Missing (22 page)

S
he 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 got 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 stay 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 it 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 protective 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 insane cunt!

She smiled. The disappearance of the moon gave her hope 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 frozen, 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. Around 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 locate 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, she would have felt 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 their guns at her. 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.

‘Murdering bitch!'

So he had got there first, ahead of her again.

S
he 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 broken rib. She grimaced with pain. A door opened and she stepped through it.

‘Sit down.'

She obeyed, pulling back the chair with her handcuffed hands. Two 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 observed 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 Sågar 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.'

H
ours 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 that she was considered
such a hardened criminal that she was outside the remit of the pathetic 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 Bergström.'

She sat up, but her face contorted with pain. Her broken rib was announcing that it would rather she stayed horizontal.

‘I'm your legal adviser 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 Bergström 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 officially dead. 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 irresistibly 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 Bergström's time to be surprised.

‘Did she, indeed?'

‘Until last week.'

‘Remarkable. Quite … remarkable.'

Yes, isn't it?

Bergström 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 on 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 she 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. Bergström 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 Bergström stood, leaning against the wall. One man and one woman came in soon afterwards, new people this time. Bergström 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.'

Bergström 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 tumbling about inside her head. It seemed impossible to arrange any of them in an orderly sequence.

She stared at 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. I think one of my ribs is broken.'

‘What about the scratches on 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.

‘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 away from the case at that stage. He had helped me enough, I thought.'

Patrik's mother nodded. She clearly thought so, too.

Per-Olof Gren began to explain.

‘We searched Ingmar Eriksson's house this morning. He kept the … remains in his fridge.'

‘… 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 to 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 fridge. He was going to bury the lot in Hedlund's grave.'

The room was silent. Sibylla was trying to get her mind round this completely new situation, but she was far too tired to manage.

‘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?'

Bergström 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.'

Bergström smiled condescendingly.

‘My dear Sibylla, we're talking many millions here.'

Their eyes met and, after a while, it seemed that he had almost accepted that she meant it.

‘But you shouldn't let her get away with it. She's keeping back an entire 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?'