The laughter was dying away now, as suddenly as it had emerged. Left behind was only a great empty space inside her.
He was observing her nervously.
'How do you feel?'
She looked up at him, with the tears still streaming down her face.
How did she feel? Fucking awful. Everything was fucking awful.
She laid down again, turning her back to him. He went to the door and knocked to be let out. He was away for a few minutes, but then she heard the door opening and he returned.
‘I’ll stay with you just now. They'll be back soon to take you in for further questioning.'
They did come soon afterwards. The pain when she got up showed on her face. Bergstrom had been watching her.
'Are you in pain?'
She nodded.
'Someone broke a chair on my ribcage.'
He asked no more questions. Maybe this kind of thing was common practice in Vimmerby?
She obediently reached out her hands towards the policeman, expecting to be handcuffed again, but he only shook his head.
The interrogation room was empty when they came in. She sat down on the same chair and Kjell Bergstrom stood, leaning against the wall. One man and one woman came in soon afterwards, new people this time. Bergstrom shook hands with them, but Sibylla stayed where she was. Presumably she didn't need to introduce herself.
Three pairs of eyes were watching her. The unknown man spoke first.
'How are you feeling?'
She couldn't be bothered answering and just smiled a little.
'My name is Per-Olof Gren. I'm working for the National Criminal Bureau. This is my colleague Anita Hansson.'
Bergstrom went back to lean against his wall, while the newcomers settled behind the desk. No one started the tape recorder.
'We had hoped that you would feel strong enough to tell us about what happened last night.'
Feel strong enough? What was this soft approach meant to achieve? Sibylla sighed and leaned against the back of the chair. Thoughts were stumbling about inside her head. It seemed impossible to arrange any of them in an orderly sequence.
She stared to the desktop.
'I was in the cemetery. I met Rune Hedlund's widow. Ingmar turned up afterwards and I went away with him.' 'Is he the person who beat you up?' She looked up.
'Yes, he is. With a chair. At least one rib seems to be broken.' 'What about the scratches in your face?' 'I got them when I was running away from him. Through the forest.'
The man looked at his woman colleague. 'You were lucky, you know.' Oh, yeah? Super-lucky is the word. Suddenly Anita Hansson spoke up. 'I believe you know Patrik.'
A small ray of hope was coming through the thick cloud of dejection filling her mind. 'Did you find him?'
'He's my son.'
Sibylla stared at her. Patrik's mum, she who was 'in the force'. Nothing in Anita Hansson's face revealed her feelings about the matter.
'This morning, when the news broke, he told me all about it.'
For a moment, Sibylla thought she was dreaming.
'I phoned the National Bureau once I'd convinced myself that he was telling the truth. It all hung together, except the name Thomas Sandberg, of course. A bit confusing, that.'
'I wanted to keep Patrik outside the case at that stage. He had helped me enough, I thought.'
Patrik's mother nodded. She clearly thought so too.
Per-Olof Gren started the explanation.
'We searched Ingmar Eriksson's house this morning. He kept the… remains in his freezer.'
'… What a shame. I've forgotten about the shopping. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just coffee, after all.''
Again, self-defence came first.
'I didn't put them there.'
Per-Olof Gren spoke soothingly.
'Sibylla, calm down. We know it wasn't you.'
She scarcely dared believe her ears. This couldn't be true. Not now, when she had finally accepted her fate.
'He has confessed. He cracked when we found the glass jars in his freezer. He was going to bury the lot in Hedlund's grave.'
The room was silent. Sibylla was trying to get her mind round this totally new situation, but she was far too tired to manage it.
‘It would have been helpful if you had come to us a little earlier. We could have avoided all this.'
This was Patrik's mother speaking again. Sibylla understood only too well what she meant. Her inner ear was tuned in to the row Patrik had been given.
She looked at them, speaking quietly.
'You wouldn't have believed me – or would you?'
No one replied.
'Only Patrik did. Maybe he is the only one who has trusted me. Ever.'
A long silence. Per-Olof finally broke it. 'Well, there you are. You're free to go. What do you plan to do?'
Bergstrom stepped away from his wall.
'I know what Miss Forsenström is doing next. She's coming with me to Vetlanda. We're going to have a little talk with her mother.'
Sibylla shook her head.
'No. I can't face her.'
'Sibylla. I don't think you know what you're saying.' I want 300,000 kronor. That's all I need.'
Bergstrom smiled condescendingly.
'My dear Sibylla, we're talking many millions here.'
Their eyes met and after a while it seemed he had almost accepted that she meant what she said.
'But you shouldn't let her get away with it. She's keeping back a whole fortune.'
Sibylla thought about a fortune, but couldn't imagine what she would do with it.
'OK. Seven hundred grand. Tell her where to put the rest, why don't you.'
The lock whirred even before she had time to take her finger off the bell. She wondered if he always stood next to the buzzer. Just like last time, he was waiting by his open front door when she reached his landing. Neither of them spoke before she'd stepped inside and he'd pulled the door shut behind them.
'You've done well – from notorious serial killer to popular heroine in just one week. It's impressive, no other word for it.'
She walked into the room, straight to his computer. This time he did not stop her.
'Did you find him?'
He nodded.
'How much did you say you wanted this time? Five grand?'
He smiled. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, found the notes and put them down on the keyboard. He pulled a white envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.
'Your kid, is he?'
She just looked at him, took the envelope and walked away from him, in the direction of the hall. He followed her. 'Can't help being curious.'
She didn't reply, just went out on the landing and closed his front door behind her. This was the first time that she allowed herself to think about it and give way to her feelings. She was shaking all over. To calm herself, she walked down one floor. Only then could she contemplate even looking at the envelope. She sat down on a step, her heart beating hard.
The white envelope contained the answer to fourteen years of anxious speculation.
Who was he? Where did he live? What kind of person was he?
Now she would know.
The bus was leaving in two hours' time. The documents had been signed and exchanged, the cheque was on the table. They had arranged for Gunvor Stromberg to meet her in the bus terminal to hand over the keys.
Peace and quiet. Rest for a troubled soul.
In this white envelope was the name of the one who had always been missed.
She would always miss him. She had lost him fourteen years ago and now, everything she could do was too late, far too late.
Why was she doing this? For his sake? Or for her own sake?
She stopped walking downstairs, struck by her own unexpected insight into his rights, as opposed to hers.
So, by which right would she come marching into his life, fourteen years after his birth. What did he have to gain? She would get the reward of knowing, of her search having come to an end. Did he owe her that?
He was free from grief. Why should she drag him along to share hers?