Karin Alvtegen - Missing

Peace and quiet.

She had investigated and found that about 40,000 kronor would be enough, if you were prepared to live without electricity and running water in unglamorous countryside, somewhere obscure. That was exactly what she wanted. In the far north her kind of place might be even cheaper, but the thought of the long hard winters frightened her. She would keep struggling for a little longer instead.

During the last five years she'd put away as much as she possibly could of the monthly alms from he mother. Once in that purse the money simply didn't exist any more, no matter how cold or hungry she was.

Just a few more years and then she'd have enough…

She put the notes down on the table in front of her, arranging them in a star pattern. She always went to the bank to exchange the money she received for new crisp notes.

Notes that her mother had never touched.

After a while, looking at her money had made her feel better again. It usually cheered her up. The next stage in recovering her fighting spirit would be a visit to an estate agent to keep informed about movements in house prices.

She gathered up her money, put it safely back in the purse, pushed the chair neatly back in place at the table and locked the door behind her. Her steps were lighter now.

She got as far as Ringen. Glancing at one of the posters on the newspaper kiosk made her sense of calm evaporate. Now her problems were no longer about surviving for another day.

Now she was on the run.

WOMAN CHARGED WITH BUTCHERY MURDER

That was the headline. There was a picture of a woman

with a caption underneath naming her: Sibylla Forsenström, 32

years old.

'Dear Sibylla, don't look so sour. Please at least try to smile.'

Obedient as she was back then, she had tried. The effect was ghastly. Whatever she might have looked like seconds earlier, it couldn't have been worse than this. Even her mother presumably thought so, because she'd hidden the picture away until now. Curling tongs had been applied to her fringe, symmetrically on either side of the central parting, and the tips of the curls plastered against her temples. Her eyes had that unmistakable cowed look.

She was feeling nauseous now. Nineteen kronor left. The paper cost eight.

There has been a breakthrough in the investigation of the 'ritual slaughter' of Jorgen Grundberg (51) in his room at the Grand Hotel last night. A woman suspect, Sibylla Forsenström (32) is wanted by the police and has been formally charged in her absence. As The Express learnt yesterday, this is the woman with whom the 51-year-old was seen on Thursday evening. The receptionist on duty that night has now told the police that Mr Grundberg himself booked a room for the woman, who gave what turned out to be a false name. The wanted woman managed to get through the police cordon early on Friday morning, leaving behind several articles including a wig that she allegedly wore the previous evening. The police also found a briefcase which, some sources suggest, may contain the murder weapon. The police are not prepared to reveal any details about the weapon. Fingerprints on the briefcase identified the woman as Sibylla Forsenström. The same prints were found on the key to the victim's room and in her hotel room, where a glass with the victim's prints was also found.

The police are baffled as to her whereabouts. In 1985 she escaped from a mental hospital in southern Sweden where she was an in-patient treated for psychological problems. Since then she has not been in contact with any state or local authority agency. No one seems to know anything about her life during the intervening fourteen years. Police records of her fingerprints were kept after an incident involving a car theft and illegal driving in 1984. Sibylla Forsenström grew up in a well-to-do family, based in a small industrial town in east Småland.

As she has been without a fixed address since 1985, the public are asked to let the police have any relevant information. However the police also warn that she is likely to be confused and violent. Forensic psychologists, currently examining a diary found in her briefcase, claim that several notes are of a disturbed, incoherent character. The photograph, as the police are anxious to point out, is over sixteen years old. The waiter who served the woman and her alleged victim on Thursday evening described her as polite and well groomed. He is assisting a police artist with the creation of a more up-to-date image. Information about the wanted woman should be given to the police, either at the nearest police station or by phoning 08-401 0040.

She could feel the sick taste in her mouth. It came from deep down in her stomach, where some part of her had already taken in what her brain was still refusing to analyse.

They were going to take control over her. Again.

She felt as if she was being suffocated. It was a familiar, frightening sensation that came back from the past to take her over. A hostile spirit was emerging from a hiding-place where it had been waiting and watching. It was ready for her now. In spite of all her efforts, she had failed to exorcise it after all.

Anybody who fancied reading all about her in the paper could go right ahead. What had they all been saying back then? Silly-billy Sibylla. Something odd about that girl. Always reckoned she'd go downhill.

She clenched her fist in her pocket.

Was it her fault that she didn't fit in? She had never been one of them, but managed all the same. What more could they ask? She was a survivor, a survivor in spite of everything.

Now they would take her apart again, seeing her strength as madness and her unconditional existence as a loner's misery. They were poised to crush her plans to build a life of her own.

She wasn't going to let them, no way – not now.

It wasn't me!'

She was phoning from a telephone booth in Stockholm Central Station. The line went silent, so she said it again. 'It wasn't me who killed him.' 'Killed whom?' 'Jorgen Grundberg.' A brief pause.

'Who's that speaking, please?'

She was scanning the great station hall. It was a Saturday and the hall was full of people, leaving and arriving, ready to meet or to separate.

'I'm Sibylla. The person you're looking for. But I'm not the killer.'

A man carrying a briefcase was standing just a few metres away. He looked demonstratively first at his watch and then at her. Obviously, he was in a hurry and would like her to finish her call. Presumably he too had discovered that this was the only phone around that was still coin-operated. She turned her back to him.

'Where are you?"

'It doesn't matter. The important thing I want you to know it that it wasn't me who…'

She fell silent and looked out again. The man was still there, staring irritably at her. She turned her head away again and lowered her voice.

'… not me who did it. That's all I've got to say.'

'Wait a minute!'

She had intended to put the receiver down but stopped. She

could sense the effort the woman at the other end was putting into formulating what she planned to say.

'How do I know that I'm actually speaking to Sibylla?'

'What's that you said?"

'Could you give me your ID number?'

Sibylla almost laughed. For Christ's sake, now what?

'My ID number?'

'Lots of people phoned today, saying that they're Sibylla. How do we know that you're the right one?'

She was open-mouthed with astonishment.

'Listen, I AM Sibylla Forsenström. I've forgotten my ID number, I've had no reason to use for a long time. I just wanted to say "Please mind your own business, leave me in peace".'

She had forgotten the waiting man, but when she turned he looked away, pretending not to be watching her. 'Where are you?'