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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.

O f 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 were 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 Jörgen 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 was 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 Jörgen 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.
    She felt queasy. Seconds later she realised why. She was under threat.
    What was she to do? The simplest answer was to ring that police number and explain the situation, insisting that she was innocent. The drawback was that she would have to let them know her personal details, including her ID number. A single computer check would tell them that she hardly had