at least Dagens Nyheter ran only a small column on an inside page referring to the police search for the woman who got away from the Grand Hotel.
The breakfast buffet was generous. She went up for a refill of coffee and managed to smuggle several breakfast rolls and three bananas into her handbag.
Back at her table, she thought about the excursion to Eskilstuna. Had she gained anything by coming all this way to let Jörgen Grundberg’s widow insult her? She drank another mouthful of coffee, looking vacantly through the window.
Actually, she knew perfectly well what her trip had been in aid of. She had made herself believe that, equipped with some first-hand information and a contact with somebody who knew Jörgen Grundberg, she would be able to explain the whole story of their encounter in the hotel. The misunderstandings would be sorted out and the case closed, as far as she was concerned.
Instead, the outcome had been the opposite of what she had hoped. They were all utterly convinced that she had done it. No other candidates. What were her options now?
She could simply go into hiding. After keeping out of sight for the best part of fifteen years, it shouldn’t be impossible. The published picture was the only one they had, which made her pretty unrecognisable now. As usual, her name spelt trouble and there were people who knew her usual hang-outs. Still, hardly any of them cared much for the police.
In other words, everything might sort itself out if she lay low, avoiding a few obvious places until they caught the real murderer. Then she could live normally again. Goodness, never in her wildest fantasies had she thought ‘back to normal’ would be her aim in life.
After drinking some more coffee, she realised what was still disturbing her so much.
The humiliation. She had been so determined to take no more of it, ever. No more shit.
She had a clear vision of her mother’s rage on hearing that her daughter had disgraced the family again. What’s wrong with the girl? Being truly her own mother’s daughter, the expression in her eyes would soon also say ‘I told you so – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The gossip would be soaking through every layer of society in Hultaryd. You’ve heard about the Forsenströms’ daughter, haven’t you? She’s a murderess.
Her father would probably … but no, she couldn’t begin to imagine how he would react. She had never understood how he really felt about things.
By now she didn’t care anyway.
She got up. Walking past the reception on her way out she waved to Henrik, who was on the phone, gesturing to show that she was slipping out for a smoke. He waved back.
Getting the rucksack out from Left Luggage turned out to be simplicity itself. There was no one about, so she walked unseen round the counter and lifted it off the shelf.
She changed back into jeans and sweater in the Ladies’ Room. It was silly to use the green suit too often and besides it required dry-cleaning, which was an unforgivable luxury. The next train to Stockholm Central departed at 10.48, so she settled down on a bench to wait.
C oming home that afternoon, she sensed that something was wrong the moment she crossed the threshold. She called out but there was no response. In the drawing room she saw her mother sitting on the sofa, reading a book with her back turned to the doorway.
‘Mummy, I’m home.’
Silence. Her heart was beating hard now. What had she done?
After hanging up her jacket, she slowly walked into the drawing room. Even though she couldn’t see her mother’s face, she knew what it would tell her. Her mother was upset. So upset and disappointed, darling. As she walked round the sofa, a lump was growing in Sibylla’s stomach.
Beatrice Forsenström did not look up from her book. Sibylla forced herself to say something, but could scarcely find her voice.
‘Mummy, what is it?’ No sound came from her mother who carried on reading as if Sibylla did not exist, let
The breakfast buffet was generous. She went up for a refill of coffee and managed to smuggle several breakfast rolls and three bananas into her handbag.
Back at her table, she thought about the excursion to Eskilstuna. Had she gained anything by coming all this way to let Jörgen Grundberg’s widow insult her? She drank another mouthful of coffee, looking vacantly through the window.
Actually, she knew perfectly well what her trip had been in aid of. She had made herself believe that, equipped with some first-hand information and a contact with somebody who knew Jörgen Grundberg, she would be able to explain the whole story of their encounter in the hotel. The misunderstandings would be sorted out and the case closed, as far as she was concerned.
Instead, the outcome had been the opposite of what she had hoped. They were all utterly convinced that she had done it. No other candidates. What were her options now?
She could simply go into hiding. After keeping out of sight for the best part of fifteen years, it shouldn’t be impossible. The published picture was the only one they had, which made her pretty unrecognisable now. As usual, her name spelt trouble and there were people who knew her usual hang-outs. Still, hardly any of them cared much for the police.
In other words, everything might sort itself out if she lay low, avoiding a few obvious places until they caught the real murderer. Then she could live normally again. Goodness, never in her wildest fantasies had she thought ‘back to normal’ would be her aim in life.
After drinking some more coffee, she realised what was still disturbing her so much.
The humiliation. She had been so determined to take no more of it, ever. No more shit.
She had a clear vision of her mother’s rage on hearing that her daughter had disgraced the family again. What’s wrong with the girl? Being truly her own mother’s daughter, the expression in her eyes would soon also say ‘I told you so – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The gossip would be soaking through every layer of society in Hultaryd. You’ve heard about the Forsenströms’ daughter, haven’t you? She’s a murderess.
Her father would probably … but no, she couldn’t begin to imagine how he would react. She had never understood how he really felt about things.
By now she didn’t care anyway.
She got up. Walking past the reception on her way out she waved to Henrik, who was on the phone, gesturing to show that she was slipping out for a smoke. He waved back.
Getting the rucksack out from Left Luggage turned out to be simplicity itself. There was no one about, so she walked unseen round the counter and lifted it off the shelf.
She changed back into jeans and sweater in the Ladies’ Room. It was silly to use the green suit too often and besides it required dry-cleaning, which was an unforgivable luxury. The next train to Stockholm Central departed at 10.48, so she settled down on a bench to wait.
C oming home that afternoon, she sensed that something was wrong the moment she crossed the threshold. She called out but there was no response. In the drawing room she saw her mother sitting on the sofa, reading a book with her back turned to the doorway.
‘Mummy, I’m home.’
Silence. Her heart was beating hard now. What had she done?
After hanging up her jacket, she slowly walked into the drawing room. Even though she couldn’t see her mother’s face, she knew what it would tell her. Her mother was upset. So upset and disappointed, darling. As she walked round the sofa, a lump was growing in Sibylla’s stomach.
Beatrice Forsenström did not look up from her book. Sibylla forced herself to say something, but could scarcely find her voice.
‘Mummy, what is it?’ No sound came from her mother who carried on reading as if Sibylla did not exist, let
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