Missing

asking, that much was certain too. Her first feeling was rage and she marched straight into the garage shop to pull a paper from the stand. The centrefold headline left no room for doubt.

    MURDERER MUTILATED VICTIM .

    Three words in heavy black type. Below, a full-page photograph of Jörgen Grundberg smiling broadly at the camera.
    Unnamed sources alleged that the murderer had sliced open the dead man’s torso and removed unspecified internal organs. The police admitted that some kind of religious symbol had been left at the scene of the crime, suggesting a ritual act of slaughter.
    ‘Gruesome stuff, isn’t it?’
    Sibylla looked up. The man behind the counter nodded towards the paper.
    ‘That’s eight kronor for the paper, then. Is that all?’
    She hesitated, fingering the coins in her pocket. Eight kronor was a lot to spend, just for a newspaper.
    ‘A can of paraffin too, please.’
    The man pointed for her to help herself from the right shelf. After paying, there were only nineteen kronor left in her purse.

    Back at the allotments, Hjelm was no longer to be seen. She closed the door behind her and settled down with the paper. Reading the first four lines was enough to convince her that she was the wanted woman.
    Who, the paper was asking, was Jörgen Grundberg’s mysterious female companion, who had dined with him in the Grand’s French restaurant? How had she managed to vanish in the morning, slipping unseen past the police cordons? The public was encouraged to contact the police headquarters with any information that might have a bearing on the case. The number to ring was displayed in large print.
    She felt queasy. Seconds later she realised why. She was under threat.
    What was she to do? The simplest answer was to ring that police number and explain the situation, insisting that she was innocent. The drawback was that she would have to let them know her personal details, including her ID number. A single computer check would tell them that she hardly had an official existence. This would instantly make them curious about her, the last thing she needed. Being left alone to mind her own business was all she ever wanted. She’d managed to do just that for fifteen years now. No one had chased her.
    Of course she’d committed lots of minor illegal acts, misdemeanours that never harmed anyone poor or needy. She was not at all wicked but still, there were many things she’d rather not have the police look into. Living outside the margins of the normally acceptable for so long had shaped her. She was no longer in the system.
    Being an outcast was part of how she lived, who she was. That she should be allowed to survive on her own terms seemed a small thing to ask, but she knew the media would turn the story of her life into something she couldn’t endure. Not that she was proud of what she’d done so far, but anyone who tried interfering and laying down the law could go to hell.
    No stranger would ever really understand why her life had turned out the way it had. Too bad if she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. What had happened, had happened.

‘H enry, I just can’t take her with me. You know what it was like last time!’
    Beatrice Forsenström was preparing for her annual visit to her mother and two aunts. Henry Forsenström didn’t have much time for these ladies and the feeling was mutual. Beatrice went to see them on her own.
    Sibylla had speculated about the possibility that once upon a time her mother really must have married her father for love because Beatrice’s parents had been so opposed to the marriage. Beatrice’s family was upper-class. Her parents, Mr and Mrs Hall, surveying the world from inside their huge apartment in Stockholm’s prestigious Östermalm district, had dismissed the son of Forsenström’s Foundry as ‘not really one of us’. When anyone wanted to marry into the Hall family ‘a good family background’ was what really counted. ‘New money’ was automatically suspect.
    Besides, what would a Hall girl do, buried in Hultaryd? No one had ever heard of this one-horse place somewhere in the Småland uplands. Still, it’s your funeral, my dear, just don’t come complaining to us afterwards.
    Sibylla had picked this up gradually, listening to her mother’s conversations with Granny at mealtimes. Apparently, Granny was also displeased at how long it had taken Beatrice and her husband to produce children. Displeased, though not at all surprised.