The Disappeared by Kristina Ohlsson

moved there about a year ago; before that he had lived on Karlavägen. Peder searched for the address on the internet and saw that it wasn’t far from Gyllenstiernsgatan. Close to Radiohuset. He went back to the old telephone records. Rebecca had spoken to Sjöö the day before she went missing. And he had been living near Radiohuset at the time, which was the final destination of the number four bus.
    Sjöö had been interviewed, of course, and had an alibi for that evening. He was at a conference elsewhere, and didn’t get back until the following evening. But he lived alone, Peder thought. There was no one to confirm that he got home when he said he did. And while his colleagues could state that he really had been at the conference in Västerås, the distance from Stockholm was negligible if he had a car, which he did. Peder decided to take a closer look at the conference programme. Rebecca had disappeared some time after seven thirty in the evening; it could be that she had arranged to meet Sjöö.
    The property register provided Peder with more information: Gustav Sjöö owned a summer cottage in Nyköping.
    Was that where you took her to dismember the body?
    Peder felt his pulse rate increasing. Gustav Sjöö must be interviewed at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps he had raped Rebecca and forced her to keep quiet about it? Peder’s vision clouded over, his palms felt sweaty. A young woman’s body, hacked in half with a chainsaw. Stuffed into plastic sacks and buried in south Stockholm.
    Håkan Nilsson or Gustav Sjöö. Or a person or persons as yet unknown.
    Who did you cross, Rebecca?
    The evening came, and the night came, and it was time for Alex to go home. The night was far too long, in spite of the fact that the dark time of the year had been left behind. He sat alone in his living room, a glass of whisky in his hand. He had sworn that he wouldn’t turn into a tragic figure when he was alone; he had promised both Lena and the children.
    ‘You’re not to turn into one of those B-movie cops on TV,’ his son had said. ‘Sitting at home drinking, then going to work to beat up the bad guys.’
    Alex looked at the whisky glass. Lena would have understood; she would have trusted him enough not to begrudge him a drop of the hard stuff. It helped to calm him, allowed him to relax. The road to a good night’s sleep was long; the road to a warm smile was endless.
    I will never be happy again.
    Nor would Diana Trolle.
    He put down the glass, realising that he couldn’t push aside thoughts of Diana. What was she doing right now? Was she also sitting at home alone? She must be paralysed with grief. And shock.
    Alex thought back to when Rebecca had first been reported missing. It had started off as a routine inquiry. People didn’t realise how many individuals of Rebecca’s age went missing in Sweden every year – and turned up safe and well. But Rebecca didn’t turn up safe and well. She had disappeared without a trace. Sometimes the leads were so vague that Alex began to wonder if she had ever existed. When he spoke to her family and friends he felt closer to her, got an impression of her character, the essence of her. After two weeks, he was absolutely convinced that Rebecca had not disappeared of her own free will. And that she was probably dead.
    He had had many conversations with Diana. Sometimes she would call him in the middle of the night.
    ‘Tell me you’re going to find her, Alex. Promise me that, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep.’
    He had promised. Over and over again. However, he was always careful not to promise that Rebecca would be found alive. Diana must have known, because she had never demanded that assurance.
    ‘There has to be closure,’ she had said. ‘A grave to visit, a breathing space in this purgatory of speculation.’
    And now, two years later, she would have her closure and her grave.
    Alex had given so many people a grave to visit over the years.
    Too many.
    Lena had pointed