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temperatures as low as fifteen degrees below zero, but she’d woken up feeling frozen after her brief nap. If only she had a couple of aspirins for her throat. Maybe she could scrounge some at the Salvation Army hostel?
    She had almost reached the Statoil garage when the rain started again. Drying wet clothes was an utterly miserable exercise and she almost ran the last bit to get under the roof. If only she had an umbrella for the way back!
    The news posters for that afternoon were on display outside the garage doors. She looked quickly at them in passing. One was yellow and the words were printed on two lines.
    Â Â Â Â 
    VICTIM OF RITUAL MURDER
AT THE GRAND
    MYSTERIOUS WOMAN WANTED BY POLICE 
    Â Â 
    She stopped to look.
    There was a photo below the headline. No question whose face it showed.
    It was Jörgen Grundberg’s.

B eatrice Forsenström sounded disapproving.
    â€˜This is not the moment to discuss it. Just put on your dress and get ready now.’
    Sibylla was sitting on the edge of her bed in her underwear. She’d been steeling herself, choosing her moment with care. They were dressing for the Christmas party at her father’s firm, the one time in the year when her mother might be open to persuasion. The idea of the party always put her in a good mood and she would be full of anticipation, hurrying about trying to get everyone looking their smartest. After all, in little Hultaryd there were few other opportunities for her to enjoy her status to the fullest.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Sibylla, don’t forget to wear your black shoes.’
    She swallowed. One more try. It couldn’t do any harm.
    â€˜Please Mummy …’
    Beatrice stopped. Now there was a vertical crease between her eyebrows.
    â€˜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 a regular event. Sibylla had come to feel the same way about the Christmas do as she did about 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 wasraised 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 mocking 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 for Granny had 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