Missing

When she returned, a man wearing a brown suede jacket was crouching in front of Rune Hedlund's grave. The hair on the back of his head was thinning.

It might be awkward, but she couldn't afford to pass up this opportunity. She had been watching round the clock for days to find out more and whoever he was must have known Rune Hedlund well. He was bending deep over the grave in prayer or contemplation. Shoving the last piece of sausage into her mouth, she walked closer, all the time chewing and swallowing carefully. In passing, she grabbed a fresh-looking bunch of daffodils from a nearby grave. Necessity knows no law.

Hopefully, the spirit of Sigfrid Stalberg wouldn't mind too much.

She stopped just behind the man, who had shifted position and was sitting on his haunches by the grave just as she had a couple of days ago. He was fiddling intently with something near the tombstone and seemed not to have heard her. She couldn't see what he was up to. Watching him made her suddenly feel very ill-at-ease. If she was to gain his confidence, sneaking up on him like this was hardly the way to go about it.

She cleared her throat.

His reaction was rather similar to her own once. He momentarily lost his balance, but steadied himself by leaning on one hand. She smiled apologetically.

'I'm sorry I startled you.'

He was younger-looking than she had expected. Recovering quickly from his confusion, he turned his face up and smiled back at her.

'You're a right menace, creeping up on people like that. I might've had a heart attack.'

'Honestly, I didn't mean to. It's the soles on my shoes.'

He looked at her sturdy, comfy walking boots. Then his gaze wandered to her face. He sniffled at little, wiping his nose with his hand. Then he looked at the grave.

'Are you here for Rune?'

Damn it! He had got his question in first and that was bad.

She moved her head about in a way that could have signified either a reluctant Yes or a muddled No, whatever the circumstances called for.

'Did you know him?'

She got her question in quickly, trying to take over control.

He looked her over, neither suspiciously nor unpleasantly, but with interest. Apparently, he was feeling genuinely curious about her. Then he shook his head a little.

'Know and know. We were work-mates, down in Abro village.'

'I see.'

'And you, what about you? Are you a relative?' 'Oh no.'

Her answer had sounded far too pat. He smiled a little. 'Now you've really made me curious. I'm sure you're not from round here.'

She shook her head and looked down. The daffodils caught her eyes. She would get a little respite if she fetched a vase and some water.

'Hey, I'd better look after these.'

Without giving him a chance to say any more, she walked across to the small fenced-in maintenance area. He was quick -fast on the draw and inquisitive. She realised she couldn't get rid of him without telling him who she was.

So, who was she?

She took her time. She picked a sharp-tipped plastic vase from the box and rinsed it carefully under running water. Fragmented thoughts were rotating wildly in her brain, as if spun in a centrifuge. How to avoid raising his suspicions? Why had she approached him anyway?

With the vase filled for the fourth time, she walked back. She drew a deep breath. He was crouching near the grave again and pushed apart the stems in a clump of crocuses. There were paint-stains on his hands. The fingers were long and slender. He wore no rings.

'Why don't you put your flowers here?'

She followed his advice. A crocus flipped forward and she pushed it back. He reached out and put his finger on her watch.

'What an unusual watch.'

She felt a little silly and pulled her sleeve down to cover the watch.

'It's old. It doesn't even work any more.'

She glanced sideways at him. His eyes were suddenly fixed on the tombstone.

'Ingmar!'

This time they both practically fell over backwards.

'What are you doing here? And with her!'

Mrs Hedlund was making no bones about it – she didn't care at all for the scene at her husband's grave. Her voice held surprise, but also anger and suspicion.

'Kerstin – please!'

The man called Ingmar took a step towards the agitated woman.

'I'm not here "with her". I thought she was a friend of the family.'

He was at Kerstin Hedlund's side, looking at Sibylla. His move over to the right team had been fast. Sibylla was left with the guilt, one foot still planted among the crocuses. Kerstin was staring at her now, her eyes brimming with an emotion that was composed of grief and hatred. At the same time, her face expressed such condescension that Sibylla felt ready to apologise for just existing.

Ingmar turned his head from one woman to the other. Finally his curiosity won.

'Who is she?'

He was clearly struggling to keep his voice neutral. Kerstin Hedlund answered, her eyes pinning Sibylla to the spot.

'She's nobody. I'd be grateful if you got her out of here. At once.'

He looked at Sibylla, who nodded quickly and stepped across to the path. Anything to end this performance. 'Hurry up and come with me!'

He made an impatient gesture. Sibylla obeyed immediately, but gave the furious woman a wide berth. Mustn't get involved in anything noisy.

Neither of them spoke before reaching the parking lot. Her rucksack was still hidden in the shrubbery, but there was no way she could fetch it now. She had to come back later, somehow.

He turned to her.

'What was all that in aid of?'

Knowing that evasiveness was pointless, Sibylla hesitated just a fraction of a second.

'She thinks I'm Rune's mistress.'

He laughed abruptly. Maybe she ought to take offence.

'She's convinced he had one, because somebody is putting a red rose on his grave every week.'

His smile faded and was replaced by a frown. He sighed deeply.

'Do you know Kerstin?'

'No.'

He glanced at the cemetery, as if to reassure himself that they had not been followed.

‘I understand that you felt very uncomfortable, but you must try to forgive her.'

'Forgive her – I don't understand what you mean.'

He sighed again. It seemed to distress him to speak ill of the widow.

'You see, it's Kerstin herself who puts roses on the grave. She forgets it afterwards and goes around accusing people she meets in the cemetery. She's been very distraught and unlike her usual self, ever since Rune died.'

Sibylla stared at him. He sensed her confusion and went on with his explanation before she got round to asking more questions.

‘I came here today in a reflective mood. I don't know what I can do to help her, but I feel I owe Rune the effort.'

Sibylla still didn't get it. If there was no mistress, then… the next conclusion was inevitable.

'In what way hasn't she been her usual self?'

He looked downcast and embarrassed.

'She's been off work for a couple of months now. She was employed at the Health Centre as a practice nurse, but they felt she was behaving irrationally and told her to take some time off. Sadly, she seems to have gone from bad to worse since she stopped working.'

Sibylla recalled the white clothes under Kerstin Hedlund's coat when they first met.

'But I'm sure I've seen her in her uniform.'

He nodded sadly.

'Yes. I know, I know.'

So, her instinctive reaction had been right. She was the one, that woman with hate in her eyes. The healthcare job would mean easier access to the transplant lists. Having traced the victims, all she did was to go find them and bring back what she reckoned was justly hers.

That Sibylla Forsenström's life was crushed in the process was obviously of zero importance. Well, in some ways it had actually been an encouraging coincidence, which could be put to good use. She closed her eyes to hide the fury in them. The desire to hurt that woman, badly enough to mark her for life, invaded Sibylla's whole body. So much anguish, so many anxious moments – and above all, the loss of her savings and her hopes of a better future. She turned and walked towards the cemetery gates.