Missing

'That Magnusson, a neighbour. When he's here, he plays reveille every morning and lights-out every night. It's from sheer joy at being here, he says.'

Gunvor had to smile a little, despite her grief. Sibylla closed her eyes, briefly dreaming of living in this place. Imagine having a neighbour, at a safe distance, who announced his presence with tunes on a trumpet, played from happiness. The dream of being happy.

'How much are you looking for? For the house?'

'The agent says I shouldn't go below 300,000…'

Sibylla's hope went out like a light.

'… but as far as I'm concerned, what's important is who buys it.' Their eyes met.

'Soren and I built it back in 1957, struggling like anything to make ends meet. We've put so much of ourselves into this place, lived through so many things here. I still can't quite believe I can just move away. That the house will still be here, but with someone else inside it. Not us any more.'

She pulled her jacket closer around her body.

'As if we had never mattered.'

Sibylla protested, with real feeling.

'But you have mattered, of course you have. That's what makes it all so wonderful. The house bears witness to your lives here. The whole place does. Your feet made this path down to the lake and it will always be here. You planted the shrubs. Everything. I have never done anything that will live when I'm dead. Nothing to remind people that I was around.'

She stopped abruptly. What was all this in aid of? Why not give her name while she was at it?

'But you've got a son.'

Sibylla cleared her throat, embarrassed.

'Of course I do. I don't know what came over me.'

She turned to call.

'Patrik! I think we'd better go. We'll miss the bus!'

Gunvor looked concerned.

'Didn't you come by car?'

'No. We took a taxi here, actually.'

'I'll drive you to town. I'm leaving anyway.'

They made it to the bus terminal with only minutes to spare. Sibylla took a window seat. Clutched in her hand was a note with Gunvor Stromberg's telephone number, in case she decided to buy.

She put the note away in her pocket. Patrik was looking at her eagerly.

'Did you find out something?'

'I'm not sure. Probably not. She didn't say anything about the murder. He had cancer, badly. He had a big operation just a year or so ago.'

Patrik sounded disappointed.

'You should've asked about the murder.'

'Easier said than done.'

A moment later Patrik started examining his sheets of paper again. He had written something on the back of one them. 'What have you got there?'

I copied a little from his hospital notes. Found them in a folder in her shoulder-bag.' She was shocked. 'You rooted about in her bag?' 'Sure did. Do you want to find out stuff or not?' A worse worry occurred to her. 'Hey, did you nick anything?' 'Yeah, of course. Stacks of cash.'

She made a face at him, reaching out her hand for his notes. He snatched back the sheet of paper. 'How come you're loaded?' 'What's your problem?'

'Why hang out in an attic when you're carrying bundles of grands in a purse round your neck?' 'That's my business.'

At first she didn't care if he started sulking again. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away demonstratively. They were already driving into Soderkoping when she finally admitted to herself that she owed him an explanation.

'It's my savings.'

He turned towards her.

Then she told him all of it, about her dream. The house that would open up a new life for her and about her mother's hand-outs, which had stopped when she hit the news.

He listened with interest. When she had finished, he held out his notes.

'There you are.'

He had been busy, copying lists of hospital stays and operations. She ignored the many incomprehensible expressions and abbreviations, until she was pulled up short by a combination of words she had come across before. Sandimmun Neoral.

Someone had said that recently. Or had she read it? Patrik observed her reaction.

'What's up?'

She shook her head thoughtfully, pointing at the phrase.

'I'm not sure. Here, look, where it says Sandimmun Neoral, fifty milligrams. I cannot work out why I recognise this.'

'Seems to be some kind of medicine? Do you know what it's for?'

'Not a clue.'

'I know, Fiddie's mum is a doctor. I'll ask her.'

Brilliant. You just go ahead and ask Fiddie's mum why a patient should take Sandimmun Neoral. She must be used to teenagers asking her things like that on a daily basis. She smiled at him, wanting to take his hand. Better not.

'Patrik.'

'Ummm.'

'Thank you for everything, for your help.'

He seemed embarrassed.

'Oh, come on. I haven't helped any, not yet.'

Her smile grew broader.

'You really have.'

She spent the night in the attic of Patrik's block of flats. He let her in and she took up residence in an unused box-room. It had been hard for her to calm down. It was not hunger that kept her awake, because Patrik had brought her sandwiches. Her mind was stuffed with experiences and she needed to process them. Thoughts and images were flickering behind her eyelids. When she finally fell asleep she had been thinking for hours.

As soon as she woke up that Sunday morning, she knew why she had recognised Sandimmun Neoral. Her brain had sifted through stored information while she slept and could now present her with the vital item.

Jorgen Grundberg. He had a packet of tablets and had taken some at the end of his meal. She sat bolt upright. This was surely important, it couldn't be a coincidence that two of the murderer's victims took the same medicine?

She felt wide-awake and had to walk about. Impatiently she went into the corridor outside to peer through the only small window. It was light outside and she wondered what time it was. How long before Patrik would come?

She had to wait for hours. While she waited, the effect of this sudden breakthrough became clear to her. Once more, the will to fight was consuming her.

When she finally heard the heavy metal door swing open and Patrik called her name, she couldn't wait a second longer to tell him.

'Jorgen Grundberg took Sandimmun Neoral as well!'

'Did he? Are you sure?'

He gave her a triple-decker sandwich and a beer, but she was too excited to eat.

'Certain. It can't be coincidence, can it?' 'I asked Fiddie's mum.' 'Already? What time is it?'

'Ten past eleven. I phoned her. Woke her up, actually. I said I was doing this Special Subject investigation. No lies!' He grinned.

'I had chased it on the Net first, but couldn't get my head round what it was for.' 'And?'

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

'It's called an immunosuppressive drug. If you're on it, it means you've had a transplant. The medicine prevents the new organ being rejected by the person's body cells.'

He looked triumphant when he put his paper away.

'Transplant – like a new organ? A heart or something?'

'That's it. She said there are lots of bits and pieces you replace in people's bodies.'

Sibylla sat down to think. First, Jorgen Grundberg. He had had a kidney disease, or so his hard-hearted widow had told her. Soren Stromberg's widow had told her about his liver cancer. Both were on medicine that reduced the function of their immune systems. Both widows had mentioned that their husbands had undergone major surgery within the last year.

This could not be coincidental.

'Are you thinking the same as me?'

Sibylla nodded.

'As I. Yes, I'm sure I do. If we can we should check it out at least once more. Do you have that list?' He nodded.

'Downstairs. Hang on, I'll get it.'

When he returned, he'd also brought his father's mobile phone. She read the by now familiar names once more.

'What next? Which one do you want to call? Bollnas or Stocksund?'

Put like that, she suddenly didn't think it was such a good idea.