Missing

figure of Christ apparently made of a silver-like metal. The measurements were listed with millimetre accuracy.
    The next picture was a black and white photo of a wall with flowery wallpaper above an unmade bed. The bed linen had large dark stains. There was a line of carefully printed text just above the bed.
    ACCURSED ARE THOSE WHO ROB THE INNOCENTS OF THEIR RIGHTS. Sibylla.
    She looked up at him. He quickly handed her the last of the sheets. It was a picture of a pair of transparent plastic gloves. The text said Nutex size 8 .
    ‘They use these in hospitals and things.’
    Really? That solves the case then.
    ‘That’s all I had time to look at. Anyway, we’ve got their names now.’
    ‘Exactly what can we do with them?’
    He twisted round to face her, apparently choosing his words with care.
    ‘Do you know what I think?’
    Not a clue.
    ‘I think you seem to have packed it in. You aren’t really keen to work on finding the solution. Like, you don’t give a shit.’
    ‘And is that so strange?’
    ‘I guess not but when I do that sort of thing my Dad always says I mustn’t sit there feeling sorry for myself. I must try and fix whatever instead. Do something.’
    Yes. Good luck to your Dad.
    ‘Yesterday you kept going on about how misunderstood the homeless were, and people like that. How you hadn’t got a chance and you on your own and all that. But you do have a chance and you aren’t fucking well taking it.’

    He was getting worked up. She was looking at him with real interest. She wasn’t sure if what he said was more insulting than enlightening, but it was certainly justified. She rose.
    ‘You’re right, boss. OK, let’s go. What should we do, do you think?’
    ‘Let’s go to Västervik.’
    ‘You’re joking!’
    ‘No. I’ve checked out the bus times already. There’s one leaving Stockholm in half an hour. Four hundred and sixty kronor return. I’ll lend you the money. We’ll arrive at four forty and that will give us two hours and twenty minutes before we catch the bus back.’
    ‘You are crazy.’
    ‘We’ll be back at quarter past eleven.’
    She reached for the last straw.
    ‘You’re meant to be back home before ten.’
    ‘Nope. I’m going to a movie, I’ve already phoned Dad.’

T he landscape was rushing past the bus windows. She spent most of the time looking out. Södertälje. Nyköping. Norrköping. Söderköping. Patrik kept studying the police computer printouts, apparently hoping to find a hidden clue if only he examined the pictures closely enough.

    She had paid for their tickets. In the seclusion of the Ladies she had taken a thousand-kronor note from her savings. When she met up with Patrik afterwards, he had bought two bags of crisps and a two-litre bottle of Coke. His eyes grew round with surprise when she got the tickets, but asked no questions.
    She liked that.

    ‘Why are you getting involved in all this, really?’
    He shrugged.
    ‘It freaks me out.’
    She wasn’t going to let him get off so easily.
    ‘Seriously, though. Have you nothing better to do than hang out with an old hag of thirty-two?’
    He grinned at her.
    ‘You only thirty-two?’
    Pointless question. He must have read her age hundreds of times in the newspapers. She kept looking at him, until finally he folded his bits of paper and put them away in an inside pocket.
    ‘I just don’t get it, I mean this thing about always joining some group. Mum and Dad go on about it non-stop. I can’t help it if I don’t fancy arsing about playing hockey or football and whatever. It just so happens I don’t give a shit who gets into the Premier League. So what?’
    She nodded apologetically.
    ‘Fine. I just wondered.’
    She went back to staring out the window again and he returned to his bits of paper.

    The Västervik murder victim had been a Sören Strömberg, ID 36 02 07-4639. They were going to find his nearest and dearest. She remembered well how she had travelled to see Lena Grundberg, full of courage and hope.
    How differently she felt now.
    The bus was on time. She kept in the background while Patrik asked the girl in the bus terminal shop for directions to Siver Street, Strömberg’s address.
    It wasn’t far to go. By the time they were nearly there, she was feeling very uneasy. Patrik was hurrying ahead, unworried and enthusiastic, as if on his way to a good party.

    It was a two-storey house with a mansard roof. Someone had chosen a long since discredited fashion and covered the