Missing

by Karin Alvtegen

  He was at Kerstin Hedlund's side, looking at Sibylla. His move over to the right team had been fast. Sibylla was left with the guilt, one foot still planted among the crocuses. Kerstin was staring at her now, her eyes brimming with an emotion that was composed of grief and hatred. At the same time, her face expressed such condescension that Sibylla felt ready to apologise for just existing.

  Ingmar turned his head from one woman to the other. Finally his curiosity won.

  'Who is she?'

  He was clearly struggling to keep his voice neutral. Kerstin Hedlund answered, her eyes pinning Sibylla to the spot.

  'She's nobody. I'd be grateful if you got her out of here. At once.'

  He looked at Sibylla, who nodded quickly and stepped across to the path. Anything to end this performance. 'Hurry up and come with me!'

  He made an impatient gesture. Sibylla obeyed immediately, but gave the furious woman a wide berth. Mustn't get involved in anything noisy.

  Neither of them spoke before reaching the parking lot. Her rucksack was still hidden in the shrubbery, but there was no way she could fetch it now. She had to come back later, somehow.

  He turned to her.

  'What was all that in aid of?'

  Knowing that evasiveness was pointless, Sibylla hesitated just a fraction of a second.

  'She thinks I'm Rune's mistress.'

  He laughed abruptly. Maybe she ought to take offence.

  'She's convinced he had one, because somebody is putting a red rose on his grave every week.'

  His smile faded and was replaced by a frown. He sighed deeply.

  'Do you know Kerstin?'

  'No.'

  He glanced at the cemetery, as if to reassure himself that they had not been followed.

  ‘I understand that you felt very uncomfortable, but you must try to forgive her.'

  'Forgive her – I don't understand what you mean.'

  He sighed again. It seemed to distress him to speak ill of the widow.

  'You see, it's Kerstin herself who puts roses on the grave. She forgets it afterwards and goes around accusing people she meets in the cemetery. She's been very distraught and unlike her usual self, ever since Rune died.'

  Sibylla stared at him. He sensed her confusion and went on with his explanation before she got round to asking more questions.

  ‘I came here today in a reflective mood. I don't know what I can do to help her, but I feel I owe Rune the effort.'

  Sibylla still didn't get it. If there was no mistress, then… the next conclusion was inevitable.

  'In what way hasn't she been her usual self?'

  He looked downcast and embarrassed.

  'She's been off work for a couple of months now. She was employed at the Health Centre as a practice nurse, but they felt she was behaving irrationally and told her to take some time off. Sadly, she seems to have gone from bad to worse since she stopped working.'

  Sibylla recalled the white clothes under Kerstin Hedlund's coat when they first met.

  'But I'm sure I've seen her in her uniform.'

  He nodded sadly.

  'Yes. I know, I know.'

  So, her instinctive reaction had been right. She was the one, that woman with hate in her eyes. The healthcare job would mean easier access to the transplant lists. Having traced the victims, all she did was to go find them and bring back what she reckoned was justly hers.

  That Sibylla Forsenström's life was crushed in the process was obviously of zero importance. Well, in some ways it had actually been an encouraging coincidence, which could be put to good use. She closed her eyes to hide the fury in them. The desire to hurt that woman, badly enough to mark her for life, invaded Sibylla's whole body. So much anguish, so many anxious moments – and above all, the loss of her savings and her hopes of a better future. She turned and walked towards the cemetery gates.

  He called after her.

  'Where are you off to?'

  Sibylla didn't answer.

  Looking around the cemetery she realised that it was empty. Kerstin Hedlund must have left by another gate. She rejoined Ingmar.

  'Where does Kerstin live?'

  He looked concerned.

  'Why do you ask?'

  'I'd like to speak to her for a while.'

  By now his voice was carrying a distinct note of caution.

  'Is that really wise?'

  She raised her eyebrows. Wise? Well, for a start it wasn't Sibylla who had laid down the rules. Maybe the determination showed in her face and manner, for he made no further attempts to dissuade her, only sighed as if he regretted being involved at all.

  'I'll drive you. It's too far to walk.'

  She forgot about her rucksack, for her mind was entirely dominated by the thought of revenge and punishment. Ingmar drove his old Volvo in silence through Vimmerby town centre, past a group of blocks of flats and then a housing estate. When they had left the built-up areas behind, the road went through woodland.

  Sibylla wasn't watching.

  'Accursed is he who deprives the innocent of his rights.' The words echoed in her mind, sounding like a premonition.

  She didn't even notice at first that the car had stopped.

  'It seems she isn't back home yet. At least, the car isn't here.'

  His voice got through to her and took her away from her obsessional thoughts. Finding herself back in the passenger seat of the Volvo she looked outside. They had pulled up in front of a yellow wooden house. All the windows were covered by lowered Venetian blinds.

  'I'll wait.'

  She fumbled with the door handle to get out. 'It's raining.'

  That was true enough. Water was rippling down the windscreen.

  'I'm a neighbour. I live in the house over there. Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee while you're waiting?'

  Coffee? She couldn't care less just now. On the other hand, saying no to anything nutritious was a bad idea and the hot dogs had done little to fill her up. There was plenty of space left inside. She nodded. He got into gear and the car crawled along betweenthe gateposts of a roughcast, green-painted house opposite the Hedlund's.

  So, they weren't next-door neighbours, but lived really near each other. Sibylla stepped out into the rain and waited for Ingmar. He walked up a gravelled path towards his house. When she stood on top of the steps, she turned to look in case Kerstin Hedlund's car was coming down the road. All seemed quiet. He reassured her.

  'You'll hear her when she comes. We're the only ones living out here.'

  She stepped into the hall. A strong smell of solvents was hanging in the air.

  'Damn, I forgot to take the jar of turps away.'

  He disappeared out of sight but returned quickly, carrying a glass jar with paint-brushes left in to soak.

  'The smell will clear away soon. I'll just put the jar outside for now.'

  He opened the front door, put the offending jar outside, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She found a spare hook and hung up her jacket.

  'Do you paint?'

  'It's just a hobby of mine. Why don't you come into the kitchen? We might as well have a cup of coffee.'

  He bent to take off his shoes and she followed his example. He stood back to let her step into the kitchen first.

  As she took it in she felt sure that this man wasn't living alone. The place wasn't just clean and tidy, but nicely looked after. There were white lace curtains in the window, drawn back by neat, pale pink ties. There were several pots of healthy-looking and quite unusual plants on the windowsill, which was protected by a crocheted runner, possibly home-made.

  He was fiddling with the coffee things, filling the kettle with water.

  'Why don't you sit down – make yourself at home?' She found a chair that allowed her to keep watch on the road. He was measuring the coffee from a pretty but worn tin.

  Observing him as he was pottering about, she thought that there was something odd about the place. Everything was cared for and in good order, but curiousl
y old-fashioned. The kitchen furnishings looked like 1950s originals and the workbenches were far too low, barely reaching the tops of his thighs. Whoever lived here certainly had no interest in up-to-date interior decorating. Still, who was she to criticise? 'Do you live here alone?'

  He looked at her. His expression was almost shy. 'Yes. I've been staying here on my own ever since my mother died.'

  'I'm sorry. Did she die recently?' The coffee-maker started bubbling. 'No, not at all. About ten years ago.' But you still use her curtains, though. 'Would you like a sandwich?' 'Please. I'm quite hungry.'

  He opened the fridge door. The handle was black Bakelite and the whole model looked elderly. Gun-Britt had one of these in her flat in Hultaryd, thirty-five or so years ago. He hesitated, his hand still on the fridge door handle.

  'Oh no – what a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.'

  'No problem.'

  He opened one of the kitchen cabinets, taking out pretty cups and saucers with a blue flower pattern. He put them on the table and started rummaging in a drawer to find the coffee spoons. A car drove past on the road. She jumped and looked out, but the car drove past at speed, disappearing beyond the next bend in the road.

  By now Ingmar was folding napkins, delicate little squares of thin cloth with scalloped edges. She hadn't seen their like since the ladies' afternoon tea-parties in Hultaryd. Maybe this was to be expected in the countryside, where time moved so much more slowly than in towns.

  'Only the best for visitors.'

  She looked at him. He was busy, carefully smoothing the folds in the spotless waxed cloth covering the table. Getting the napkins from a drawer in the table had disturbed it. He was looking very pleased with himself, almost elated. Could it be that it was a long time since he experienced anything as convivial as having a guest for coffee? A female guest to boot.

  Before pouring the coffee, he found a small silver tray in a cupboard. On it he placed a sugar-bowl and a cream jug in the same china as the cups. Looking very pleased with his preparations, he sat down opposite her and smiled invitingly.

  'There now. Hope you'll enjoy it.'

  'Thank you.'

  She glanced at the empty cream jug. It would have been nice with a little milk out of a packet, but she realised that it was pointless to ask. Lifting the cup by its tiny fragile handle, she drank some coffee while considering the text on the embroidered sampler behind him.

  GREATEST OF ALL IS LOVE.

  Then he suddenly broke the silence.

  'So what's your plan for when you meet Kerstin?'

  The question threw her. During the car journey her thoughts had been so intense that she had somehow assumed that he would share her sense of urgency. Now it struck her that he still had no idea who she was. She looked into her coffee cup.

  I just wanted to talk to her a little.'

  The expression on his face didn't change, as if the smile had been glued to his face. 'Why do you?'

  She felt something like irritation creeping into her mind. So maybe he meant well, but she wasn't that dependent on his good offices.

  ‘It's something between her and me.' Ingmar kept focusing on her. 'Are you sure?'

  The coffee was thin and tasteless. He had put in far too little coffee. She had no energy left for maintaining this conversation and rose from the table.

  'Thanks for the coffee and the lift. I feel like taking a little walk now, while I wait.'

  He didn't answer and the smile still didn't leave his face. It suddenly came to her that there was something not quite right about him. His incessant smiling was so silly that she had an impulse to say something nasty, just to wipe it off his mug. He looked so pleased with himself, as if remembering a funny story he had no intention of sharing with her.

  She walked into the hall and started putting on her boots. When she straightened up and reached for her jacket he was standing in the kitchen doorway, positively grinning at her.

  'You're not leaving already?'

  His tone of voice made it sound more like an order than a question. This was the end of good manners, as far as she was concerned.

  'Yes, I am. I can't stand coffee without milk, you see.'

  'Is that so? I got the impression you weren't that picky.'

  He had bitten suddenly, like a snake. Unhesitatingly ready to drop any attempt at choosing his word with care. She suddenly felt deeply uneasy. Taking down her jacket, at first she could think of nothing to say at all.

  'What do you mean?'

  When she finally spoke, she no longer felt quite so sure of herself and her voice must have revealed it, for the smile came back to his face.

  'That's obvious, isn't it? People like you should be grateful for what they can get.'

  She tried as best she could not show how frightened she was feeling by now. He didn't look particularly strong, but that was a miscalculation she had made before and duly suffered for. If they were hungry enough for what they wanted, she had rarely had a chance. No way was she giving in without a fight, though. She backed away from him.

  'Vimmerby seems to be one hell of a place. A serial killer and a rapist living just next door to each other. Maybe there's something nasty in the water?'

  She glanced towards the front door. The key had gone.

  ‘It's locked, in case you wondered.'

  He had an informative tone to his voice.

  'Now there's something else I should let you know. If there's one thing I haven't got the slightest inclination to do, it's keeping you here for sex.'

  This did nothing to convince her. She backed away from him, hitting her back against end of the stair railing.

  'There are other things we've got to sort out together, you and I.'

  She swallowed.

  I don't think so.'

  Now he grinned again.

  'Oh yes, we do – Sibylla.'

  She was dumbfounded at first. Her only clear thought was that things had gone badly wrong.

  'How do you know my name?'

  'I read the paper, like everyone else.'

  He couldn't have recognised her – or could he? Not with her new hairdo, surely? A car drove past on the road outside and she looked at it over his shoulder through the kitchen window. Then it was gone.

  'You might as well give up your idea of meeting Kerstin. She lives at the other end of town, as it happens. That house is empty. A German family has bought it and they usually don't turn up here until June.'

  She wanted get out of there, get away from him.

  'Why did you lock the door? What do you want from me?'

  He didn't answer.

  She glanced at the door again. There was no window in the hall.

  'Don't even think about it, Sibylla. You're going nowhere without my permission.'

  She was a prisoner. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to pull herself together. He moved away from the doorway and because she had no choice, she followed him into the kitchen.

  'I'd appreciate it if you took your shoes off.'

  She stared at him. No fucking hope.

  Instead she walked over to the table and sat down. A glance at him was enough to make her realise that her keeping her shoes on had angered him a great deal. Frowning, he got hold of a brush and pan form a cupboard and started sweeping up invisible muck from the floor. When he had put the things away, he came to sit down at the kitchen table. The smile had gone from his face.

  'From now on you will do what I tell you.'

  'From now on'? What was this weirdo after? Why was he so bossy?

  She tried to speak in a low, calm voice. 'You have no right to keep me here.' He grimaced with mock surprise.

  'Oh, don't I? Dearie me. Maybe you'd like to phone the police?'

  He burst out laughing when she didn't answer immediately. She told herself that maybe phoning the police was exactly what she should do now. They were both focusing on each other, registering each
other's every breath. Another car went past and for a fraction of a second Sibylla let her eyes wander away from him. He broke the silence.

  'I must say, I was flabbergasted when you turned up in the cemetery out of nowhere. Like a gift from God. Indeed, God does look after his own.'

  She stared at him.

  'When I spotted your watch I couldn't believe my eyes at first. Do you know, if it hadn't been for your watch I might never have recognised you.'

  They both looked at her watch. Then he smiled briefly before closing his eyes and turning his face upwards.

  'Thank you Lord. You listened to your servant and saved my soul. You sent her to me.

  Thank you…'

  She thought he had finished.

  'What's this about my watch?'

  He turned towards her, silent at first. His eyes were open but had narrowed to slits. Leaning over the table, as if to give his words more weight, he spoke slowly.

  'Never ever interrupt me when I'm talking with the Lord God.'

  Suddenly everything fell into place.

  'Accursed are those who rob the innocents of their rights.'

  The truth pierced her like an arrow. Fear struck her speechless, her mouth filling with the taste of blood.

  Fool that she was! What made all the difference was the person he had appeared to be. She already knew the importance of that for herself. How could she have forgotten? She had allowed prejudice to lead her by the nose – straight into a trap.

  His face had changed somehow. Now he knew that she knew.

  'You can guess where I saw that watch the first time, can't you? In the Grand Hotel's French Restaurant. You were keeping Jorgen Grundberg company while he ate his last meal.'

  Alert and quivering like tensed bow-strings, they sat watching each other across the kitchen table. Both were expecting something to happen that would release the tension. She lost any sense of time passing.

  Trying to link isolated perceptions of the truth into a continuous chain, she began with him. She had been right as well as catastrophically wrong. Rune Hedlund's secret both was and was not what everyone had suspected. He had taken a lover, but the lover was a man.

  Now that man's strong hands were placed on the kitchen table in front of her. Hands which had carried out all the repulsive mutilations that she had been accused of. Stained with ordinary hobby paints and then covered with plastic gloves, they had been searching the hidden cavities of his victims in order to recover what had been taken from his beloved's body.