Missing

her clothes.
    Halfway across Normalm Square she saw it. A bright yellow poster on the newspaper kiosk screamed the big news in bold capitals. She had to read it three times before she finally realised the implications for her.
    NEWSFLASH!
BESTIAL MURDER LAST NIGHT AT
GRAND HOTEL
    TT News Agency, Stockholm

    Late last night a man was murdered in his bedroom at Stockholm’s Grand Hotel. He was travelling on business, away from his home in central Sweden and had been staying at the Grand for the last two nights. According to statements by staff, the man had intended to leave on Friday.
    Police sources are refusing to disclose any detailed information about the murder at this stage, but have revealed that the body was found by hotel staff around midnight, after a guest had alerted them to the presence of bloody marks in the corridor outside the murdered man’s room. The police also confirmed that the body had been subjected to some kind of mutilation. The police have no evidence pointing to the identity of the murderer at this stage, but expect that interviews with hotel staff and guests will help to clarify the events of the fatal evening. At the time of going to press, the police investigation at the site of the crime was not yet completed, and the Grand Hotel will stay closed to the public until further notice. This morning, the body will be subjected to a forensic examination at the Institute for Forensic Medicine in Solna. It is expected that interrogation of staff and guests should be completed at the end of today and access will then return to normal.
    That was all, apart from a photo of the Grand covering a whole page.
    The rest of the article listed other murders involving mutilation carried out in Sweden over the last ten years. It was lovingly illustrated with pictures of the victims, complete with their names and ages.

    So that’s why they had knocked on her door. Thank God she’d got away. How could she have explained her presence in one of Stockholm’s most expensive hotels? She couldn’t afford to pay for a coffee in its Wiener Café. What hope had she of persuading them that she deserved a night in a proper bed now and then – even if always paid for by someone who could easily spare the cash? Nil, that’s what. She wouldn’t have stood a chance. No one would have understood, for none of them had ever led her kind of life.
    ‘This is no fucking library, love. Do you want a paper or not?’ The man in the kiosk was getting fed up. She didn’t answer, just meekly put the paper back in the rack.
    It was cold and she really did have a sore throat. She started walking towards Central Station again. She needed money and there were three days left until the next giro was due to arrive in her post box. In other words, she couldn’t get at it until Monday.

    There was a machine dispensing change in the Left Luggage facility at Central Station. She went there and stood in front of it pushing the note-feed button several times.
    ‘What’s wrong with this thing?’
    She spoke loudly and distinctly so that no one in the vicinity would fail to realise how irritated she was. She pushed the button again a couple of times, then sighed heavily and looked about. A man behind the deposit counter had noticed her and she walked over to him.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
    ‘The machine doesn’t work. It swallowed my hundred-kronor note without producing any change at all and my train’s leaving in exactly eight minutes.’
    The man opened his till. ‘It’s been playing up recently.’
    That’s a lucky break.
    He counted out ten ten-kronor coins and put them in her hand. ‘There, now. If you hurry you’ll still catch your train.’
    She smiled and put the money away in her handbag. ‘Thanks ever so much.’
    Luckily she had the key to the luggage locker in her jacket pocket, not in the briefcase she had forgotten at the Grand Hotel.
    She collected her rucksack and, after a few minutes in the ladies’ toilet, emerged wearing jeans and a padded anorak. She had decided what to do next.
    It had to be a night with the Johanssons.

    On her way to the allotments in Eriksdal she bought one tin of baked beans, a loaf of bread, a bottle of Coke, two apples and one tomato. She felt the first drops of rain just as she was crossing Eriksdal Street. For days now the sky had been covered by low cloud as grey as pewter.
    All the allotment sheds seemed abandoned and she was grateful for the dull March day that