Missing (18 page)

‘I suppose I'd better tell you myself, you'd only hear the rumours if I don't. You're 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.

‘Sören 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 medicine 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'd 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.

‘Sören 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.'

T
hey 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 Strömberg'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 umpteen grand 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 Söderköping 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 word she had come across before.
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 it.

‘I'm not sure. Here, look, where it says
Neoral
, fifty milligrams. I can't 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
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
Neoral
. Her brain had sifted through stored information while she slept and it now presented her with the vital item.

Jörgen Grundberg. He hada 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.

‘Jörgen Grundberg took
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, Jörgen Grundberg. He had had a kidney disease, or so his hard-hearted widow had told her. Sören Strömberg'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 am. 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? Bollnäs 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 was not used to lying in front of an audience.

‘Mårten 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 of 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 Sören Strömberg operated on?'

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

‘Many times.'

‘Any entry on the fifteenth of 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.'

T
he minutes were crawling along. He had 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.

IBID. FOURTH PARAGRAPH, SECTION 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.'