Missing

because the police were always about. She didn’t dare go to the Klara shelter either.
    Keeping track of time had become problematic since she’d left her diary in the Grand Hotel, but she was pretty sure her charity hand-out should be there today. First of all she just must do something about her hair. If she borrowed some money from her savings to buy hair dye, she could collect the money afterwards.

    Having extracted a twenty-kronor note from her savings, she caught the 76 bus to Ropsten. Normally she avoided buses, because it was easier to get through the underground check-ins without paying. This was the first time in six years that she had used saved money. Fourteen kronor for just one journey, what a waste!
    Fucking bastards, all of them.
    At first, she was the only one at the Renstierna Street bus stop. When people started turning up, she looked away. It was the morning rush-hour, but luckily she found two seats right at the back, one for her and one for her rucksack. When they reached Slussen all the seats had been taken and a woman standing close by her was eyeing the rucksack. Usually it wouldn’t have bothered her, but just now she didn’t want anyone watching her. She hauled the rucksack into her lap and the woman sat down, taking a morning paper out of her briefcase.
    Sibylla kept looking steadfastly through the window as the bus crossed Skepp Bridge and pulled up at the traffic lights. It was next to a newsagent and the shopkeeper was putting up fresh news posters. When the bus started, he had moved enough for her to see the text. Automatically, her eyes recorded it and sent it straight to her brain.
    It couldn’t be true!
    She sat staring blankly ahead for what seemed like an age, confusion and fear pumping through her body. A noose was tightening round her neck.
    A passenger’s face turned her way. Instinctively she pulled at the rucksack to make it into a bigger barrier and by shifting her position saw what her neighbour was reading. She didn’t want to, but once more her eyes were recording things against her will.
    The headline alone made her feel sick.
    She didn’t want to know any more and she forced her eyes to focus on the rucksack for the rest of the journey, not daring to move until the woman got off at her stop.
    The paper was left on the seat. She didn’t want to. Knew she had to. Fuck them.
    She grabbed the paper before getting off the bus.

    On her way to Nimrod Street, she popped into the Co-op and bought a packet of Rich Black dye, raiding her savings for the second time that morning. She would pay every single kronor back the moment she got her hand-out envelope from the post office box.

    The Nimrod Street block of flats was an invaluable asset to her and a few others in the same predicament. Everyone in the know was exceptionally tight-lipped about it. It was information she had paid dearly for. Not in money, though.
    The main door was always open and because the flats lacked showers, a couple of well-equipped shower-rooms had been built in the basement. The rooms were spacious and smartly tiled, had a lavatory with plenty of toilet paper and unlimited quantities of hot water.
    They were locked, of course. Only the initiated knew where to find the spare key, fastened to a large piece of wood, in its hiding-place inside an old iron wall-cupboard just next to the doors leading to the wonderful washing facilities. Even better, you could lock the shower-rooms from the inside.
    That key was worth more than its weight in gold.
    As soon as she got in, she put her panties in the basin to soak, using a few drops of shampoo instead of washing liquid. Next, the hot shower. She was in luck, someone had left a bottle of conditioner. She closed her eyes, but the headline seemed fixed in her mind’s eye.
    Was there no end to this? Would she ever wake from this nightmare?

    THE GRAND HOTEL MURDERESS
STRIKES AGAIN

    NEW RITUAL MURDER IN VÄSTERVIK

‘F or how long have you been carrying on like this?’
    It was her father speaking, for once. Sibylla swallowed again. The tabletop still seemed to rise and fall in front of her.
    ‘Like what, Daddy?’
    Her mother snorted angrily.
    ‘Sibylla, don’t pretend. You’re not such a fool you don’t understand what upsets us.’
    True, she did know. Obviously she had been seen in Mick’s car.
    ‘We met in the spring.’
    Her parents looked at each other across the table, behaving as if they were joined by elastic bands.
    ‘What is the man