Missing

hand across the fence. Maybe this chatty mention of the Canary Islands was a bit much? It was too late for second thoughts now.
    ‘My name is Monica. I’m Birgit’s niece.’
    He shook her hand and introduced himself.
    ‘Uno Hjelm. Sorry to bother you, but we operate a kind of Neighbourhood Watch here. There’s quite a few weird characters about in this area.’
    ‘I know. That’s why they asked me to turn up once in a while to keep an eye on things.’
    He nodded. She sensed that her lies had gone down quite well.
    ‘Off to the Canaries, eh? That’s something else, now. Didn’t say a word about that last week.’
    No surprise there.
    ‘It was a sudden inspiration. Well, they came across a cheap offer.’
    He looked towards the sky.
    ‘Well, we can only hope they get better weather down there. Not such a bad idea, getting away to the sun for a bit.’
    ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
    He seemed to be dreaming about travelling, so she took the opportunity to move on.
    ‘I’ll go for a walk now and come back later.’
    ‘Right you are. Well, we might still be here, though I’m ready to give up pretty soon. I just thought I’d come and look the place over.’
    She nodded and walked down the path towards the small gate. She only hoped that Kurt and Birgit wouldn’t turn up while she was off to the Statoil garage.
    Now, that would confuse Mr Hjelm.

    She walked as quickly as she could. The label in the sleeping bag stated that it would protect against temperatures as low as fifteen degrees below zero, but she’d woken up feeling frozen after her brief nap. If only she had a couple of aspirins for her throat. Maybe she could scrounge some at the Salvation Army hostel?
    She had almost reached the Statoil garage when the rain started again. Drying wet clothes was an utterly miserable exercise and she almost ran the last bit to get under the roof. If only she had an umbrella for the way back!
    The news posters for that afternoon were on display outside the garage doors. She looked quickly at them in passing. One was yellow and the words were printed on two lines.

    VICTIM OF RITUAL MURDER
AT THE GRAND
    MYSTERIOUS WOMAN WANTED BY POLICE

    She stopped to look.
    There was a photo below the headline. No question whose face it showed.
    It was Jörgen Grundberg’s.

B eatrice Forsenström sounded disapproving.
    ‘This is not the moment to discuss it. Just put on your dress and get ready now.’
    Sibylla was sitting on the edge of her bed in her underwear. She’d been steeling herself, choosing her moment with care. They were dressing for the Christmas party at her father’s firm, the one time in the year when her mother might be open to persuasion. The idea of the party always put her in a good mood and she would be full of anticipation, hurrying about trying to get everyone looking their smartest. After all, in little Hultaryd there were few other opportunities for her to enjoy her status to the fullest.
    ‘Please Mummy, I’d really like to go out selling the Christmas things. Just one day.’
    She’d tilted her head to the side appealingly. Maybe on this happy evening, her mother would indulge her little daughter?
    Beatrice was about to leave the room.
    ‘Sibylla, don’t forget to wear your black shoes.’
    She swallowed. One more try. It couldn’t do any harm.
    ‘Please Mummy …’
    Beatrice stopped. Now there was a vertical crease between her eyebrows.
    ‘Sibylla, you’ve heard me speak my mind already. My daughter doesn’t have to run around begging to find the money for a school-trip. If you really insist on going, your father and I will pay whatever is required. It’s quite wrong of you to make such a fuss and on this night of all times. You might show a little gratitude for what we do for you.’
    She marched out of the room.
    Staring at the floor, Sibylla was thinking that this was it. End of story. Not that she’d ever had a chance. Questioning her mother’s decision had been too cheeky in the first place and now she’d only made it worse. Her mother had been jolted out of her party mood and Sibylla would be punished. Rows had to be paid for, over and over.
    The outlook was Grim, as if things weren’t bad enough already.
    The Christmas party at Forsenström’s Metal Foundry was a regular event. Sibylla had come to feel the same way about the Christmas do as she did about root canal fillings. Executive Director and Mrs Forsenström were showing off their seasonal benevolence by