Karin Alvtegen - Missing

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 curiously 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.