Halfway across Normalm Square she saw it. A bright yellow poster on the newspaper kiosk screamed the big news in bold capitals. She had to read it three times before she finally realised the implications for her.
EXTRA! EXTRA! BESTIAL MURDER LAST NIGHT AT GRAND HOTEL.
TT Newsagency, Stockholm.
Late last night a man was murdered in his bedroom at Stockholm's Grand Hotel. He was travelling on business, away from his home in central Sweden and had been staying at the Grand for the last two nights. According to statements by staff, the man had intended to leave on Friday.
Police sources are refusing to disclose any detailed information about the murder at this stage, but have revealed that the body was found by hotel staff around midnight, after a guest had alerted them to the presence of bloody marks in the corridor outside the murdered man's room. The police also confirmed that the body had been subjected to some kind of mutilation. The police have no evidence pointing to the identity of the murderer at this stage, but expect that interviews with hotel staff and guests will help to clarify the events of the fatal evening. At the time of going to press, the police investigation at the site of the crime was not yet completed, and the Grand Hotel will stay closed to the public until further notice. This morning, the body will be subjected to a forensic examination at the Institute for Forensic Medicine in Solna. It is expected that interrogation of staff and guests should be completed at the end of today and access then return to normal.
That was all, apart from a photo of the Grand covering a whole page.
The rest of the article listed other murders involving mutilation carried out in Sweden over the last ten years. It was lovingly illustrated with pictures of the victims, complete with their names and ages.
So that's why they had knocked on her door. Thank God she'd got away. How could she have explained her presence in one of Stockholm's most expensive hotels? She didn't have enough money on her to pay for a coffee in its Wiener Cafe. What hope had she of persuading them that she deserved a night in a proper bed now and then – even if always paid for by someone who could easily spare the cash? Nil, that's what. She wouldn't have stood a chance. No one would have understood, for none of them had ever led her kind of life.
'This is no effing library, love. Do you want a paper or not?' The man in the kiosk was getting fed up. She didn't answer, just meekly put the paper back in the rack.
It was cold and she really did have a sore throat. She started walking towards Central Station again. She needed money and there were two days left until the next giro was due to arrive in her post box. In other words, she couldn't get at it until Monday.
There was a machine dispensing change in the Left Luggage facility at Central Station. She went there and stood in front of it pushing the note-feed button several times. 'What's wrong with this thing?'
She spoke loudly and distinctly so that no one in the vicinity would fail to realise how irritated she was. She pushed the button again a couple of times, then sighed heavily and looked about. A man behind the deposit counter had noticed her and she walked over to him.
'What's the problem?' he asked.
'The machine doesn't work. It swallowed my hundred kronor-note without producing any change at all and my train's leaving in exactly eight minutes.'
The man opened his till. 'It's been playing up recently.'
That's a lucky break.
He counted out ten ten-kronor coins and put them in her hand. 'There, now. If you hurry you'll still catch your train.'
She smiled and put the money away in her handbag. 'Thanks ever so much.'
Luckily she had the key to the luggage locker in her jacket pocket, not in the briefcase she had forgotten at the Grand Hotel.
She collected her rucksack and, after a few minutes in the ladies' toilet, emerged wearing jeans and a padded anorak. She had decided what to do next.
It had to be a night with the Johanssons.
On her way to the allotments in Eriksdal she bought one tin of baked beans, a loaf of bread, two apples and one tomato. She felt the first drops of rain just as she was crossing Eriksdal Street. For days now the sky had been covered by low cloud as grey as pewter.
All the allotment sheds seemed abandoned and she was grateful for the dull March day that did not tempt gardeners outdoors to their plots. Maybe it was just too early in the season anyway. The snow seemed to had gone for good this year, but the ground might still be hard with frost.
This was the first time she had gone there during the day, which was taking a risk, but she was tired and weary. She was running a temperature and needing peace and quiet.
As usual, the key was tucked away in the hanging basket. They had removed the geraniums that were flourishing in the basket every summer, but the key had remained in its old hiding place. It had been the obvious place to check when she turned up at the little cottage for the first time, almost five years ago.
Kurt and Birgit Johansson, the actual owners, had no idea they were sharing their cottage with Sibylla. She was always careful to leave it as she found it and never damage any of their things. She had picked their cottage partly because of finding the key so easily, but also because the cushions on their garden seats were unusually thick. Pushed together on the floor, they made a decent mattress. Besides, the Johanssons had the excellent sense to equip their small leisure hide-away with a paraffin heater and hotplate. With any luck, she would be left alone for a good while since they restricted their visiting for the summer months.
The cottage, really little more than a shed, was damp and cold.
Still, the single room with a floor area of about ten square yards made it one of the biggest allotment buildings around. Along one of the walls stood a couple of kitchen cupboards, next to a small sink. She checked the cupboard under the sink for the bucket that should be in place under the cut-off drainpipe.
There was small table with flaking paint near the window, which was partly covered by fly-shit-spotted flowered curtains. Two odd wooden chairs were placed on either side of the table. She pulled the curtains, took a wrought-iron candlestick down from a shelf and lit the candle. By now she was shivering.
She pulled up the zip on her anorak. The paraffin can was almost empty, so she'd have to walk to the garage and fill it up later in the afternoon. Once the heater was lit, she took a china bowl from a cupboard, placed her apples and tomato in it and put it on the table. She had learned to appreciate the small, good things in life, like making your environment look as nice as possible. She pulled her sleeping bag from the rucksack and lined up the seat-cushions on the floor. They were damp, so she put her mat down first. Then she crawled into the bag.
Resting her head on her arms, she studied the ceiling panels and decided to forget all about the Grand Hotel. Nobody knew about her and even if someone had noticed her, they'd never be able to work out who she was. Feeling better now that she'd convinced herself she was safe, she descended more and more deeply into sleep, untroubled by any dark premonitions.
As soon as she heard the brisk knock on the door, she knew who was on the other side.
She was in third form at the time. They were having a lesson in Geography. Everyone was staring at the classroom door.
'Come in.'
Miss put down her book and sighed when Beatrice Forsenström stepped in.
Sibylla shut her eyes.
She knew that Miss disliked these unannounced visits by Mrs Forsenström as much as Sibylla did herself. They were short but always broke the flow of the lesson and always involved some new demand for special treatment of Sibylla.