Missing Page 5

  The whole place was screaming More-Money-than-Taste.

  For a while she hung about on the pavement, hesitating. Then she walked round the block to avoid attracting attention by loitering and the walk helped to make up her mind. She had better start trying to find an explanation here and now.

  The decision was easy to reach in her head, especially on the far side of the block, but her legs were not keen on taking her along the drive. Looking at the large house, her courage was faltering again. The dark windows, framed in black and with black shutters, seemed to be observing her like so many hostile eyes.

  Someone opened the door and called to her.

  'Are you from a newspaper?'

  'No.' Sibylla swallowed hard, closed the gate behind her and walked down the last part of the drive without looking at the woman in the doorway. Halfway to the front steps she passed a water-feature with a vaguely classical marble female, presumably spurting water on good days. Now she looked frozen.

  Sibylla stopped at the bottom of the steps, swallowing once more before looking up at the woman waiting there.

  'Yes?' She seemed impatient.

  'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to see Lena Grundberg.' The woman shifted a little. She was in her forties and sensationally good-looking, ‘I am Lena Grundberg.'

  Sibylla felt uncomfortable. She had no idea what or who she'd been expecting. Her idea had been to pretend she was a clergyman on call or maybe a counsellor from some bereavement support group. The papers often mentioned that sort of thing. People, who simply came along unasked, wanting to comfort the distressed widow or mother or whoever. Trouble was, this woman was looking just as cool and collected as the marble lady in the pond.

  'What's the matter?' Her voice sounded a little cross, impatient. The tone was that of someone interrupted in the middle of watching an exciting film.

  Having taken in the woman's personality, Sibylla made an instant decision to change her approach. Submission seemed the best way to deal with Lena Grundberg.

  'My name is Berit Svensson. I know this is a terrible time to call but… I've come to ask you for help.' She blinked shyly. Looking up she saw Lena Grundberg frowning.

  'I've been reading the papers, of course and I live… round here. You see, I've lost my husband too, some six months ago and I still feel… I need to talk to someone who knows what it's like.'

  Lena Grundberg, who was looking rather disapproving, seemed to be weighing the pros and cons. Sibylla decided to pile on the pressure.

  'You must be such an incredibly strong human being. I'd really appreciate if I could just come in and talk to you for a moment.'

  The last clause had the fervent ring of real truth and this small shift of nuance may have made the flattery convincing. Lena Grundberg stepped back from the threshold and gestured towards the hall behind her.

  'Come in. We'll talk in the drawing room.'

  Sibylla took one long step forward into the house. Bending down to take off her shoes, she realised that the large rug was very expensive. Next to her stood a wildly ornamental umbrella-stand in dark green metal.

  The doorway between hall and drawing room had been remodelled into a wide arch. Lena Grundberg walked ahead of Sibylla, who kept looking around. Regretting the make-up she'd put on in the train, she wiped off the lipstick off on her hand. Her instinct told her the more superior the immaculately made-up Lena Grundberg felt, the better it was.

  Sibylla had extensive experience of that kind of woman.

  The drawing room was so tasteless that she looked around in desperation for something to praise. She homed in on the one item that wasn't positively repulsive.

  'What a lovely wood-burning stove!'

  'Thank you. Do have a seat,' Lena Grundberg said and sat down on an armchair covered with leather in a shade like ox-blood.

  Sibylla settled into the huge leather sofa. She was lost in amazement at the glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Its undercarriage was a naked marble woman, lying on her back and balancing the sheet of glass on her raised hands and knees.

  'Jorgen imported marble,' Lena Grundberg explained, adding 'among other things.'

  Jorgen was clearly part of the past already. Just like that. Lena Grundberg seemed to have read her thoughts.

  'I suppose you'd better know from the start that my marriage wasn't especially happy. We were about to put in for a divorce.'

  Sibylla considered this. 'I'm so sorry.' it was my initiative.' 'Oh, right. I see.'

  The room fell silent. Sibylla felt a little bemused. What had she imagined she'd gain by coming here? She couldn't even remember now.

  'How long have you been a widow?'

  The question was so sudden she jumped. Pointlessly, she looked at her watch. It had stopped again. She had to say something.

  'Six months and four days.'

  'What did he die from?'

  'Cancer. It was very quick.'

  Lena Grundberg nodded.

  'Where you happy?'

  Sibylla looked down at her nails. Thank goodness she hadn't painted them. She spoke very quietly.

  'Yes, very.' Another moment of silence.

  'It's so strange, you know,' Lena Grundberg said. 'Less than year ago, Jorgen was dying from a serious kidney problem. He was hospitalised for months. Finally they decided that he could live normally again and all would be well for as long as he took his medicine in good order. On the whole, he was OK.'

  She was shaking her head.

  'And then he goes and gets himself murdered. After all that trouble. It may sound very cynical to say so, but frankly, it was absolutely typical of him.'

  Sibylla found it hard to hide her surprise.

  'How do you mean?'

  Lena Grundberg lifted her eyebrows.

  'He was such a lecherous fool. Taking an unknown female to your room like that, honestly – and so ugly too. One look at that photograph was enough to tell you she must be desperate.'

  Stay cool now.

  'You sound bitter?' Sibylla tried to keep her tone neutral.

  'Not really. It's just that I think he could've picked someone better looking. I might have felt a little happier if…'

  Her voice cracked suddenly. She was sobbing, hiding her face in her hands. How about that? At least one of the marble sisters was all emotion, once you got through the layers of foundation cream.

  Considering Lena Grundberg's outburst, she almost regretted that Jorgen hadn't been allowed to share her bed. She should've let him, from pure human sympathy.

  'You wanted him to choose someone who'd begin to match you?' Sibylla just about managed to control her voice, keep the irritation out.

  Lena Grundberg recognised the change of tone and tried to pull herself together. Her mouth still hanging open, she wiped the tears away carefully so as not to ruin her mascara.

  'Yes, that's it, you know. It really would've helped.'

  Sibylla was looking at woman opposite her, reflecting that after all she'd never met anyone quite like her.

  'Why would it have helped?' She was actually curious to know. 'After all, you were the one suing for divorce.'

  Now Lena Grundberg was back in charge, leaning back calmly in her vulgar armchair.

  'I do realise that it sounds selfish, but it's humiliating for a woman to be replaced by a complete nobody, an ugly whore picked up in a hotel. It's so… tasteless.'

  Oh yeah? Hey, what about this room? The inside of my rucksack looks a whole lot better, so don't sit there and fucking preach about good taste! Sibylla swallowed twice.

  'You can't be sure she was a whore, can you?'

  Lena Grundberg snorted, bent down to pick up an evening paper from the floor and held it out for Sibylla to see. She glanced quickly at the photo of her own face. Surely only the nose was the same.

  'How can the police be so sure she's the killer?'

  Lena Grundberg dropped the paper on the floor.

  'They'd gone to see the receptionist together about her room.
>
  By the morning, she was gone despite the police cordon. Seems pretty conclusive to me. Her fingerprints were all over the place. Like on Jorgen's room key.'

  'What if it isn't her? Would you know if he'd had any…'

  She stopped at the last moment and pretended to cough. She had been about to say '… any enemies in Lithuania or Latvia?'

  She carried on coughing to cover her error. Lena Grundberg fetched a glass of water and Sibylla drank gratefully. 'Thank you,' she said. 'Sorry. I'm an asthmatic, you see.' Lena Grundberg nodded and sat down again. 'Had no what?' she asked. 'What did you say?'

  'You asked if I'd know if had any – what?' 'Enemies, I guess… or something.'

  Lena Grundberg was looking at her. Maybe it was time to go. She was getting ready to stand when the woman opposite her suddenly uttered one word, filled with contempt.

  'Sibylla!'

  Sibylla started as slapped. Their eyes met. She stayed where she was, very still.

  'It's such a weird name. No normal person is called Sibylla.'

  Sibylla tried breathing calmly. It had been a scary moment.

  'You're right, it's really peculiar.' She sounded ingratiating. 'Though presumably the woman didn't pick it herself.'

  'Oh no?'

  Lena Grundberg was not good company. Sibylla wanted to get away. Still, she had taken such a lot of trouble to get here, it would be silly not to try finding out something more.

  'How did he die?'

  The other woman coughed.

  'She slit his throat first. Then she cut him open and spread out his organs all over the floor.'

  She might have been describing a new recipe.

  Sibylla felt she needed air. Now. Nausea came in waves. She rose.

  'I've got to go.'

  The widowed Mrs Grundberg stayed in her armchair. 'I suppose I didn't exactly meet your expectations?' For once she could answer truthfully. 'No, not really.'

  Lena Grundberg nodded, looking down. 'We all deal with things differently.' Sibylla nodded too.

  'Of course… thank you for letting me talk to you.'

  She put her shoes on in the hall. Lena Grundberg remained sitting where she was and without another word being said, Sibylla quietly left the house.

  Her walks were her salvation. 'Going out for a walk' was a legitimate reason to leave the house and the fresh air blew away some of her stale teenage angst. Her routes were always taking her to the edge of town, avoiding the hot-dog stall in the centre. It was the Hultaryd meeting-place for those who cared about meeting up. Sibylla wasn't one of them. It was a long time since she had positively wanted to meet anybody she knew from school in the evening. Seeing them there during the day was more than enough.

  The Young People's Society for Motor Sports ran a community centre in the outskirts. It was a shabby two-storey house with its ground floor turned into a mechanics' workshop. The distance from central Hultaryd was a measure of the low status of the YPSMS members, but at least in some cases alienation seemed to be what was wanted.

  She would probably never have noticed him, if she hadn't happen to pass just when he was bending over the engine of a souped-up old banger with very fancy paint-work. She stopped some twenty yards away to admire the effect. The car was pea-green with vivid flames streaming from below towards the rear wings. She had never seen anything like it.

  She was trying to hang about casually, but after a while he looked up and spoke to her.

  'Cool, isn't it?' He was wiping his oily hands on a rag.

  She nodded.

  'De Soto Firedome, from '59. I just had it back after a re-spray.'

  She couldn't think of any response. There seemed to be nothing

  to say. Most of all, she was amazed that anyone in Hultaryd had been able to paint the flames so beautifully.

  'Want a go? Just try sitting in it?' When she still didn't answer he shut the bonnet and waved at her. 'Come on, have a look. The seats are covered in real leather.'

  She came closer. He was obviously keen to show off his car, which seemed innocent enough. She had never been in a car like that and couldn't remember ever having seen him before. He looked quite a bit older than her.

  He threw the oily rag away. Then he wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and opened the passenger door for her. After only a few seconds' hesitation she did what he obviously wanted her to do. The seat upholstery felt like an armchair.

  'It's a great car. V-eight engine, 305 horsepower.'

  'Terrific' She smiled cautiously at him.

  He went round to the driver's side and opened the door.

  'Can you reach the blanket on the back seat?'

  Sibylla got hold of the brown, checked blanket and handed it to him. He put it on the seat before he jumped in.

  'Coming along for a drive? He was already turning the key.

  She stared at him.

  'I'm not sure… I should go back home…' The engine was humming. He pressed a button and her window went down.

  'Electric circuit operating the windows. You want to check it out?'

  She pressed the button. The window closed smoothly. She looked at him again, meeting his smiling face. Two dimples had appeared in his cheeks.

  He got into gear and put his arm at the back of her seat. Her heart was beating harder now, because his gesture seemed so intimate even though it was probably just practical. Looking out through the rear window, he reversed into the road.

  How come she was suddenly sitting in a suspect-looking car next to a complete stranger? What if anyone saw her?

  'I'll drive you home. Where do you live?'

  Sibylla swallowed.

  'No, don't. Let's just go for a drive,' she replied quickly.

  They drove towards the centre. Sibylla was watching him surreptitiously. There were spots of oil in his face.

  'I'm Mick but I won't shake hands. Unless you want to get oil on yours.'

  'Sibylla.'

  'Sure. Forsenström's daughter. That's right, isn't it?' 'Yes.'

  He was driving down Tull Street and soon they would be passing the hot-dog stall.

  'Hey, listen, isn't she sounding just great?'

  Super. Sibylla wasn't going to say the car sounded about as smooth as Gun-Britt's little Renault. The usual crowd had gathered around the hot-dog stall. Sibylla kept her head down.

  'Those are your mates, right?'

  At first she didn't answer and he looked quickly at her. 'Like, they're hanging out at your place.' He was grinning at his own joke.

  She didn't even smile. Noticing her reaction, he too became serious.

  'Come on, I was just kidding. Don't worry about it.'

  She looked at him, realising that he really had meant it as a joke, not sarcasm aimed at her. The difference was obvious and she smiled back at him.

  'No, they're not my mates.'

  Not much more was said between them at that first meeting.

  He took her back to the YPSMS place and she thanked him for the drive. He pulled the handle that released the bonnet just moments after she'd got out of the car. When she had walked away a bit, she turned. He already had his head down, tinkering with the engine.

  A new, expectant feeling was growing inside her, making her certain that something important had happened, something good. Whatever it was, it mattered to her.

  How right she was.

  Of course she couldn't have known that if the car hadn't been delivered that day, or if the paint had taken just an hour longer to dry and so Mick wouldn't have been outside working at it or if she'd taken her walk in another direction… or if, if, if… then, if things had happened differently, her life might have turned out quite differently.

  That afternoon she had arrived at one of life's significant forks in the road, unremarkable-looking at the time, but where the effect of turning one way or the other is fully understood only afterwards. It would take her a long time before she realised it.

  Then – much later on – it would become clear t
o her how wrong her choice of direction had been on that critical afternoon.

  She walked away from the smart villa environment of the Grundbergs, following directions to the town centre. That night, she slept outside the door to the attics of an apartment block. The entrance door hadn't been locked. This unguardedness was one of the nice things about trips to the provinces. In Stockholm people were so careful that she usually had to stick to familiar addresses where she knew the tricks.

  She was woken by some kid screaming further down the stairway, followed by the noise of a door opening and a woman's voice saying crossly that if he was going to be like that, he couldn't come along and that's that. A little later the main door slammed and the place became silent again. She checked her watch, but it still didn't work. She really needed a new one, but watches were expensive.

  When she got up from her camping mat, the world went black around her. She had to lean against the wall until the dizziness went away. Food – she need food at once.

  The station was only a few blocks away.

  She went into the Ladies' Room to wash, comb her hair and put on mascara and lipstick. The green suit was creased from being in her rucksack, but never mind. Without it she'd go without breakfast. After putting it on, she held her hands under the tap and flattened the creases with her wet palms. It helped with the worst ones, anyway.

  Putting the rucksack into Left Luggage meant that she'd have to pay to get it back later, but she'd fix it somehow. Food was top of the agenda now.

  Surveying the scene from the station steps, she decided on the nearby City Hotel. She hurried across the street, then drifted into the foyer at a much slower pace. The male receptionist hurried towards her at once and she smiled at him.

  'Goodness, it's so chilly today,' she said and shivered.

  He smiled back. His golden name-tag told her that he was called Henrik.

  'I just popped across to the station to check the train times, but I really needed a jacket.'