Dead of Winter

8

Laura is so lost in thought that she almost misses the turning for Gärdsnäset. The big sign with the symbols on it is gone, there’s just a faint, barely perceptible gap between the tall firs.

The forest has closed in around the track. The potholes are so deep that even her big car jolts and judders. The snow is dying away, but the odd flake still drifts down.

When the evergreens give way to deciduous trees, she finally knows where she is. She catches sight of the archway, or rather the remains of it. It was once their summer project, but now it just looks sad.

The framework is still there, but most of the carefully crafted wooden letters are broken or missing, and it is no longer possible to make out the words GÄRDSNÄSET HOLIDAY VILLAGE. The pretty little rose bushes that she and Hedda planted on either side have grown into huge hedges, their sharp fingers clawing at the car’s wing mirrors.

It’s almost completely dark among the trees, but her headlights pick out the silhouettes of dilapidated cabins. Gaping holes where there were once windows and doors make them look like skulls. She passes the biggest cabin, the central point of the village. The roof has collapsed, the windows are boarded up. The front door is ajar, probably stuck that way. She keeps going, avoids checking to see if the phone box is still there.

Almost the entire village is in darkness. The only light is a solitary lamp down by the water’s edge.

The forest opens out into the turning circle, and she sees the familiar building down by the water. Hedda’s house, with the lake beyond. Ten to fifteen metres of ice extending from the edge, then black water. The light from Miller’s boathouse over on the north shore is reflected in its surface, making it resemble a giant eye, silently watching her.

‘Welcome home, Princess,’ she murmurs to herself.

Kurt Håkansson’s car – a Mercedes – appears after only five minutes – at exactly the time they’d agreed on the phone, which Laura appreciates.

The family solicitor looks more or less as she’d imagined – in his sixties, short, slightly overweight, with glasses. He’s wearing a flat cap and driving gloves. He makes small talk for thirty seconds about how the track is in need of repair, then chats for exactly thirty seconds more about the weather, while retrieving a bundle of papers from the back seat. He opens the boot and spreads the papers on the floor.

‘Wouldn’t it be better to go indoors?’

Håkansson grimaces.

‘No, your aunt . . . collected things. It’s a bit of a mess in there, which is why I suggested . . .’ He leaves the rest of the sentence hanging in the air. It was Laura’s idea to meet this evening, rather than at his office tomorrow. She was the one who couldn’t wait.

‘Besides, this won’t take long. I just need your signature in three places. As I said, there was a small insurance payout that will cover the cost of the funeral – a headstone, a simple coffin and a wreath. The only other asset in Hedda’s estate is the land, as you can see.’

He points to the property designation on one of the papers.

‘We’ve already had a couple of expressions of interest. Is that something you’d like me to take care of, or would you prefer to deal with it yourself?’

‘I’m happy for you to do it. I’m not intending to keep anything.’

‘Sounds sensible.’

Håkansson finds the right page and puts a cross by each line where Laura needs to sign. Judging by his body language, he doesn’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Laura says when the paperwork is done. She feels a little guilty for dragging him out here in the dark, but she could never have imagined that Gärdsnäset would be so rundown.

‘No problem. We have a summer cottage closer to the village, and I usually come over to check on it a couple of times in the winter anyway. Run the water for a little while, empty the mousetraps and so on.’

Laura pulls on her gloves. Her fingers are already stiff.

‘How long have you had the cottage?’

‘Since the early Eighties. My wife and I used to come dancing here in the summer. That’s how I got to know Hedda.’

He breaks off, realises he’s gone too far. Strayed into a topic he wanted to avoid.

‘Tragic, that fire in ’87,’ he says quietly. ‘Gärdsnäset was never the same after that. Nor was your aunt.’ He waves a hand in the general direction of the dilapidated holiday village. ‘You could say it was the beginning of the end.’

‘Who found her?’ Laura asks, mainly to change the subject.

‘The postman. The mailbox up by the road got knocked down a long time ago, so he used to drive down on the few occasions when Hedda received post. He realised something was wrong when the door was unlocked but no one was home, then he spotted her down there.’

He points to the pontoon, which is no more than a dark silhouette extending across the ice.

‘In the water?’

Laura recoils involuntarily.

He nods. ‘She was lying right next to the pontoon. Her heart had given up. Apparently, the doctor had forbidden her from swimming in the winter, but Hedda wasn’t the type to listen to anyone’s advice, was she?’

‘No . . .’ Laura’s gaze lingers on the black water, shimmering at the very edge of the pontoon. ‘Hedda loved the lake,’ she murmurs.

Håkansson gathers up his papers.

‘So,’ he says in a businesslike tone, holding out a bunch of keys, ‘Gärdsnäset belongs to you now. I’ll see you at the funeral on Saturday, and I’ll be in touch with regard to the sale. Good luck. With everything,’ he adds after a brief hesitation.