Missing

a neighbour, at a safe distance, who announced his presence with tunes on a trumpet, played from happiness. The dream of being happy.
    ‘How much are you looking for? For the house?’
    ‘The agent says I shouldn’t go below 300,000 …’
    Sibylla’s hope went out like a light.
    ‘… but as far as I’m concerned, what’s important is who buys it.’
    Their eyes met.
    ‘Sören and I built it back in 1957, struggling like anything to make ends meet. We’ve put so much of ourselves into this place, lived through so many things here. I still can’t quite believe I can just move away. That the house will still be here, but with someone else inside it. Not us any more.’
    She pulled her jacket closer around her body.
    ‘As if we had never mattered.’
    Sibylla protested, with real feeling.
    ‘But you have mattered, of course you have. That’s what makes it all so wonderful. The house bears witness to your lives here. The whole place does. Your feet made this path down to the lake and it will always be here. You planted the shrubs. Everything. I have never done anything that will live when I’m dead. Nothing to remind people that I was around.’
    She stopped abruptly. What was all this in aid of? Why not give her name while she was at it?
    ‘But you’ve got a son.’
    Sibylla cleared her throat, embarrassed.
    ‘Of course I do. I don’t know what came over me.’
    She turned to call.
    ‘Patrik! I think we’d better go. We’ll miss the bus!’
    Gunvor looked concerned.
    ‘Didn’t you come by car?’
    ‘No. We took a taxi here, actually.’
    ‘I’ll drive you to town. I’m leaving anyway.’

T hey made it to the bus terminal with only minutes to spare. Sibylla took a window seat. Clutched in her hand was a note with Gunvor Strömberg’s telephone number, in case she decided to buy.
    She put the note away in her pocket. Patrik was looking at her eagerly.
    ‘Did you find out something?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Probably not. She didn’t say anything about the murder. He had cancer, badly. He had a big operation just a year or so ago.’
    Patrik sounded disappointed.
    ‘You should’ve asked about the murder.’
    ‘Easier said than done.’
    A moment later Patrik started examining his sheets of paper again. He had written something on the back of one them.
    ‘What have you got there?’
    ‘I copied a little from his hospital notes. Found them in a folder in her shoulder-bag.’
    She was shocked.
    ‘You rooted about in her bag?’
    ‘Sure did. Do you want to find out stuff or not?’
    A worse worry occurred to her.
    ‘Hey, did you nick anything?’
    ‘Yeah, of course. Stacks of cash.’
    She made a face at him, reaching out her hand for his notes. He snatched back the sheet of paper.
    ‘How come you’re loaded?’
    ‘What’s your problem?’
    ‘Why hang out in an attic when you’re carrying umpteen grand in a purse round your neck?’
    ‘That’s my business.’
    At first she didn’t care if he started sulking again. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away demonstratively. They were already driving into Söderköping when she finally admitted to herself that she owed him an explanation.
    ‘It’s my savings.’
    He turned towards her.
    Then she told him all of it, about her dream. The house that would open up a new life for her and about her mother’s hand-outs, which had stopped when she hit the news.
    He listened with interest. When she had finished, he held out his notes.
    ‘There you are.’

    He had been busy, copying lists of hospital stays and operations. She ignored the many incomprehensible expressions and abbreviations, until she was pulled up short by a word she had come across before. Neoral .
    Someone had said that recently. Or had she read it? Patrik observed her reaction.
    ‘What’s up?’
    She shook her head thoughtfully, pointing at it.
    ‘I’m not sure. Here, look, where it says Neoral , fifty milligrams. I can’t work out why I recognise this.’
    ‘Seems to be some kind of medicine? Do you know what it’s for?’
    ‘Not a clue.’
    ‘I know, Fiddie’s mum is a doctor. I’ll ask her.’
    Brilliant. You just go ahead and ask Fiddie’s mum why a patient should take Neoral . She must be used to teenagers asking her things like that on a daily basis. She smiled at him, wanting to take his hand. Better not.
    ‘Patrik.’
    ‘Ummm.’
    ‘Thank you for everything, for your help.’
    He seemed embarrassed.
    ‘Oh, come on. I haven’t helped