Karin Alvtegen - Missing

Sibylla snorted and stared into the receiver.

'None of your business, mate.' She finished the call and held out the receiver to the waiting man. He hung back, looking anxious.

'Come on, it's all yours.'

He gestured defensively.

'No no, it's all right.'

'No? And you were so fucking keen a moment ago?'

His rolled-up evening paper stuck out from his coat pocket. It was The Express. She spotted one of her own eyes under that appalling fringe.

'Whatever.' She put the receiver back.

The man smiled nervously, then turned and left.

She had to get away now. Better angry than scared, agreed. Above all, she mustn't ever stick her neck out. From now on she couldn't be sure who knew her by name and why. Christ, of all names in world, why did they have to pick Sibylla.

It had been easy to find out where Mrs Grundberg lived. The papers had printed so much information about Jorgen Grundberg that she could have written his biography.

The train journey to Eskilstuna didn't take long. She started off hiding in the toilet, but once the conductor had done his first ticket round and unlocked the toilet door from the outside, she went to find a seat. No one registered surprise at her sudden appearance in the compartment. Ever since discovering that one of the fittings on her hair-curling kit was ideal for opening locked toilet doors on trains, she had been treating herself to the odd excursion. She'd been caught just once and ordered off the train in Hallsberg, which wasn't too bad a place anyway.

She felt happier now, for some strange reason. Maybe it was because she was determined to take control over what was happening to her. Or maybe spending her last kronor on a hamburger had cheered her up.

The Grundbergs' large villa was surrounded by a chest-high wall of the same white, glazed bricks that covered the facade. Mock-Victorian lamps lit the driveway to the mahogany-style front door that contrasted with black-stained window frames. One of the largest satellite discs she'd ever seen was perched on the roof.

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.