Missing

any, not yet.’
    Her smile grew broader.
    ‘You really have.’

    She spent the night in the attic of Patrik’s block of flats. He let her in and she took up residence in an unused box-room. It had been hard for her to calm down. It was not hunger that kept her awake, because Patrik had brought her sandwiches. Her mind was stuffed with experiences and she needed to process them. Thoughts and images were flickering behind her eyelids. When she finally fell asleep she had been thinking for hours.

    As soon as she woke up that Sunday morning, she knew why she had recognised Neoral . Her brain had sifted through stored information while she slept and it now presented her with the vital item.
    Jörgen Grundberg. He hada packet of tablets and had taken some at the end of his meal. She sat bolt upright. This was surely important, it couldn’t be a coincidence that two of the murderer’s victims took the same medicine?
    She felt wide-awake and had to walk about. Impatiently she went into the corridor outside to peer through the only small window. It was light outside and she wondered what time it was. How long before Patrik would come?

    She had to wait for hours. While she waited, the effect of this sudden breakthrough became clear to her. Once more, the will to fight was consuming her.
    When she finally heard the heavy metal door swing open and Patrik called her name, she couldn’t wait a second longer to tell him.
    ‘Jörgen Grundberg took Neoral as well!’
    ‘Did he? Are you sure?’
    He gave her a triple-decker sandwich and a beer, but she was too excited to eat.
    ‘Certain. It can’t be coincidence, can it?’
    ‘I asked Fiddie’s mum.’
    ‘Already? What time is it?’
    ‘Ten past eleven. I phoned her. Woke her up, actually. I said I was doing this Special Subject investigation. No lies!’
    He grinned.
    ‘I had chased it on the Net first, but couldn’t get my head round what it was for.’
    ‘And?’
    He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.
    ‘It’s called an immunosuppressive drug. If you’re on it, it means you’ve had a transplant. The medicine prevents the new organ being rejected by the person’s body cells.’
    He looked triumphant when he put his paper away.
    ‘Transplant – like a new organ? A heart or something?’
    ‘That’s it. She said there are lots of bits and pieces you replace in people’s bodies.’
    Sibylla sat down to think. First, Jörgen Grundberg. He had had a kidney disease, or so his hard-hearted widow had told her. Sören Strömberg’s widow had told her about his liver cancer. Both were on medicine that reduced the function of their immune systems. Both widows had mentioned that their husbands had undergone major surgery within the last year.
    This could not be coincidental.
    ‘Are you thinking the same as me?’
    Sibylla nodded.
    ‘As I. Yes, I’m sure I am. If we can, we should check it out at least once more. Do you have that list?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Downstairs. Hang on, I’ll get it.’

    When he returned, he’d also brought his father’s mobile phone. She read the by now familiar names once more.
    ‘What next? Which one do you want to call? Bollnäs or Stocksund?’
    Put like that, she suddenly didn’t think it was such a good idea. She would have preferred him to call, but it meant ceding control and that was something she definitely didn’t want to do. He had got her going again and she was truly grateful, but she wanted to continue under her own steam.
    ‘I’ll call Stocksund.’
    ‘Good. Here’s the number, I checked it out in the book.’
    He helped her dial. At first, the phone rang without anyone answering. Patrik kept watching her and her heart was pounding. It would have been easier alone. She was not used to lying in front of an audience.
    ‘Mårten Samuelsson.’
    The sudden sound of a voice at the other end threw her. The many signals had distracted her.
    ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. Is this Sofie Samuelsson’s husband?’
    Fantastic introduction. She closed her eyes. Whoever he was, for sure he wasn’t Sofie Samuelsson’s husband. Not any more.
    ‘Who’s speaking, please?’
    She looked around, as if useful answers might be lurking in attic corners.
    ‘This is …’
    Patrik was miming the police .
    ‘… from the police.’
    Silence at the other end.
    ‘Just one question. Did your wife have an organ transplant recently?’
    ‘I told you so already.’
    She nodded to Patrik. He rolled his eyes.
    ‘When was