Missing

beat it.
    Heino rose, pointing towards the Grand Hotel.
    ‘That’s where she was standing, on the Grand’s balcony.’
    Sibylla stopped to listen.
    ‘Down here it was packed with people, all the way across to the Kung Garden. They were waiting for her to sing.’
    Now Sibylla and the policeman were both staring at him. The policeman was curious.
    ‘Who was singing from the balcony?’
    Heino sighed and shrugged, spreading his dirty palms.
    ‘Don’t you know anything? Christina Nilsson, that’s who. The Nightingale from Småland.’
    Heino stopped dramatically. The policewoman began to get impatient. She lowered the car window to shout at her colleague.
    ‘Janne, come on!’
    ‘Hang on a minute.’

    Heino nodded, totally in control.
    ‘More than forty thousand were crammed into central Stockholm, wanting to hear her sing. This place was black with people. Folks were clambering up lamp-posts, standing on top of carriages, wherever. In dead silence. Do you know, her singing was heard all the way to Skepp Bridge. Get it? Those days, people knew how to keep their mouths shut.’
    ‘Janne! I’m waiting!’
    Heino had caught the policeman’s attention completely. All Sibylla could do was sit tight, letting it happen. She glanced towards the National Museum. Heino lifted his arm and raised a finger in the air. The movement sent another wave of foul smell wafting from his worn coat. Sibylla concentrated on holding her breath.
    ‘The moment she’d finished singing they all started applauding like lunatics. Then somebody shouted that the scaffolding around the Palmgren Mansion was coming down. They were building there at the time. First the crowd got worried, then it panicked. Sixteen females and two little kids died after being trampled underfoot. Another hundred or so were taken to hospital.’
    Heino nodded again.
    ‘You lot should’ve been around then, they might have lived longer if you had. Doing your policing thing properly, instead of getting at me. I’m just eating my roll.’

    The policeman called Janne was beaming at him.
    ‘Right you are. Interesting story, Heino. Take care now.’
    This time he managed to get into the car and drive away before Heino thought of something else to say. Sibylla kept staring at him, shaking her head.
    ‘How did you know all that?’
    Heino snorted.
    ‘Education. Have you heard of it? I may smell like shit, but I’ve got an education.’
    He rose, swinging his loaded pram round in readiness for raiding the Kung Garden rubbish-bins.
    ‘Thanks for the roll.’
    Sibylla smiled wanly and Heino left while she was still looking at the balcony where Christina Nilsson had been standing, one hundred and fifteen years ago. Nowadays there wasn’t a hope of hearing someone sing above the incessant roar of the traffic. Turning her head, she was just in time to see Heino disappear after crossing Kung Garden Street. She felt a fleeting impulse to run after him. It would be good not to be alone, just for a while longer. But it was no use.
    She stayed where she was. The hullabaloo about the murder was not yet past its peak. Better keep herself to herself.
    As usual.

A fter that first trip in his car she stopped by the YPSMS house to see Mick practically every afternoon, their times together growing steadily longer. In the end she jettisoned the idea of going for a walk and simply went straight there. She met the other YPSMS members, who were all guys, the same age as Mick, same style. For the first time she felt accepted into a group. Because she was with Mick she was OK, no further qualifications needed. They even seemed indifferent to the fact that she was Forsenström’s daughter.
    Still, being alone with him in the workshop was the nicest thing about coming there, mainly because Mick seemed much more relaxed when it was just the two of them. He happily taught her all he knew about engines and cars. Sometimes he would take her for a drive and, when he was in a really good mood, leave her at the wheel on quiet forest roads. The first time, he told her to sit in his lap while she practised the controls. She felt his thighs under her own and his stomach against her bottom. Her whole body seemed to respond strangely to these contacts. She felt hot and tense. Then she became very aware of his hands over hers on the steering wheel.
    When she came home after that trip she wrote his name under the seat of the chair in her room. He was her secret. This secret seemed to confer a