Читать книгу Missing - Karin Alvtegen - Страница 14

‘It wasn’t me!’

She was phoning from a telephone booth in Stockholm Central Station. The line went silent, so she said it again.

‘It wasn’t me who killed him.’

‘Killed whom?’

‘Jörgen Grundberg.’

A brief pause.

‘Who’s that speaking, please?’

She was scanning the great station hall. It was a Saturday and the hall was full of people, leaving and arriving, ready to meet or to separate.

‘I’m Sibylla. The person you’re looking for. But I’m not the killer.’

A man carrying a briefcase was standing just a few metres away. He looked demonstratively first at his watch and then at her. Obviously, he was in a hurry and would like her to finish her call. Presumably he too had discovered that this was the only phone around that was still coin-operated. She turned her back on him.

‘Where are you?”

‘It doesn’t matter. The important thing I want you to know is that it wasn’t me who …’

She fell silent and looked out again. The man was still there, staring irritably at her. She turned her head away again and lowered her voice.

‘… not me who did it. That’s all I’ve got to say.’

‘Wait a minute!’

She had intended to put the receiver down but stopped. She could sense the effort the woman at the other end was putting into formulating what she planned to say.

‘How do I know that I’m actually speaking to Sibylla?’

‘What’s that you said?”

‘Could you give me your ID number?’

Sibylla almost laughed. For Christ’s sake, now what?

‘My ID number?’

‘Lots of people phoned today, saying that they’re Sibylla. How do we know that you’re the right one?’

She was open-mouthed with astonishment.

‘Listen, I am Sibylla Forsenström. I’ve forgotten my ID number, I’ve had no reason to use it for a long time. I just wanted to say “Please mind your own business, leave me in peace”.’

She had forgotten the waiting man, but when she turned he looked away, pretending not to watch her.

‘Where are you?’

Sibylla snorted and stared into the receiver.

‘None of your business, mate.’ She finished the call and held out the receiver to the waiting man. He hung back, looking anxious.

‘Come on, it’s all yours.’

He gestured defensively.

‘No, no, it’s all right.’

‘No? And you were so fucking keen a moment ago?’

His rolled-up evening paper stuck out from his coat pocket. It was The Express. She spotted one of her own eyes under that appalling fringe.

‘Whatever.’ She put the receiver back.

The man smiled nervously, then turned and left.

She had to get away now. Better being angry than scared. Above all, she mustn’t ever stick her neck out. From now on she couldn’t be sure who knew her by name and why. Christ, of all the names in the world, why did they have to pick Sibylla?

It had been easy to find out where Mrs Grundberg lived. The papers had printed so much information about Jörgen Grundberg that she could have written his biography.

The train journey to Eskilstuna didn’t take long. She started off hiding in the toilet, but once the conductor had done his first ticket round and unlocked the toilet door from the outside, she went to find a seat. No one registered surprise at her sudden appearance in the compartment. Ever since discovering that one of the fittings on her hair-curling kit was ideal for opening locked toilet doors on trains, she had been treating herself to the odd excursion. She’d been caught just once and ordered off the train in Hallsberg, which wasn’t too bad a place anyway.

She felt happier now, for some strange reason. Maybe it was because she was determined to take control over what was happening to her. Or maybe spending her last kronor on a hamburger had cheered her up.

The Grundbergs’ large villa was surrounded by a chest-high wall of the same white, glazed bricks that covered the fac¸ade. Mock-Victorian lamps lit the driveway to the mahogany-style front door that contrasted with black-stained window frames. One of the largest satellite discs she’d ever seen was perched on the roof.

The whole place was screaming more-money-than-taste.

For a while she hung about on the pavement, hesitating. Then she walked round the block to avoid attracting attention by loitering and the walk helped her to make up her mind. She had better start trying to find an explanation here and now.

The decision was easy to reach in her head, especially on the far side of the block, but her legs were not keen on taking her along the drive. Looking at the large house, her courage was faltering again. The dark windows, framed in black and with black shutters, seemed to be observing her like so many hostile eyes.

Someone opened the door and called to her.

‘Are you from a newspaper?’

‘No.’ Sibylla swallowed hard, closed the gate behind her and walked down the last part of the drive without looking at the woman in the doorway. Halfway to the front steps she passed a water-feature with a vaguely classical marble female, which presumably spurted water on good days. Now she looked frozen.

Sibylla stopped at the bottom of the steps, swallowing once more before looking up at the woman waiting there.

‘Yes?’ She seemed impatient.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to see Lena Grundberg.’

The woman shifted a little. She was in her forties and exceptionally good-looking.

‘I am Lena Grundberg.’

Sibylla felt uncomfortable. She had no idea what or who she’d been expecting. Her idea had been to pretend she was a minister on call, or maybe a counsellor from some bereavement support group. The papers often mentioned that sort of thing. People, who simply came along uninvited, wanting to comfort the distressed widow or mother or whoever. Trouble was, this woman was looking just as cool and collected as the marble lady in the pond.

‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice sounded a little cross, impatient. The tone was that of someone interrupted in the middle of watching an exciting film.

Having taken in the woman’s personality, Sibylla made an instant decision to change her approach. Submission seemed the best way to deal with Lena Grundberg.

‘My name is Berit Svensson. I know this is a terrible time to call but … I’ve come to ask you for help.’ She blinked shyly. Looking up she saw Lena Grundberg frowning.

‘I’ve been reading the papers, of course, and I live … round here. You see, I’ve lost my husband too, some six months ago and I still feel … I need to talk to someone who knows what it’s like.’

Lena Grundberg, who was looking rather disapproving, seemed to be weighing the pros and cons. Sibylla decided to pile on the pressure.

‘You must be such an incredibly strong human being. I’d really appreciate if I could just come in and talk to you for a moment.’

The last clause had the fervent ring of real truth and this small shift of nuance may have made the flattery convincing. Lena Grundberg stepped back from the threshold and gestured towards the hall behind her.

‘Come in. We’ll talk in the drawing room.’

Sibylla took one long step forward into the house. Bending down to take off her shoes, she realised that the large rug was very expensive. Next to her stood a wildly ornamental umbrella-stand in dark green metal.

The doorway between the hall and the drawing room had been remodelled into a wide arch. Lena Grundberg walked ahead of Sibylla, who kept looking around. Regretting the makeup she’d put on in the train, she wiped off the lipstick on her hand. Her instinct told her that the more superior the immaculately made-up Lena Grundberg felt, the better it would be.

Sibylla had extensive experience of that kind of woman.

The drawing room was so tasteless that she looked around in desperation for something to praise. She homed in on the one item that wasn’t positively repulsive.

‘What a lovely wood-burning stove!’

‘Thank you. Do have a seat,’ Lena Grundberg said and sat down on an armchair covered with leather in a shade like ox-blood.

Sibylla settled into the huge leather sofa. She was lost in amazement at the glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Its undercarriage was a naked marble woman, lying on her back and balancing the sheet of glass on her raised hands and knees.

‘Jörgen imported marble,’ Lena Grundberg explained, adding ‘among other things.’

Jörgen was clearly part of the past already. Just like that. Lena Grundberg seemed to have read her thoughts.

‘I suppose you’d better know from the start that my marriage wasn’t especially happy. We were about to file for a divorce.’

Sibylla considered this.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It was my initiative.’

‘Oh, right. I see.’

The room fell silent. Sibylla felt a little bemused. What had she imagined she’d gain by coming here? She couldn’t even remember now.

‘How long have you been a widow?’

The question was so sudden she jumped. Pointlessly, she looked at her watch. It had stopped again. She had to say something.

‘Six months and four days.’

‘What did he die from?’

‘Cancer. It was very quick.’

Lena Grundberg nodded.

‘Were you happy?’

Sibylla looked down at her nails. Thank goodness she hadn’t painted them. She spoke very quietly.

‘Yes, very.’ Another moment of silence.

‘It’s so strange, you know,’ Lena Grundberg said. ‘Less than a year ago, Jörgen was dying from a serious kidney problem. He was hospitalised for months. Finally they decided that he could live normally again and all would be well for as long as he took his medicine in good order. On the whole, he was OK.’

She was shaking her head.

‘And then he goes and gets himself murdered. After all that trouble. It may sound very cynical to say so, but frankly, it was absolutely typical of him.’

Sibylla found it hard to hide her surprise.

‘How do you mean?’

Lena Grundberg lifted her eyebrows.

‘He was such a lecherous fool. Taking an unknown female to your room like that, honestly – and so ugly too. One look at that photograph was enough to tell you she must be desperate.’

Stay cool now.

‘You sound bitter.’ Sibylla tried to keep her tone neutral.

‘Not really. It’s just that I think he could’ve picked someone better looking. I might have felt a little happier if …’

Her voice cracked suddenly. She was sobbing, hiding her face in her hands. How about that? At least one of the marble sisters was all emotion, once you got through the layers of foundation.

Considering Lena Grundberg’s outburst, she almost regretted that Jörgen hadn’t been allowed to share her bed. She should’ve let him, from pure human sympathy.

‘You wanted him to choose someone who’d begin to match you?’ Sibylla just about managed to control her voice, to keep the irritation out.

Lena Grundberg recognised the change of tone and tried to pull herself together. Her mouth still hanging open, she wiped the tears away carefully so as not to ruin her mascara.

‘Yes, that’s it, you know. It really would’ve helped.’

Sibylla was looking at the woman opposite her, reflecting that, after all, she’d never met anyone quite like her.

‘Why would it have helped?’ She was actually curious to know. ‘After all, you were the one suing for divorce.’

Now Lena Grundberg was back in charge, leaning back calmly in her vulgar armchair.

‘I do realise that it sounds selfish, but it’s humiliating for a woman to be replaced by a complete nobody, an ugly whore picked up in a hotel. It’s so … tasteless.’

Oh yeah? Hey, what about this room? The inside of my rucksack looks a whole lot better, so don’t sit there and fucking preach about good taste! Sibylla swallowed twice.

‘You can’t be sure she was a whore, can you?’

Lena Grundberg snorted, bent down to pick up an evening paper from the floor and held it out for Sibylla to see. She glanced quickly at the photo of her own face. Surely only the nose was the same.

‘How can the police be so sure she’s the killer?’

Lena Grundberg dropped the paper on the floor.

‘They’d gone to see the receptionist together about her room. By the morning, she was gone despite the police cordon. Seems pretty conclusive to me. Her fingerprints were all over the place. Like on Jörgen’s room key.’

‘What if it isn’t her? Would you know if he’d had any …’

She stopped at the last moment and pretended to cough. She had been about to say ‘… any enemies in Lithuania or Latvia?’

She carried on coughing to cover her error. Lena Grundberg fetched a glass of water and Sibylla drank gratefully.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’m an asthmatic, you see.’

Lena Grundberg nodded and sat down again.

‘Had no what?’ she asked.

‘What did you say?’

‘You asked if I’d know if he had any – what?’

‘Enemies, I guess … or something.’

Lena Grundberg was looking at her. Maybe it was time to go. She was getting ready to stand when the woman opposite her suddenly uttered one word, filled with contempt.

‘Sibylla!’

Sibylla started, as if slapped. Their eyes met. She stayed where she was, very still.

‘It’s such a weird name. No normal person is called Sibylla.’

Sibylla tried breathing calmly. It had been a scary moment.

‘You’re right, it’s really peculiar.’ She sounded ingratiating. ‘Though presumably the woman didn’t pick it herself.’

‘Oh no?’

Lena Grundberg was not good company. Sibylla wanted to get away. Still, she had taken such a lot of trouble to get here, it would be silly not to try finding out something more.

‘How did he die?’

The other woman coughed.

‘She slit his throat first. Then she cut him open and spread out his organs all over the floor.’

She might have been describing a new recipe.

Sibylla felt she needed air. Now. Nausea came in waves. She rose.

‘I’ve got to go.’

The widowed Mrs Grundberg stayed in her armchair.

‘I suppose I didn’t exactly meet your expectations?’

For once she could answer truthfully.

‘No, not really.’

Lena Grundberg nodded, looking down.

‘We all deal with things differently.’

Sibylla nodded too.

‘Of course … thank you for letting me talk to you.’

She put her shoes on in the hall. Lena Grundberg remained sitting where she was and without another word being said, Sibylla quietly left the house.