. The misunderstandings would be sorted out and the case closed, as far as she was concerned.

Instead, the outcome had been the opposite of what she had hoped. They were all utterly convinced that she had done it. No other candidates. What were her options now?

She could simply go into hiding. After keeping out of sight for the best part of fifteen years, it shouldn't be impossible. The published picture was the only one they had, which made her pretty unrecognisable now. As usual, her name spelt trouble and there were people who knew her usual hang-outs. Still, hardly any of them cared much for the police.

In other words, everything might sort itself
out if she lay low, avoiding a few obvious places until they caught the real murderer. Then she could live normally again. Goodness, never in her wildest fantasies had she thought ‘back to normal' would be her aim in life.

After drinking some more coffee, she realised what was still disturbing her so much.

The humiliation. She had been so determined to take no more of it, ever. No more shit.

She had a clear vision of her mother's rage on hearing that her daughter had disgraced the family again. What's wrong with the girl? Being truly her own mother's daughter, the expression in her eyes would soon also say ‘I told you so – don't say I didn't warn you.'

The gossip would be soaking through every layer of society in Hultaryd. You've heard about the Forsenströms' daughter, haven't you? She's a murderess.

Her father would probably … but no, she couldn't begin to imagine how he would react. She had never understood how he really felt about things.

By now she didn't care anyway.

She got up. Walking past the reception on her way out she waved to Henrik, who was on the phone, gesturing to show that she was slipping out for a smoke. He waved back.

Getting the rucksack out from Left Luggage turned out to be simplicity itself. There was
no one about, so she walked unseen round the counter and lifted it off the shelf.

She changed back into jeans and sweater in the Ladies' Room. It was silly to use the green suit too often and besides it required dry-cleaning, which was an unforgivable luxury. The next train to Stockholm Central departed at 10.48, so she settled down on a bench to wait.

C
oming home that afternoon, she sensed that something was wrong the moment she crossed the threshold. She called out but there was no response. In the drawing room she saw her mother sitting on the sofa, reading a book with her back turned to the doorway.

‘Mummy, I'm home.'

Silence. Her heart was beating hard now. What had she done?

After hanging up her jacket, she slowly walked into the drawing room. Even though she couldn't see her mother's face, she knew what it would tell her. Her mother was upset. So upset and disappointed, darling. As she walked round the sofa, a lump was growing in Sibylla's stomach.

Beatrice Forsenström did not look up from her book. Sibylla forced herself to say something, but could scarcely find her voice.

‘Mummy, what is it?' No sound came from her mother who carried on reading as if Sibylla did not exist, let alone had actually spoken to her.

‘Why are you angry with me?'

Silence.

By now the lump in her stomach was so big it made her feel sick. Who had told her mother about this afternoon? Had someone seen her? She swallowed.

‘What have I done?'

Still no reaction from Beatrice, who just turned a page in her book. Sibylla stared at the carpet. Its twisting oriental pattern began blurring in front of her eyes and she bent forward to make the tears fall straight down without leaving any traces on her cheeks.

Her ears were ringing. The shame of it all.

She went upstairs, knowing full well what to expect. Hours of anxious waiting for the explosion, hours more of guilt, shame, regret, longing to be forgiven. Please, please, dear God, let the time pass quickly. Please let her tell me soon what's up so I can say sorry – forgive me. But whatever You do, don't let her have found out everything.

God, don't take today away from me.

But sometimes God is hard. When the downstairs dinner-bell rang, Mrs Forsenström still had not deigned to appear in Sibylla's room. Sibylla was feeling really sick now and the smell of fried potatoes made her want to vomit. She knew what would come next. She would be made to beg and plead to be told what she had done wrong. Beatrice would speak only when sated with her daughter's self-abasement.