He called after her.
'Where are you off to?'
Sibylla didn't answer.
Looking around the cemetery she realised that it was empty. Kerstin Hedlund must have left by another gate. She rejoined Ingmar.
'Where does Kerstin live?'
He looked concerned.
'Why do you ask?'
'I'd like to speak to her for a while.'
By now his voice was carrying a distinct note of caution.
'Is that really wise?'
She raised her eyebrows. Wise? Well, for a start it wasn't Sibylla who had laid down the rules. Maybe the determination showed in her face and manner, for he made no further attempts to dissuade her, only sighed as if he regretted being involved at all.
'I'll drive you. It's too far to walk.'
She forgot about her rucksack, for her mind was entirely dominated by the thought of revenge and punishment. Ingmar drove his old Volvo in silence through Vimmerby town centre, past a group of blocks of flats and then a housing estate. When they had left the built-up areas behind, the road went through woodland.
Sibylla wasn't watching.
'Accursed is he who deprives the innocent of his rights.' The words echoed in her mind, sounding like a premonition.
She didn't even notice at first that the car had stopped.
'It seems she isn't back home yet. At least, the car isn't here.'
His voice got through to her and took her away from her obsessional thoughts. Finding herself back in the passenger seat of the Volvo she looked outside. They had pulled up in front of a yellow wooden house. All the windows were covered by lowered Venetian blinds.
'I'll wait.'
She fumbled with the door handle to get out. 'It's raining.'
That was true enough. Water was rippling down the windscreen.
'I'm a neighbour. I live in the house over there. Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee while you're waiting?'
Coffee? She couldn't care less just now. On the other hand, saying no to anything nutritious was a bad idea and the hot dogs had done little to fill her up. There was plenty of space left inside. She nodded. He got into gear and the car crawled along betweenthe gateposts of a roughcast, green-painted house opposite the Hedlund's.
So, they weren't next-door neighbours, but lived really near each other. Sibylla stepped out into the rain and waited for Ingmar. He walked up a gravelled path towards his house. When she stood on top of the steps, she turned to look in case Kerstin Hedlund's car was coming down the road. All seemed quiet. He reassured her.
'You'll hear her when she comes. We're the only ones living out here.'
She stepped into the hall. A strong smell of solvents was hanging in the air.
'Damn, I forgot to take the jar of turps away.'
He disappeared out of sight but returned quickly, carrying a glass jar with paint-brushes left in to soak.
'The smell will clear away soon. I'll just put the jar outside for now.'
He opened the front door, put the offending jar outside, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She found a spare hook and hung up her jacket.
'Do you paint?'
'It's just a hobby of mine. Why don't you come into the kitchen? We might as well have a cup of coffee.'
He bent to take off his shoes and she followed his example. He stood back to let her step into the kitchen first.
As she took it in she felt sure that this man wasn't living alone. The place wasn't just clean and tidy, but nicely looked after. There were white lace curtains in the window, drawn back by neat, pale pink ties. There were several pots of healthy-looking and quite unusual plants on the windowsill, which was protected by a crocheted runner, possibly home-made.
He was fiddling with the coffee things, filling the kettle with water.
'Why don't you sit down – make yourself at home?' She found a chair that allowed her to keep watch on the road. He was measuring the coffee from a pretty but worn tin.
Observing him as he was pottering about, she thought that there was something odd about the place. Everything was cared for and in good order, but curiously old-fashioned. The kitchen furnishings looked like 1950s originals and the workbenches were far too low, barely reaching the tops of his thighs. Whoever lived here certainly had no interest in up-to-date interior decorating. Still, who was she to criticise? 'Do you live here alone?'
He looked at her. His expression was almost shy. 'Yes. I've been staying here on my own ever since my mother died.'
'I'm sorry. Did she die recently?' The coffee-maker started bubbling. 'No, not at all. About ten years ago.' But you still use her curtains, though. 'Would you like a sandwich?' 'Please. I'm quite hungry.'
He opened the fridge door. The handle was black Bakelite and the whole model looked elderly. Gun-Britt had one of these in her flat in Hultaryd, thirty-five or so years ago. He hesitated, his hand still on the fridge door handle.
'Oh no – what a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.'
'No problem.'
He opened one of the kitchen cabinets, taking out pretty cups and saucers with a blue flower pattern. He put them on the table and started rummaging in a drawer to find the coffee spoons. A car drove past on the road. She jumped and looked out, but the car drove past at speed, disappearing beyond the next bend in the road.
By now Ingmar was folding napkins, delicate little squares of thin cloth with scalloped edges. She hadn't seen their like since the ladies' afternoon tea-parties in Hultaryd. Maybe this was to be expected in the countryside, where time moved so much more slowly than in towns.
'Only the best for visitors.'
She looked at him. He was busy, carefully smoothing the folds in the spotless waxed cloth covering the table. Getting the napkins from a drawer in the table had disturbed it. He was looking very pleased with himself, almost elated. Could it be that it was a long time since he experienced anything as convivial as having a guest for coffee? A female guest to boot.
Before pouring the coffee, he found a small silver tray in a cupboard. On it he placed a sugar-bowl and a cream jug in the same china as the cups. Looking very pleased with his preparations, he sat down opposite her and smiled invitingly.
'There now. Hope you'll enjoy it.'
'Thank you.'
She glanced at the empty cream jug. It would have been nice with a little milk out of a packet, but she realised that it was pointless to ask. Lifting the cup by its tiny fragile handle, she drank some coffee while considering the text on the embroidered sampler behind him.
GREATEST OF ALL IS LOVE.
Then he suddenly broke the silence.
'So what's your plan for when you meet Kerstin?'
The question threw her. During the car journey her thoughts had been so intense that she had somehow assumed that he would share her sense of urgency. Now it struck her that he still had no idea who she was. She looked into her coffee cup.
I just wanted to talk to her a little.'
The expression on his face didn't change, as if the smile had been glued to his face. 'Why do you?'
She felt something like irritation creeping into her mind. So maybe he meant well, but she wasn't that dependent on his good offices.
‘It's something between her and me.' Ingmar kept focusing on her. 'Are you sure?'
The coffee was thin and tasteless. He had put in far too little coffee. She had no energy left for maintaining this conversation and rose from the table.
'Thanks for the coffee and the lift. I feel like taking a little walk now, while I wait.'
He didn't answer and the smile still didn't leave his face. It suddenly came to her that there was something not quite right about him. His incessant smiling was so silly that she had an impulse to say something nasty, just to wipe it off his mug. He looked so pleased with himself, as if remembering a funny story he had no intention of sharing with her.