Missing

you had been captured.’
    She responded quickly.
    ‘I didn’t do it.’
    He lost his bustling show of efficiency and looked at her for the first time.
    ‘It was a heart attack. Two years ago.’
    Heart attack. Sibylla tested what it felt like. It didn’t seem to matter in the slightest to her that Henry Forsenström had been dead for two years. As far as she was concerned, he had been dead for a very long time.
    ‘My contact Krister Ek, the executor and a very good man, tells me that your mother, Beatrice Forsenström, believed for years that you were dead. When your father died, she appealed to have you declared officially dead. It was just about to be passed when you got in the news as wanted by the police.’
    Sibylla realised that she was smiling. The corners of her mouth were irresistibly pulled upwards, even though there was no real reason.
    ‘She thought I was dead, did she? So that was why she kept sending me fifteen hundred kronor every month for the last fifteen years? To this dead person?’
    It was Kjell Bergström’s time to be surprised.
    ‘Did she, indeed?’
    ‘Until last week.’
    ‘Remarkable. Quite … remarkable.’
    Yes, isn’t it?
    Bergström studied his fax again.
    ‘As you surely know, your father had quite considerable assets. He left an inheritance that according to the law must be divided equally between his spouse and any direct descendants. On the face of it, it’s hard to escape the conclusion that your mother has been attempting to deprive you of your share.’
    Sibylla felt like laughing out loud. Something was breaking inside, pushed apart by feelings that wanted release. She tried to control herself, burying her face in her hands and letting soundless laughter shake her body.
    ‘I understand this must be difficult for you.’
    Sibylla peered at him between her fingers. So, he thought she was weeping. Poor man, he was standing there utterly nonplussed by the problem of dealing with a serial killer, who was crying because her father had died. It made her want to laugh again. Her rib was aching dreadfully, causing tears to come to her eyes. When she sensed that her eyes were overflowing, she pulled herself together sufficiently to risk taking her hands away from her face.
    He felt he had better try to comfort her.
    ‘You mustn’t worry. The law is on your side.’
    This was too much. Her control cracked and new laughter welled up. She made snorting noises, holding her hands to her sides to dampen the pain.
    The law was on her side!
    She had just become a millionaire, but she would go straight into prison to serve life for four brutal murders, which she had not committed.
    Presumably God was pleased with His handiwork – if He was looking her way, that is. Now He and Ingmar could relax and live together happily ever after, just contemplating their successes from time to time.
    The laughter was dying away now, as suddenly as it had emerged. Left behind was only a great empty space inside her.
    He was observing her nervously.
    ‘How do you feel?’
    She looked up at him, with the tears still streaming down her face.
    How did she feel? Fucking awful. Everything was fucking awful.

    She laid down again, turning her back to him. He went to the door and knocked to be let out. He was away for a few minutes, but then she heard the door opening and he returned.
    ‘I’ll stay with you just now. They’ll be back soon to take you in for further questioning.’

    They did come soon afterwards. The pain when she got up showed on her face. Bergström had been watching her.
    ‘Are you in pain?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Someone broke a chair on my ribcage.’
    He asked no more questions. Maybe this kind of thing was common practice in Vimmerby?
    She obediently reached out her hands towards the policeman, expecting to be handcuffed again, but he only shook his head.

    The interrogation room was empty when they came in. She sat down on the same chair and Kjell Bergström stood, leaning against the wall. One man and one woman came in soon afterwards, new people this time. Bergström shook hands with them, but Sibylla stayed where she was. Presumably she didn’t need to introduce herself.
    Three pairs of eyes were watching her. The unknown man spoke first.
    ‘How are you feeling?’
    She couldn’t be bothered answering and just smiled a little.
    ‘My name is Per-Olof Gren. I’m working for the National Criminal Bureau. This is my colleague Anita Hansson.’
    Bergström went back to lean