Missing

place anyway.
    She felt happier now, for some strange reason. Maybe it was because she was determined to take control over what was happening to her. Or maybe spending her last kronor on a hamburger had cheered her up.

    The Grundbergs’ large villa was surrounded by a chest-high wall of the same white, glazed bricks that covered the fac¸ade. Mock-Victorian lamps lit the driveway to the mahogany-style front door that contrasted with black-stained window frames. One of the largest satellite discs she’d ever seen was perched on the roof.
    The whole place was screaming more- money-than- taste .
    For a while she hung about on the pavement, hesitating. Then she walked round the block to avoid attracting attention by loitering and the walk helped her to make up her mind. She had better start trying to find an explanation here and now.
    The decision was easy to reach in her head, especially on the far side of the block, but her legs were not keen on taking her along the drive. Looking at the large house, her courage was faltering again. The dark windows, framed in black and with black shutters, seemed to be observing her like so many hostile eyes.
    Someone opened the door and called to her.
    ‘Are you from a newspaper?’
    ‘No.’ Sibylla swallowed hard, closed the gate behind her and walked down the last part of the drive without looking at the woman in the doorway. Halfway to the front steps she passed a water-feature with a vaguely classical marble female, which presumably spurted water on good days. Now she looked frozen.
    Sibylla stopped at the bottom of the steps, swallowing once more before looking up at the woman waiting there.
    ‘Yes?’ She seemed impatient.
    ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to see Lena Grundberg.’
    The woman shifted a little. She was in her forties and exceptionally good-looking.
    ‘I am Lena Grundberg.’
    Sibylla felt uncomfortable. She had no idea what or who she’d been expecting. Her idea had been to pretend she was a minister on call, or maybe a counsellor from some bereavement support group. The papers often mentioned that sort of thing. People, who simply came along uninvited, wanting to comfort the distressed widow or mother or whoever. Trouble was, this woman was looking just as cool and collected as the marble lady in the pond.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice sounded a little cross, impatient. The tone was that of someone interrupted in the middle of watching an exciting film.
    Having taken in the woman’s personality, Sibylla made an instant decision to change her approach. Submission seemed the best way to deal with Lena Grundberg.
    ‘My name is Berit Svensson. I know this is a terrible time to call but … I’ve come to ask you for help.’ She blinked shyly. Looking up she saw Lena Grundberg frowning.
    ‘I’ve been reading the papers, of course, and I live … round here. You see, I’ve lost my husband too, some six months ago and I still feel … I need to talk to someone who knows what it’s like.’
    Lena Grundberg, who was looking rather disapproving, seemed to be weighing the pros and cons. Sibylla decided to pile on the pressure.
    ‘You must be such an incredibly strong human being. I’d really appreciate if I could just come in and talk to you for a moment.’
    The last clause had the fervent ring of real truth and this small shift of nuance may have made the flattery convincing. Lena Grundberg stepped back from the threshold and gestured towards the hall behind her.
    ‘Come in. We’ll talk in the drawing room.’
    Sibylla took one long step forward into the house. Bending down to take off her shoes, she realised that the large rug was very expensive. Next to her stood a wildly ornamental umbrella-stand in dark green metal.
    The doorway between the hall and the drawing room had been remodelled into a wide arch. Lena Grundberg walked ahead of Sibylla, who kept looking around. Regretting the makeup she’d put on in the train, she wiped off the lipstick on her hand. Her instinct told her that the more superior the immaculately made-up Lena Grundberg felt, the better it would be.
    Sibylla had extensive experience of that kind of woman.
    The drawing room was so tasteless that she looked around in desperation for something to praise. She homed in on the one item that wasn’t positively repulsive.
    ‘What a lovely wood-burning stove!’
    ‘Thank you. Do have a seat,’ Lena Grundberg said and sat down on an armchair covered with leather