'Do ask us here in the reception next time, we've got all the timetables.'
She leaned confidingly towards him across the counter. 'Don't tell, but to be honest I took the chance to smoke a cigarette.'
He looked benignly at her, as if to reassure her that her secret was safe with him. The guest is always right. So far so good.
The hook for the key to room 213 was empty, but 214 was still in place. She looked at her watch. 'Please phone room 214 for me.'
'Of course.' He handed her the receiver. The signals rang out, but nobody answered. Henrik turned to check the keys.
'He should be in, his key is still here. Perhaps he's already gone down to breakfast?'
He nodded in the direction of a corridor.
'It's unlike him to be early, I must say. There's a first time for everything I suppose… But thanks. Have you got a morning paper I could have, please?'
He gave her a copy of Dagens Nyheter and she walked off towards the corridor, which would surely lead to the breakfast room. Easy peasy.
Half an hour later she leaned back in the chair feeling full and relaxed. There were four other guests, all at separate tables and engrossed in their newspapers. Nothing new, it seemed or at least Dagens Nyheter ran only a small column on an inside page referring to the police search for the woman who got away from the Grand Hotel.
The breakfast buffet was generous. She went up for a refill of coffee and managed to smuggle several breakfast rolls and three bananas into her handbag.
Back at her table, she thought about the excursion to Eskilstuna. Had she gained anything by coming all this way to let Jorgen Grundberg's widow insult her? She drank another mouthful of coffee, looking vacantly through the window.
Actually, she knew perfectly well what her trip had been in aid of. She had made herself believe that equipped with some first-hand information and a contact with somebody who knew Jorgen Grundberg she would be able to explain the whole story of their encounter in the hotel. The misunderstandings would be sorted out and the case closed, as far as she was concerned.
Instead the outcome had been the opposite of what she had hoped. They were all utterly convinced that she had done it. No other candidates. What were her options now?
She could simply go into hiding. After keeping out of sight for the best part of fifteen years, it shouldn't be impossible. The published picture was the only one they had, which made her pretty unrecognisable now. As usual, her name spelt trouble and there were people who knew her usual hang-outs. Still, hardly any of them cared much for the police.
In other words, everything might sort itself out if she lay low, avoiding a few obvious places until they caught the real murderer. Then she could live normally again. Goodness, never in her wildest fantasies had she thought 'back to normal' would be her aim in life.
After drinking some more coffee, she realised what was still disturbing her so much.
The humiliation. She had been so determined to take no more of it, ever. No more shit.
She had a clear vision of her mother's rage on hearing that her daughter had disgraced the family again. What's wrong with the girl? Being truly her own mother's daughter, the expression in her eyes would soon also say 'I told you so – don't say I didn't warn you.'
The gossip would be soaking through every layer of society in Hultaryd. You've heard about the Forsenströms' daughter, haven't you? She is a murderess.
Her father would probably… but no, she couldn't begin to imagine how he would react. She had never understood how he really felt about things.
By now she didn't care anyway.
She got up. Walking past the reception on her way out she waved to Henrik, who was on the phone, gesturing to show that she was slipping out for a smoke. He waved back.
Getting the rucksack out from Left Luggage turned out to be simplicity itself. There was no one about, so she walked unseen round the counter and lifted it off the shelf.
She changed back into jeans and sweater in the Ladies'. It was silly to use the green suit too often and besides it required dry-cleaning, which was an unforgivable luxury. The next train to Stockholm Central departed at 10.48, so she settled down on a bench to wait.
Coming home that afternoon, she sensed that something was wrong the moment she crossed the threshold. She called out but there was no response. In the drawing room she saw her mother sitting on the sofa, reading a book with her back turned to the doorway.
'Mummy, I'm home.'
Silence. Her heart was beating hard now. What had she done?
After hanging up her jacket, she slowly walked into the drawing room. Even though she couldn't see her mother's face, she knew what it would tell her. Her mother was angry. So angry and disappointed, darling. As she walked round the sofa, a lump was growing in Sibylla's stomach.
Beatrice Forsenström did not look up from her book. Sibylla forced herself to say something, but could scarcely find her voice.
'Mummy, what is it?' No sound came from her mother who carried on reading as if Sibylla did not exist, let alone had actually spoken to her.
'Why are you angry with me?'
Silence.
By now the lump in her stomach was so big it made her feel sick. Who had told her mother about this afternoon? Had someone seen her? She swallowed.
'What have I done?'
Still no reaction from Beatrice, who just turned a page in her book. Sibylla stared at the carpet. Its twisting oriental pattern began blurring in front of her eyes and she bent forward to make the tears fall straight down without leaving any traces on her cheeks.
Her ears were ringing. The shame of it all.
She went upstairs, knowing full well what to expect. Hours of anxious waiting for the explosion, hours more of guilt, shame, regret, longing to be forgiven. Please, please dear God, let the time pass quickly. Please let her tell me soon what's up so I can say sorry – forgive me. But whatever You do, don't let her have found out everything.
God, don't take today away from me.
But sometimes God is hard. When the downstairs dinner-bell rang, Mrs Forsenström still had not deigned to appear in Sibylla's room. Sibylla was feeling really sick now and the smell of fried potatoes made her want to vomit. She knew what would come next. She would be made to beg and plead to be told what she had done wrong. Beatrice would speak only when sated with her daughter's self-abasement.
She arrived at Stockholm Central at 12.35. The Grand Hotel murder was definitely not in the news that day. The posters ran an animal welfare story, which had raised a storm of public indignation. After a few years in Sweden, a chimpanzee had been sold to a zoo in Thailand, where he had been confined in an unsuitable cage that was apparently far too small.
Leaving the station, she walked on past the Culture Centre at Sergei Square, where she usually spent many hours going through the newspapers in the reading room. She didn't feel like reading the papers. Never cared much for monkeys. She could do with a no-news day and above all no Grand Hotel murder stories.
Even so, she suddenly found herself sitting on a bench on the Strom Quay, her back to the water and her eyes fixed on the facade of the Grand Hotel just opposite. The cordons had gone. A limousine had drawn up in front of the main entrance and the chauffeur was chatting with the door porter. It was looking exactly as it had three days ago when she had innocently stepped inside.
'Hey, what's this? Sitting here contemplating your sins?'
She jumped, as if struck. It was just Heino, who had crept up behind her. He had brought all his worldly goods along, mostly plastic carrier bags full of empty cans. She knew that somewhere underneath the load was a rust-coloured hooded pram, because she had been around when he nicked it. Now only the wheels were showing.
'Christ, you really scared me!'
He grinned and sat down next to her. The odour of ingrained dirt immediately overwhelmed every other smell. She backed off as little as possible, in case he would notice.
Heino was looking at the Grand Hotel.
Sibylla glanced at him, surprised at how fast the rumour had gone the rounds. Heino wasn't the newspaper-reading type. 'No. I didn't.'
Heino nodded. He clearly felt that that the subject had been exhausted.
'Got anything then?'
She shook her head.
'Nothing to drink. Fancy a fresh roll?'
He rubbed his filthy palms together, smiling happily.
'Now you're talking. A nice, fresh roll is a thing of beauty.'
She rooted around in her rucksack for her cache of breakfast rolls and gave him one. He ate greedily. The few teeth left in his mouth were struggling bravely with the roll.
'Great stuff. A chaser would be something else, though.'
She smiled, wishing she had any kind of drink for him. Preferably alcoholic.
Two smartly dressed ladies were approaching, leading a small dog kitted out in a tartan coat. It looked like a large pampered rat. Catching sight of Heino, one of them started whispering to her companion and both speeded up. Heino had been watching them and, just as they were passing, he rose and leaned towards them.
'Good afternoon, ladies. Would you be wanting a bite?'
He was holding his half-eaten roll in his hand, politely presenting it to them. They walked past without a word, obviously eager to get out of harm's way without humiliating themselves by breaking into a run.
Sibylla was smiling broadly as Heino settled back on the bench.
'Watch out,' he shouted after them. 'A rat's coming after you!'
The ladies walked very fast all the way to the main stairs of the
National Museum, stopping only when they got there to check that no one was pursuing them. They were talking agitatedly. When a police car came driving across Skepp Bridge, the ladies' body language told Sibylla that they were going to hail the police. Her heart was beating faster.
'Listen Heino, please do something for me.'
The police car had pulled in by the kerb now. The two women were talking and pointing towards their bench.
‘If the pigs come here, you don't know me.'
Heino looked at her. The police car started up.
'Don't I know you? Sure I do. You're Sibylla, Queen of Småland.'
'Please, Heino. Not now. Please. You don't know me.'
The police car pulled in near their bench. Two uniformed police climbed out, a man and a woman. They left the engine running. Heino stared at them, stuffing the last piece of roll into his mouth.
'Hi, Heino. Did you annoy the ladies over there?'
Heino turned to look at the ladies. They were still standing at the entrance of the National Museum. Sibylla was peering into her rucksack, hoping to avoid police scrutiny.
'Me? No, I'm just quietly eating my roll.'
To prove his point he opened his mouth wide, displaying what was in it.
'Just as well. Keep eating, Heino.'
Heino shut his mouth, muttering crossly to himself.
'Easy for you to say.'
Then he carried on chewing. Sibylla was taking an intelligent interest in a side-pocket on her rucksack.
'Now, has he been bothering you at all?'
Sibylla realised the policeman was talking to her. She looked up, rubbing her eyes as if a piece of grit was troubling her.
'Who, me? No, not at all.'
She opened another side-pocket and started rummaging again, ‘I'd never bother queens. Specially not the Queen of Småland,' Heino said earnestly.
Sibylla closed her eyes, but kept fiddling with the rucksack. One more side-pocket to investigate. 'I like that, Heino. That's the ticket.'
The woman constable was trying to round off their chat. To her relief, Sibylla could hear them both walk away and open the car door. Glancing at them, she saw the male PC still holding the door handle.
'What's you problem, why are you spying on honest citizens peacefully eating their stuff? So the old hags are out walking their rat and start making a fuss, taking offence at nothing whatever – is that my fault?'
'Shut up,' Sibylla hissed.
Heino was becoming heated. The police stopped in their tracks.
'Let me tell you something you don't know, right? Like, you might just have been of some use if you'd turned up here on the twenty-third of September, in the year of eighteen hundred and eighty-five.'
The policeman was approaching now, but the woman stayed in the passenger seat of the car. Sibylla began closing the various compartments of her rucksack. Time to beat it.
Heino rose, pointing towards the Grand Hotel.
'That's where she was standing, on the Grand's balcony.'
Sibylla stopped to listen.
'Down here it was packed with people, all the way across to the Kung Garden. They were waiting for her to sing.'
Now Sibylla and the policeman were both staring at him. The policeman was curious.
'Who was singing from the balcony?'
Heino sighed and shrugged, spreading his dirty palms.
'Don't you know anything? Christina Nilsson, that's who. The Nightingale from Småland.'
Heino stopped dramatically. The policewoman began to get impatient. She lowered the car window to shout at her colleague.
'Janne, come on!'
'Hang on a minute.'
Heino nodded, totally in control.
'More than forty thousand were crammed into central Stockholm, wanting to hear her sing. This place was black with people. Folks were clambering up lamp-posts, standing on top of carriages, wherever. In dead silence. Do you know, her singing was heard ail the way to Skepp Bridge. Get it? Those days, people knew how to keep their mouths shut.'
'Janne! I'm waiting!'
Heino had caught the policeman's attention completely. All Sibylla could do was sit tight, letting it happen. She glanced towards the National Museum. Heino lifted his arm and raised a finger in the air. The movement sent another wave of foul smell wafting from his worn coat. Sibylla concentrated on holding her breath.
'The moment she'd finished singing they all started applauding like lunatics. Then somebody shouted that the scaffolding around the Palmgren Mansion was coming down. They were building there at the time. First the crowd got worried, then it panicked. Sixteen females and two little kids died after being trampled underfoot. Another hundred or so were taken to hospital.'
Heino nodded again.
'You lot should've been around then, they might have lived longer if you had. Doing your policing thing properly, instead of getting at me. I'm just eating my roll.'
The policeman called Janne was beaming at him.
'Right you are. Interesting story, Heino. Take care, now.'
This time he managed to get into the car and drive away before Heino thought of something else to say. Sibylla kept staring at him, shaking her head.
'How did you know all that?'
Heino snorted.
'Education. Have you heard of it? I may smell like shit, but I've got an education.'
He rose, swinging his loaded pram round in readiness for raiding the Kung Garden rubbish-bins.
'Thanks for the roll.'
Sibylla smiled wanly and Heino left while she was still looking at the balcony where Christina Nilsson had been standing, one hundred and fifteen years ago. Nowadays there wasn't a hope of hearing someone sing above the incessant roar of the traffic. Turning her head, she was just in time to see Heino disappear after crossing Kung Garden Street. She felt a fleeting impulse to run after him. It would be good not to be alone, just for a while longer. But it was no use.
She stayed where she was. The hullabaloo about the murder was not yet past its peak. Better keep herself to herself.
As usual.
After that first trip in his car she stopped by the YPSMS house to see Mick practically every afternoon, their times together growing steadily longer. In the end she jettisoned the idea of going for a walk and simply went straight there. She met the other YPSMS members, who were all guys, the
same age as Mick, same style. For the first time she felt accepted into a group. Because she was with Mick she was OK, no further qualifications needed. They even seemed indifferent to the fact that she was Forsenström's daughter.
Still, being alone with him in the workshop was the nicest thing about coming there mainly because Mick seemed much more relaxed when it was just the two of them. He happily taught her all he knew about engines and cars. Sometimes he would take her for a drive and, when he was in a really good mood, leave her at the wheel on quiet forest roads. The first time, he told her to sit in his lap while she practised the controls. She felt his thighs under her own and his stomach against her bottom. Her whole body seemed to respond strangely to these contacts. She felt hot and tense. Then she became very aware of his hands over hers on the steering wheel.
When she came home after that trip she wrote his name under the seat of the chair in her room. He was her secret. This secret seemed to confer a miraculous strength on her, which must have showed somehow. Maybe because she didn't bother listening any more, the name-calling in school troubled her less and her daily routine became more bearable.
The whole day would pass in the expectation of seeing him again. She wanted to smell him, stand next to him as he was bending over the innards of the car to show her something. She was full of admiration for his immense knowledge and loved seeing his hands move knowingly among the parts of the engine.
She longed to be in the same room. With him, close to him.
After the summer holidays she began upper school and had to travel to Vetlanda. Her own choice would have been the course in Mechanical Engineering, but she had enough sense not to mention this to anyone but Mick. Dropping even the tiniest hint to her mother would have been rash. Mrs Forsenström felt that the three-year Economics course was suitable for preparing Sibylla to pull her weight in the family firm. Also, it was an option with a bit of class.
Of course she did exactly what her mother wanted.
On days when Mick had an errand into town, he picked her up after school. She hid until she missed the school bus. A couple of blocks away from school the De Soto would be waiting for her, a sight that always filled her with eagerness and pride. Blissfully leaning back into the seat, she would be driven the forty kilometres back to Hultaryd.
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