Beatrice sounded frosty.
‘Now, we don’t have to woo you any more than this, do we Sibylla? Everyone is waiting.’
Slowly she rose, pushing the chair back. The noisy room grew silent. She drew a deep breath. Get it over now. Someone at the young table shouted to her.
‘We can’t see you, stand on the chair!’
She stared in mute appeal at her mother, who just waved one hand a little to show she had no objection. Sibylla’s legs were shaking so much, she feared she’d fall off the chair. The sneering looks on the faces of the young crowd were unmistakable. This was obviously the thrill of the evening. She inhaled deeply, starting to sing in a quavering voice.
Even before reaching the end of the first line, she realised that she had pitched the start far too high to manage the notes at the end. Right enough, she didn’t and as her voice was faltering, barely suppressed laughter hit her like a whiplash. Blushing furiously, she sat down. After a few seconds, the Sales Manager started applauding and, hesitantly, others followed suit.
Meeting her mother’s eyes, she saw that she had been punished enough. She’d be left alone for now.
On the way back, her father was pleased at the very satisfactory evening. Beatrice, leaning on his arm, was nodding in wifely agreement. Sibylla, walking a few paces behind them, had just decided to pick up a really nice stone when her mother turned her head.
‘And your singing went perfectly well after all, didn’t it?’
Neither of them missed the actual meaning of her words, but Beatrice couldn’t resist another remark to round off her disciplinary exercise.
‘Such a shame you lost control over your voice at the end.’
Sibylla didn’t bother with the nice stone.
Of all the bloody awful fucking things to happen. He had seemed so perfect.
Her first reaction almost immediately gave way to the realisation that this time she’d really caught it. Obviously the police would be especially interested in the woman Grundberg had picked up, fed and then, always the gentleman, fixed a hotel room for as well.
It was pretty certain she was the mysterious woman the police were looking for. Worse, in the circumstances, no one would care to help her just for the asking, that much was certain too. Her first feeling was rage and she marched straight into the garage shop to pull a paper from the stand. The centrefold headline left no room for doubt.
MURDERER MUTILATED VICTIM.
Three words in heavy black type. Below, a full-page photograph of Jörgen Grundberg smiling broadly at the camera.
Unnamed sources alleged that the murderer had sliced open the dead man’s torso and removed unspecified internal organs. The police admitted that some kind of religious symbol had been left at the scene of the crime, suggesting a ritual act of slaughter.
‘Gruesome stuff, isn’t it?’
Sibylla looked up. The man behind the counter nodded towards the paper.
‘That’s eight kronor for the paper, then. Is that all?’
She hesitated, fingering the coins in her pocket. Eight kronor was a lot to spend, just for a newspaper.
‘A can of paraffin too, please.’
The man pointed for her to help herself from the right shelf. After paying, there were only nineteen kronor left in her purse.
Back at the allotments, Hjelm was no longer to be seen. She closed the door behind her and settled down with the paper. Reading the first four lines was enough to convince her that she was the wanted woman.
Who, the paper was asking, was Jörgen Grundberg’s mysterious female companion, who had dined with him in the Grand’s French restaurant? How had she managed to vanish in the morning, slipping unseen past the police cordons? The public was encouraged to contact the police headquarters with any information that might have a bearing on the case. The number to ring was displayed in large print.
She felt queasy. Seconds later she realised why. She was under threat.
What was she to do? The simplest answer was to ring that police number and explain the situation, insisting that she was innocent. The drawback was that she would have to let them know her personal details, including her ID number. A single computer check would tell them that she hardly had an official existence. This would instantly make them curious about her, the last thing she needed. Being left alone to mind her own business was all she ever wanted. She’d managed to do just that for fifteen years now. No one had chased her.
Of course she’d committed lots of minor illegal acts, misdemeanours that never harmed anyone poor or needy. She was not at all wicked but still, there were many things she’d rather not have the police look into. Living outside the margins of the normally acceptable for so long had shaped her. She was no longer in the system.
Being an outcast was part of how she lived, who she was. That she should be allowed to survive on her own terms seemed a small thing to ask, but she knew the media would turn the story of her life into something she couldn’t endure. Not that she was proud of what she’d done so far, but anyone who tried interfering and laying down the law could go to hell.
No stranger would ever really understand why her life had turned out the way it had. Too bad if she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. What had happened, had happened.
‘Henry, I just can’t take her with me. You know what it was like last time!’
Beatrice Forsenström was preparing for her annual visit to her mother and two aunts. Henry Forsenström didn’t have much time for these ladies and the feeling was mutual. Beatrice went to see them on her own.
Sibylla had speculated about the possibility that once upon a time her mother really must have married her father for love because Beatrice’s parents had been so opposed to the marriage. Beatrice’s family was upper-class. Her parents, Mr and Mrs Hall, surveying the world from inside their huge apartment in Stockholm’s prestigious Östermalm district, had dismissed the son of Forsenström’s Foundry as ‘not really one of us’. When anyone wanted to marry into the Hall family ‘a good family background’ was what really counted. ‘New money’ was automatically suspect.
Besides, what would a Hall girl do, buried in Hultaryd? No one had ever heard of this one-horse place somewhere in the Småland uplands. Still, it’s your funeral, my dear, just don’t come complaining to us afterwards.
Sibylla had picked this up gradually, listening to her mother’s conversations with Granny at mealtimes. Apparently, Granny was also displeased at how long it had taken Beatrice and her husband to produce children. Displeased, though not at all surprised. What can you expect? Beatrice had been all of thirty-six when Sibylla was born.
Sibylla’s grandmother had a finely honed ability to make herself understood, a skill relying entirely on insinuations and covert accusations. Her daughter had inherited it in full. As a grown-up, Sibylla had sometimes wondered if she too carried the same dissembling gene.
At that time, she had been a teenager and hiding halfway up the stairs to listen to what her parents were saying about going to see Granny.
‘Her cousins simply can’t understand what she’s talking about half the time. They make fun of her. I shouldn’t expose her to that.’
Henry Forsenström said nothing. Perhaps he was just looking through some of his documents. ‘Her accent is even coarser than some of the working-class children here, you know.’
Her father sighed audibly, but must have felt he should comment.
‘What’s wrong wi’ that. She’s born ’n’ bred in these parts after all.’
Henry Forsenström’s