Missing (2 page)

‘I'm in 407, remember. You know where I am if you change your mind. I'm a light sleeper.'

He didn't give up easily. Gently, using all the self-control she could muster, she pulled his hand away.

‘I won't forget.'

The card didn't work. The lock-release click didn't happen. She tried again. He smiled.

‘Goodness. You must have got my card. Who knows, maybe it's an omen?'

She turned and looked at him.

He was holding her card between thumb and
index finger. She felt an unmistakable wave of bad temper mounting inside her. She took the plastic card from him and put his into his jacket pocket. Her door opened easily this time.

‘Good night.'

She stepped into her room and began pulling the door to. He stood there looking at her like a disappointed kid. No sweeties after all. And he had been exceptionally decent to her, it must be said. Maybe he deserved at least a little something to cheer him up. She lowered her voice.

‘I'll be in touch if I begin to feel lonely.'

His face lit up like a sun and with that sight facing her she finally closed the door and locked it from the inside.

Have a nice life.

S
he couldn't wait to get her wig off. Then she opened both the bath-tub taps full on. Her scalp was itching and she leaned forward, running her fingers through her hair. When she straightened up, she observed her face in the mirror.

Life had left its marks. She was only thirty-two, but could easily have been ten years older. That would actually have been her own guess. Many disappointments had etched a fine mesh of wrinkles round her eyes, but she was still good-looking. Or, at least, good-looking enough to attract men like Jörgen Grundberg, and she aspired to nothing more.

The tub had filled almost to the brim and when she lowered herself into the hot water, some of it was slopping over the side. She reached over the edge to try to save her suit, which she'd let drop on the bathroom floor. Instead, her movement set up a wave-motion and more water spilled onto the floor. She would have to try to dry the suit on the hot towel-rail.

She leaned back, enjoying the bath. This was the kind of thing that gave life meaning. If one's ambitions were modest, that is. At least living out of a rucksack had taught her to appreciate the small things in life that others took so much for granted. Lots of people didn't even notice many simple sources of pleasure.

Once, she too had led that kind of life, so she knew what she was talking about. Though it was getting to be a long time ago.

She had been Miss Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström, the Chief Executive's daughter. That Sibylla had had a bath every day, as a matter of course, as if it had been a human right. Maybe it should be. Still, it had taken losing the opportunity to make her value the whole experience.

Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström.

It wasn't so strange that she'd never managed to fit in. She had been given a life-long handicap as a christening gift.

Sibylla.

Even the dullest of the children in Hultaryd's school reached unexpected intellectual heights in their efforts to invent new rhymes on her name. It didn't help that the Burgers 'n' Bangers stall in the main square had the same name and helpfully drew attention to it by displaying ‘Sibylla' on a back-lit sign. This added sausages – and many rude variants – to the range of useful allusions to build jokes round. When it
got out that she was called Wilhelmina Beatrice as well, everyone's imagination seemed to know no bounds.

Our child is unique! No doubt. But then, aren't all children?

Her parents' stratagem worked on one level at least. In spite of their daughter spending years in the local school, which was full of common children from the lower classes, there wasn't the slightest risk of her getting mixed up with them.

Sibylla's mother had always made a point of emphasising how special her daughter was, which of course gave Sibylla's schoolmates every justification for ostracising her. It mattered very much to Beatrice Forsenström that Sibylla should know her position in the social hierarchy, but it mattered even more that everyone else should know it too. Nothing had any real worth to her, unless others valued it too and preferably found it very desirable. Beatrice derived her greatest pleasure from arousing admiration and envy.

Almost all the parents of her fellow pupils were working in her father's factory. Mr Forsenström was a leading member of the Local Council and his pronouncements weighed heavily. Most of the jobs and much else in Hultaryd depended on his say-so and all the children knew this. On the other hand, they were too young to be serious about the employment market and anyway most of them hoped for more in life than
stepping into their parents' shoes. They didn't want to spend their lives minding a machine at Forsenström's Metal Foundry and felt they could get away with a bit of name-calling in the school corridors.

Not that Mr Forsenström cared one way or the other.

Managing the successful family firm kept him very busy. He had no time to concern himself with bringing up children and he wasn't interested anyway. The excellent carpets in the Forsenström mansion showed no trace of a path beaten by him to Sibylla's room. He left for work in the morning and came back in the evening. He ate at the same dining table, but was often engrossed in thought or checking through accounts and other documents. Sibylla never had a clue about what went on behind his correct façade. She just finished her food properly, leaving the table as soon as she was given permission.

‘Very well, Sibylla. You may go to bed now.'

Sibylla rose and reached for her plate to take it to the kitchen.

‘Sibylla, please. Gun-Britt will clear the table later.'

But at school they always had to tidy up after their meals. It was really hard to remember which rules to follow there and which ones applied at home. She left the plate where it was and went over to her father.

‘Good night, Daddy.' She kissed him quickly on the cheek.

‘Good night.'

Sibylla walked towards the door.

‘Sibylla. Haven't you forgotten something?'

She turned and looked at her mother.

‘Aren't you coming upstairs to say good night?'

‘Really, darling. It's Wednesday. You know tonight is a Ladies' Club meeting. When will you learn?'

‘I'm sorry.'

Sibylla went to her mother and kissed her too quickly on the cheek. It smelled of powder and day-old perfume.

‘If there's anything you need, ask Gun-Britt.'

Gun-Britt was the maid. She took over when Mrs Forsenström didn't have time to cook or clean or help Sibylla with her homework. Goodness gracious, she had to think of her charity work, after all. Without Mrs Forsenström, how would the little children in Biafra fare?

Sibylla remembered envying these far-away children, who were so scared and upset that nice ladies from the other side of the Earth spent their time worrying about them. When she was six years old, she felt she'd better do something to make herself more interesting: becoming just as scared as these other children seemed a good idea so she decided to sleep one night in the large, dark and spooky attic in
their house. She took her pillow, tiptoed up the stairs and went to sleep on a pile of old rugs. Gun-Britt found her there in the morning and had to tell on her to Beatrice, of course. The recriminations took more than an hour and the scene got on Beatrice's nerves so badly that she had a migraine attack that lasted for several days afterwards. This was Sibylla's fault, of course.

There was at least one thing she could thank her mother for. After almost eighteen years in the Forsenström home, she had developed an almost uncanny ability to analyse the mental states of people around her. Sheer instinct for self-preservation had attuned her to respond to the slightest shifts like a living seismograph, always alert to her mother's every whim and quick to predict likely causes of bad temper. She remained remarkably sensitive to the body language and verbal signals of people around her. This, as it happened, was of great help in the life she'd ended up leading.

The water in the tub was getting cool. She got out, shaking off drops of water and all these memories too. A beautifully thick, soft dressing-gown was hanging over the heated towel-rail next to the tub, and she wrapped herself in it and went to inspect her room. There was an American soap on the TV. It was accompanied by lots of canned laughter but turned out to be really funny. She settled down
to watch it for a while, carefully going through her nail-varnishing routine in the meantime.

Always clean and tidy – Rule Number One.

Sticking to this rule set her apart from most other homeless people she knew. Being aware of it had allowed her to take one step away from the kind of misery that crushes all hope.

What mattered was
what you looked like
. As simple as that.

Respect was the preserve of people who appeared to live by the social norms – the citizens who didn't differ too much from the rest. If you didn't manage to fit in, you were treated accordingly. Weakness is a provocation in itself. People are scared silly when confronted with others without pride. Shameless behaviour is an affront. Surely no one would behave like that unless they deserved to be what they were? Everyone has a choice, so what's your problem? Do you like wallowing in your own shit? Fine, but don't expect other people to care.

Not to care, maybe, but if you're good you might get a cut from the taxes we pay, beggar's alms so that you don't actually starve to death. We're not monsters, you know. Month after month, we keep shelling out to help types like you. But don't imagine it means that you can hang around our underground stations and shove your filthy hands under our noses to demand still more cash handouts. It's a fucking awkward imposition, you know.

We mind our own business – how about you minding yours? If you've got any complaints about what's done for you, we suggest you sod off and get a job. No place to stay? Get real – do you think a good fairy brought us our homes? Besides, if it's such a problem, how about us building an institution to house people like you? No drifting about any more.

Not near my place of course. No way. Got the children to think of, you know. The last thing we need are a lot of useless junkies hanging out in our neighbourhoods, stealing and shooting up and losing syringes all over the place. Somewhere else, by all means.

She rubbed herself all over with white skin lotion and looked longingly at the bed. Still, it was wonderful just sitting here, warm and clean, knowing a soft, inviting bed was waiting for her. She would be able to sleep undisturbed the whole night through.

She decided to stay up to enjoy the anticipation of it for a little longer.

M
y mother knew that I was different from
the others. She always feared the times
when I might be disappointed. If I wanted
something very much, she would try to prepare
me for what failure could do to me. She tried
to make me lower my expectations in order to
save me from pain
.

But if all ventures include preparing for failure,
then not succeeding will finally become a
goal. I cannot live like that any more
.

Not now
.

Rune was all I ever wanted. I had always
been hoping to meet someone like him and then,
suddenly, there he was. He came to mean more
to me than life itself
.

How many times have I asked You to let
me know if that was why I had to be punished?

Lord, did our carnal lust cause us to sin so
gravely that You could not overlook it and
instead take pleasure in our love for each other?
You took him away from me, but You never
welcomed him into Your realm
.

I have asked You, God: what must be done
that he should be forgiven?

For when a Will exists, it is first necessary
to show that the testator has died. Death alone
can validate the Will. And the contrary is true,
for as long as the testator lives, his Will is
invalid. Hence the previous relationship must
be celebrated in blood, for according to the
Law, all can be purified by blood and also,
until blood has been shed, there can be no
forgiveness
.

Lord, I give thanks to You for making me
understand what I must do
.

S
he woke when someone knocked hard on the door. Instantly awake, she got up and started to look for her clothes.

Shit, how could she have slept in? The clock radio showed quarter to nine. The burning question was: had Grundberg figured out by now that he had been tricked or had he just woken up with a particularly urgent hard-on?

‘One moment!'

She hurried into the toilet and grabbed her clothes.

‘Hallo there. Open the door, please. We've got some questions to ask you.'

Damnation. It wasn't Grundberg, but some woman. Had one of the hotel staff recognised her, in spite of the wig?

Oh, fucking hell.

‘I'm not dressed yet.'

Silence in the corridor. She hurried over to the window and looked out. No get-away route there.

‘This is the police. Please hurry up.'

Police! Now what the fuck?

‘Ready as soon as I can. Just give me a couple of minutes.'

She put her ear to the door and heard steps walking away. There was a laminated chart showing emergency exits right in front of her nose and she studied the options while she fumbled with the safety-pin in the waistband. Checking the number of her room, she found that it was just two doors away from the emergency stairs. She rushed to get her jacket and handbag, and then listened again at the chink in the door. Cautiously, she opened the door a fraction and peeped into the corridor. It was empty.

She stepped briskly into the corridor, shutting the door behind her quietly. Seconds later, she was running down the back stairs. They had to lead to a door opening into the street.

Then she remembered. The briefcase! She had left it behind. It pulled her up short, but it took only a moment of hesitation to realise her briefcase was lost. And so was the wig in the bathroom. Shit, almost 740 kronor down the toilet and such a brilliant investment too, which should have given her many nights of undisturbed sleep. Even the complimentary soaps and the little shampoo bottles had been forgotten.

At the bottom of the stairs she stopped in front of a metal door with a lit green Emergency Exit sign. Pushing on the locking bar, she
opened the door enough to put her head outside. A police car was parked just twenty-odd yards away, but it was empty and this gave her enough courage to step out into the street. She looked around, realising that she was at the back of the Grand Hotel.

The morning traffic in Stall Street had come to a standstill. She squeezed between the cars without looking too obviously stressed and crossed Blasieholm Square. At the Arsenal Street corner, she turned right, walked past Bern's Café and down Hamn Street. No one seemed to have followed her, but to make sure she continued across Normalm Square, along Bibliotek Street and began slowing down only when she was outside the Wiener Café.

The café seemed a good place to sit down and think. She chose a table as far away from the window as possible and tried to calm down.

This had been a far closer shave than at any other time since she'd started to spoil herself with nights in hotels. She had better forget about the Grand for quite a while. What she didn't understand was how Grundberg could have got wise to her. Had any of the staff recognised her and phoned his room? Why in that case leave her in peace all night? Well, she'd never know. Perhaps just as well.

She looked around the café. Everywhere, people were having breakfast.

She wished she had some money. A drink
would have been nice, her throat felt sore. She wondered if she was running a temperature as well and put her hand to her forehead. Hard to tell.

She looked at her watch to check the date. It had stopped again. She'd worn it on her arm ever since receiving it as a Confirmation gift seventeen years ago. A present from mummy and daddy. With best wishes for a happy, prosperous life.

Imagine that.

It was true that she was happier nowadays, relatively speaking. She had decided to make something of her miserable life and had come to believe she actually could do it. This was important, but anyway she was much happier in her present life than as the well-behaved daughter from a solid, middle-class home. ‘Good' behaviour had been the first thing to go and, come to think of it, it was hard to say why they tolerated it. As if that wasn't bad enough, many other character flaws were discovered and finally all family patience with her ran out. That was the end of her life in the executive villa.

The one reminder of her past came in the form of a white envelope without a return address that turned up in her box at the Drottning Street post office every month, year in and year out. It always contained exactly one thousand five hundred kronor.

Never a word in writing, never any questions
about how she was getting on. Her mother pai to clear her conscience, just as she'd paid to stop herself worrying about the little children in Biafra. As likely as not, her father knew nothing about it.

Renting the post office box cost sixty-two kronor a month.

A young waitress with a ring in her nose came to her table and asked what she'd like to order. Quite a few things actually, if only she'd had the money. She shook her head, got up and started walking down Bibliotek Street towards the Central Station. She had to change her clothes.

Halfway across Normalm Square she saw it. A bright yellow poster on the newspaper kiosk screamed the big news in bold capitals. She had to read it three times before she finally realised the implications for her.

That was all, apart from a photo of the Grand covering a whole page.

The rest of the article listed other murders involving mutilation carried out in Sweden over the last ten years. It was lovingly illustrated with pictures of the victims, complete with their names and ages.

So that's why they had knocked on her door.
Thank God she'd got away. How could she have explained her presence in one of Stockholm's most expensive hotels? She couldn't afford to pay for a coffee in its Wiener Café. What hope had she of persuading them that she deserved a night in a proper bed now and then – even if always paid for by someone who could easily spare the cash? Nil, that's what. She wouldn't have stood a chance. No one would have understood, for none of them had ever led her kind of life.

‘This is no fucking library, love. Do you want a paper or not?' The man in the kiosk was getting fed up. She didn't answer, just meekly put the paper back in the rack.

It was cold and she really did have a sore throat. She started walking towards Central Station again. She needed money and there were three days left until the next giro was due to arrive in her post box. In other words, she couldn't get at it until Monday.

There was a machine dispensing change in the Left Luggage facility at Central Station. She went there and stood in front of it pushing the note-feed button several times.

‘What's wrong with this thing?'

She spoke loudly and distinctly so that no one in the vicinity would fail to realise how irritated she was. She pushed the button again a couple of times, then sighed heavily and looked about.
A man behind the deposit counter had noticed her and she walked over to him.

‘What's the problem?' he asked.

‘The machine doesn't work. It swallowed my hundred-kronor note without producing any change at all and my train's leaving in exactly eight minutes.'

The man opened his till. ‘It's been playing up recently.'

That's a lucky break.

He counted out ten ten-kronor coins and put them in her hand. ‘There, now. If you hurry you'll still catch your train.'

She smiled and put the money away in her handbag. ‘Thanks ever so much.'

Luckily she had the key to the luggage locker in her jacket pocket, not in the briefcase she had forgotten at the Grand Hotel.

She collected her rucksack and, after a few minutes in the ladies' toilet, emerged wearing jeans and a padded anorak. She had decided what to do next.

It had to be a night with the Johanssons.

On her way to the allotments in Eriksdal she bought one tin of baked beans, a loaf of bread, a bottle of Coke, two apples and one tomato. She felt the first drops of rain just as she was crossing Eriksdal Street. For days now the sky had been covered by low cloud as grey as pewter.

All the allotment sheds seemed abandoned and she was grateful for the dull March day that did not tempt gardeners outdoors to their plots. Maybe it was just too early in the season anyway. The snow seemed to have gone for good this year, but the ground might still be hard with frost.

This was the first time she had gone there during the day, which was taking a risk, but she was tired and weary. She was running a temperature and needed peace and quiet.

As usual, the key was tucked away in the hanging basket. They had removed the geraniums that were flourishing in the basket every summer, but the key had remained in its old hiding place. It had been the obvious place to check when she turned up at the little cottage for the first time, almost five years ago.

Kurt and Birgit Johansson, the actual owners, had no idea they were sharing their cottage with Sibylla. She was always careful to leave it as she found it and never damage any of their things. She had picked their cottage partly because of finding the key so easily, but also because the cushions on their garden seats were unusually thick. Pushed together on the floor, they made a decent mattress. Besides, the Johanssons had the excellent sense to equip their small leisure hide-away with a paraffin heater and hotplate. With any luck, she would be left alone for a
good while since they restricted their visiting to the summer months.

The cottage, really little more than a shed, was damp and cold. Still, the single room with a floor area of about ten square metres made it one of the biggest allotment buildings around. Along one of the walls stood a couple of kitchen cupboards, next to a small sink. She checked the cupboard under the sink for the bucket that should be in place under the cut-off drainpipe.

There was a small table with flaking paint near the window, which was partly covered by flyblown flowered curtains. Two odd wooden chairs were placed on either side of the table. She drew the curtains, took a wrought-iron candlestick down from a shelf and lit the candle. By now she was shivering.

She pulled up the zip on her anorak. The paraffin can was almost empty, so she'd have to walk to the garage and fill it up later in the afternoon. Once the heater was lit, she took a china bowl from a cupboard, placed her apples and tomato in it and put it on the table. She had learned to appreciate the small, good things in life, like making your surroundings look as nice as possible. She pulled her sleeping bag from the rucksack and lined up the seat-cushions on the floor. They were damp, so she put her mat down first. Then she crawled into the bag.

Resting her head on her arms, she studied the
ceiling panels and decided to forget all about the Grand Hotel. Nobody knew about her and even if someone had noticed her, they'd never be able to work out who she was. Feeling better now that she'd convinced herself she was safe, she began to descend deeply into sleep, untroubled by any dark premonitions.