Karin Alvtegen - Missing

'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 to 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.'

'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.