Missing

called?’
    ‘Mikael. Mikael Persson.’
    ‘And do we know his parents?’
    ‘I don’t think so, they live in Värnamo.’
    No one spoke for a while and Sibylla found some respite in the silence.
    ‘How does he earn his living in Hultaryd? I assume he’s in employment.’
    ‘He’s an engineer. Car mechanic. He knows everything about cars.’
    ‘Is that so?’
    They looked at each other again, more closely bound to each other now. The rubber-band ties that connected them were tightening and loosening, but their faces were blank, empty. Sibylla looked away.
    ‘We do not approve of our daughter being seen in one of those disreputable cars.’
    She thought, it’s not disreputable, it’s a ’59 De Soto Firedome.
    ‘In fact, you must not socialise with that kind of person, with none of these boys.’
    Her head felt like a lump of lead. It tipped over towards one side, too heavy to be straightened up again.
    ‘They’re my mates.’
    ‘Sit up straight when we’re talking to you!’
    Her head shot upwards automatically but her neck could not keep it upright. Instead it tipped backwards, hitting the top of her high-backed chair.
    ‘Now, what’s the matter? Sibylla, what’s wrong with you?’
    Her mother had got up and was advancing. Sibylla’s head was stuck to the chair at first, but then it slid sideways and followed her body to the floor.
    * * *
    ‘Sibylla, how are you?’ It was her mother’s voice.
    She was lying somewhere soft and there was a cold, damp thing on her forehead. She opened her eyes and realised she was in her own bed, with her mother perched on its edge and her father standing in the middle of the room.
    ‘Dear child, you really scared us.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
    ‘Now, now. We’ll talk about it later.’
    Henry Forsenström came closer.
    ‘How do you feel now? Shouldn’t I call Dr Wallgren?’
    Sibylla shook her head. Her father nodded to show that he had registered her answer and left the room. Sibylla looked at her mother.
    ‘I meant that I’m so sorry I fainted like that.’
    Beatrice removed the wet handkerchief that had cooled her forehead.
    ‘You can’t help fainting, Sibylla. No need to apologise for that. But about the other thing we were talking about, you must do as you’re told. Your father and I agree, you must never go to that place again.’
    Sibylla was close to tears.
    ‘Please, Mummy.’
    ‘Your weeping and wailing is simply pointless. We’re just thinking of what’s best for you, you know that.’
    ‘But the people there are my only friends.’
    Her mother pulled herself up straight. She was losing her patience. As far as she was concerned, the discussion was finished.
    Yes, it was finished, like everything else.

A long, relaxing shower was usually a sure-fire way to cheer her up, but it didn’t work this time. If anything she felt even more miserable when she was drying herself afterwards, as if hope had gone down the drain with the water.
    She took her wet towel and washed panties through to the laundry room on the other side of the corridor. The key worked its magic and she started the tumble-drier.
    Back in the shower room, she locked herself in again to get on with her new hairdo. First she cut her shoulder-length hair. It fell in large strands to the floor. Doing the back was difficult and the more she trimmed away, the clearer it became that in future her chances of flirting her way to free nights in hotels would be minimal. Still, that option had been pretty effectively taken from her anyway.
    Following the instructions carefully, she dyed the remaining tufts black. She ended up looking like an aged punk rocker. Not even fucking Uno Hjelm would recognise her now.
    She tidied up meticulously, honouring the understanding among the initiated in the secret ‘clean-living’ society. The slightest trace of any outsiders coming and going might make the regular tenants hide the key in a new place.
    When everything was in order, she settled down on the lavatory seat to wait for her things to dry. The newspaper was lying just inside the door. She hadn’t found the courage to read it yet, but knew she mustn’t put it off any longer. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed it.
    Pages 6, 7, 8 and the centrefold.
    32-year-old Sibylla Forsenström, charged in her absence with the murder of 51-year-old Jörgen Grundberg in the Grand Hotel, yesterday carried out another brutal murder. At about 3 p.m. on Sunday, a 63-year-old man was found murdered