'Please Mummy, I'd really like to go out selling the Christmas things. Just one day.'
She'd tilted her head to the side appealingly. Maybe on this happy evening, her mother would indulge her little daughter?
Beatrice was about to leave the room.
'Sibylla, don't forget to wear your black shoes.'
She swallowed. One more try. It couldn't do any harm.
'Please Mummy…'
Beatrice stopped. Now there was a vertical crease between her eyebrows.
'Sibylla, you've heard me speak my mind already. My daughter doesn't have to run around begging to find the money for a school-trip. If you really insist on going, your father and I will pay whatever is required. It's quite wrong of you to make such a fuss and on this night of all times. You might show a little gratitude for what we do for you.'
She marched out of the room.
Staring at the floor, Sibylla was thinking that this was it. End of story. Not that she'd ever had a chance. Questioning her mother's decision had been too cheeky in the first place and now she'd only made it worse. Her mother had been jolted out of her party mood and Sibylla would be punished. Rows had to be paid for, over and over.
The outlook was grim, as if things weren't bad enough already.
The Christmas Party at Forsenström's Metal Foundry was an inevitable annual event. Sibylla had come to feel the same way about a Christmas do and root canal fillings. Executive Director and Mrs Forsenström were showing off their seasonal benevolence by inviting all Foundry employees, complete with their spouses and children.
Sibylla's presence was a given, as was seating her at the high table for special guests. It was raised on a small platform and of course no other children were allowed to sit there. The young people had a table of their own, increasing the distance between them and Sibylla.
The dress spread out on the bed seemed to be laughing at her.
It hadn't even occurred to her that she might be let off wearing that dress, never mind that she was twelve years old and all her mates would be in jeans and V-necked tops from Fruit of the Loom. That was neither here nor there since Granny taken the trouble to go to one of the best shops in Stockholm and buy this dress for dear Sibylla. She would put it on and sit next to her parents on the podium, looking out over the people.
She pulled the dress over her head. Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw its little-girl bodice flattening her breasts, which had started growing at last. It felt really tight. It was going to be a dreadful evening.
Her mother was calling from downstairs.
'Get the two blue hair-grips. Gun-Britt will help you with them.'
An hour later, her hairgrips in place, she was seated between the Sales Manger and his smelly wife. She answered their questions about school politely, but kept glancing at the 'young table'. Her mother's eyes had been wandering in her direction several times. Presumably she was brooding over how to punish her daughter for being so difficult. What would she do?
The answer didn't materialise until the dessert.
'Sibylla, won't you sing something for us?'
A black abyss opened up, right under her chair.
'Mummy, must I really?'
'Don't fuss, darling. You know so many nice Christmas songs!'
The Sales Manager was smiling ingratiatingly.
'A Christmas song would be a treat, just right for the occasion. Do you know Shine Bright Star Above?'
She was caught now. There was no escape. She glanced round the table, but everyone was beaming at her. Someone started to clap and the applause was spreading to all the tables. The young people turned their faces her way, starting to chorus 'Sibylla! Sibylla! Sibylla!' to make her stand up.
Beatrice sounded frosty.
'Now, we don't have to woo you any more than this, do we Sibylla? Everyone is waiting.'
Slowly she rose, pushing the chair back. The noisy room grew silent. She drew a deep breath. Get it over now. Someone at the young table shouted to her.
'We can't see you, stand on the chair!'
She stared in mute appeal at her mother, who just waved one hand a little to show she had no objection. Sibylla's legs were shaking so much, she feared she'd fall off the chair. The sneering looks on the faces of the young crowd were unmistakable. This was obviously the thrill of the evening. She inhaled deeply, starting to sing in a quavering voice.
Even before reaching the end of the first line, she realised that she had pitched the start far too high to manage the notes at the end. Right enough, she didn't and as her voice was faltering, barely suppressed laughter hit her like a whiplash. Blushing furiously, she sat down. After a few seconds, the
Sales Manager started applauding and hesitantly, others followed suit.
Meeting her mother's eyes, she saw that she had been punished enough. She'd be left alone for now.
On the way back, her father was pleased at the very satisfactory evening. Beatrice, leaning on his arm, was nodding in wifely agreement. Sibylla, walking a few paces behind them, had just decided to pick up a really nice stone when her mother turned her head.
'And your singing went perfectly well after all, didn't it?'
Neither of them missed the actual meaning of her words, but Beatrice couldn't resist another remark to round off her disciplinary exercise.
'Such a shame you lost control over your voice at the end.'
Sibylla didn't bother with the nice stone.
Of all the bloody awful fucking things to happen. He had seemed so perfect.
Her first reaction almost immediately gave way to the realisation that this time she'd really caught it. Obviously the police would be especially interested in the woman Grundberg had picked up, fed and then, always the gentleman, fixed a hotel room for as well.
It was pretty certain she was the mysterious woman the police was looking for. Worse, in the circumstances, no one would care to help her just for the asking, that much was certain too. Her first feeling was rage and she marched straight into the garage shop to pull a paper from the stand. The centrefold headline left no room for doubt.
MURDERER MUTILATED VICTIM.
Three words in heavy black type. Below, a full-page photograph of Jorgen Grundberg smiling broadly at the camera.
Unnamed sources alleged that the murderer had sliced open the dead man's torso and removed unspecified internal organs. The police admitted that some kind of religious symbol had been left at the scene of the crime, suggesting a ritual act of slaughter.
'Gruesome stuff, isn't it?'
Sibylla looked up. The man behind the counter nodded towards the paper.
'That's eight kronor for the paper, then. Is that all?' She hesitated, fingering the coins in her pocket. Eight kronor were a lot to spend, just for a newspaper. 'A can of paraffin too, please.'
The man pointed for her to help herself from the right shelf. After paying, there were only nineteen kronor left in her purse.
Back at the allotments, Hjelm was no longer to be seen. She closed the door behind her and settled down with the paper. Reading the first four lines was enough to convince her that she was the wanted woman.
Who, the paper was asking, was Jorgen Grundberg's mysterious female companion, who had dined with him in the Grand's French restaurant? How had she managed to vanish in the morning, slipping unseen past the police cordons? The public was encouraged to contact the police headquarters with any information that might have a bearing on the case. The number to ring was displayed in large print.