Was it her fault that she didn’t fit in? She had never been one of them, but managed all the same. What more could they ask? She was a survivor, a survivor in spite of everything.
Now they would take her apart again, seeing her strength as madness and her unconditional existence as a loner’s misery. They were poised to crush her plans to build a life of her own.
She wasn’t going to let them, no way – not now.
‘It wasn’t me!’
She was phoning from a telephone booth in Stockholm Central Station. The line went silent, so she said it again.
‘It wasn’t me who killed him.’
‘Killed whom?’
‘Jörgen Grundberg.’
A brief pause.
‘Who’s that speaking, please?’
She was scanning the great station hall. It was a Saturday and the hall was full of people, leaving and arriving, ready to meet or to separate.
‘I’m Sibylla. The person you’re looking for. But I’m not the killer.’
A man carrying a briefcase was standing just a few metres away. He looked demonstratively first at his watch and then at her. Obviously, he was in a hurry and would like her to finish her call. Presumably he too had discovered that this was the only phone around that was still coin-operated. She turned her back on him.
‘Where are you?”
‘It doesn’t matter. The important thing I want you to know is that it wasn’t me who …’
She fell silent and looked out again. The man was still there, staring irritably at her. She turned her head away again and lowered her voice.
‘… not me who did it. That’s all I’ve got to say.’
‘Wait a minute!’
She had intended to put the receiver down but stopped. She could sense the effort the woman at the other end was putting into formulating what she planned to say.
‘How do I know that I’m actually speaking to Sibylla?’
‘What’s that you said?”
‘Could you give me your ID number?’
Sibylla almost laughed. For Christ’s sake, now what?
‘My ID number?’
‘Lots of people phoned today, saying that they’re Sibylla. How do we know that you’re the right one?’
She was open-mouthed with astonishment.
‘Listen, I am Sibylla Forsenström. I’ve forgotten my ID number, I’ve had no reason to use it for a long time. I just wanted to say “Please mind your own business, leave me in peace”.’
She had forgotten the waiting man, but when she turned he looked away, pretending not to watch her.
‘Where are you?’
Sibylla snorted and stared into the receiver.
‘None of your business, mate.’ She finished the call and held out the receiver to the waiting man. He hung back, looking anxious.
‘Come on, it’s all yours.’
He gestured defensively.
‘No, no, it’s all right.’
‘No? And you were so fucking keen a moment ago?’
His rolled-up evening paper stuck out from his coat pocket. It was The Express. She spotted one of her own eyes under that appalling fringe.
‘Whatever.’ She put the receiver back.
The man smiled nervously, then turned and left.
She had to get away now. Better being angry than scared. Above all, she mustn’t ever stick her neck out. From now on she couldn’t be sure who knew her by name and why. Christ, of all the names in the world, why did they have to pick Sibylla?
It had been easy to find out where Mrs Grundberg lived. The papers had printed so much information about Jörgen Grundberg that she could have written his biography.
The train journey to Eskilstuna didn’t take long. She started off hiding in the toilet, but once the conductor had done his first ticket round and unlocked the toilet door from the outside, she went to find a seat. No one registered surprise at her sudden appearance in the compartment. Ever since discovering that one of the fittings on her hair-curling kit was ideal for opening locked toilet doors on trains, she had been treating herself to the odd excursion. She’d been caught just once and ordered off the train in Hallsberg, which wasn’t too bad a place anyway.
She felt happier now, for some strange reason. Maybe it was because she was determined to take control over what was happening to her. Or maybe spending her last kronor on a hamburger had cheered her up.
The Grundbergs’ large villa was surrounded by a chest-high wall of the same white, glazed bricks that covered the fac¸ade. Mock-Victorian lamps lit the driveway to the mahogany-style front door that contrasted with black-stained window frames. One of the largest satellite discs she’d ever seen was perched on the roof.
The whole place was screaming more-money-than-taste.
For a while she hung about on the pavement, hesitating. Then she walked round the block to avoid attracting attention by loitering and the walk helped her to make up her mind. She had better start trying to find an explanation here and now.
The decision was easy to reach in her head, especially on the far side of the block, but her legs were not keen on taking her along the drive. Looking at the large house, her courage was faltering again. The dark windows, framed in black and with black shutters, seemed to be observing her like so many hostile eyes.
Someone opened the door and called to her.
‘Are you from a newspaper?’
‘No.’ Sibylla swallowed hard, closed the gate behind her and walked down the last part of the drive without looking at the woman in the doorway. Halfway to the front steps she passed a water-feature with a vaguely classical marble female, which presumably spurted water on good days. Now she looked frozen.
Sibylla stopped at the bottom of the steps, swallowing once more before looking up at the woman waiting there.
‘Yes?’ She seemed impatient.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to see Lena Grundberg.’
The woman shifted a little. She was in her forties and exceptionally good-looking.
‘I am Lena Grundberg.’
Sibylla felt uncomfortable. She had no idea what or who she’d been expecting. Her idea had been to pretend she was a minister on call, or maybe a counsellor from some bereavement support group. The papers often mentioned that sort of thing. People, who simply came along uninvited, wanting to comfort the distressed widow or mother or whoever. Trouble was, this woman was looking just as cool and collected as the marble lady in the pond.
‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice sounded a little cross, impatient. The tone was that of someone interrupted in the middle of watching an exciting film.
Having taken in the woman’s personality, Sibylla made an instant decision to change her approach. Submission seemed the best way to deal with Lena Grundberg.
‘My name is Berit Svensson. I know this is a terrible time to call but … I’ve come to ask you for help.’ She blinked shyly. Looking up she saw Lena Grundberg frowning.
‘I’ve been reading the papers, of course, and I live … round here. You see, I’ve lost my husband too, some six months ago and I still feel … I need to talk to someone who knows what it’s