Missing

because he couldn’t threaten to reveal her identity. If one of them talked, the other one would and they shared that knowledge.
    She looked at him, reflecting on how his big muscles seemed matched by his brain. Just as she put her hand on the door handle to leave, another thought occurred to her.
    ‘Haven’t you ever thought of getting a real job? You have all the qualifications for a good one, it seems.’
    He was leaning against the door frame to the main room, his bulging arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning openly at her now.
    ‘No, I haven’t. Have you?’
    Then she left.

T homas Sandberg. That was all it said on the note she showed Patrik. They were standing together in the street, reading the name over and over again, as if reading a long story rather than a sequence of fourteen letters.
    ‘No address?’
    ‘No.’
    He looked disappointed. Obviously, he felt this was a poor show after an outlay of four thousand kronor.
    ‘How many Thomas Sandbergs do you think there are in this country?’
    She raised her eyebrows.
    ‘No idea. All we do know is that there’s one less now. Let’s go.’
    She started walking. She felt certain that what she was about to do next was the right thing, but even so she was troubled by the distance she would callously create between them. If she kept walking she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes, which would make it a little easier.
    ‘Now what do we do?’
    He had hurried to catch up with her.

    That instant the alarm in his wristwatch went off.
    ‘Christ! Sunday lunch!’
    He turned off the signal.
    ‘Mum forced me to set the alarm. She’ll have a fit if I don’t turn up.’
    ‘Don’t risk it. Off you go.’
    ‘Do you want to keep hanging out in the attic?’
    She didn’t reply.
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘Maybe that’s the best idea.’
    She hadn’t even lied. It almost certainly was the best idea if she stayed hidden in Patrik’s attic for the foreseeable future, allowing him to feed her the leftovers from the family meals.
    Be that as it may. It was too late now.
    Somewhere, a man or a woman existed, who had had an improbable stroke of luck when their paths crossed that night in the Grand Hotel. That person had stolen her name and exploited her outsider’s isolation to further a purely personal vendetta.
    She was not going to let that pass. The invisible one had almost succeeded in crushing her. Almost, but not quite.
    When the large iron door leading to Patrik’s attic had slammed behind her and Patrik’s steps were disappearing down the stairs, she pulled the second sheet of A4 paper from her pocket.

    She read it carefully, memorising the text.
    Rune Hedlund. ID 46 06 08 – 2498 res. Vimmerby.

T he cemetery was large and it took her the best part of an hour to find the tombstone. It was tucked away in the parkland set aside for urns, a rounded natural boulder with an inscription in gold lettering.

    RUNE HEDLUND
* 8 JUNE 1946
†15 MARCH 1998

    Below was a space large enough for another name. An eternal flame was burning inside a white plastic cover. Yellow and purple crocuses were filling the area round the stone. Spring arrived earlier this far south.
    She crouched down. Noticing some dry leaves caught between the spring flowers, she pulled them out and threw them to the wind.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    The voice behind her startled her so much she lost her balance and sat down with a thump. She rose quickly, turning to look at the woman who had crept up behind her. Sibylla’s heart was racing.
    ‘Just removing some dead leaves.’
    Their eyes met, fiercely, as if facing each other across a battle demarcation line. The woman’s eyes were full of suspicion and dislike. Sibylla suddenly felt sure she had found her quarry.
    They faced up to each other in hostile silence. Sibylla’s adversary was dressed in white under her grey coat and she had brought along a green, funnel-shaped vase filled with multicoloured tulips.
    ‘You’re not to mess about with my husband’s grave.’
    Aha. Rune Hedlund’s widow.
    ‘I was just clearing some leaves away.’
    The woman breathed heavily through her nose, as if trying to pull herself together.
    ‘What have you got to do with my husband?’ ‘I never met him.’
    The woman smiled suddenly, but there was no friendliness in her smile. Fear started creeping up on Sibylla. Had the woman recognised her? The police might have worked out the link between the killings and the organ transplant and asked