Missing by Karin Alvtegen

Hotel dining room must have an excellent memory for faces or maybe it was Hjelm, who had seen her with her hair down. Not that it would do much for him now.
    Oh, God – she was so fucking deep in all this shit. What had she done to deserve it?
    The police still have no definitive clues as to the whereabouts of 32-year-old Sibylla Forsenström and are looking for assistance from the so-called ‘underworld’ in Stockholm. Various informants claim to have seen the woman, for instance in Central Station, and in an allotment area on Södermalm. A national search warrant has gone out after the murder in Västervik. According to an unconfirmed report the woman had left a message with religious overtones, also admitting guilt, near the scene of the murder. So far there is no hint of a motive for either crime.
    She got up hurriedly and vomited into the basin.
    The entire Swedish police force was out chasing her now, because she was known to be an insane ritual killer. How could one bottle of fucking hair dye help? Her body was still convulsing, but having got rid of the banana her stomach had nothing more to offer. She drank some water and tried to calm down.
    Someone was knocking on the door.
    â€˜Hi, will you be finished in there soon?’
    She glanced at her face in the mirror. The jet-black tufts on her head were standing straight up and her face was ashen. The overall effect was of a fading junkie.
    â€˜I’m in the shower.’
    Closing her eyes, she prayed to God that whoever it was would go away. Of course, He had no special reason to listen this time either.
    â€˜Please hurry up. The other shower room is occupied.’
    â€˜OK.’
    Silence.
    She opened her make-up bag, rouged her cheeks and put on lipstick. It didn’t improve matters much, but at least it was obvious that she had made an effort. Then she wiped away the half-digested banana with toilet paper and cleaned the basin.
    Listening at the door, she heard nothing except the noise of the tumble-drier. She had no choice but to tough it out. It would just seem even more suspicious if she crept out looking ashamed. She stepped outside briskly.
    He was sitting on the floor outside, reading a book.
    â€˜That was quick. I didn’t mean to hassle you.’
    When she came out, he rose. Then he saw her rucksack and looked bewildered.
    Sibylla pointed to it and smiled.
    â€˜It’s for the laundry.’
    He nodded.
    When she tried to open the door to the laundry room, her hand shook so much it was almost impossible to insert the key with its foot-long board into the keyhole. Finally, the door clicked open.
    â€˜Have you just moved in?’
    She avoided having to look at him by walking up to the tumble-drier.
    â€˜Yes, that’s right.’
    â€˜Cool. Hope you like it here.’
    She thought, if you don’t bugger off to your shower I’ll kick you where it hurts.
    She took out her panties and towel, quickly pushing the still damp washing into her rucksack and watching from the corner of her eye as he went inside the shower room. Just as she was getting out of there he came back out, holding the newspaper in his left hand.
    She stiffened suddenly and came to a halt, as if her feet had stuck to the concrete floor.
    For a moment he looked confused again, then he held the paper out towards her.
    â€˜Don’t look so worried, it’s just that you forgot your paper.’

T he annual Christmas Party, once more. She was seventeen, sitting at the high table.
    She’d asked her mother to be let off but received mock surprise for an answer.
    â€˜Why, darling? You’d enjoy an evening out, surely? You’ve been sitting at home for months.’
    Too true. Certainly, she’d been sitting at home. It had been sixty-three days and nine hours since she last saw Mick. Every day Gun-Britt had collected her from Vetlanda in the tiny Renault. The afternoon walks had been forbidden, on the grounds that trust