Missing

quick glance, they climbed the stone steps to the front door.
    ‘It’s quite small but well equipped, I think you’ll agree. The immersion heater is a little old though.’
    Sibylla nodded and they stepped inside. The murderer must have come in this way once. After crossing a lobby, they were in a small kitchen. Everything was neat and well looked after. The atmosphere was cosy, familiar. Scruffy patches on the floor showed where kitchen chairs had been pulled up to and away from the table. The enamel on the handle on the oven door had been partly worn away after years of use by hungry hands.
    There was a faint odour of paint in the air.
    Patrik had gone on to open the door of a closed room. In the doorway, he stopped and signalled to her. She came to stand next to him. The room was unfurnished and freshly painted white. Patrik produced one of his pieces of paper. Pointing, he spoke in a whisper.
    ‘That’s the wall.’
    Sibylla looked at the photograph of the bloodstained bed and read once more the killer’s message, signed with her name. She wanted to get out, now.

    Gunvor Strömberg had walked down to the jetty and stood there with her back to the house, staring out over the calm water of the lake. Sibylla felt she shouldn’t disturb her. Patrik came alongside her.
    ‘Go talk to her. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve figured anything new yet. I’ll stay here, just check it out a bit more.’
    He was right. Of course they couldn’t just leave now.

    Gunvor Strömberg did not acknowledge Sibylla’s presence in any way. Only when Sibylla cleared her throat noisily did her companion take her eyes away from the lake and raise a hand to wipe her face.
    Still Gunvor did not turn round.
    ‘It’s a very nice place, this.’
    No reply. For a while they stood together without speaking. Sibylla thought that sooner or later the silence would force the other woman to say something.

    Looking at the wonderful view, Sibylla realised that this was the place she had always dreamt of. The quiet seclusion, the lovely natural setting. Not that she would ever be able to afford something like this. Besides, soon she wouldn’t be able to buy anything at all. Suddenly Gunvor spoke, turning towards Sibylla.
    ‘I suppose I’d better tell you myself, you’d only hear the rumours if I don’t. You’re not from round here, are you?’
    ‘No, we’re not.’
    ‘I thought so.’
    Sibylla took a few steps forward to stand closer to the distressed woman. Silence was still her best policy.
    ‘Six days ago, my husband was murdered in this house.’
    Unobserved, Sibylla still acted out a silent reaction of surprise.
    ‘The murderer wasn’t local, if you’re worrying about that.’
    Sibylla had glimpsed enough of her face to see the tears flowing down Gunvor’s cheeks.
    ‘Is that why you want to sell your cottage?’
    Gunvor sobbed, shaking her head at the same time.
    ‘No, no. We’d planned to sell, but maybe in the spring when the prices are better.’
    She sheltered her face behind her right hand, as if to hide her crying from Sibylla.
    ‘Sören had been ill for quite a long time. Cancer of the liver. Just over a year ago he had major surgery and it went better than we dared hope. They gave him a forty-four per cent chance of surviving.’
    She was shaking her head now.
    ‘I suppose I’d started hoping again. He was taking his medicine and had regular check-ups. Things seemed all right. Well, he was often tired, no wonder, but he didn’t like not being able to do what he used to. We thought keeping the cottage might become too much and, anyway, we could go travelling together with the money. After all, he mightn’t … have that much time left.’
    She stopped and Sibylla put her hand on Gunvor’s shoulder. Gunvor started sobbing again when she felt the light touch.
    ‘We spent as much time here as we could. Drove here the moment we were free.’
    ‘Maybe you’d prefer not to sell immediately?’
    Gunvor shook her head.
    ‘I don’t want to stay here any more. I don’t like going into that house.’
    Suddenly the silence was shattered by a flourish on a trumpet. Sibylla took her hand away and looked around in bewilderment.
    ‘That Magnusson, a neighbour. When he’s here, he plays reveille every morning and lights-out every night. It’s from sheer joy at being here, he says.’
    Gunvor had to smile a little, despite her grief. Sibylla closed her eyes, briefly dreaming of living in this place. Imagine having