Missing

did not tempt gardeners outdoors to their plots. Maybe it was just too early in the season anyway. The snow seemed to have gone for good this year, but the ground might still be hard with frost.
    This was the first time she had gone there during the day, which was taking a risk, but she was tired and weary. She was running a temperature and needed peace and quiet.

    As usual, the key was tucked away in the hanging basket. They had removed the geraniums that were flourishing in the basket every summer, but the key had remained in its old hiding place. It had been the obvious place to check when she turned up at the little cottage for the first time, almost five years ago.
    Kurt and Birgit Johansson, the actual owners, had no idea they were sharing their cottage with Sibylla. She was always careful to leave it as she found it and never damage any of their things. She had picked their cottage partly because of finding the key so easily, but also because the cushions on their garden seats were unusually thick. Pushed together on the floor, they made a decent mattress. Besides, the Johanssons had the excellent sense to equip their small leisure hide-away with a paraffin heater and hotplate. With any luck, she would be left alone for a good while since they restricted their visiting to the summer months.

    The cottage, really little more than a shed, was damp and cold. Still, the single room with a floor area of about ten square metres made it one of the biggest allotment buildings around. Along one of the walls stood a couple of kitchen cupboards, next to a small sink. She checked the cupboard under the sink for the bucket that should be in place under the cut-off drainpipe.
    There was a small table with flaking paint near the window, which was partly covered by flyblown flowered curtains. Two odd wooden chairs were placed on either side of the table. She drew the curtains, took a wrought-iron candlestick down from a shelf and lit the candle. By now she was shivering.
    She pulled up the zip on her anorak. The paraffin can was almost empty, so she’d have to walk to the garage and fill it up later in the afternoon. Once the heater was lit, she took a china bowl from a cupboard, placed her apples and tomato in it and put it on the table. She had learned to appreciate the small, good things in life, like making your surroundings look as nice as possible. She pulled her sleeping bag from the rucksack and lined up the seat-cushions on the floor. They were damp, so she put her mat down first. Then she crawled into the bag.
    Resting her head on her arms, she studied the ceiling panels and decided to forget all about the Grand Hotel. Nobody knew about her and even if someone had noticed her, they’d never be able to work out who she was. Feeling better now that she’d convinced herself she was safe, she began to descend deeply into sleep, untroubled by any dark premonitions.

A s soon as she heard the brisk knock on the door, she knew who was on the other side.
    She was in third form at the time. They were having a lesson in Geography. Everyone was staring at the classroom door.
    ‘Come in.’
    Miss put down her book and sighed when Beatrice Forsenström stepped in.
    Sibylla shut her eyes.
    She knew that Miss disliked these unannounced visits by Mrs Forsenström as much as Sibylla did herself. They were short but always broke the flow of the lesson and always involved some new demand for special treatment of Sibylla.
    The issue this time was a plan to raise money by selling Christmas decorations. A group of parents had been making decorative wreaths and bouquets and the pupils in Sibylla’s class were asked to be door-to-door sellers. The proceeds would help to pay for a school-trip in the spring.

    Beatrice Forsenström had not joined the parent group. She had no patience with that kind of collective effort and the prospect of spending several evenings fiddling with folksy handicrafts was simply out of the question. Quite unsuitable for someone of her standing. Indeed, her reservations applied to her daughter, too. The child must not be expected to rush around knocking on doors asking for hand-outs like some little beggar. When Sibylla brought the note from school, Beatrice had crumpled it and thrown it into the wastepaper-basket.
    Now, no one could miss the irritation in Mrs Forsenström’s voice.
    ‘So how much is each child expected to get from selling these things?’
    Miss had gone to stand behind her desk.
    ‘It