Missing

or Latvia?’
    She carried on coughing to cover her error. Lena Grundberg fetched a glass of water and Sibylla drank gratefully.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’m an asthmatic, you see.’
    Lena Grundberg nodded and sat down again.
    ‘Had no what?’ she asked.
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘You asked if I’d know if he had any – what?’
    ‘Enemies, I guess … or something.’
    Lena Grundberg was looking at her. Maybe it was time to go. She was getting ready to stand when the woman opposite her suddenly uttered one word, filled with contempt.
    ‘Sibylla!’
    Sibylla started, as if slapped. Their eyes met. She stayed where she was, very still.
    ‘It’s such a weird name. No normal person is called Sibylla.’
    Sibylla tried breathing calmly. It had been a scary moment.
    ‘You’re right, it’s really peculiar.’ She sounded ingratiating. ‘Though presumably the woman didn’t pick it herself.’
    ‘Oh no?’
    Lena Grundberg was not good company. Sibylla wanted to get away. Still, she had taken such a lot of trouble to get here, it would be silly not to try finding out something more.
    ‘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