He was getting worked up. She was looking at him with real interest. She wasn't sure if what he said was more insulting than enlightening, but it was certainly justified. She rose.
'You're right, boss. OK, let's go. What should we do, do you think?'
'Let's go to Vastervik.'
'You're joking!'
'No. I've checked out the bus-times already. There is one leaving Stockholm in half an hour. Four hundred and sixty kronor return. I'll lend you the money. We'll arrive at four forty and that will give us two hours and twenty minutes before catching the bus back.'
'You ARE crazy.'
'We'll be back at quarter past eleven.'
She reached for the last straw.
'You're meant to be back home before ten.'
'Nope. I'm going to a movie, I've already phoned Dad.'
The landscape was rushing past the bus windows. She spent most of the time looking out. Sodertalje. Nykoping. Norrkoping. Soderkoping. Patrik kept studying the police computer printouts apparently hoping to find a hidden clue if only he examined the pictures closely enough.
She had paid for their tickets. In the seclusion of the Ladies she had taken a thousand-crown note from her savings. When she met up with Patrik afterwards, he had bought two bags of crisps and a two-litre bottle of Coke. His eyes grew round with surprise when she got the tickets, but asked no questions. She liked that.
'Why are you getting involved in all this, really?' He shrugged, it freaks me out.'
She wasn't going to let him get off so easily. 'Seriously, though. Have you nothing better to do than hang out with an old hag of thirty-two?' He grinned at her. 'You only thirty-two?'
Pointless question. He must have read her age hundreds of times in the newspapers. She kept looking at him until finally he folded his bits of paper and put them away in an inside pocket.
‘I just don't get it, I mean this thing about always joining some gang. Mum and Dad go on about it non-stop. I can't help if I don't fancy arsing about playing hockey or football and whatever. Happens I don't give a shit who gets into the Premier League. So what?'
She nodded apologetically.
'Fine. I just wondered.'
She started staring out the window again and he returned to his bits of paper.
The Vastervik murder victim had been a Soren Stromberg, ID 36 02 07-4639. They were going to find his nearest and dearest. She remembered well how she had travelled to see Lena Grundberg, full of courage and hope.
How differently she felt now.
The bus was on time. She kept in the background while Patrik asked the girl in the bus terminal shop for directions to Siver Street, Stromberg's address.
It wasn't far to go. By the time they were nearly there, she was feeling very uneasy. Patrik was hurrying ahead, unworried and enthusiastic, as if on his way to good party.
It was a two-storey house with a mansard-roof. Someone had chosen a long since discredited fashion and covered the walls with cladding tiles. Presumably the same person had built a porch in corrugated green plastic round the front door. It was the final insult to the house, which now looked totally charmless.
Stopping at the gate, they looked at each other and Sibylla shook her head sadly, to show what a lousy idea she thought all this. That decided Patrik, who at once started strolling along the garden path.
Sighing, she followed him. She couldn't just stand there, after all.
'What are you going to say?'
Before he had time to answer, a window was opened in the neighbouring house and a middle-aged woman popped her head out.
'Is it Gunvor you're looking for?'
They exchanged a quick glance.
'Yes,' they chorused.
'She's gone to the cottage. It's in Segersvik. Shall I tell her you called?'
Patrik went up to hedge separating the two properties, is it far to Segersvik?'
'Twenty-odd kilometres, I suppose. Are you driving?' Patrik showed no hesitation. 'Yes, we are.'
'Right. Take the old road towards Gamleby, past Piperkarr and then carry on for another ten kilometres or so. I think there's a sign to Segersvik.'
'Thanks a lot.'
He turned, dispelling any other questions the woman might have wanted to ask. They walked down the path and heard her close the window. He spoke very quietly.
'That's where he was killed. The news stories say he was killed while staying in his summer cottage.'
They kept walking until they were outside the range of the woman next door. Sibylla stopped at the end of the street.
'Now what do we do? If we set out walking, we won't get back in time for the bus.'
'Sure. We'll take a taxi. I've got money.'
This sounded worrying.
'How come you've got such a lot? I mean, at your age one usually doesn't. Or have times changed?'
He said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on the street.
'For fuck's sake, Patrik – you haven't lifted the dosh, have you?'
'No, I haven't. Borrowed some, though.' 'Who lent you money?'
There was a taxi rank at the bus terminal and he started walking back. Sibylla didn't move.
I won't take one single step until you tell me where you got the money.'
I borrowed some. Back home, from the household kitty. Relax, I'll pay it back before anyone notices.'
'Will you? With what, exactly?'
'I don't know. I mean, I'll think of something.'
He walked on but she still didn't move from the spot. Turning, he shouted irritably at her.
'What's wrong, do you just want to stand here bullshitting? Or?'
'How much did you take?' He hesitated. 'One grand.'
She took another sacred thousand-crown note from her purse. 'Here, take it. And if you ever nick one single thing again, I'll leave. I mean it.' He nodded, looking surprised. 'Do you get that?' 'YES.'
He grabbed the note.
She set out for the bus station and when she turned her head, he was still standing there.
'Hey! What do you want, more bullshitting? Come on!'
He hesitated for another second and then, unwillingly, started running after her.'
She was appalled when the metre clocked up more than two hundred kronor. Going places by taxi was grossly wasteful. Simply unheard of.
They had left Piperskarr far behind. The tarmac road had turned into a narrow gravel track through forest, now and then interrupted by farms and fields. The land was hilly, even rocky at times. They didn't speak. The driver luckily was a silent man and Patrik seemed to have withdrawn after being told off.
It made her feel better, because now she was back in charge.
Then they reached the lakeside. There was a small marina. The jetty was empty and the boats hauled up on land, resting under tarpaulins and waiting for the spring. Afterwards, the road went through more forest until the landscape opened up toward the lake again. The sun was sinking, colouring the western sky an intense pink.
'Do you want the farm?'
The driver nodded his head in the direction of a group of buildings just ahead. Sibylla glanced at Patrik, who sat turned away and looking out through the window. He wasn't going to help, that much was clear. She leaned forward.
'I'm not really sure. We're visiting someone called Gunvor Stromberg. She's staying in a cottage somewhere near here.'
The driver sounded sour.
'You've got to do better than that. Don't you have her address?'
He drove on slowly, past the gate of small red house on a sharp right-hand bend. The metre had clicked on to two hundred and sixty kronor. Sibylla swallowed and produced another note from her purse. Patrik glared at her but she avoided his eyes.
'We'll get off here.'
The taxi pulled in as far as possible on the narrow road. She paid but did not tip, so he made no move to help her lift her rucksack from the boot. The taxi turned at a meeting-place a bit further along and disappeared in the direction of town. It struck her that they hadn't planned the return journey. She sighed and heaved the rucksack onto her back.