She obeyed orders, keeping her mouth shut during the whole journey to Vimmerby police station. When she stepped out of the car, a camera flashed in her face. When she could see again, she caught a glimpse of a young man with an enormous camera in front of his face. Somebody asked her a question.

‘Why did you do it?’

She was not given a chance to answer. Hard hands pushed her into the entrance hall of the police station. The whole room was full of people, civilians and uniformed staff, all observing her closely, with disgust in their eyes.

‘Move along. This way.’

The man who had been sitting next to her in the back of the car was now walking ahead, forming a small passage though the crowd. Someone pushed her from behind, hitting the broken rib. She grimaced with pain. A door opened and she stepped through it.

‘Sit down.’

She obeyed, pulling back the chair with her handcuffed hands. Two men came in and sat down behind the desk. One of them introduced himself.

‘Roger Larsson.’

His colleague pushed a red button on a tape-recorder and checked that it was recording. Then he nodded.

‘Interrogation of Sibylla Forsenström on the third of April 1999, starting at 8.45 a.m. Present in the room are the charged woman, Sergeant Mats Lundell and Inspector Roger Larsson.’

Larsson turned to her.

‘You are Sibylla Forsenström?’

She nodded.

‘I must insist that you answer every question loudly and clearly.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Tell us what you are doing in Vimmerby.’

She stared at the moving wheels in the tape-recorder, while they observed her intently. Someone knocked briskly on the door and a woman came in carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to Roger Larsson. He read it quickly and put it away on the desk, text-side down. Then he looked at her again.

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Didn’t do what?’

The question had been immediate. She was very tired and hungry. Her thoughts seemed to go all over the place. Now she had led them on to the right track.

‘It’s the man called Ingmar who’s the murderer.’

The two men exchanged knowing glances, almost smiling at each other.

‘Do you mean Ingmar Eriksson? A hospital porter, resident here in Vimmerby. He was hospitalised last night, after turning up in casualty with his right hand crushed and a nail file stuck in one eye. Is that the Ingmar you’ve got in mind?’

By the end of all this, he sounded angry. She looked down at her hands. If she moved them to hide the chain between them, the cuffs looked like two silver bracelets. The man called Roger was putting an object on the table in front of her.

‘Why did you carry this about in your jacket pocket?’

Inside a plastic bag was the crucifix. She found it hard to speak.

‘He gave it to me. He was going to murder me.’

‘Why?’

‘To make me take the blame.’

‘Blame for what?’

She sighed.

‘Everything. He had a relationship with Rune Hedlund.’

One corner of Roger Larsson’s mouth was twitching.

‘Who?’

‘Rune Hedlund. He died in a car accident on the fifteenth of March last year.’

The men exchanged glances again. Neither said anything, but she realised what they were thinking. This woman was obviously deranged. Maybe they were right.

Moon or no moon, God had never been on her side.

‘Phone Patrik. He knows that I didn’t do it.’

‘Who is Patrik?’

‘Patrik … eh …’

She could not remember his surname. It had been on the door to their flat, but the memory had faded.

‘His mother is in the police. They live on Sågar Street. South End.’

‘South End in Stockholm – is that what you mean?’

Another knock on the door. The same woman came in with a new piece of paper. There were two curious faces peering in through the door behind her. Roger Larsson read what was on the paper, nodded and checked the time.

‘Interrogation stopped at 9.03 a.m.’

Sibylla closed her eyes.

‘We’ll have a break now. Do you want to wait here or in a cell?’

She could barely keep her eyes open. Her whole being felt exhausted.

‘Is there a bed in the cell?’

‘Yes.’

‘The cell, please.’