Missing

'No, we're OK. Let's go. Sure you've packed everything you need?'

Sibylla just turned and walked towards their car, opened a rear door and climbed inside. The others joined her a little later, presumably after another briefing on her state of mind. She never saw her parents again. Her last glimpse was of them standing on the pointless tiled floor in the hall, screwing her reputation behind her back.

After a couple of days they gave her a room of her own.

The moment she entered the ward one of her fellow patients took it into her head that Sibylla was the Virgin Mary with a new baby Jesus inside her. It wasn't a problem for her, but the staff soon became utterly bored with the woman's pleading for her sins to be forgiven. Getting Sibylla out of the way seemed the most effective solution.

Delighted with the sick woman's helpful delusions, Sibylla gratefully pulled her own door shut. All she wanted was to be left in peace.

Her belly grew bigger and bigger.

Now and then a midwife would turn up, check her blood pressure and listen to the baby through some kind of inverted funnel. The growth was apparently doing all right, because the midwife didn't call often. Instead she gave Sibylla a book about pregnancy and delivery, which went straight into the drawer in her bedside table.

This time she was allowed walks on her own in the park, because they all agreed that the exercise was good for her. She spent a few hours walking every day. The white stone buildings looked quite beautiful, at least from a distance. If she let her mind go blank, it was possible to imagine that this was the park of a great castle.

The man who wanted her to talk didn't call very often either. Maybe he had sicker patients to look after. Apparently she was no longer crazy, only pregnant. It wasn't his fault that back home it amounted to more or less the same thing.

About two weeks before the baby was due she felt her first true contraction, an intense pain as if from a hammer blow. It passed as suddenly as it had arrived. Alone in her room, she collapsed on the bed, feeling terrified. What was that?

Then the pain struck her again, fierce and relentless.

Something had broken inside her. Fluid flooded down between her legs.

This must be death. It was her punishment. Something had broken inside her and her blood was pouring out of her. Once the pain had faded she looked down at her legs. No blood. Had she peed herself? Lost her mind or something?

The pain came in a wave next time. It hurt so much she was screaming out loud. Seconds later a female nurse came rushing in and started dealing with the wet sheets. Sibylla felt ashamed.

I'm sorry. Please, I need help. I think something's broken inside me.'

The woman just beamed at her.

'Don't worry, Sibylla. You're about to give birth – that's all. Just wait here. I'll go and phone Transport.'

She hurried away. Phone Transport? Where were they going to transport her?

'Good luck, Sibylla!' That's what they had said after pushing her stretcher into an ambulance. The words were ringing in her ears.

Now she was in another hospital, lying in bed alone in another room.

'Would you like us to call your husband?'

She had shaken her head. There was an uneasy silence.

'Is there anyone else you'd like to be with you?'

She had not answered the question, just closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to stop the next wave of pain. She didn't have a hope, of course. Nothing she could do helped against the unbearable pain racking her body. She was reduced to being just a body, possessed by an alien force intent on drilling a hole large enough to let the creature inside it get out. Her mind was out of order, her will had been dismantled, leaving her exposed to this purposeful, unstoppable process that would give her no peace until it had run to its completion.

She was about to make life.

A white clock faced her on the opposite wall. Its hands jumped forward regularly, her only reminder of a world outside that followed other laws.

The pause between each little jump seemed so long. Hours passed.

Now and then some woman would pop in to see her. She could hear another woman's screams from somewhere nearby. Had it been like this for her mother when she gave birth to Sibylla? Was that why she never really liked her daughter, didn't even accept her existence? If you caused this much pain, how can you ask to be loved?

When the minute hand had jumped round the clock-face four times and she was almost unconscious from the effort, another woman came to see her. Once more the visitor stuck her fingers in there, but this time it was apparently different. Her opening was ten centimetres. It sounded like a mistake, the cleft in there must be vast. Her body couldn't hold together any more. It had fallen apart, dissolved.

She was lifted onto a delivery chair. Once seated there spread-eagled, legs wide apart and her genitals on full show, she was told to push. She was anxious to please them, but it seemed obvious that pushing would finally make her split in half. Her head would split too, right round from her chin to the back of her neck. She was pleading with them to stop the pain, but they were all in the service of the force and wouldn't let her off.

Someone said she could see the head. She told Sibylla to relax and stop pushing.

A head?

They could see a head. Coming out of her.

Once more now, Sibylla. Then it's over.

Suddenly the room echoed of a baby's crying. The last tearing pain faded away and was gone, as abruptly as it had come.

She turned to see a small dark head resting on the shoulder of a nurse, who was swiftly leaving the room.

The minute hand did another of its little jumps, just as if nothing special had happened. But a person had just emerged from inside her. A tiny human being with a head covered in dark hair. Unasked, this creature had started growing inside her and then dynamited its way out.

Sibylla was still sitting in the seat, her head leaning heavily against the backrest and her legs wide apart. She watched as the clock registered the passing of another minute, wondering why no one ever asked her if she minded.

In the chilly attic, the large hands rotated round and round the white clock-face and day followed night followed day.

She had found a shower-room that wasn't locked and crept down to have a hot shower every night. Standing for a long time under the water helped to thaw her body, but did not shift her depression.

When her unexpected visitor had left, the first instinct had been to pack up and leave. But then, where would she go? Her helplessness exhausted her so much she stayed where she was.

She didn't care. Let what happens happen.

She took just one additional precaution by hiding her things and spreading out her mat in the corner by the chimney-shaft. It was further from the door, but on the other hand she was less likely to be taken by surprise again.

He came back on the third day after his first visit. Lying very still, she listened as the door opened and closed. 'Sylla?'

So it was the boy. But she couldn't see the door, so there might be someone with him.

'Sylla? It's Tab. OK, Patrik. Where are you?'

She peeped round the chimney-shaft. He was alone.

His face lit up when he saw her.

'Great. I thought maybe you'd moved on.'

She sighed and got up.

'I thought about it, believe me, but there aren't that many free pitches.'

Then she noticed that he was carrying a bulging rucksack and held a rolled-up mat under his arm. 'Off some place?' 'I'm staying here.' 'Here?'

'Sure. I'm shacking up here tonight, if that's OK by you?'

She shook her head helplessly.

'Why yes – but why?'

'It's cool. I want to experience it.'

She sighed, looking around the attic.

'Patrik, this isn't a game. I don't sleep here because it's a fun thing to do.'

'What's your reason then?' This was irritating.

'The reason is that I've got nowhere else to go just now.' He must have felt that she needed persuading and got something out from his rucksack. It was a grill-bag. 'Spare-ribs. Would you like some?'

She had to smile at the way he had brought her a bribe. He asked again, his head a little to the side. 'Please, can I stay here tonight?' She shrugged.

'I can't stop you, I suppose. But what would your parents say to your sleeping rough?' 'Never mind.'

This worried her. Christ, he might have told his parents of his plans.

'Do they know where you are?'

Now he was looking at her with eyes that said how-thick-can-you-be.

'Dad's out driving his taxi all night and Mum's away on some kind of course.'

'Does anybody else know that you're here?' He sighed.

'You're so fucking anxious. No, no one knows where I am.' Anxious? You'd be anxious too, if only you knew where your bit of harmless fun would get you. Boyo, you're about to share a night in an attic with a wanted serial killer, probably a religious maniac.

'Fine. No problem. You're welcome.'

He didn't need to be asked twice, deciding quickly to spread out his sleeping mat on the platform in front of the great clock. She thought it better to be able to keep an eye on him and pulled her own mat to the other side of the chimney-shaft. He examined his handiwork with satisfaction and then sat down, looking at her expectantly.

'Are you hungry? Would you like some of this stuff?'

Couldn't deny that. Baked beans had its limitations.

'Sure, if you've got enough.'

He tore open the bag and spread it out on the floor between them. Then he added ready-made potato salad, two tins of Coke and two bags of crisps.

'Help yourself.'

What a feast! She came and sat next to him. He seemed to be just as hungry as she was and they ate in silence. Each spare-rib was gnawed down to the bone before being put back in the bag next to the uneaten ribs. When the two piles were almost the same height, she was so full it seemed impossible to eat a thing more. She leaned back against the wall.

He sounded surprised.

'Are you done already? I bought double helpings.' 'That's nice of you. We'll keep some for tomorrow.' His mouth was still full.

'Maybe your stomach has shrunk. Seemingly it does if you don't get much food.'

Fascinating. Sounded true, too. He must have been used to eating his fill, because he immediately started on another spare-rib. By now, even his cheeks were smeared with oil.

'Shit. Where do you go to wash?'

Sibylla shrugged. 'If you're homeless you've got to get used to mess. Running water is sheer luxury.'

He stared at his sticky hands. Then he looked at her hands.

She held them up in front of him. Only her thumb and index finger on one hand had touched the food. He quickly licked his fingers and wiped them on the legs of his trousers. Then he looked around.

'Right. Now what?'

'Now what – what?'

I mean, you can't just… like, sit here? What do you usually do?'

Ah, the little person inside that almost fully-grown body is quite clueless.

'What do you usually do? When you don't hole up in attics and play at being homeless?'

'Mess around with my computer, I suppose.' She nodded and drank some Coke. 'Not so easy if you've got nowhere to stay.' He grinned.

'Maybe ogling the telly's the answer, then.'

She went back to her corner and crawled into her sleeping bag, sticking her hands into her armpits to keep them warm. Then she turned her head to watch him.

He was obviously bored. Already. Failing other distractions, he had started tidying up after their meal. The clock behind him showed ten minutes past six.

When he had finished clearing up, he rolled out his sleeping bag and followed her example. It was a cheap model, which meant that he would be cold during the night. That was helpful. He might leave her alone after that.

He was lying on his back with his hands under his head.

'Why did you become homeless? Haven't you ever lived any place?'

She sighed.

I did live somewhere once.' 'Where?'

'Somewhere in Småland.' 'Why did you leave?' it's a long story.'

He turned his head and looked at her.

'Go ahead, I'd like to hear it. It's not as if, like, we're in a hurry.'

They had supported her in the shower afterwards and then wheeled her across to the maternity ward. In four of the five beds in the room sat recently delivered mothers with their babies. They all greeted her pleasantly when she was placed in a bed next to the window, but she immediately rolled over on her side. The window had blue-and-white striped curtains. A small border had come off the bottom on one of them. Looking out meant that she didn't have to see them, but she couldn't keep out the sounds.

Initially, no one asked her anything. They were all preoccupied with minding their own new-born babies.

She had been longing to sleep on her front, but it was still impossible. Her belly was still really big, even though it was empty. She could sense it's sudden emptiness. Her breasts were aching.

They came to see after about an hour. First, they got her to sit up, then stand and walk. Walking hurt. She could feel the tense pain from the stitches they'd used to sew her up with. Or at least, that's what they said it was.

Next, she was to speak with the doctor. She decided to stand instead of accepting his offer of a chair. He nodded at her and started leafing through her notes.

'Now Sibylla, this seems to have gone very well.'

She said nothing and he looked up at her quickly, before returning to the brown folder.

'Tell me, how are feeling?'

Empty, hollow. Used up and abandoned.

'What was it?'

He looked up again.

'Was what?'

'The baby, what kind was it?'

This bothered him, maybe because he was the one meant to ask the questions. 'A male.'

He bent over the notes.

A little boy. She had given birth to a little boy with dark hair.

'Please, can't I see him?'

He cleared his throat, apparently displeased with her unexpected line of talk.

'No, I'm afraid not. It's routine here, nothing personal. In cases such as yours, it has proved to be the best policy. For the mother's own sake, you see.'

Ah yes, for her sake. Why didn't it ever occur to anyone that she should be asked about what was best for her? How come they all knew already what was best?

He quickly finished their talk. When she returned to her room, the women were smiling in welcome. A nurse helped her into bed and she turned her back at all of them.

During the afternoon visiting-hour, fathers and relations and friends poured into the room to admire the babies. The visitors pretended not to see her back.

In the evening, only the mother in the next bed had an unbroken night's sleep. Maternal duties kept the rest of them awake. She heard them chatting quietly about their babies. He cries such a lot, I think it's his slow bowels. She always prefers the left breast – knows what she wants already, little madam. Look, he almost smiled, isn't he lovely!

She slowly got out of bed. If she hauled herself up sideways, it only hurt just before her feet took her weight.

The corridor outside was empty. She walked past the window to the nurses' station without anybody noticing her. The babies slept next door. She looked into the babies' room and it was empty apart from one plastic box on wheels in the middle of the floor. It was a baby-carrier of the kind that was wheeled along to the other mothers in the ward. Her heart was pounding as she cautiously closed the door behind her and tiptoed into the room. A little head.

A tiny head, covered in dark hair. This was her child. Now she was trembling all over. Looking intently into the cot, she saw her baby's ID number on the note behind his head.

Her son.

She slapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from moaning aloud. He had been part of her and grown inside her. Now he was lying there, all alone. She had abandoned her baby boy.

He was so very tiny, lying there on his side sleeping. She could have made a pillow for his head with the palm of her hand. Gently, with one finger, she stroked the dark hair. He twitched and drew a deep breath, making a little noise like a sob. She bent over him, putting her nose to his ear.

This was intolerable. The emotion was welling up suddenly inside her.

They shouldn't have been allowed to do this, not for any reason. He was her child. They had to kill her before she let him go. She knew with her whole being that she could never betray him, never abandon him. Never leave him alone in a plastic box crying himself to sleep.

Now she had become more courageous. She slid her hands carefully underneath his small body and lifted him. She held him close, very close, feeling that this was how it should be.

He stayed asleep. She inhaled his baby smell with the tears running down her cheeks. She was cradling her little boy in her arms. Now she was no longer alone.

The door opened.

'What are you doing?'

She stayed where she was. She recognised the nurse, who had helped her into the doctor's room earlier that day.

'Sibylla, you must put the baby down. Come on. Let's go back to the ward now.' 'He's my son.'

The nurse seemed uncertain about what to do, but reached out her arms in order to take the baby away. Sibylla turned her back.

'I'm not letting go of him.'

Now she felt the other woman's hand on her shoulder. She shrugged to get free and the movement woke the child in her arms. He whined a little, but stopped when she gently stroked his head.

'Hush, hush my darling. Mummy's here.'

The nurse was on her way out of the room. Sibylla put her hand behind his head to get a better look at his face. His eyes had opened, small dark blue eyes moving about in order to find something to focus on.

A moment later, they were back. Four of them this time and one of them was a man. He walked straight up to Sibylla and spoke to her authoritatively.

'Put the baby down now.'

'He's my baby.'

The man hesitated for a moment, Then he pulled out a chair for her.

'Why don't you sit down?' 'No thanks. Sitting still hurts.' One of the others came up to her.

'Listen, Sibylla, behaving like this doesn't solve anything. You're just making it worse for yourself.' 'Worse? How?'

They looked at each other in turn. One of them left the room.

'Sibylla, everyone has agreed the child is to be adopted. He'll have the best possible opportunities, so you mustn't worry.'

'I haven't agreed to anything. And I want to keep him.'

'Sibylla, I know it's hard and I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do about it, you know.'

They were crowding her.

Three against one and the fourth presumably on her way back. She might bring reinforcements. Everyone was against her, they were all playing in the opposing team. She was facing them alone, with only her baby on her side.

The two of them against the rest of the world. So what? She wouldn't abandon him.

The man pushed the chair away.

'There are two ways to deal with this situation. Either you put him back in his cot yourself and leave quietly. Or else we'll have to force you.'

Her heart was beating hard. They were going to take him away again.

'Please, can't you see? I'm his mother. You know that. You mustn't take him away, he's all I've got.'

The tears were coming now. Her whole body shook and her head was spinning. She closed her eyes. I shall not fall ill again. Not ill.

When she opened her eyes again, it was too late.

The man was about to leave the room, holding her son in his arms. Two other men in white clothes had arrived. They grabbed her arms.

Her child was crying. She could hear the sound disappearing down the corridor.

She never saw her son again.

That's a fucking crime! Were they allowed to do that?' She didn't reply. She was wondering what had made her tell the story especially since she had never even mentioned it to anyone before. Her loss had been gnawing at her all the time, like a swallowed shard of glass. Its unyielding edge had kept the wound raw, but she had never before expressed her grief in words.

Maybe she had told him because he was about the same age as her son. Or maybe because of everything – the hopelessness of it all. No more point in keeping quiet.

'But what happened afterwards?'

She hesitated. These were memories she had tried hard to forget.

'They had to lock me up. I was kept in a mental hospital for almost half a year. By then I just couldn't hack it any more.'

'Jesus… were you, you know, like… crazy?'

She couldn't be bothered answering. They sat in silence for while.

'How do you mean, couldn't hack it? Did you go on the run?'

'Yes, I did. Not that I think they chased me that much. I wasn't exactly a danger to the public' Not like now, that is.

'What about your Mum and Dad? What did they say?'

'Good question. Well, they said I couldn't stay with them. I was an adult and had made my own bed and could go lie in it and so on.'

'Fucking sickoes.'

Indeed.

'Then what did you do?'

She looked at him.

'Are you always this curious?'

'I've never talked to a drifter before.'

She sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. Well, then. Listen and Learn.

'First I went to the nearest biggish town – it was Vaxsjo. I was scared silly that they'd find me and send me back to the hospital. I was moving about for a couple of months or so, sleeping in basements and eating what I could find.'

'How old were you?'

'It was just after my eighteenth birthday.'

'That's three years older than me.'

'Than I.'

He turned to look at her. 'Than what?'

'You should say "older than I".' He snorted.

'Were you a damn prefect at school or what?' She was smiling into the darkness. No, never a prefect. They didn't pick her.

'No, but I was rather good at Swedish – at writing essays and things.'

'Why didn't you ever get a job?'

'I didn't dare tell people my name. They might recognise it, you see. I thought they were looking for me, that I was wanted by the police.'

The last phrase brought her right back to the present. Where exactly was this chat taking her? Time to cut it short, now. 'Good night.'

He lifted his head, leaning on one elbow. 'Hey, you can't stop now.'

He sounded disappointed, but she turned her face towards the wall.

it's almost eleven o'clock and I'm tired. So, good night.'

'Please, just one more thing. How come you ended up in Stockholm? Can't you tell that bit too?'

She sighed and turned again. The lamps illuminating the clock-face were throwing their white light into the attic, but its corners remained pitch dark.

'Listen, I'll only say this much. If I were you, I'd go for a job in television. You wouldn't sleep too well if I told you about everything I've seen and done and felt on the streets.'

She stopped speaking for a moment, tried to find the right words. How much of herself could she give? Then she sat up.

'Six of these years are blanks, I hardly remember a single thing. Who I was with. Where I slept. I was drunk out of my mind most of the time. I didn't want to be able to think, because if I did I might lose my grip and sink without trace. You see, living on the street gets to you. It's really hard to pull yourself out. The main reason is that you become unable to adjust to living in other conditions. You have to be able to conform to regular society and you don't want to conform. It's a vicious circle. Patrik, you must listen to me. I know what it's like and you're just wrong about the freedom thing. It's a load of shit, all that about sleeping rough. You haven't got a fucking clue about what it's like, not really.'

She lay down again. For once Patrik was quiet, presumably silenced by her vehemence. Would he really stay all night? Maybe he was angry now?

Not another word. She could hear him stirring, testing different positions on the thin sleeping mat. Then the attic became totally quiet.

She felt too restless to sleep. Memory snapshots came and went behind her closed eyelids, in fast-changing sequences. His questions had ripped the lid off stored experiences that she had avoided for years.

The memories of hitchhiking to Stockholm in the hope of merging with the crowds in the capital and so find some way to earn a living. How frightened she had been all the time that they would trace her, catch her and lock her up in hospital again. As if anyone had cared about her absence!

Then came the slow realisation of how difficult it is for someone without money, contacts or even a name to find a safe harbour. She didn't dare use her ID number, which meant that the Job Centres were out of the question. She had taken some illegal jobs as a cleaner or dish-washer, but moved on as soon as anyone at all became curious about her. Safety seemed to be among those who only knew each other by nicknames and never asked any questions except about drink or drugs and only when necessary. In the end, hungry and tired to death, she had faced utter humiliation, swallowed her pride and phoned home to ask for help. Begging for forgiveness, she told them she wanted to come home again.

'We'll give you an allowance, Sibylla. If you give us your address, we'll send you the money.'

As always when she remembered this, her stomach contracted. If only she hadn't given in! She often thought that phone-call was harder to bear than almost anything else she had been through. It was intolerable when she spoke to her mother for the last time, she had been reduced apologising yet again.

The money started arriving. Because she had an income and a posh accent her mates called her the Queen of Småland.

Her lost years began. She spent all her energy on staying intoxicated for as much of the time as possible. Nothing else mattered. With her brain activity permanently set on Low, most things became endurable. There was even a sense of security to be gained from the degradation that meant nothing was questioned and nothing was unacceptable. Slowly but surely she adjusted to the more or less overt contempt of people she encountered. The recognition that she was a loser only sealed her solidarity with the other outcasts.

For six years, this was her life – six years outside time.

Then, a turning point. It happened when she woke up on a bench near the Slussen walkway, heavy with drink, smeared with vomit and lying in a pool of her excrement. Around her stood an entire class of little primary school kids, watching her with wonder.

'Miss. What's she doing there? Is she sick?' 'Miss. Why does she smell so?'

A wall of children, all round-eyed with astonishment at this, their first insight into the down-side of adulthood. The shocked teacher, who was about her own age, turned up and protectively herded her charges away.

'Come now. Don't look!'

Then a terrible thought struck her. Her own son might have been one of the children and the state she was in was conclusive proof that her mother's decision had been right.

She turned to look at her new-found companion. It seemed that he had managed to sleep in the end. She crawled out of her sleeping bag to put her anorak over the boy. He was lying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest to keep warm. How young he was.

His whole life ahead, unused. Somewhere her son had reached almost the same age.

She crawled back. Much longer in this attic and she'd go off her head.

Formulating this thought immediately led on to the realisation that something had happened to her – a good thing. She glanced towards her visitor again and thought that he had brought something else, much more important than spare-ribs and Coke. His respect for her as a fellow human being granted her a new kind of dignity. For some inscrutable reason he was the one who had found her here. She was made stronger by his unreserved interest and admiration for what he felt she stood for. During the last few days some of her normal instincts had seemed damaged beyond recovery, but now they were reviving. Most of all, her instinct to fight against the odds.

The worst darkness was lifting. Tomorrow she'd pull herself together, do something.

They wouldn't crush her this time either, so there. She wondered if the nation-wide search for her was still on. Better get hold of a paper.

Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth; for the first Heaven and the first Earth had passed away and the sea was no more. And I saw the Holy City, a New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband; and from afar I heard a great voice from the throne saying:

'Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them and they shall be His people, and God himself will be with them; He will wipe away every tear from their eyes and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for former things have passed away.'

And He who sat upon the throne said:

'Behold, I make all things new.' Also he said:

'Write this down for these words are trustworthy and true.'

And He said to me:

'It is done. I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water without price from the fountain of the water of life. He who conquers shall have this heritage and I will be his God and he shall be my son. But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, as for murderers, fornicators, sorcerers and idolaters and all liars, their lot shall be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.'

Lord, I have done my duty. Now, all I can do is wait.

She had been surreptitiously watching him for a long time before he woke. The cold must have woken him during the night, because he'd put her anorak on.

During the small hours, she had made up her mind. She needed his help. Her only hope lay in telling him the truth. Then she went over what she must say again and again, trying to find the most gentle way to describe her situation.

When he woke his first move was to reach for his glasses. Then he sat up and looked at her, pulling his sleeping bag tightly around him.

'It's so fucking cold. Thanks for the anorak, it's great. Do you want it back now?'

'You keep it. My sleeping bag is warmer than yours.' The clock behind him showed ten minutes past nine. 'When do you start school?' He smiled at her.

'Knock, knock, anybody in? It's Saturday.'

She smiled too. It was nice to be made fun of like that. His hand emerged from the sleeping bag again, aiming for the grill-bag. He put it in his lap and opened it.

'Urrgh. Spare ribs for breakfast!'

'Do you want some of my crisp-bread? I've got some yoghurt too.'

He liked the idea and shoved the grill-bag back on the floor. Still wrapped in the sleeping bag he hopped across to her. 'Hey, take it easy. The floor could break.' 'Yeah?'

When he reached her, he settled with a thump. She shook her head and he grinned at her, grabbing a slice of crisp-bread.

He must have been really hungry. When he was wolfing his seventh slice she put the packet away.

'Tomorrow's another day.'

'We'll buy some more. No problem.'

She just looked at him and he grimaced, obviously realising how silly he had been.

'Sorry. I'll buy it. I'll give you the money, if you like.' 'Thanks, but no thanks.'

This was the right moment. How should she best open up the subject? She steeled herself, taking a deep breath. 'Do you follow the news, read the papers?' He shrugged.

'Not a lot. Mum wants me to read a proper paper like Dagens Nyheter, but it's way too much. Takes hours getting through it. But I do check out The Express. Dad brings it back after work. Why? Do you? Read a newspaper, I mean.'

'I do when I can. When I find one lying about. Or else I go to the Culture House. The reading room there has all the dailies.'

This was clearly news to him, but he nodded knowingly. She carried on talking.

'Yesterday, did you look at the papers?'

He shook his head at first.

'Wait, I did. The DN Friday supplement.'

How should she handle this? Did she have the right to involve him? It had seemed perfectly reasonable while he was asleep.

'Patrik, have you ever been accused of doing something you didn't do?'

'Suppose so. Have you got some yoghurt, or…?' She sighed and produced her big container. 'Thanks. Can I have it straight from the pack?' 'Sure. Unless you brought a nice plate, of course.' He grinned and she started again. The introductory bit was the hardest.

'I have, you see – been accused of something I didn't do, that is.'

He seemed focused on the yoghurt. Drinking it was hard, it was really too thick. He kept tapping the bottom of the pack. 'Does the name Sibylla mean anything to you?' He nodded, but still seemed more interested in the yoghurt. 'Patrik, you mustn't feel bad about this. Be cool.' She hesitated for one more brief moment. 'I'm Sibylla, you see.'

He didn't react first. Then the penny dropped. He stiffened, put the yoghurt down and turned to look at her. There was real fear in his eyes.

'Please, believe me, I didn't do it. I just happened to be in the Grand Hotel when someone killed that guy. I'm innocent.'

He was clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered round the attic for a moment, as if seeking an escape route. She must gain time. Somehow this wasn't working out the way she'd hoped. The word came spontaneously now, not in the careful order she had practised.

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Of course I'm not serial killer. You wouldn't have been sitting her now if I had been, after all, I've had all night to chop you up in little pieces.'

This was not a good way of putting it. In fact, it was pretty disastrous. Suddenly he made a move to get away, but the sleeping bag trapped him.

He mustn't go – not yet.

She leapt at him, pinning him down against the mat with her knees on his arms. His quick breathing sounded like sobbing. His tears were not far away.

Oh God no!

'Please. Don't hurt me.'

She closed her eyes. What was she doing?

'You must know that I won't hurt you. Please listen to me. I'm holed up in this freezing attic with every single cop in the country after me. They've made up their minds that I'm IT. I haven't got a chance. Like I said yesterday, people like me have no rights. Oh Patrik, you've got to believe me. I told you all that personal stuff yesterday because I trusted you. I thought you at least would believe in me.' By now the sobs had quietened down.

'I'm telling you this because I need your help. I don't dare go into a shop even.' His wide, frightened eyes were fixed on her. She sighed. 'OK, I'm sorry. Forgive me'

Just imagine what anybody watching them would make of her sitting astride a defenceless fifteen year-old. She stood up, letting him free.

'Go away now.'

He stayed where he was, very still and looking as if he hardly dared to breathe. 'Go!'

He twitched in response to her loud voice. Then he crawled out of his rucksack and started slowly walking towards the door, his back tense as if he feared she would jump on him from behind.

I need my anorak.'

He stopped at once, let the anorak slide to the floor and walked on. When he reached the door he suddenly leapt at it and rushed out. She could hear his running footsteps in the corridor outside.

Slumping down on her mat, she knew staying in the attic was not possible now. She had to leave, at once. She packed his things neatly and then started on her own. A few minutes later everything was tidied away. Just inside the door, she turned to cast a last glance at the clock. Bye, bye.

Into the corridor, down the stairs. On the ground floor she stopped for a moment. The mere thought of opening the door to the world outside made her feel sick. This everlasting fear would destroy her in the end. She chose to walk round to the back door leading into the school-yard. The thought of the street was too frightening.

The door slammed behind her, shutting her off from her refuge for good. Crossing the yard, she walked towards the Vitaberg

Park. She had no idea what to do next. Then she heard someone shouting behind her. The sound alarmed her and she stopped, looking around for somewhere to hide. 'Sylla! Wait!'

Then she saw him come running round the corner and waited until he reached her. At first he didn't speak and she set off walking again.

'I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first, but I was so fucking scared.'

He was a little breathless. She turned to look at him and discovered a new expression in his eyes, a seriousness that she had not seen before. Then he stared at the ground, as if ashamed by his own admission of fear.

'Don't worry about it.'

'No, it's because I know you're speaking the truth, Sylla.' She kept walking, unable to bear the thought of starting to plead with him again. He hurried after her.

'Sylla, please. You see, I saw the news on the poster in the Co-op window.'

She stopped. He was obviously trying hard to choose the right words.

'The story is that you murdered someone else last night.'

She felt uneasy. 'Are you absolutely sure he's asleep?' Patrick sounded impatient.

'Relax. He's on nightshirts and doesn't usually wake up until the afternoon.'

She was feeling uncomfortable. What would his father do if he found a woman with unnaturally jet-black hair, camping with her rucksack in his son's room? Old enough to be his mother, too.

They were in the block of flats where Patrik lived, whispering together at the bottom of the stairs.

'And your mother, are you sure – really sure, sure – that she isn't coming home?'

'Sure. Not until tomorrow night.'

Maybe he was right but then, maybe he wasn't. Besides, was it really right to involve him?

When she learned the latest news she'd had to go and sit down on the nearest park bench. He had followed her silently, leaving her in peace. Sitting there looking out over the empty school-yard, she felt her courage ebbing away again. Staring at the large clock-face, she thought she should have followed her impulse of a few nights ago and made the school attic her last resting-place.

He tried to say something hopeful to cheer her up.

'Listen. I can tell the police you were with me all the time last night.'

She only snorted at that, but then felt guilty because it had sounded like a put-down.

'They would just have added pederasty to my list of crimes.'

He sounded grumpy.

'I happen to be fifteen years old. Actually.' What's the answer to that?

'Patrik, I've had it. I might as well confess and put an end to the whole saga.' 'Shit, no! Don't!' He was really upset.

'Listen, you can't confess to something you haven't done!'

'What do you suggest then?'

'Can't you go there and… like, talk to them?'

'Same difference.'

'I don't get it. Why?'

'Surely you can see that? The police have already made up their minds. I am the murderer. They won't believe a thing I say.'

She put her head in her hands, speaking quietly to the ground in front of her.

'Worse, I can't hack being locked up.'

He sounded less convinced now.

'But you're just telling them what really happened.'

Then she told him about Jorgen Grundberg. About how her fingerprints got on to his keycard, about the wig and the Swiss army knife she'd left behind in the hotel room. About everything in her past that had combined to make her the prime suspect. Former patient in a mental hospital, homeless and without any kind of social network, she was so utterly perfect that the police must be rubbing their hands with glee. No question about her guilt.

Anyway, to have a chance of finally persuading them of her innocence, they would have to keep her under lock and key for the duration of the inquiry. That would drive her insane. She had been there before and knew what she was talking about.

'The murderer has got the idea too. I'm a perfect scapegoat for him. He even left a confession in my name after the Vastervik murder.'

He nodded gently.

'He did the same in Bollnas.'

'Was that where he struck last night?'

'The night before. I don't know where he was last night.'

She was slumped against the backrest of the bench. The night before last as well, while she was tucked up in the attic. Now they suspected her of four murders.

He stared at her.

'You didn't know, did you?'

She sighed.

'No. I didn't.'

Silence. He was thinking. The complications must be dawning on him.

‘I know. Let's go to my house and check everything they've written about you.' 'How do you mean?' 'We'll surf the net.'

Ah, the Internet. She had read about it in the papers, a fantastic new world she knew nothing about. She felt as doubtful about it as she did about being invited home by this helpful fifteen-year-old.

'Why would that be any good?'

'Maybe we'll find something that proves it couldn't have been you. I bet you haven't read everything they've written.' 'Right enough.' He got up. 'Let's go.'

What other option was there?

They crept through the hall. She felt like a thief and her heart was pounding. 'This way.'

They were outside a door in his flat. A metal sign had been stuck on it. It said: ENTER AT YOU OWN RISK. Fine. She wanted to go away anyway.

They had passed an open doorway to a spacious living room and then the closed door to his parents' bedroom. Patrik had put his finger to his lips as a signal to be quiet. His father was asleep in there. Then Patrik opened the door to his room and waved her on. All this was very awkward, but she followed to please him.

His room looked as if it had been in the path of a storm-force gale. The floor was practically invisible under a tidal wave of clothes, old comics, CD boxes and books. She dumped her rucksack in the middle of it all, looking quizzically at him.

'I know, I promised Mum to keep my room tidy. I just kind of forget.'

'Tell me about it.'

They were speaking in whispers.

He pushed a button on the PC and when it came alive with a little melody, she told him to turn it down. While the computer started up, she looked around the room. Apart from the desk, there was an unmade bed and a bookshelf. She pulled the cover over the bed to make the place look less messy.

When the screen on his desk had filled with symbols, he sat down to work. She wandered across to an apparently empty aquarium by the window, because something moved inside it.

'That's Batman, my Greek land-tortoise.'

Batman had crawled into a corner to munch on a lettuce leaf. He looked quite content, so the world must seem quite agreeable to his tiny mind. She felt momentarily envious.

Patrik was using the keypad to write something.

serial killer sibylla

He clicked, the computer started working and after a few seconds produced the results. 67 hits. He was smiling. 'Great.'

'What does it all mean?'

'We've got 67 pages to search for stuff about you and your manic killing spree.'

She was amazed at having become unwittingly a part of this strange world 'on-line' that she had been reading about. Patrik was already scrolling through what looked like pictures of newsprint.

'I'll print the lot and then we can read it when we like.'

It was all new and strange to her, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Already another machine on the table had started humming and spitting out paper. The print was on the side she couldn't see but she grabbed the first lot of papers and settled down on the bed. Meanwhile Patrik kept clicking and feeding more paper into the printer. The first sheet began with a robust headline.

Grand Hotel woman breaks the widow's peace

Lena Grundberg has curled up in the sofa in her comfy sitting room. She is meeting us at home in the house where she lived with her beloved husband Jorgen until less than a week ago. Last Thursday he was the first victim of a cold-blooded murder. The deranged killer from Grand Hotel is a 32-year-old woman, who so far has managed to disappear without trace in spite of a nation-wide police search. But only two days after the bestial murder at the Grand, the madwoman visited the grieving widow.

Lena could hardly keep her tears back as she tells us her story.

I'm so terribly afraid all the time, she confessed. This woman just rang the doorbell and then she told me a lot of lies about how she'd just lost her husband. I never understood what she wanted, but when I later saw the police reconstruction I recognised her face at once…

Sibylla stopped reading. What a pack of lies! The grieving widow couldn't hold back her tears. Is that so? Screw her.

By now there was a new pile of printouts. She grabbed the lot.

Anatomical knowledge is a common skill for slaughter killers.

The police are baffled by the case of the 32-year-old woman, who has been charged in her absence for several murders in which the victims was butchered. A study of all 'butchery' murders carried out in Sweden since the 1960s shows that the murderer typically belongs to occupational groups such as doctors, veterinarians, hunters and butchers. According to Sten Bergman, professor of Forensic Psychiatry, this is a consequence partly of the fact that these professionals have overcome the fear of dissection felt by most people and partly because they have the technical skills.

According to the police investigation of the 32-year-old woman's past, nothing in her background fits with these occupational statistics. Of course, more than just the mental and physical skills are required to turn a person into a potential killer of this kind. Above all, they often have a mental defect associated with low empathy and strong contempt for other people.

Severe mental illness with delusions is another likely precondition. For instance, it seems that in some cases the murderer cannot bear to separate from his or her victim, something that seems to be the case with the 32-year-old woman. In this frame of mind, the perpetrator feels that he or she must have a trophy as a memento of the dead person or of the act of killing. Such personalities believe that they are in control of life and death.

The woman's victims have been subjected to mutilations, which fit a pattern described as 'aggressive'. This is different from so-called passive butchery, carried out in order to conceal the nature of the crime or complicate later investigations. There is no evidence of this kind of precautionary approach in any of her murders. The woman's only intention has been to desecrate her victims. The police are still unwilling to disclose what she did or which body parts she had…

She rose, throwing the papers on the floor, it's too much. I won't read any more.' She had raised her voice and Patrik turned to look at her. 'Hey, quiet!'

She sat down again, listening to the machine spitting out many more sheets of print. People had written all that, thinking about her. Nobody had paid any attention to her before and now she was suddenly the most written-about person in Sweden.

It was so fucking hateful.

'Can't stay here. I'm off.'

He turned her way again.

'Oh, yeah? Like, to where?'

She sighed.

The click of a door opening was heard from somewhere in the flat. They looked anxiously at each other, listening intently. They could hear the rushing water when a tap was turned on. Sibylla rose, looking for places to hide.

'Relax, he's probably just in the loo.'

Patrik wasn't reassuring enough. The moment the tap stopped running she dived down under the bed, just in time before there was a knock on the door.

'You in there, Patrik?'

No reply. Sibylla saw his feet disappear and heard him lie down on the bed. The door opened and a pair of naked hairy legs walked in.

'What, are you asleep?'

'Kind of.'

'It's past eleven o'clock, you know.'

The machine on the desk made a humming noise, producing a belated printout. 'What's that?'

The hairy legs stepped closer. The next second, Patrik's jeans-clad legs materialised right in front of her nose. He must have grabbed the paper.

'Just some stuff.'

'Stuff, eh? And why are you in bed with your clothes on?' I was up, really. I felt like lying down for a bit.' 'Aha. What are you printing?' I've been surfing a bit. Nothing special.' The silence lasted for a few unbearable seconds. 'Well, I'm going back to bed now. Are you at home today, or what?'

'Maybe. I'm not sure.'

'If you go out, please don't come back later than ten o'clock. And you must phone to say where you are.'

She could hear Patrik sighing. The naked male legs walked towards the door and then stopped.

'That's not your rucksack, is it?'

Sibylla closed her eyes, while Patrik seemed to take an age replying. Christ, just say something. You've found it. Nicked it. Any bloody thing at all.

'It's Viktor's.'

That's a good one.

'What's it doing here?'

He forgot it in school and I promised to look after it.' Better still. The legs were walking again. 'See you later. Remember, you must tidy up in here before your Mum comes back.' ‘I will.'

Then the door finally closed behind him and Patrik's smiling face was peering at her below the edge of the bed. 'Were you scared now?'

She crawled out. She tried to brush the dust off her front while she hissed at him.

'Can't you lock the door?'

He was sitting on the bed studying the piece of paper he had hidden from his Dad. She looked over his shoulder. HUNTING A KILLER. He seemed thoughtful. 'I know what we've got to do.' She couldn't think what to say.

'Think! The police are after you and nobody else. Question: who's to track down the real murderer?' No idea.

'Don't you see? We'll have to do it. We've got to find the murderer.'

At first she felt simply angry. So angry that she started towards the door, picking up her rucksack in the passing. She stopped with her hand reaching for the door-handle, suddenly uncertain. She didn't dare step outside yet.

She put the rucksack down and sighed.

'Patrik, don't be silly. This isn't some kind of exciting game.'

'I know. It's just – well, do you have any better ideas?'

She turned to face him, but he was picking up the papers she had thrown down. She went to help him and when the papers were stacked in order again, she sat down on the bed.

'What chances do you think we've got?'

He leaned forward, speaking in an eager whisper.

'Sylla, listen. The police are looking for YOU. No one else. It gives us space. We know that there must be another person who's the killer.'

'So what can we do? We've no information.'

He leaned back to be able to meet her eyes.

'Please promise not to be angry.'

'What? I mean, how can I promise?'

He hesitated. By now she was truly curious about what it was that he thought might make her angry. 'Ah… my Mum's in the police.'

She was transfixed. He met her eyes. When the true significance of what he had said dawned on her, her blood seemed to pump faster through her body and she rose.

'I've got to get out of here. Check the hall, please.'

'Cool it.'

'NOW. Please, Patrik.'

She had raised her voice to a dangerous pitch and he obeyed, sighing. After peering outside, he opened the door wide. She got hold of her rucksack and walked swiftly past him.

'Please, Sylla. Please listen!'

She was walking quickly, but he was only one step behind her. When she'd turned the corner and started down Folkunga Street, she hoped she'd lose him. Not one word more from Patrik. 'My Mum's in the police.' Fancy that. He had invited her straight into a hornets' nest. She stopped abruptly. He was unprepared and ran straight into her.

'So what do you think would've happened if your Mum had come home unexpectedly. Fucking what, exactly?'

The adrenaline was still rushing through her veins.

'Come off it. She's on a course!'

She looked at him, shaking her head. He was too young to understand. Maybe she wasn't fair on him.

'Patrik, it's my life we're discussing here. Say she'd caught the 'flu or something and returned a day early or whatever. Anything. There I would've been, in her son's bedroom. Was that what you had in mind?'

He took a few steps back. He looked angry.

'Right. Fine. You don't trust me. Why don't you go and get pissed then? That's the best you can do, isn't it?'

Suddenly her anger melted away. He was her only real friend and here she was, ditching him. It was a chilly day and he hadn't had time to fetch a jacket. He was wrapping his arms round his chest to keep warm.

It seemed impossible to think of a way forward. It wasn't as if it hadn't been hard before, but now she felt responsible for this youngster as well. Of course there was no telling what he might do as soon as he got out of sight, but she had only herself to blame. She had dragged him into this mess. She sighed, really deeply this time.

'Go home. Find yourself a thick jacket.'

He looked suspicious.

'Yeah? Why?'

'Simple. You're feeling the cold.'

'Aha. Don't you think I get your cunning plan? Like, when I come back you'll be gone.' 'Then what?' Their eyes met.

He thought of something, pulled his wallet from his jeans and put in the pocket of her anorak. 'Look after it until I come back.'

In seconds he had disappeared round the corner. That was a clever move. The kid was not stupid. He'd do well. She got hold of his wallet, weighing it in her hand.

Then she closed her eyes and couldn't help smiling.

He was still not entirely convinced that she would stay put. ‘I’ll be hanging about just outside, in Bjorn's Garden.' She realised how uncertain he felt. 'Promise, I'll be here.'

She really meant it this time. He nodded and walked off to cross Got Street. She watched him until he'd disappeared out through the doors of the Citizen Place library.

He had returned wearing his jacket. When he saw her, his face broke into a happy smile that would have enchanted any mad killer on the run. She smiled back, listening gravely as he outlined his plan.

First, he would email the police, giving her an alibi for the night of the last murder. She baulked at that and urged him promise not to give away where they had been and – above all – not to reveal who he was. While she was saying all that, she found him looking at her with his how-fucking-stupid-do-you-think-I-am look on his face. Then he pointed out that if he had wanted to let them know who he was, all he needed to do was to mail from his home computer. He had planned to protect his identity by using the library terminal, of course.

So she left him to it and went outside to wait for him in Bjorn's Garden. Citizen Place was full of Saturday afternoon strollers, but there were no familiar faces among the people on the seats round the central square. Thank God.

He joined her barely ten minutes later.

'What did you tell them?'

'I told them that they'd find Sibylla Forsenström sitting on a seat in Citizen Place right now. But not to worry their heads about it 'cause she's innocent.'

For just one fraction of a second, she believed him. Then she inhaled deeply.

'Patrik. That wasn't even a little funny.'

'I didn't think you'd laugh. What I actually said was that I wanted to remain anonymous, but I knew that you were not the killer. One hundred per cent certain.'

A thought struck her.

'So how can you be sure? I could've murdered the rest of them. All you know is that I wasn't out killing people last night.'

'Bah. So you're super dangerous? Who do you think you're kidding?'

She insisted.

'Seriously, though. What if it's me?' He screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. 'And? Are you?'

She waited for a fraction of a second, then she smiled and looked into his eyes.

'No. But look, you're not entirely sure.'

'Of course I am – it's just that you're going on and on about not trusting you.'

He was a little irritated, but so was she. She had no intention of becoming an exciting fantasy figure for him to play games with for a while.

'I simply don't want you to take things for granted.'

He looked mostly bewildered now, clearly not seeing her point. Good, good. It meant that she was still in control, which was how she wanted it.

They sat in silence side by side, thinking and watching the people walking past. No one paid any attention to the odd couple on the bench.

Then two police cars came swooping along at top speed but using only their blue lamps to clear the traffic. The sirens were switched off. Both cars pulled up in front of the library and from each, two constables leapt out and rushed into the building.

Time to go.

Exchanging a glance, they got up and hurried down Tjarhov Street. Then they climbed the slope toward Mosebacke Square and still without speaking, settled down on one of the benches. The sun chose this moment to break through the solid grey cloud that for days had been in place over the city, like a lid. Sibylla leaned back and closed her eyes. Warmth and sunshine. There were countries with lots of it. She could go to one of them and no one would find her there. But no. She had not been allowed to go abroad with her parents when she was a child and now she had no chance of getting a passport.

Then he broke the long silence.

'How about I go to my Mum's job and check out her computer records?' Well, now.

'You mustn't do anything of the sort.' 'No? I'm going to do it anyway.'

I won't let you. You might get bogged down in all this shit and I don't want that.'

I'm bogged down already.'

He sounded rather sharp and what he said was true enough. Still, remembering her own polite teenage self, always anxious to please and as quiet as a clam, she hadn't realised quite how enterprising he would be. She preferred to think that she would never have told him her story if she had known. On the other hand, she could have been wrong. Maybe getting a taste of law-breaking is good for young people.

'Is there any chance of you doing that without being discovered?'

I turn up at the station and ask if she's in. When they tell me she's away, I ask to be allowed to wait in her room.' 'But you know she's on a course.' 'The receptionist doesn't know.'

'What if she does?'

He lost patience with her lack of enthusiasm. 'Christ, I don't know. I'll think of something.'

He was far too nonchalant. Not so good.

'What if they discover you fiddling with the computer?'

'They won't.'

'IF, I said.'

He didn't answer, just slapped his hands against his thighs and got up. 'Let's go.' 'Go where?'

His face showed what he thought about having to explain everything twice.

'My Mum's office, of course!'

She stared at him. Either he was her guardian angel sent to save her, or a demon, who would give her the final shove into the abyss. There was no telling until later.

'Would you mind if I don't tag along when you wheedle your way into police premises?'

He grinned.

'Where do we meet afterwards?'

She hadn't heard him come. She'd been sitting on the quayside behind the City Hall, watching the hands moving round the clock-face on the Riddarholm Church. After one hour, she began thinking seriously of going away.

She didn't. Half an hour later, a paper was suddenly dangled in front of her nose.

He'd crept up behind her. When she turned she saw pride glowing in his eyes behind the wire-rimmed spectacles.

She started reading. There was a list of individuals, two male and two female names. The first one was Jorgen Grundberg. The police believed that she had killed these four people.

Patrik was leaning over her shoulder.

'Look, it's all the murdered people, complete with addresses and ID numbers. Last night's victim lived in Stocksund, that's in Stockholm – isn't it?'

She nodded. Bang went her alibi. She could easily have travelled to Stocksund and back while Patrik was asleep in the school attic. Not that the thought seemed to have occurred to him yet. He was still delighted by how clever he had been.

She looked out over the Riddar Firth, where the sun was making the little waves glitter. A couple of ducks floated past.

'Ummm. Now what?

He pulled some folded pieces of paper from his pocket. 'I printed out a few things I found.' 'Did anybody see you?'

'No. I didn't use Mum's PC after all, because Kent next door had gone for a crap and left his logged on.' Sibylla shook her head.

'You're crazy.' He beamed at her.

'Kent was away for ages. By the way, I don't think either of them – that's Kent and my Mum – is working on this case. But there was some general info in the mailbox.'

He showed her the first sheet.

'Look, this is what the murderer is leaving behind on the site.'

It was a black and white picture of a crucifix made of dark wood with the figure of Christ apparently made of a silver-like metal. The measurements were listed with millimetre accuracy.

The next picture was a black and white photo of a wall with flowery wallpaper above an unmade bed. The bed linen had large dark stains. There was a line of carefully printed text just above the bed.

ACCURSED ARE THOSE WHO ROB THE INNOCENTS OF THEIR RIGHTS. Sibylla.

She looked up at him. He quickly handed her the last of the sheets. It was a picture of a pair of transparent plastic gloves. The text said Nutex size 8.

'They use these in hospitals and things.'

Really? That solves the case then.

'That's all I had time to look at. Anyway, we've got their names now.'

'Exactly what can we do with them?'

He twisted round to face her, apparently choosing his words with care.

'Do you know what I think?' Not a clue.

'I think you seem to have packed it in. You aren't really keen to work on finding the solution. Like, you don't give a shit.' 'And is that so strange?'

'I guess not but when I do that sort of thing my Dad always says I mustn't sit there feeling sorry for myself. I must try and fix whatever instead. Do something.'

Yes. Good luck to your Dad.

'Yesterday you kept going on about how misunderstood the homeless were, and people like that. How you haven't got a chance and you on your own and all that. But you have a chance and you aren't fucking well taking it.'

He was getting worked up. She was looking at him with real interest. She wasn't sure if what he said was more insulting than enlightening, but it was certainly justified. She rose.

'You're right, boss. OK, let's go. What should we do, do you think?'

'Let's go to Vastervik.'

'You're joking!'

'No. I've checked out the bus-times already. There is one leaving Stockholm in half an hour. Four hundred and sixty kronor return. I'll lend you the money. We'll arrive at four forty and that will give us two hours and twenty minutes before catching the bus back.'

'You ARE crazy.'

'We'll be back at quarter past eleven.'

She reached for the last straw.

'You're meant to be back home before ten.'

'Nope. I'm going to a movie, I've already phoned Dad.'

The landscape was rushing past the bus windows. She spent most of the time looking out. Sodertalje. Nykoping. Norrkoping. Soderkoping. Patrik kept studying the police computer printouts apparently hoping to find a hidden clue if only he examined the pictures closely enough.

She had paid for their tickets. In the seclusion of the Ladies she had taken a thousand-crown note from her savings. When she met up with Patrik afterwards, he had bought two bags of crisps and a two-litre bottle of Coke. His eyes grew round with surprise when she got the tickets, but asked no questions. She liked that.

'Why are you getting involved in all this, really?' He shrugged, it freaks me out.'

She wasn't going to let him get off so easily. 'Seriously, though. Have you nothing better to do than hang out with an old hag of thirty-two?' He grinned at her. 'You only thirty-two?'

Pointless question. He must have read her age hundreds of times in the newspapers. She kept looking at him until finally he folded his bits of paper and put them away in an inside pocket.

‘I just don't get it, I mean this thing about always joining some gang. Mum and Dad go on about it non-stop. I can't help if I don't fancy arsing about playing hockey or football and whatever. Happens I don't give a shit who gets into the Premier League. So what?'

She nodded apologetically.

'Fine. I just wondered.'

She started staring out the window again and he returned to his bits of paper.

The Vastervik murder victim had been a Soren Stromberg, ID 36 02 07-4639. They were going to find his nearest and dearest. She remembered well how she had travelled to see Lena Grundberg, full of courage and hope.

How differently she felt now.

The bus was on time. She kept in the background while Patrik asked the girl in the bus terminal shop for directions to Siver Street, Stromberg's address.

It wasn't far to go. By the time they were nearly there, she was feeling very uneasy. Patrik was hurrying ahead, unworried and enthusiastic, as if on his way to good party.

It was a two-storey house with a mansard-roof. Someone had chosen a long since discredited fashion and covered the walls with cladding tiles. Presumably the same person had built a porch in corrugated green plastic round the front door. It was the final insult to the house, which now looked totally charmless.

Stopping at the gate, they looked at each other and Sibylla shook her head sadly, to show what a lousy idea she thought all this. That decided Patrik, who at once started strolling along the garden path.

Sighing, she followed him. She couldn't just stand there, after all.

'What are you going to say?'

Before he had time to answer, a window was opened in the neighbouring house and a middle-aged woman popped her head out.

'Is it Gunvor you're looking for?'

They exchanged a quick glance.

'Yes,' they chorused.

'She's gone to the cottage. It's in Segersvik. Shall I tell her you called?'

Patrik went up to hedge separating the two properties, is it far to Segersvik?'

'Twenty-odd kilometres, I suppose. Are you driving?' Patrik showed no hesitation. 'Yes, we are.'

'Right. Take the old road towards Gamleby, past Piperkarr and then carry on for another ten kilometres or so. I think there's a sign to Segersvik.'

'Thanks a lot.'

He turned, dispelling any other questions the woman might have wanted to ask. They walked down the path and heard her close the window. He spoke very quietly.

'That's where he was killed. The news stories say he was killed while staying in his summer cottage.'

They kept walking until they were outside the range of the woman next door. Sibylla stopped at the end of the street.

'Now what do we do? If we set out walking, we won't get back in time for the bus.'

'Sure. We'll take a taxi. I've got money.'

This sounded worrying.

'How come you've got such a lot? I mean, at your age one usually doesn't. Or have times changed?'

He said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on the street.

'For fuck's sake, Patrik – you haven't lifted the dosh, have you?'

'No, I haven't. Borrowed some, though.' 'Who lent you money?'

There was a taxi rank at the bus terminal and he started walking back. Sibylla didn't move.

I won't take one single step until you tell me where you got the money.'

I borrowed some. Back home, from the household kitty. Relax, I'll pay it back before anyone notices.'

'Will you? With what, exactly?'

'I don't know. I mean, I'll think of something.'

He walked on but she still didn't move from the spot. Turning, he shouted irritably at her.

'What's wrong, do you just want to stand here bullshitting? Or?'

'How much did you take?' He hesitated. 'One grand.'

She took another sacred thousand-crown note from her purse. 'Here, take it. And if you ever nick one single thing again, I'll leave. I mean it.' He nodded, looking surprised. 'Do you get that?' 'YES.'

He grabbed the note.

She set out for the bus station and when she turned her head, he was still standing there.

'Hey! What do you want, more bullshitting? Come on!'

He hesitated for another second and then, unwillingly, started running after her.'

She was appalled when the metre clocked up more than two hundred kronor. Going places by taxi was grossly wasteful. Simply unheard of.

They had left Piperskarr far behind. The tarmac road had turned into a narrow gravel track through forest, now and then interrupted by farms and fields. The land was hilly, even rocky at times. They didn't speak. The driver luckily was a silent man and Patrik seemed to have withdrawn after being told off.

It made her feel better, because now she was back in charge.

Then they reached the lakeside. There was a small marina. The jetty was empty and the boats hauled up on land, resting under tarpaulins and waiting for the spring. Afterwards, the road went through more forest until the landscape opened up toward the lake again. The sun was sinking, colouring the western sky an intense pink.

'Do you want the farm?'

The driver nodded his head in the direction of a group of buildings just ahead. Sibylla glanced at Patrik, who sat turned away and looking out through the window. He wasn't going to help, that much was clear. She leaned forward.

'I'm not really sure. We're visiting someone called Gunvor Stromberg. She's staying in a cottage somewhere near here.'

The driver sounded sour.

'You've got to do better than that. Don't you have her address?'

He drove on slowly, past the gate of small red house on a sharp right-hand bend. The metre had clicked on to two hundred and sixty kronor. Sibylla swallowed and produced another note from her purse. Patrik glared at her but she avoided his eyes.

'We'll get off here.'

The taxi pulled in as far as possible on the narrow road. She paid but did not tip, so he made no move to help her lift her rucksack from the boot. The taxi turned at a meeting-place a bit further along and disappeared in the direction of town. It struck her that they hadn't planned the return journey. She sighed and heaved the rucksack onto her back.

The gate was open and the gap was wide enough to let a car through. There was a green tin letterbox with a name-tag. STROMBERG.

She turned towards Patrik.

'This is it. The cottage is by the water's edge.'

'Yeah.'

He sounded indifferent.

'How long are you going to sulk for?'

He didn't answer but walked along with her. The path leading to the house ran sharply downwards but after a short walk they could see the roof of a house. The rest of it was hidden behind a large shrubbery. Sibylla walked on, followed by Patrik. Once they'd turned the corner of the shrubbery the lake spread out in front of them. A jetty ran out into the water.

The view was stunningly beautiful. How could anyone be murdered in such a place as this? 'Are you looking for someone?'

Sibylla turned quickly. A woman was standing above them on the slope, next to a veranda on the lakeside of the house. She had to think of something to say, because it was obvious that she was on her own now. Patrik was drifting off in the general direction of the jetty.

The woman, who could have been in her mid-sixties, had been tidying the lawn but she put the rake away. She was limping a little as she took a few steps to meet Sibylla. They met in silence and Sibylla could feel a pulse beating at her temple. What next?

'Have you come to look at the cottage? I'm afraid the estate agent didn't say.'

Of course! They were prospective buyers. Sibylla smiled gratefully.

'Yes, we are. If you don't mind?' The woman smiled in response.

I see. I'm sorry if I sounded a little cross, but… you see, lots of people came here just because they're… curious. Anyway, lucky I was here.'

She cleared her throat, pulled off her gardening gloves and held out her hand.

'Pleased to meet you. My name is Stromberg. Gunvor Stromberg.' Sibylla took a fraction too long to answer. 'Sorry we were unexpected. I'm Margareta Lundgren.' They shook hands. Gunvor Stromberg's hand was warm and a little damp after wearing the glove, is that your son?'

They both looked towards Patrik's back. Sibylla laughed nervously.

'Absolutely. Yes.'

Patrik was throwing stones into the water. Sibylla's heart was beating too fast. He was so demonstratively unhelpful. How upset was he? Would he actually try to punish her?

'The jetty doesn't come with house, but we do have right of use. That's in the deeds. Actually, we use it more than anybody else.'

She fell silent, looking out over the water. Then she pulled herself together.

'I suppose you'd like to start indoors?'

Sibylla smiled.

'Please. Thank you.'

'What about the young man?'

Patrik was still throwing stones.

'Patrik, come along! We're going to look at the cottage.'

He didn't come at first. After throwing another stone, he started ambling back up from the jetty. Gunvor Stromberg smiled at Sibylla.

'Oh dear, it's such a difficult age, isn't it? I always felt that all you could do was let them get on with life on their own.'

Sibylla tried a smile of complicity. Damn his special age, whatever it was, she'd tell him a thing or two as soon as they were on their own.

Gunvor was walking ahead towards the house while Sibylla waited until Patrik joined her. When he was at whispering distance, she hissed at him.

'Get your fucking act together! She thinks we want to buy the place.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'Why don't you? You've got plenty stashed away, seemingly.'

He passed her on the path. This was the second time in one week that her money had angered and disappointed someone. Why did they take it out on her?

Gunvor was waiting for them and Sibylla hurried along. Meanwhile Patrik had introduced himself politely.

'Why don't you have a look around on your own? I'll be out here if you want me.'

After exchanging a quick glance, they climbed the stone steps to the front door.

'It's quite small but quite well equipped, I think you'll agree. The immersion heater is a little old though.'

Sibylla nodded and they stepped inside. The murderer must have come in this way once. After crossing a lobby, they were in a small kitchen. Everything was neat and well looked after. The atmosphere was cosy, familiar. Scruffy patches on the floor showed where kitchen chairs had been pulled up to and away from the table. The enamelled handle on the oven door had been partly worn away after years of use by hungry hands.

There was a faint odour of paint in the air.

Patrik had gone on to open the door of a closed room. In the doorway, he stopped and signalled to her. She came to stand next to him. The room was unfurnished and freshly painted white. Patrik produced one of his pieces of paper. Pointing, he spoke in a whisper.

'That's the wall.'

Sibylla looked at the bloodstained bed and read once more the killer's message, signed by her name. She wanted to get out, now.

Gunvor Stromberg had walked down to the jetty and stood there with her back to the house, staring out over the calm water of the lake. Sibylla felt she shouldn't disturb her. Patrik came alongside her.

'Go talk to her. I mean, it's not as if we've figured anything new yet. I'll stay here, just checking it out a bit more.'

He was right. Of course they couldn't just leave now.

Gunvor Stromberg did not acknowledge Sibylla's presence in any way. Only when Sibylla cleared her throat noisily did her companion take her eyes away from the lake and raise a hand to wipe her face.

Still Gunvor did not turn round.

'It's a very nice place, this.'

No reply. For a while they stood together without speaking. Sibylla thought that sooner or later the silence would force the other woman to say something.

Looking at the wonderful view, Sibylla realised that this was the place she had always dreamt of. The quiet seclusion, the lovely natural setting. Not that she would ever be able to afford something like this. Besides, soon she wouldn't be able to buy anything at all. Suddenly Gunvor spoke, turning towards Sibylla.

I suppose I'd better tell you myself, you'd only hear the rumours if I don't. You are not from round here, are you?' 'No, we're not.' 'I thought so.'

Sibylla took a few steps forward to stand closer to the distressed woman. Silence was still her best policy.

'Six days ago, my husband was murdered in this house.'

Unobserved, Sibylla still acted out a silent reaction of surprise.

'The murderer wasn't local, if you're worrying about that.'

Sibylla had glimpsed enough of her face to see the tears flowing down Gunvor's cheeks.

'Is that why you want to sell your cottage?'

Gunvor sobbed, shaking her head at the same time.

'No, no. We'd planned to sell, but maybe in the spring when the prices are better.'

She sheltered her face behind her right hand, as if to hide her crying from Sibylla.

'Soren had been ill for quite a long time. Cancer of the liver. Just over a year ago he had major surgery and it went better than we dared hope. They gave him a forty-four per cent chance of surviving.'

She was shaking her head now.

'I suppose I'd started hoping again. He was taking his medicines and had regular check-ups. Things seemed all right. Well, he was often tired, no wonder, but he didn't like not being able to do what he used to. We thought keeping the cottage might become too much and anyway, we could go travelling together with the money. After all, he mightn't… have that much time left.'

She stopped and Sibylla put her hand on Gunvor's shoulder Gunvor started sobbing again when she felt the light touch.

'We spent as much time here as we could. Drove here the moment we were free.'

'Maybe you prefer not to sell immediately?'

Gunvor shook her head.

'I don't want to stay here any more. I don't like going into that house.'

Suddenly the silence was shattered by a flourish on a trumpet. Sibylla took her hand away and looked around in bewilderment.

'That Magnusson, a neighbour. When he's here, he plays reveille every morning and lights-out every night. It's from sheer joy at being here, he says.'

Gunvor had to smile a little, despite her grief. Sibylla closed her eyes, briefly dreaming of living in this place. Imagine having a neighbour, at a safe distance, who announced his presence with tunes on a trumpet, played from happiness. The dream of being happy.

'How much are you looking for? For the house?'

'The agent says I shouldn't go below 300,000…'

Sibylla's hope went out like a light.

'… but as far as I'm concerned, what's important is who buys it.' Their eyes met.

'Soren and I built it back in 1957, struggling like anything to make ends meet. We've put so much of ourselves into this place, lived through so many things here. I still can't quite believe I can just move away. That the house will still be here, but with someone else inside it. Not us any more.'

She pulled her jacket closer around her body.

'As if we had never mattered.'

Sibylla protested, with real feeling.

'But you have mattered, of course you have. That's what makes it all so wonderful. The house bears witness to your lives here. The whole place does. Your feet made this path down to the lake and it will always be here. You planted the shrubs. Everything. I have never done anything that will live when I'm dead. Nothing to remind people that I was around.'

She stopped abruptly. What was all this in aid of? Why not give her name while she was at it?

'But you've got a son.'

Sibylla cleared her throat, embarrassed.

'Of course I do. I don't know what came over me.'

She turned to call.

'Patrik! I think we'd better go. We'll miss the bus!'

Gunvor looked concerned.

'Didn't you come by car?'

'No. We took a taxi here, actually.'

'I'll drive you to town. I'm leaving anyway.'

They made it to the bus terminal with only minutes to spare. Sibylla took a window seat. Clutched in her hand was a note with Gunvor Stromberg's telephone number, in case she decided to buy.

She put the note away in her pocket. Patrik was looking at her eagerly.

'Did you find out something?'

'I'm not sure. Probably not. She didn't say anything about the murder. He had cancer, badly. He had a big operation just a year or so ago.'

Patrik sounded disappointed.

'You should've asked about the murder.'

'Easier said than done.'

A moment later Patrik started examining his sheets of paper again. He had written something on the back of one them. 'What have you got there?'

I copied a little from his hospital notes. Found them in a folder in her shoulder-bag.' She was shocked. 'You rooted about in her bag?' 'Sure did. Do you want to find out stuff or not?' A worse worry occurred to her. 'Hey, did you nick anything?' 'Yeah, of course. Stacks of cash.'

She made a face at him, reaching out her hand for his notes. He snatched back the sheet of paper. 'How come you're loaded?' 'What's your problem?'

'Why hang out in an attic when you're carrying bundles of grands in a purse round your neck?' 'That's my business.'

At first she didn't care if he started sulking again. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away demonstratively. They were already driving into Soderkoping when she finally admitted to herself that she owed him an explanation.

'It's my savings.'

He turned towards her.

Then she told him all of it, about her dream. The house that would open up a new life for her and about her mother's hand-outs, which had stopped when she hit the news.

He listened with interest. When she had finished, he held out his notes.

'There you are.'

He had been busy, copying lists of hospital stays and operations. She ignored the many incomprehensible expressions and abbreviations, until she was pulled up short by a combination of words she had come across before. Sandimmun Neoral.

Someone had said that recently. Or had she read it? Patrik observed her reaction.

'What's up?'

She shook her head thoughtfully, pointing at the phrase.

'I'm not sure. Here, look, where it says Sandimmun Neoral, fifty milligrams. I cannot work out why I recognise this.'

'Seems to be some kind of medicine? Do you know what it's for?'

'Not a clue.'

'I know, Fiddie's mum is a doctor. I'll ask her.'

Brilliant. You just go ahead and ask Fiddie's mum why a patient should take Sandimmun Neoral. She must be used to teenagers asking her things like that on a daily basis. She smiled at him, wanting to take his hand. Better not.

'Patrik.'

'Ummm.'

'Thank you for everything, for your help.'

He seemed embarrassed.

'Oh, come on. I haven't helped any, not yet.'

Her smile grew broader.

'You really have.'

She spent the night in the attic of Patrik's block of flats. He let her in and she took up residence in an unused box-room. It had been hard for her to calm down. It was not hunger that kept her awake, because Patrik had brought her sandwiches. Her mind was stuffed with experiences and she needed to process them. Thoughts and images were flickering behind her eyelids. When she finally fell asleep she had been thinking for hours.

As soon as she woke up that Sunday morning, she knew why she had recognised Sandimmun Neoral. Her brain had sifted through stored information while she slept and could now present her with the vital item.

Jorgen Grundberg. He had a packet of tablets and had taken some at the end of his meal. She sat bolt upright. This was surely important, it couldn't be a coincidence that two of the murderer's victims took the same medicine?

She felt wide-awake and had to walk about. Impatiently she went into the corridor outside to peer through the only small window. It was light outside and she wondered what time it was. How long before Patrik would come?

She had to wait for hours. While she waited, the effect of this sudden breakthrough became clear to her. Once more, the will to fight was consuming her.

When she finally heard the heavy metal door swing open and Patrik called her name, she couldn't wait a second longer to tell him.

'Jorgen Grundberg took Sandimmun Neoral as well!'

'Did he? Are you sure?'

He gave her a triple-decker sandwich and a beer, but she was too excited to eat.

'Certain. It can't be coincidence, can it?' 'I asked Fiddie's mum.' 'Already? What time is it?'

'Ten past eleven. I phoned her. Woke her up, actually. I said I was doing this Special Subject investigation. No lies!' He grinned.

'I had chased it on the Net first, but couldn't get my head round what it was for.' 'And?'

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

'It's called an immunosuppressive drug. If you're on it, it means you've had a transplant. The medicine prevents the new organ being rejected by the person's body cells.'

He looked triumphant when he put his paper away.

'Transplant – like a new organ? A heart or something?'

'That's it. She said there are lots of bits and pieces you replace in people's bodies.'

Sibylla sat down to think. First, Jorgen Grundberg. He had had a kidney disease, or so his hard-hearted widow had told her. Soren Stromberg's widow had told her about his liver cancer. Both were on medicine that reduced the function of their immune systems. Both widows had mentioned that their husbands had undergone major surgery within the last year.

This could not be coincidental.

'Are you thinking the same as me?'

Sibylla nodded.

'As I. Yes, I'm sure I do. If we can we should check it out at least once more. Do you have that list?' He nodded.

'Downstairs. Hang on, I'll get it.'

When he returned, he'd also brought his father's mobile phone. She read the by now familiar names once more.

'What next? Which one do you want to call? Bollnas or Stocksund?'

Put like that, she suddenly didn't think it was such a good idea.

She would have preferred him to call, but it meant ceding control and that was something she definitely didn't want to do. He had got her going again and she was truly grateful, but she wanted to continue under her own steam. 'I'll call Stocksund.'

'Good. Here's the number, I checked it out in the book.'

He helped her dial. At first, the phone rang without anyone answering. Patrik kept watching her and her heart was pounding. It would have been easier alone. She had no practice lying in front of an audience.

'Marten Samuelsson.'

The sudden sound of a voice at the other end threw her. The many signals had distracted her.

I'm sorry to trouble you. Is this Sofie Samuelsson's husband?'

Fantastic introduction. She closed her eyes. Whoever he was, for sure he wasn't Sofie Samuelsson's husband. Not any more. 'Who's speaking, please?'

She looked around, as if useful answers might be lurking in attic corners. 'This is…'

Patrik was miming THE POLICE. '… from the police.' Silence at the other end.

'Just one question. Did your wife have an organ transplant recently?'

I told you so already.'

She nodded to Patrik. He rolled his eyes.

'When was this?'

'Whenever you people came round here.'

'No, I mean the operation.'

'Thirteen months ago.'

'I see. Can you remember the date?'

'The fifteenth March. I'll never forget that date. Why do you ask?'

'No problem. Thank you for your help.'

She handed Patrik the phone. He pressed a button to switch it off and sighed.

'Why don't you try the straight question-approach next time?'

'You can phone yourself if you're so smart. When was Soren Stromberg operated on?'

Patrik was leafing through his papers looking for the hospital notes.

'Many times.'

'Any entry on the fifteenth March?' 'Got it. 98 03 15. Liver transplant.' She nodded. He pushed his fist in the air. 'YEES! We fucking did it!'

Sibylla felt pleased too, but was already thinking ahead. What had they proved, exactly? It seemed likely that all four victims were ex-transplant patients. What did this mean? Why should anyone go to the trouble of murdering four severely ill individuals?

Patrik's eyes were glowing behind his specs.

'I'll pop downstairs and tell Mum!'

'What? Have you gone off your…?'

'Why not? We've got a motive!'

‘Is that so? What motive?'

Patrik fell silent and a small vertical fold between his eyebrows replaced his smile. 'Oh. Fuck.' 'See what I mean?'

He sat down beside her. The attic was chilly and Sibylla wrapped the sleeping bag round their shoulders. 'Is your Mum back then?' She was reaching for the beer and sandwich, I thought you said she wouldn't be back until this evening.' Patrik stared at the floor. He was muttering. 'She didn't feel well and came back early.'

The minutes were crawling along. He'd asked her to come with him but she'd refused. She had no intention of entering his home again, especially not with his mother in bed next door to his room.

Finally he returned, bringing a new stack of papers. He sat down beside her.

I printed out lots, but ran out of paper. Fancy a banana?'

Starting to peel it at once, she thought she was becoming spoiled by this life of luxury. Then she got hold of the first sheet of paper.

DONATIONS. ANSWERS TO THE MOST FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS.

Deep in concentration, they read through all the information in the pile, hoping to find new leads. Patrik was lying on her mat, while she was sitting in an old armchair pulled out from an unlocked box-room.

Can someone else use your kidneys after your death?

Reading on from this initial question, she realised that much had happened while she was out of touch with the whole social system. She definitely had not filled in any Donor Card, but maybe that didn't affect non-people like herself. What would happen to her after an accident? Would anyone want her remains? She had never considered such questions before, not even the matter of her final burial. Were there funeral services held for lost souls like her, homeless beings, whom no one really cared for? Maybe they were easy meat, with organs anyone could have if in need of some replacement or other. Well, it was quite a thought that one day she might be regarded as a useful resource.

Law on Transplantation, third paragraph, section one: Biological material intended for transplantation or other medical procedures may be removed from a deceased person, on condition that the person has declared his or her informed consent or if the deceased's wishes in the matter can be ascertained in any other manner.

Biological material, as simple as that. That's what they all were, when everything was said and done. She wondered what conclusions they would draw about Sibylla Forsenström's wishes in the matter of her biological material, when her day finally came.

Ibid. Third paragraph, section two. In cases other than those indicated in section one, biological material may be removed if the deceased has not in writing declared him- or herself explicitly opposed to such use or made declarations, which unequivocally show that such interventions would be contrary to the deceased's beliefs or value-systems.

She looked up from her bundle of paper and stared at the wooden planks in the wall opposite. So that was it – it was open season to use her and her mates. One man's meat is another man's poison, only the other way round. What would it feel like to have another's heart, especially if it was kept alive and beating only when you took medicines to stop your familiar old body from ridding itself of its heart? And the nearest and dearest, what did they feel? What was it like, knowing that your beloved's heart was still there, inside someone else?

Patrik's voice interrupted her musings.

'Found anything?'

'Not really. Have you?'

Since he didn't answer, she assumed he hadn't, and returned to her reading. Paragraph four.

Even if biological material can be removed as described in Paragraph three, section two, such procedures are not permitted in cases where someone close to the deceased is strongly opposed to the intervention. Close relations by blood or marriage must be informed about the planned intervention and about their right to forbid it. After such information has been provided, the informed must be allowed a reasonable period of time to consider it.

She read it all through once more. Then she put the paper down and rose, slowly turning the idea over in her mind. It was right, she could feel it all over.

Accursed are those who rob the innocents of their rights.

'Patrik!'

'Ummm.'

'I've got it!'

She heard him shuffling behind the wooden partition and the next moment he was with her. 'What? How can you be sure?' She was sure.

'The killer, it's someone who is regretting giving permission.' Regret was what she had not been given a chance to do once. Accursed are those who rob the innocents of their rights. The right to live. Or to die. 'It could be someone who wasn't asked at all.'

Patrik went back downstairs to commune with his computer. Meanwhile she was impatiently pacing the corridor to pass the time.

The donor must have died just before the 15^th March, 1998. How could they find out who he or she was? Maybe there were lists of donors in that secret world Patrik could access through his computer. If there were, she felt certain he would find it. Everything seemed to be connected by that strange Net of his.

He mustn't say anything to his mother. She had forbidden him, deciding that she preferred to stay chief suspect for however long it took to find the answer alone. The police might be on the same trail – but why would they be? They knew who the murderer was already.

When Patrik returned, he had no good news to bring. There were no officially available registers of dead individuals, only general mortality statistics. It was unhelpful to know that during the year, 93,271 people had died.

'I've checked the sites of the Population Register and the Central Statistical Bureau, but they won't let you in on the actual lists without permission from the Data Inspection Office.'

He looked so young in his dejected disappointment that Sibylla had to smile.

'You've got to be an exceptionally smart fifteen-year-old!' He turned his head away but she had already noticed how he blushed. 'Bah.'

They sat in silence for a while. Chasing murderers from hiding places in attics wasn't easy. Then Sibylla remembered something.

'I've got it. What we need is access to the Donor Register.' 'What's that?'

She knew more than he did this time and the feeling made her smile inside, even though her superior knowledge was very recent. She wasn't as thick as he might have thought, no poor helpless soul he could save by his bravery. Besides, she was twice his age and she wanted him never to forget that simple fact.

She fetched the pile of papers from her armchair, leafing through them until she found what she was looking for.

'Here, in the documentation from the Health and Welfare Board. Information about donations. Listen to what it says.'

She read aloud.

'Question: Can relatives have access to information held in the register?

Answer: It is a criminal offence for outsiders to attempt access to the register. The routine precautions are designed to maintain the highest data security. Only a few people are authorised to search the register. Each authorisation refers to one individual, i.e. it is not transferable.'

She flicked the paper out of her hand and let it float away.

'Ah, well. It seemed a good idea at the time.'

He looked intently at her.

How much is it worth to you to find out what the register says?' 'A lot.'

'Several thousand?'

She hesitated for a moment. Several thousand might mean half a bedroom.

'What's this about?'

'I know a guy who might check it out. For a down-payment, a big one.'

'How do you know people like that?'

'I don't, but his brother goes to my school. The kid brother is like royalty after the big guy served time for hacking data.'

This was not easy. However much she wanted the information, she wanted even less to risk having Patrik involved in breaking the law.

'How old is "the big guy"?'

Patrik shrugged.

'Don't know. Like, twenty?'

She thought it over. This was their one chance to move on. They had come so far already. She sighed.

'You're on. He gets three thousand for the name.'

She had decided to go there herself. It was her problem and besides, she definitely didn't want Patrik to get involved with this shady affair. He had helped enough by anonymously arranging the deal using his father's mobile phone. The price had been agreed. Four thousand kronor.

Sibylla touched the purse round her neck, feeling its shrinking bulge. It was hard, but what choice did she have?

Patrik had asked why she was hauling the rucksack along, and was told the simple reason. She never left it anywhere, except in the Left Luggage at Central Station. It meant she had security in the shape of a locker key or a receipt.

The master hacker lived at Kock Street, only a few minutes' walk away. Patrik stopped outside the door and pressed the buzzer. The door clicked open at once. 'Are you waiting round here?'

He was still disappointed that she wouldn't let him join her. 'Patrik, this is the best idea – honestly.'

The door slammed behind her. She walked upstairs to the second floor, where a young man with sleek blond hair stood waiting at the door to a flat. Sibylla stopped and they examined each other in silence.

After a few seconds of this, he opened the door wide for her. He was wearing a white T-shirt, revealing muscular arms with prominent veins. He must have worked out hard in prison. As he walked ahead of her into the flat, she noticed that his hair had been pulled back in a long pony-tail.

The flat was small, just a single room with a kitchenette. The sink was so full of dishes she wondered if he ever washed up. There was a rack with a set of dumb-bells in a corner. Next to it, a yellow electrical guitar was leaning against its amplifier. A long window wall was entirely taken up by computer equipment and other electronic goods she couldn't even guess at the function of. Presumably this was the kind of kit self-respecting hackers simply couldn't live without. Two of the screens showed a series of letters and numbers scrolling past quickly. She moved towards them to see what was going on.

He stepped into her path.

'Not so fast. It's practically ready. Let's do the paying first, shall we?'

She was clutching the notes in her pocket. 'No problem.'

He took the bundle without checking it. 'Sit down over there.'

He was pointing to a stool well away from the computers, in fact almost inside the small hallway. She did as she was told, keeping her rucksack on her back but resting it a little against the wall behind her.

She couldn't see much from where she was sitting, but by leaning forward it was possible to watch him working on one of the computers. He was writing things using the keyboard and his fingers were moving at an incredible speed. She marvelled at his skill and wondered how his huge hands could work with such precision.

'You're in luck.'

He was muttering, not taking his eyes off the screen. 'Someone went in for a search just now, so all we need to do is hang on.'

He stopped keying and she sat upright again, looking at the wall. She didn't want to be caught out spying on him.

Would he recognise any of the names from the newspapers? Jorgen Grundberg's name had been used a lot, almost as often as her own.

When she heard him get up from the chair, she rose too. Then he come over, holding out one folded sheet of A4 paper. 'Done.'

She took the paper without taking her eyes off his face. 'You're sure it's the right person?'

He smiled, clearly never having heard such a stupid question before.

'Yes, don't worry.' He sounded soothing.

'Depends, of course. But he's the guy whose organs were transplanted into the names on your list.' He looked quizzically at her.

'Weren't they all murdered afterwards? By some character called Sibylla?'

She didn't answer. He smiled broadly.

'Just so that we know where we are, you know.'

She put the paper in her pocket, unafraid because he couldn't threaten to reveal her identity. If one on them talked, the other one would and they shared that knowledge.

She looked at him, reflecting on how his big muscles seemed matched by his brain. Just as she put her hand on the door-handle to leave, another thought occurred to her.

'Haven't you ever thought of getting a real job? You have all the qualifications for a good one, it seems.'

He was leaning against the door-frame to the main room, his bulging arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning openly at her now.

'No, I haven't. Have you?'

Then she left.

Thomas Sandberg. That was all it said on the note she showed Patrik. They were standing together in the street, reading the name over and over again, as if reading a long story rather than a sequence of fourteen letters.

'No address?'

'No.'

He looked disappointed. Obviously, he felt this was a poor show after an outlay of four thousand kronor.

'How many Thomas Sandbergs do you think there are in this country?'

She raised her eyebrows.

'No idea. All we do know is that there's one less now. Let's go.'

She started walking. She felt certain that what she was about to do next was the right thing, but even so she was troubled by the distance she would apparently callously create between them. If she kept walking she wouldn't have to look into his eyes, which would make it a little easier.

'Now what do we do?'

He had hurried to catch up with her.

That instance the alarm in the wristwatch went off.

'Christ! Sunday lunch!'

He turned off the signal.

'Mum forced me to set the alarm. She'll have a fit if I don't turn up.'

'Don't risk it. Off you go.'

'Do you want to keep hanging out in the attic?'

She didn't reply.

'Do you?'

'Maybe that's the best idea.'

She hadn't even lied. It almost certainly was the best idea if she stayed hidden in Patrik's attic for the foreseeable future, allowing him to feed her the leftovers from the family meals.

Be that as it may. It was too late now.

Somewhere a man or a woman existed, who had had an improbable stroke of luck when their paths crossed that night in the Grand Hotel. That person had stolen her name and exploited her outsider's isolation to further a purely personal vendetta.

She was not going to let that pass. The invisible one had almost succeeded in crushing her. Almost, but not quite.

When the large iron door leading to Patrik's attic had slammed behind her and Patrik's steps were disappearing down the stairs, she pulled the second sheet of A4 paper from her pocket.

She read it carefully, memorising the text.

Rune Hedlund. ID 46 06 08 – 2498 res. Vimmerby.

The cemetery was large and it took her the best part of an hour to find the tombstone. It was tucked away in the parkland set aside for urns, a rounded natural boulder with an inscription in gold lettering.

RUNE HEDLUND

8 june 1946

to

15 march 1998

Below was a space large enough for another name. An eternal flame was burning inside a white plastic cover. Yellow and purple crocuses were filling the area round the stone. Spring was earlier this far south.

She crouched down. Noticing some dry leaves caught between the spring flowers, she pulled them out and threw them to the wind.

'What are you doing here?'

The voice behind her startled her so much she lost her balance and sat down with a thump. She rose quickly, turning to look at the woman who had crept up behind her. Sibylla's heart was racing.

'Just removing some dead leaves.'

Their eyes met, fiercely, as if facing each other across a battle demarcation line. The woman's eyes were full of suspicion and dislike. Sibylla suddenly felt sure she had found her quarry.

They faced up to each other in hostile silence. Sibylla's adversary was dressed in white under her grey coat and she had brought along a green, funnel-shaped vase filled with multicoloured tulips.

'You're not to mess about with my husband's grave.'

Aha. Rune Hedlund's widow.

'I was just clearing some leaves away.'

The woman breathed heavily through her nose, as if trying to pull herself together.

'What have you got to do with my husband?' 'I never met him.'

The woman smiled suddenly, but there was no friendliness in her smile. Fear started creeping up on Sibylla. Had the woman recognised her? The police might have worked out the link between the killings and the organ transplant and asked Hedlund's wife to keep a look-out for Sibylla. They would be keen to find a link between them, to trace Sibylla's motive.

She glanced over her shoulder. Maybe they were here already?

'Don't you realise I know what you've been up to for ages?'

After a pause the woman spoke again.

‘I knew ever since the funeral, when I saw your flowers.'

She sounded outraged.

'What's going on in the mind of someone sending an anonymous bouquet of red roses to a funeral? What did you hope to gain by it? Can you tell me that? Did you think it would please Rune?'

The contempt in the woman's eyes was so searing that Sibylla had to look away.

'If he really wanted to live with you he'd have chosen you while he was alive. But he stayed with me. Not you. So was that why you had to produce the flowers – to humiliate me?'

The woman's face was twisted into a frown as if she was trying to make the revulsion she felt visible.

'Every Friday, week in and week out, one more bloody red rose on his grave. Do you want to punish me? Make me suffer because I was the one who got him in the end?'

Her voice was cracking but it was obvious that she had stored up more to say. Words had been piling up, waiting for an outlet.

Sibylla was shaken by her own miscalculation. The authorities would have had to ask this woman. She was one of the 'close relatives' whose informed consent must be sought. The answer was presumably that someone else out there was feeling abandoned and bitterly wanted to restore something of what had been lost. She had to make sure.

'Have the police contacted you?'

'What? The police? Why should they?'

Rune Hedlund's widow took a step forward, kneeled and jammed the sharp tip of her tin vase into the ground. The crocuses shied away in alarm.

Watching the other woman's back rising and falling with her heavy breathing, Sibylla was quite sure that she had been looking forward to this moment of confrontation. She had probably practised carefully what to say when she was finally face to face with her husband's unknown mistress.

Shame that she had wasted her ammunition.

Of course she was not to know that Rune's real lover had committed much, much worse acts than putting flowers on her man's grave. Sibylla wouldn't like to be the one who enlightened her.

When the distraught woman got up, there were tears in her eyes.

'You're sick – you realise that, don't you?'

The detestation in her eyes hit Sibylla almost like a physical blow. Old memories came back and she looked away to stop remembering.

'Can't let him be, can you? Not even in death?'

She walked away. Sibylla just stood there, watching her disappear.

It was obvious that Rune Hedlund's widow had no idea of how right she was in a way.

She stayed in the cemetery, sitting on a bench she had picked for its good view of Rune Hedlund's final resting place, even though it was a safe distance away. Not many people had decided to visit their loved ones' graves that day and those who did come were either in couples or too old.

Not that she was in a hurry. She was ready to stay until that woman came. Sooner or later she would.

At nightfall she pulled out her sleeping bag and mat. There was a stone wall at the back of the urn enclosure and she tucked herself up between it and the bare branches of a shrubbery. It was reasonably out of sight, but also allowed her to keep watch at all times. Not that she thought the woman would turn up this late, but from what she had learned abut her she was well able to surprise.

She wouldn't miss this woman when she finally came.

The next day she picked another bench to sit on. It was less well placed for observing the grave, but the wife's big bouquet of tulips helped by marking it out. She left her station only once, when she ran to the nearby garage to use their toilet and buy bread. It took only ten minutes before she was back in place, resuming her guard.

No one came near Rune Hedlund's grave.

The next day she fell asleep. She did not know for how long but rushed to the grave to check. No red rose had turned up during the night.

On the Wednesday she felt her pulse beat faster, for the first time. A solitary woman in her forties turned the corner by the water tap and walked briskly along the path towards the urn enclosure.

Sibylla hurried away, taking a shortcut across a small lawn to keep an eye on what was happening. The woman disappointed her by continuing past the pink and yellow tulips to bend over a stone a little further along,

Sibylla returned to her bench with a sigh.

By that afternoon she was feeling real hunger pangs. Taking money from her savings had almost become a habit and didn't bother her any more. With a last look at the deserted cemetery, she went off to the handy garage. She used the toilet again, just in case, and bought two grilled hot dogs with plenty of mustard and ketchup.

When she returned, a man wearing a brown suede jacket was crouching in front of Rune Hedlund's grave. The hair on the back of his head was thinning.

It might be awkward, but she couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity. She had been watching round the clock for days to find out more and whoever he was must have known Rune Hedlund well. He was bending deep over the grave in prayer or contemplation. Shoving the last piece of sausage into her mouth, she walked closer, all the time chewing and swallowing carefully. In passing, she grabbed a fresh-looking bunch of daffodils from a nearby grave. Necessity knows no law.

Hopefully, the spirit of Sigfrid Stalberg wouldn't mind too much.

She stopped just behind the man, who had shifted position and was sitting on his haunches by the grave just as she had a couple of days ago. He was fiddling intently with something near the tombstone and seemed not to have heard her. She couldn't see what he was up to. Watching him made her suddenly feel very ill-at-ease. If she was to gain his confidence, sneaking up on him like this was hardly the way to go about it.

She cleared her throat.

His reaction was rather similar to her own once. He momentarily lost his balance, but steadied himself by leaning on one hand. She smiled apologetically.

'I'm sorry I startled you.'

He was younger-looking than she had expected. Recovering quickly from his confusion, he turned his face up and smiled back at her.

'You're a right menace, creeping up on people like that. I might've had a heart attack.'

'Honestly, I didn't mean to. It's the soles on my shoes.'

He looked at her sturdy, comfy walking boots. Then his gaze wandered to her face. He sniffled at little, wiping his nose with his hand. Then he looked at the grave.

'Are you here for Rune?'

Damn it! He had got his question in first and that was bad.

She moved her head about in a way that could have signified either a reluctant Yes or a muddled No, whatever the circumstances called for.

'Did you know him?'

She got her question in quickly, trying to take over control.

He looked her over, neither suspiciously nor unpleasantly, but with interest. Apparently, he was feeling genuinely curious about her. Then he shook his head a little.

'Know and know. We were work-mates, down in Abro village.'

'I see.'

'And you, what about you? Are you a relative?' 'Oh no.'

Her answer had sounded far too pat. He smiled a little. 'Now you've really made me curious. I'm sure you're not from round here.'

She shook her head and looked down. The daffodils caught her eyes. She would get a little respite if she fetched a vase and some water.

'Hey, I'd better look after these.'

Without giving him a chance to say any more, she walked across to the small fenced-in maintenance area. He was quick -fast on the draw and inquisitive. She realised she couldn't get rid of him without telling him who she was.

So, who was she?

She took her time. She picked a sharp-tipped plastic vase from the box and rinsed it carefully under running water. Fragmented thoughts were rotating wildly in her brain, as if spun in a centrifuge. How to avoid raising his suspicions? Why had she approached him anyway?

With the vase filled for the fourth time, she walked back. She drew a deep breath. He was crouching near the grave again and pushed apart the stems in a clump of crocuses. There were paint-stains on his hands. The fingers were long and slender. He wore no rings.

'Why don't you put your flowers here?'

She followed his advice. A crocus flipped forward and she pushed it back. He reached out and put his finger on her watch.

'What an unusual watch.'

She felt a little silly and pulled her sleeve down to cover the watch.

'It's old. It doesn't even work any more.'

She glanced sideways at him. His eyes were suddenly fixed on the tombstone.

'Ingmar!'

This time they both practically fell over backwards.

'What are you doing here? And with her!'

Mrs Hedlund was making no bones about it – she didn't care at all for the scene at her husband's grave. Her voice held surprise, but also anger and suspicion.

'Kerstin – please!'

The man called Ingmar took a step towards the agitated woman.

'I'm not here "with her". I thought she was a friend of the family.'

He was at Kerstin Hedlund's side, looking at Sibylla. His move over to the right team had been fast. Sibylla was left with the guilt, one foot still planted among the crocuses. Kerstin was staring at her now, her eyes brimming with an emotion that was composed of grief and hatred. At the same time, her face expressed such condescension that Sibylla felt ready to apologise for just existing.

Ingmar turned his head from one woman to the other. Finally his curiosity won.

'Who is she?'

He was clearly struggling to keep his voice neutral. Kerstin Hedlund answered, her eyes pinning Sibylla to the spot.

'She's nobody. I'd be grateful if you got her out of here. At once.'

He looked at Sibylla, who nodded quickly and stepped across to the path. Anything to end this performance. 'Hurry up and come with me!'

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.

'Oh no – what a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.'

'No problem.'

He opened one of the kitchen cabinets, taking out pretty cups and saucers with a blue flower pattern. He put them on the table and started rummaging in a drawer to find the coffee spoons. A car drove past on the road. She jumped and looked out, but the car drove past at speed, disappearing beyond the next bend in the road.

By now Ingmar was folding napkins, delicate little squares of thin cloth with scalloped edges. She hadn't seen their like since the ladies' afternoon tea-parties in Hultaryd. Maybe this was to be expected in the countryside, where time moved so much more slowly than in towns.

'Only the best for visitors.'

She looked at him. He was busy, carefully smoothing the folds in the spotless waxed cloth covering the table. Getting the napkins from a drawer in the table had disturbed it. He was looking very pleased with himself, almost elated. Could it be that it was a long time since he experienced anything as convivial as having a guest for coffee? A female guest to boot.

Before pouring the coffee, he found a small silver tray in a cupboard. On it he placed a sugar-bowl and a cream jug in the same china as the cups. Looking very pleased with his preparations, he sat down opposite her and smiled invitingly.

'There now. Hope you'll enjoy it.'

'Thank you.'

She glanced at the empty cream jug. It would have been nice with a little milk out of a packet, but she realised that it was pointless to ask. Lifting the cup by its tiny fragile handle, she drank some coffee while considering the text on the embroidered sampler behind him.

GREATEST OF ALL IS LOVE.

Then he suddenly broke the silence.

'So what's your plan for when you meet Kerstin?'

The question threw her. During the car journey her thoughts had been so intense that she had somehow assumed that he would share her sense of urgency. Now it struck her that he still had no idea who she was. She looked into her coffee cup.

I just wanted to talk to her a little.'

The expression on his face didn't change, as if the smile had been glued to his face. 'Why do you?'

She felt something like irritation creeping into her mind. So maybe he meant well, but she wasn't that dependent on his good offices.

‘It's something between her and me.' Ingmar kept focusing on her. 'Are you sure?'

The coffee was thin and tasteless. He had put in far too little coffee. She had no energy left for maintaining this conversation and rose from the table.

'Thanks for the coffee and the lift. I feel like taking a little walk now, while I wait.'

He didn't answer and the smile still didn't leave his face. It suddenly came to her that there was something not quite right about him. His incessant smiling was so silly that she had an impulse to say something nasty, just to wipe it off his mug. He looked so pleased with himself, as if remembering a funny story he had no intention of sharing with her.

She walked into the hall and started putting on her boots. When she straightened up and reached for her jacket he was standing in the kitchen doorway, positively grinning at her.

'You're not leaving already?'

His tone of voice made it sound more like an order than a question. This was the end of good manners, as far as she was concerned.

'Yes, I am. I can't stand coffee without milk, you see.'

'Is that so? I got the impression you weren't that picky.'

He had bitten suddenly, like a snake. Unhesitatingly ready to drop any attempt at choosing his word with care. She suddenly felt deeply uneasy. Taking down her jacket, at first she could think of nothing to say at all.

'What do you mean?'

When she finally spoke, she no longer felt quite so sure of herself and her voice must have revealed it, for the smile came back to his face.

'That's obvious, isn't it? People like you should be grateful for what they can get.'

She tried as best she could not show how frightened she was feeling by now. He didn't look particularly strong, but that was a miscalculation she had made before and duly suffered for. If they were hungry enough for what they wanted, she had rarely had a chance. No way was she giving in without a fight, though. She backed away from him.

'Vimmerby seems to be one hell of a place. A serial killer and a rapist living just next door to each other. Maybe there's something nasty in the water?'

She glanced towards the front door. The key had gone.

‘It's locked, in case you wondered.'

He had an informative tone to his voice.

'Now there's something else I should let you know. If there's one thing I haven't got the slightest inclination to do, it's keeping you here for sex.'

This did nothing to convince her. She backed away from him, hitting her back against end of the stair railing.

'There are other things we've got to sort out together, you and I.'

She swallowed.

I don't think so.'

Now he grinned again.

'Oh yes, we do – Sibylla.'

She was dumbfounded at first. Her only clear thought was that things had gone badly wrong.

'How do you know my name?'

'I read the paper, like everyone else.'

He couldn't have recognised her – or could he? Not with her new hairdo, surely? A car drove past on the road outside and she looked at it over his shoulder through the kitchen window. Then it was gone.

'You might as well give up your idea of meeting Kerstin. She lives at the other end of town, as it happens. That house is empty. A German family has bought it and they usually don't turn up here until June.'

She wanted get out of there, get away from him.

'Why did you lock the door? What do you want from me?'

He didn't answer.

She glanced at the door again. There was no window in the hall.

'Don't even think about it, Sibylla. You're going nowhere without my permission.'

She was a prisoner. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to pull herself together. He moved away from the doorway and because she had no choice, she followed him into the kitchen.

'I'd appreciate it if you took your shoes off.'

She stared at him. No fucking hope.

Instead she walked over to the table and sat down. A glance at him was enough to make her realise that her keeping her shoes on had angered him a great deal. Frowning, he got hold of a brush and pan form a cupboard and started sweeping up invisible muck from the floor. When he had put the things away, he came to sit down at the kitchen table. The smile had gone from his face.

'From now on you will do what I tell you.'

'From now on'? What was this weirdo after? Why was he so bossy?

She tried to speak in a low, calm voice. 'You have no right to keep me here.' He grimaced with mock surprise.

'Oh, don't I? Dearie me. Maybe you'd like to phone the police?'

He burst out laughing when she didn't answer immediately. She told herself that maybe phoning the police was exactly what she should do now. They were both focusing on each other, registering each other's every breath. Another car went past and for a fraction of a second Sibylla let her eyes wander away from him. He broke the silence.

'I must say, I was flabbergasted when you turned up in the cemetery out of nowhere. Like a gift from God. Indeed, God does look after his own.'

She stared at him.

'When I spotted your watch I couldn't believe my eyes at first. Do you know, if it hadn't been for your watch I might never have recognised you.'

They both looked at her watch. Then he smiled briefly before closing his eyes and turning his face upwards.

'Thank you Lord. You listened to your servant and saved my soul. You sent her to me.

Thank you…'

She thought he had finished.

'What's this about my watch?'

He turned towards her, silent at first. His eyes were open but had narrowed to slits. Leaning over the table, as if to give his words more weight, he spoke slowly.

'Never ever interrupt me when I'm talking with the Lord God.'

Suddenly everything fell into place.

'Accursed are those who rob the innocents of their rights.'

The truth pierced her like an arrow. Fear struck her speechless, her mouth filling with the taste of blood.

Fool that she was! What made all the difference was the person he had appeared to be. She already knew the importance of that for herself. How could she have forgotten? She had allowed prejudice to lead her by the nose – straight into a trap.

His face had changed somehow. Now he knew that she knew.

'You can guess where I saw that watch the first time, can't you? In the Grand Hotel's French Restaurant. You were keeping Jorgen Grundberg company while he ate his last meal.'

Alert and quivering like tensed bow-strings, they sat watching each other across the kitchen table. Both were expecting something to happen that would release the tension. She lost any sense of time passing.

Trying to link isolated perceptions of the truth into a continuous chain, she began with him. She had been right as well as catastrophically wrong. Rune Hedlund's secret both was and was not what everyone had suspected. He had taken a lover, but the lover was a man.

Now that man's strong hands were placed on the kitchen table in front of her. Hands which had carried out all the repulsive mutilations that she had been accused of. Stained with ordinary hobby paints and then covered with plastic gloves, they had been searching the hidden cavities of his victims in order to recover what had been taken from his beloved's body.

She whispered an appeal to him.

'Tell me why.'

This made him relax and took them into a new phase of their relationship, in which neither needed to pretend to the other. There was no point in dropping hints or making covert threats. The only thing left between them was the final confrontation. Before that, she wanted to know and he wanted to tell.

Afterwards was another matter.

He seemed calm now, clasping his hands in his lap and poised, it seemed, ready to give a speech. 'Have you ever been to Malta?'

This question was so unexpected all the air went out of her, making a snorting noise. He might have thought she was laughing, because he started smiling again.

'I went to Malta. It was about six months after Rune's accident.'

The smile had faded from his face now, his hands were back on the table and he was looking down at them.

'No one ever grasped how… profoundly I mourned him.'

He inhaled deeply, as if needing more air before he could carry on speaking.

'Our love is buried in Rune's grave. They all pitied her, of course. People were trotting round to commiserate every hour God gave. Feeding her stuff they'd brought. Listening to her endlessly babbling on about how unfair life was. All her fucking bullshit. There were times when I was on the brink of going there and shouting the truth out loud, straight into her fat, ugly face. I could've told her a thing or two! He had been with me that night, just before he collided with the elk. Straight from my bed, where my hands had held him and caressed him.'

Reaching out with his hands, stretching his long fingers, he wanted to make her feel what he felt. His terrible mental turmoil was almost palpable. He was on the verge of tears, his extended hands were shaking, his lungs struggling to get enough air and his lower lip trembling. His grief seemed mixed with barely restrained anger.

She reflected that this might well be the first time he had been free to put his feelings into words, the first time in the thirteen long months since Rune's death. The words had built up a pulsating pressure inside him, which was finally – maybe just this once – released.

'She went back to work soon enough. That meant she could be the queen of the coffee-room, droning on about how Rune's passing had not been in vain because she had been so generous with parts of his body, allowing four lives to be saved… blah, blah, blah.'

His head was shaking from side to side, his face twisted with disgust.

'Bullshit! It's enough to make you want to puke. Is that love? Is it? Letting them cut up the body you've loved? And then having his remains scattered to the four winds?'

He got up from the table, a movement so sudden that she instinctively tried to back away. The wooden chair behind him tipped backwards and crashed on the floor. He righted it, walked across the kitchen to the sink, picked up the coffee-pot and came back.

'Would you like some more coffee?'

She shook her head, still in a state of confusion. He poured himself a cup and with the same deliberation, took the pot back to the sink. She had calmed down enough to take the chance of looking around. Behind her was a closed door.

'After six months of this I thought I had better get away for a bit. Seeing her pious face every coffee break was becoming unbearable.'

The distance between where she was sitting and that door was about six feet.

'When I turned up there was only one reasonable holiday left at the Travel Centre. I didn't understand it then, but this was the first time the Lord showed what he wanted me to do.'

By now he seemed more relaxed, pausing to drink mouthfuls of coffee and look out through the window. They must be looking quite idyllic – two old friends chatting together over a cuppa.

'The Malta trip was arranged by Leisure Tours, one of these group-travel firms. I didn't feel like being alone just then. Anyway, there's a cathedral city on Malta called Mosta and the Lord was guiding me to that sacred place.'

He had made fists of his hands now.

'You know, that excursion to Mosta changed my life. It was as if someone had pulled filters away from my eyes, allowing me to see the truth clearly for the first time.'

His face was glowing with gratitude.

'On the ninth of April in the year 1942, the cathedral was full of people, ordinary folk who had gone to Mass the way they always did. It was wartime. Suddenly a bomb fell through the dome of the cathedral, shattering the splendid glass roof and burying itself in the floor of the aisle in front of the altar. Do you know, that bomb never exploded? God stopped the detonator functioning and the whole congregation could complete Mass and leave in safety. A true miracle!'

If he were expecting exclamations of wonder, he'd have to wait in vain.

'It was an English plane. Dropping the bomb was a mistake.'

His eyes were drilling into her.

'Don't you see what God was telling them?'

She shook her head.

'Their time hadn't come. God had not chosen to call any one among the people in the church. They weren't meant to die just then. That's why He intervened to put the mistake right.'

He paused, looking at the window for a while.

'Rune was different, the Lord had called him. I still don't know why. I'm waiting and praying for the Lord to tell me His reason. Maybe He will speak to me once my mission is complete.'

His confession was nearing its end and Sibylla felt fear returning to invade every part of her mind.

'She wouldn't let Rune die. She thwarted the will of God. She thought she could interfere with His power on Earth, trading parts of Rune's body and keeping them alive. It was trapping him halfway to Heaven. How could I allow that to happen?'

His face was looking like a tragic mask. He clasped his hands.

‘I will execute great vengeance upon them with wrathful chastisements. Then they will know that I am with the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon them.'

In the silence that followed Sibylla knew her will to act was still paralysed by fear. She needed more time.

'The people you killed – what about them? Had God called them too?'

He stared at her, his head to one side, apparently amazed by her question.

'What, haven't you understood that yet?'

She just looked back at him, not even daring to shake her head.

'The Lord had called them. They were meant to die. By what right do we hinder the acts of the Lord?'

She had no answer to that, of course. Telling him that he was stark staring mad would not be helpful.

'What about me?'

He smiled.

'You have been chosen.'

He made it sound like a compliment.

'The Lord is using you as one of His tools – like me. Both of us have been called to serve His ends.' Soon time would be up. 'What's my task?'

The smile had widened to a grin that covered his face. 'You're to serve as my shield and protection.'

The next moment she was on her feet and throwing herself unhesitatingly backwards, grabbing the handle of the closed door behind her. Luckily for her it opened inwards and before he could get up and round the table, she was inside the room next door.

She was leaning her whole body against the door with frenzied strength, ready for him, when seconds later he started pushing at the handle from his side. She could feel his weight against the door. There was no key.

Looking around, she saw that the room was a painter's workshop, full of canvases and tubes of paint. There was an easel just behind her with an unfinished picture of the crucified Christ.

On the wall to her right was another door without a key.

Suddenly she sensed that the pressure on the other side was no longer there. A quick glance through the keyhole confirmed it. He was gone.

She stepped back, hitting the corner of a table and knocking over a tin full of brushes. It crashed to the floor. Terror sent electrical currents through her body.

A sudden sound alerted her to his presence in the room to her right. He was going to use the other door. The next moment she saw his hand on the doorframe and knew what she had to do. Taking one leap across the room, she threw her weight against the door, pinning his hand between it and the frame. She heard the crunching sound of something breaking in his squashed hand.

He did not scream, though his fingers extended in a spasm of pain. All she could hear was her own rasping, deep breathing, as if she was fighting for air.

There was a violent shove against the door, opening it just enough to let him withdraw his hand. Then a clock on the wall next to her started striking the hour.

The sound unnerved her. She ran from the room, tore open the kitchen door and stood for a moment in the hall. The front door was locked, she knew. Running upstairs would take her deeper into the trap. A noise from next door meant that she had no more time. After taking a step forward she saw his feet and then the rest of him. He was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Quickly, she stepped past the open door and ran upstairs, hearing him get up. When she reached the landing three closed doors were facing her. One of them had a key in the lock. She managed to unlock it in one go.

Then she heard him scream in real distress.

'Not in there!'

She was already inside by then and turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.

The door handle was pushed down. 'Sibylla, don't do anything stupid!'

She turned to survey the room. An unmade bed stood in the middle of the room. The bed-linen must have been white once, but now it was greyish and stained. A chest of drawers with a mirror on top was placed against the wall facing her. On it he had put a lit candle in a magnificent silver candlestick. It was almost two feet high and would have looked well on a church altar. Next to it was an open Bible.

'Sibylla! You must open that door! Immediately!'

She tried to open the window and was struggling to undo the hasp. He heard the noise of metal scraping against metal.

'Sibylla, don't open the window! The draught will blow out the flame!'

His shouting had a note of desperation and he was banging on the door.

She turned to look. True, the flame was dancing in the draught from the open window. Leaning out through the window, she realised that the stone steps leading to the front door were right below. If she jumped and managed to avoid hitting the iron railings, she would almost certainly crack her head open on the steps.

He called again, sounding very stern.

'Sibylla, you must close that window.'

She left the window open and went to inspect the arrangement next to the mirror. Being in a locked room gave her a few precious moments to collect her thoughts.

Why was he so frantic about the candle?

Next to the candlestick lay two fresh candles, as large as the burning one and still in their wrappers. There were also four unused grave candles in white plastic containers, burning time about sixty hours.

She opened the Bible. On the inside of the stiff cover, someone had written a quote in careful script.

For love is as strong as death

Jealousy is as cruel as the grave.

Its flashes are flashes of fire

A most vehement flame.

Now she understood. Suddenly, the power-balance had shifted in her favour. The burning flame was her weapon.

She could hear something scratching in the lock. She called out loudly.

'If you come in I'll put the flame out!'

The sounds from the keyhole ceased.

'It has been burning since he died, hasn't it? Hasn't it?'

Not a sound from outside the door. It didn't matter, because now she knew. He had kept this flame burning, like the Olympic fire, as a living memory of his beloved.

She had gained more time. But for what? She looked around the room again.

It was empty apart from the bed and the chest of drawers. The floor was covered in a wall-to-wall brown carpet, with a couple of small rugs on top. Could she tie the sheets on the bed together to make a long enough rope to reach the ground? And then what? He could easily catch up with her, on foot or in the car.

Lifting the candlestick very gently, because that flickering flame was her shield, she called to him again.

'You can come in now!'

'You'll have to unlock the door.'

I will, but you must count to three before entering. If you don't I'll blow it out.'

No response. The carpet silenced her steps as she walked over to the door. She quickly turned the key in the lock and backed away. Three seconds later the handle was pressed down.

Then they stood facing each other, separated by the burning candle.

There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He held his damaged hand stretched out and when he looked down at it, her eyes followed his. A deep score ran across all his fingers and half the little finger seemed torn off. In the still silence, only the flame was moving.

Then he finally spoke.

'Why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain?' I want you to phone the police.'

He shook his head, not so much in refusal as to show his irritation.

'Don't you see we were meant to do what we've done? You and I are the elect. There's nothing we can do about it. The police don't matter. Put that candle down now.'

She didn't move, just sighed. Her breath made the flame flicker from side to side. The sight was an unwelcome reminder of how fragile her defence was. Instantly, a wave of paralysing terror rolled over her.

Perhaps he saw it in her face, perhaps he could smell her fear. He smiled slowly.

'We're of a kind, you and I. I've read about you in the papers.' How could she get out?

'They've been getting one of your old mates from school to talk about you. Did you read that?'

The flame would die the moment she got outside. It could only protect her inside the house, I used to be a loner too…' 'Where's your telephone?'

'I was different from the start, even in primary school. We are special, both of us, it's obvious to all…'

'Turn around. Walk downstairs, now. Or else, I'll blow.'

His smile disappeared, but he didn't move.

'I see. And tell me, Sibylla – then what will you do?

She said nothing. An eternity seemed to pass. Just when she thought her pounding heart would burst through her ribcage, he turned and walked downstairs. Slowly, she followed a few feet behind him, unsuccessfully attempting to control her breathing. She was holding her hand up to protect the flame and he was still extending his broken hand. Both moved one step at a time, the woman with the candle following the man, as if in a strange ceremonial procession.

She tried to think ahead. Would she tell him to phone? Should she do it herself? Four steps left. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

'Walk on.'

He did as he was told and disappeared into the kitchen.

The silver candlestick was becoming heavy in her hand and she had to lower it. Now she too was standing on the floor of the hall.

He was out of sight.

'Come to the door!'

No movement in the kitchen. She changed hands. 'I'll blow it out!'

But by now it was clear to both of them that this was an empty threat. Once the flame was extinguished, she could do nothing. Then she would be completely in his power.

She walked through the door opposite the door to the kitchen. It led into a sitting room, carpeted with the same material as the upstairs bedroom. There was a sofa with an occasional table in front of it. No telephone anywhere.

On the wall to her left was the door leading into the workshop. It was slightly open. Her arm had become tired and she had to hold the candlestick with both hands now. Not a sound from the kitchen.

'Come out so I can see you!'

Still no reply.

She walked into the workshop, closing the door behind her. There it was, a grey Cobra set spattered with paint in every colour of the rainbow. The dial was underneath the receiver, which meant she had to use both hands. Watching the door to the kitchen, she carefully put the candlestick down, got hold of the receiver and began dialling with shivering fingers. Fear invaded her body, causing her an almost physical pain. So near, yet so far from help.

Then he came at her.

Roaring, he tore open the door to the sitting room and before she could react, beat her to the floor with a kitchen chair. The pain made the world go dark. A moment later he was sitting astride her and she knew that one of her ribs was broken.

He was hissing with rage.

'Don't ever do that again!'

Trying to keep the pain away from her mind, she just shook her head.

'The Lord is with me. You cannot get away.' She shook her head again. Anything to make him get up. Anything to stop him sitting on her ribcage. He looked around. 'Stay on the floor!'

She nodded. At last he left her alone. His first move was to take a cloth from the table and wind it tightly round the injured hand. She wondered if he was right-handed, because if so he would be really handicapped. Not as handicapped as she was, though. That fucking candle was still alight. She hadn't even managed to extinguish it.

What a bloody awful, shitty mess. And she had been so close.

She tried to twist a little to find a position where the pain was eased. Her jacket had balled up just where the pain had its focus. He saw her move and put his foot on her stomach.

'Stay still!'

The pain was so intense she couldn't breathe, her face becoming contorted. She saw flashing stars under her eyelids before she blacked out. A moment later she opened her eyes again. He had taken his foot away, but was standing close to her, holding his damaged hand stretched out and the other raised. His face was dead white. The raised hand was gripping a crucifix, which she had seen before. It was in one of the images among Patrik's print-outs.

He suddenly let it fall on her stomach.

'All yours!'

The crucifix wasn't heavy, but she instinctively tensed her stomach muscles as it fell and a new wave of pain flowed through her.

'You carry it yourself. It's your walk to Golgotha.' If she had been able to speak, she might have asked what he meant.

'Get up now. We are going outside.'

She managed to get up from the floor somehow. He grabbed her round the neck with his good hand and forced her to walk bent over, her eyes fixed on the floor and holding the crucifix in her left hand.

Darkness was falling outside.

The pain in her chest was less intense when she stood upright. Still grasping her neck, he pushed her ahead of him down the steps.

'Where are we going?'

Silently, he kept shoving her on towards the road. In her confusion, she thought that if she really were a member of the elect, God would surely send a car along this way.

He did not. Instead they crossed the road. They were almost there when she realised where they were going. The yellow house belonging to the Germans.

'What's going to happen in there?'

'You're going to kill yourself.'

She tried to straighten up but he pushed her head down again.

'They'll find you when they arrive in June. The crucifix will be on your stomach. Everyone will realise what's happened, the jigsaw will be complete. At last Sibylla will have atoned for her crimes. Kerstin will be able to identify you and I'll be standing by her, a loving support as always.'

They arrived at the steps leading to the front door. Sibylla pushed her right hand in her pocket. It curled round what she found there. Her nail file. Her fingers gripped the plastic handle.

The grip round her neck disappeared.

‘I’ve gor the keys in my pocket. My right jacket pocket. Pull them out.'

She straightened up and turned towards him. Their eyes met for a moment. Then she violently pushed the nail file into his face.

She did not stop to watch the result. When he put his hands to his face, she ran. The forest began on the other side of the low wooden fence and she leapt over it, somehow not feeling the pain in her chest.

He hadn't screamed this time either.

She kept up her speed. Sharp branches were whipping against her face as she pushed through the packed firs. The evening was still too light for her to hide. She must keep running and get away, far away. Before he came for her.

She did not know how long she had been running for, stumbling over stones and splashing through puddles in low-lying, swampy ground. By now she was wet up to her thighs and exhausted. She suddenly fell forward over something unrecognisable in the dark, lying on the ground, her breathing was drowning all other sounds, her lungs burning with effort. Now and then she tried to stop panting, to hold her breath for long enough to listen to the forest.

At first, she heard only the wind in the trees. It was a gentle sound compared with the roaring of herself struggling for air. She just lay there for what felt like a long time. Still, but always watchful.

How badly had she hurt him? She wasn't safe yet, no way.

Then, suddenly she heard his voice. It wasn't close, but cut through the gathering dark far too distinctly.

'Sibylla… you can't hide, not from us… God sees and hears everything… you know that…'

Terror struck again.

Then the moon suddenly shone brightly on her. Like a heavenly lamp.

There was a fir with protectively trailing branches in front of her. She quickly crawled into its dark shade. 'Sibylla… where are you…?"

His voice sounded much closer. Her breathing was still treacherous.

Now she could actually see him. He was walking straight towards her hiding place, as if he had been following an invisible thread through the labyrinth of trees.

'I know you're here… you must be here… somewhere…'

Now she could see his face. It was covered in blood. One wide-open eye was gleaming white.

Fifty feet… thirty feet…

Then, in one blessed instant, the moon disappeared behind a cloud. She was saved. She heard him groan, realising that he'd stumbled and had tried to hold himself upright using his wounded hand.

Serves you fucking right! You deluded cunt!

She was smiling. The disappearance of the moon made her hopeful again. She wasn't doomed to lose this battle. For a while, he had almost made her believe she had lost.

'You haven't got a hope… sooner or later we'll find you…'

His voice was more distant now. Just for that moment she was safe.

Perhaps she fell asleep on and off. She couldn't be sure. The darkness was so dense that she couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed. When dawn broke and the first glimpses of contours became clearer, she crawled out from her hiding place to try to find a road.

She couldn't go back, but then there was no telling how far the forest stretched ahead. She decided to try to keep at a right angle to her first escape route. She should reach the road sooner or later, but well away from his house.

She was freezing, shivering with cold. Now that she had time to herself, the pain came back to haunt her. The broken rib ached angrily with each step.

The light was getting stronger every minute. Round her the forest was thinning. Tall bare pine trunks rose around her, with hardly any undergrowth. He could see her easily here. Surely she would reach the road soon.

She heard a branch crack and stopped, trying to localise the sound. Another crack now, but from a different direction.

Then she saw them. One of them shouted at her.

'Lie down!'

He was in uniform and aiming at her with his handgun, gripping it with both hands. If she hadn't been so scared, it would have been pure happiness to see them. She had never thought that she would be so utterly delighted at being surrounded by policemen.

She did as she was told, lying down, face against the ground, moving cautiously to minimise the pain. When she turned her head to look, four armed policemen were approaching her, all aiming at her with their guns. She tried to speak to them.

'I don't know where…'

'Shut up! Just don't fucking move!'

Then, in one dizzying insight, she knew what had happened. One of them pushed her face into the mossy ground, another frisked her body. One of them hissed at her. 'Murderous bitch!'

So he had got there first, ahead of her again.

She obeyed orders, keeping her mouth shut during the whole journey to Vimmerby police station. When she stepped out of the car, a camera flashed in her face. When she could see again, she caught a glimpse of a young man with an enormous camera in front of his face. Somebody asked her a question. 'Why did you do it?'

She was not given a chance to answer. Hard hands pushed her into the entrance hall of the police station. The whole room was full of people, civilians and uniformed staff, all observing her closely with disgust in their eyes.

'Move along. This way.'

The man who had been sitting next to her in the back of the car was now walking ahead, forming a small passage though the crowd. Someone pushed her from behind, hitting the sore rib so that she was grimacing with pain. A door opened and she stepped through it.

'Sit down.'

She obeyed, pulling back the chair with her hand-cuffed hands. Two new men came in and sat down behind the desk. One of them introduced himself.

'Roger Larsson.'

His colleague pushed a red button on a tape-recorder and checked that it was recording. Then he nodded.

Interrogation of Sibylla Forsenström on the third of April 1999, starting at 8.45 a.m. Present in the room are the charged woman, Sergeant Mats Lundell and Inspector Roger Larsson.'

Larsson turned to her.

'You are Sibylla Forsenström?'

She nodded.

'I must insist that you answer every question loudly and clearly.' 'Yes, I am.'

'Tell us what you are doing in Vimmerby.'

She stared at the moving wheels in the tape-recorder, while they were observing her intently. Someone knocked briskly on the door and a woman came in carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to Roger Larsson. He read it quickly and put it away on the desk, text-side down. Then he looked at her again.

I didn't do it.'

'Didn't do what?'

The question had been immediate. She was very tired and hungry. Her thoughts seemed to go all over the place. Now she had led them on to the right track.

It's the man called Ingmar who's the murderer.'

The two men exchanged knowing glances, almost smiling at each other.

'Do you mean Ingmar Eriksson? A hospital porter, resident here in Vimmerby. He was hospitalised last night, after turning up in casualty with his right hand crushed and a nail file stuck in one eye. Is that the Ingmar you've got in mind?'

By the end of all this, he sounded angry. She looked down at her hands. If she moved them to hide the chain between them, the cuffs looked like two silver bracelets. The man called Roger was putting an object on the table in front of her.

'Why did you carry this about in your jacket pocket?'

Inside a plastic bag was the crucifix. She found it hard to speak.

'He gave it to me. HE was going to murder me.' 'Why?'

'To make me take the blame.' 'Blame for what?' She sighed.

'Everything. He had a relationship with Rune Hedlund.' One corner of Roger Larsson's mouth was twitching.

'Who?'

'Rune Hedlund. He died in a car accident on the fifteenth of March last year.'

The men exchanged glances again. Neither said anything, but she realised what they were thinking. This woman was obviously deranged. Maybe they were right.

Moon or no moon, God had never been on her side.

'Phone Patrik. He knows that I didn't do it.'

'Who is Patrik?'

'Patrik… eh…'

She could not remember his surname. It had been on the door to their flat, but the memory had faded.

'His mother is in the police. They live on Sagar Street. South End.'

'South End in Stockholm – is that what you mean?'

Another knock on the door. The same woman came in with a new piece of paper. There were two curious faces peering in through the door behind her. Roger Larsson read what was on the paper, nodded and checked the time.

'Interrogation stopped at 9.03 a.m.'

Sibylla closed her eyes.

'We'll have a break now. Do you want to wait here or in a cell?'

She could barely keep her eyes open. Her whole being felt exhausted.

'Is there a bed in the cell?' 'Yes.'

'The cell, please.'

Hours passed without anything happening. The bunk was hard and she slept only in fits and starts. One longer period of sleep was more like a restless semi-conscious state, marred by obsessive dreaming about being chased and desperately trying to escape in slow motion from an invisible enemy.

They gave her food, but no one told her what they were all waiting for. She was too tired to ask. She was less troubled by the locked door than she had feared. It was actually quite nice just to lie there, freed from all responsibility. She had done her best, really done very well, if truth be told. But she had failed and all she could do now was accept her failure. They had won and she had lost.

That was all there was to it.

Later that afternoon, Roger Larsson came to see her. He told her that they were waiting to hear from the National Criminal Investigation Bureau in Stockholm. She had nothing to say to that. It seemed she must be thought such a hardened criminal that she was outside the remit of the sad little Vimmerby force. The elite team was coming to the rescue.

'You have the right to request a solicitor.'

'I haven't done anything wrong.'

He shrugged and went to the door.

'I think you'd better change your tune.'

Then he left her alone.

A little later, a man in his fifties came to see her. He seemed agitated, either terrified or under great stress. He dumped his briefcase on the table in the cell.

'My name is Kjell Bergstrom.'

She sat up, but her face contorted with pain. Her broken rib was announcing that it would rather she stayed horizontal.

'I'll be your legal advisor until further notice. They'll presumably move you to Stockholm soon, and find you someone else to help you there. Your father is dead, did you know that?'

She stiffened.

'What did you say?'

Kjell Bergstrom pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. 'This is a fax that's just come in from a colleague in Vetlanda. They heard the news that you had been captured.' She responded quickly. 'I didn't do it.'

He lost his bustling show of efficiency and looked at her for the first time.

'It was a heart attack. Two years ago.'

Heart attack. Sibylla tested what it felt like. It didn't seem to matter in the slightest to her that Henry Forsenström had been dead for two years. As far as she was concerned, he had been dead for a very long time.

'My contact Krister Ek, the executor and a very good man, tells me that your mother, Beatrice Forsenström, believed for years that you were dead. When your father died, she appealed to have you declared dead officially. It was just about to be passed when you got in the news as wanted by the police.'

Sibylla realised that she was smiling. The corners of her mouth were irresitibly pulled upwards, even though there was no real reason.

'She thought I was dead, did she? So that was why she kept sending me fifteen hundred kronor every month for the last fifteen years? To this dead person?'

It was Kjell Bergstrom's time to be surprised.

'Did she, indeed?'

'Until last week.'

'Remarkable. Quite… remarkable.' Yes, isn't it?

Bergstrom studied his fax again.

'As you surely know, your father had quite considerable assets. He left an inheritance that according to the law must be divided equally between his spouse and any direct descendants. On the face of it, it's hard to escape the conclusion that your mother has been attempting to deprive you of your share.'

Sibylla felt like laughing out loud. Something was breaking inside, pushed apart by feelings that wanted release. She tried to control herself, burying her face in her hands and letting soundless laughter shake her body.

'I understand this must be difficult for you.'

Sibylla peered at him between her fingers. So, he thought she was weeping. Poor man, he was standing there utterly nonplussed by the problem of dealing with a serial killer, who was crying because her father had died. It made her want to laugh again. Her rib was aching dreadfully, causing tears to come to her eyes. When she sensed that her eyes were overflowing, she pulled herself together sufficiently to risk taking her hands away from her face.

He felt he had better try to comfort her.

'You mustn't worry. The law is your side.'

This was too much. Her control cracked and new laughter welled up. She made snorting noises, holding her hands to her sides to dampen the pain.

The law was on her side!

She had just become a millionaire, but would go straight into prison to serve life for four brutal murders, which she had not committed.

Presumably God was pleased with His handiwork – if He was looking her way, that is. Now He and Ingmar could relax and live together happily ever after, just contemplating their successes from time to time.

The laughter was dying away now, as suddenly as it had emerged. Left behind was only a great empty space inside her.

He was observing her nervously.

'How do you feel?'

She looked up at him, with the tears still streaming down her face.

How did she feel? Fucking awful. Everything was fucking awful.

She laid down again, turning her back to him. He went to the door and knocked to be let out. He was away for a few minutes, but then she heard the door opening and he returned.

‘I’ll stay with you just now. They'll be back soon to take you in for further questioning.'

They did come soon afterwards. The pain when she got up showed on her face. Bergstrom had been watching her.

'Are you in pain?'

She nodded.

'Someone broke a chair on my ribcage.'

He asked no more questions. Maybe this kind of thing was common practice in Vimmerby?

She obediently reached out her hands towards the policeman, expecting to be handcuffed again, but he only shook his head.

The interrogation room was empty when they came in. She sat down on the same chair and Kjell Bergstrom stood, leaning against the wall. One man and one woman came in soon afterwards, new people this time. Bergstrom shook hands with them, but Sibylla stayed where she was. Presumably she didn't need to introduce herself.

Three pairs of eyes were watching her. The unknown man spoke first.

'How are you feeling?'

She couldn't be bothered answering and just smiled a little.

'My name is Per-Olof Gren. I'm working for the National Criminal Bureau. This is my colleague Anita Hansson.'

Bergstrom went back to lean against his wall, while the newcomers settled behind the desk. No one started the tape recorder.

'We had hoped that you would feel strong enough to tell us about what happened last night.'

Feel strong enough? What was this soft approach meant to achieve? Sibylla sighed and leaned against the back of the chair. Thoughts were stumbling about inside her head. It seemed impossible to arrange any of them in an orderly sequence.

She stared to the desktop.

'I was in the cemetery. I met Rune Hedlund's widow. Ingmar turned up afterwards and I went away with him.' 'Is he the person who beat you up?' She looked up.

'Yes, he is. With a chair. At least one rib seems to be broken.' 'What about the scratches in your face?' 'I got them when I was running away from him. Through the forest.'

The man looked at his woman colleague. 'You were lucky, you know.' Oh, yeah? Super-lucky is the word. Suddenly Anita Hansson spoke up. 'I believe you know Patrik.'

A small ray of hope was coming through the thick cloud of dejection filling her mind. 'Did you find him?'

'He's my son.'

Sibylla stared at her. Patrik's mum, she who was 'in the force'. Nothing in Anita Hansson's face revealed her feelings about the matter.

'This morning, when the news broke, he told me all about it.'

For a moment, Sibylla thought she was dreaming.

'I phoned the National Bureau once I'd convinced myself that he was telling the truth. It all hung together, except the name Thomas Sandberg, of course. A bit confusing, that.'

'I wanted to keep Patrik outside the case at that stage. He had helped me enough, I thought.'

Patrik's mother nodded. She clearly thought so too.

Per-Olof Gren started the explanation.

'We searched Ingmar Eriksson's house this morning. He kept the… remains in his freezer.'

'… What a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.''

Again, self-defence came first.

'I didn't put them there.'

Per-Olof Gren spoke soothingly.

'Sibylla, calm down. We know it wasn't you.'

She scarcely dared believe her ears. This couldn't be true. Not now, when she had finally accepted her fate.

'He has confessed. He cracked when we found the glass jars in his freezer. He was going to bury the lot in Hedlund's grave.'

The room was silent. Sibylla was trying to get her mind round this totally new situation, but she was far too tired to manage it.

‘It would have been helpful if you had come to us a little earlier. We could have avoided all this.'

This was Patrik's mother speaking again. Sibylla understood only too well what she meant. Her inner ear was tuned in to the row Patrik had been given.

She looked at them, speaking quietly.

'You wouldn't have believed me – or would you?'

No one replied.

'Only Patrik did. Maybe he is the only one who has trusted me. Ever.'

A long silence. Per-Olof finally broke it. 'Well, there you are. You're free to go. What do you plan to do?'

Bergstrom stepped away from his wall.

'I know what Miss Forsenström is doing next. She's coming with me to Vetlanda. We're going to have a little talk with her mother.'

Sibylla shook her head.

'No. I can't face her.'

'Sibylla. I don't think you know what you're saying.' I want 300,000 kronor. That's all I need.'

Bergstrom smiled condescendingly.

'My dear Sibylla, we're talking many millions here.'

Their eyes met and after a while it seemed he had almost accepted that she meant what she said.

'But you shouldn't let her get away with it. She's keeping back a whole fortune.'

Sibylla thought about a fortune, but couldn't imagine what she would do with it.

'OK. Seven hundred grand. Tell her where to put the rest, why don't you.'

The lock whirred even before she had time to take her finger off the bell. She wondered if he always stood next to the buzzer. Just like last time, he was waiting by his open front door when she reached his landing. Neither of them spoke before she'd stepped inside and he'd pulled the door shut behind them.

'You've done well – from notorious serial killer to popular heroine in just one week. It's impressive, no other word for it.'

She walked into the room, straight to his computer. This time he did not stop her.

'Did you find him?'

He nodded.

'How much did you say you wanted this time? Five grand?'

He smiled. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, found the notes and put them down on the keyboard. He pulled a white envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

'Your kid, is he?'

She just looked at him, took the envelope and walked away from him, in the direction of the hall. He followed her. 'Can't help being curious.'

She didn't reply, just went out on the landing and closed his front door behind her. This was the first time that she allowed herself to think about it and give way to her feelings. She was shaking all over. To calm herself, she walked down one floor. Only then could she contemplate even looking at the envelope. She sat down on a step, her heart beating hard.

The white envelope contained the answer to fourteen years of anxious speculation.

Who was he? Where did he live? What kind of person was he?

Now she would know.

The bus was leaving in two hours' time. The documents had been signed and exchanged, the cheque was on the table. They had arranged for Gunvor Stromberg to meet her in the bus terminal to hand over the keys.

Peace and quiet. Rest for a troubled soul.

In this white envelope was the name of the one who had always been missed.

She would always miss him. She had lost him fourteen years ago and now, everything she could do was too late, far too late.

Why was she doing this? For his sake? Or for her own sake?

She stopped walking downstairs, struck by her own unexpected insight into his rights, as opposed to hers.

So, by which right would she come marching into his life, fourteen years after his birth. What did he have to gain? She would get the reward of knowing, of her search having come to an end. Did he owe her that?

He was free from grief. Why should she drag him along to share hers?

If she still owed him anything, it was to bear her sense of loss on her own.

She had arrived on a landing. On the wall in front of her was the lid to a rubbish chute. People stopped there to throw their bags of waste into the basement bin. A useful place to shed your past. Her heart pounding in her chest, she opened the lid. She did not feel anxious. Her mind was filled with the liberating knowledge of doing the right thing.

If the bus service stuck to the timetable, she would be home in time to hear her neighbour's trumpet play a greeting to the setting sun.