Dead of Winter

14

I’ll always love you, Princess!

Always? Even when you’re dead?

Yes. Even then . . .

Vedarp church looks exactly as she remembers it. Whitewashed walls, dark wooden pews that feel rock-hard to her sore tailbone. An altar covered in a white cloth, a cross and two candlesticks, with an altarpiece sufficiently nondescript not to divert attention from the sermon.

The coffin is simple – smooth, white-glazed pine, allowing the age of the wood to show through. It reminds Laura of another, smaller coffin. She tucks the memory back in the box where it belongs.

The funeral director and his assistant have wheeled the coffin to the front of the church on a trolley.

‘Would you like to see her?’ he asks. ‘We’ve got time.’

Her first thought when he opens the lid is, That’s not Hedda. In Laura’s mind Hedda is just over forty, with long red hair and freckles. She’s strong and wiry and can tell anyone to go to hell, then tell them in the next breath how much she loves them.

The woman in the coffin is old, with long grey hair. Her skin is pale and wrinkled; it looks as if it still bears traces of the cold from the water. The hands folded over her chest are bent, the backs marked with dark liver spots.

The little finger and ring finger are missing from the left hand, the stumps covered in a network of scar tissue that Laura recognises all too well. Her back begins to burn. The memory is vivid. The roar of the flames, the stench of burned flesh. The screams that slice into her ears. Her own screams, but someone else’s too. Someone carrying her across the ice. The sense of floating on a cloud of white-hot pain.

And finally, the moment before the icy waters of the lake extinguish the whole world: Hedda’s face above her. The tears, the anger. The pain.

You burned your hand for my sake, she thinks. To save me. Is that why you were angry with me? Why you never contacted me again? Or was it because you knew it was all my fault?

Hedda doesn’t answer, either in Laura’s head or in the real world. Dead people don’t usually respond.

‘You can close the lid now,’ Laura says.

The hotel has cleaned and pressed her shirt and black trouser suit. There was really no need. She’s careful with her clothes, always uses a garment bag to minimise the risk of creasing. However, everything smells fresh when it comes straight from the laundry service, still covered in plastic and with a faint aroma of chemicals.

There’s a pool, which is why she drove an extra sixty kilometres to stay here. She did three thousand metres yesterday after dealing with four work calls. She was hoping to wash away the final traces of Gärdsnäset and Hedda’s house, but didn’t really succeed. The problem is that it’s her house now, her rundown holiday village, her scruffy possessions. A horrible mess that is corroding the inside of her head just as the bird shit ate away at the roof of her car, a mess she is desperate to get rid of as soon as possible. She’s gone over the events of the previous day several times, trying to work out what was nagging away at her, but it’s still there. She keeps remembering those cigarette butts she found. Prince Red, the brand Jack used to smoke.

Is he the one who’s been at Gärdsnäset? Is he the one who stood among the trees spying on her, but didn’t have the courage to come and knock on the door? Is he going to show up in a little while?

Fifteen minutes before the funeral is due to begin, Laura is a bundle of nerves, yet at the same time inappropriately excited.

The door of the church creaks open and she eagerly turns around, but it’s only Håkansson. He gives her a brief nod and sits down at the back. He is followed by three tall men in dark suits. Two are in their fifties, the third in his seventies. They make a beeline for Laura as if they know her, and she gets to her feet.

The older man’s hair and eyebrows are chalk-white, and the expression behind his glasses is intense and familiar. She knows who he is before he opens his mouth.

‘So, little Laura. It’s been a long time. Are you still trying to teach people to talk properly?’

‘No, not anymore,’ she replies. She immediately realises two things about Ulf Jensen. The sunken eyes, the sallow skin, the false teeth that have become slightly too big for his mouth, the exaggeratedly erect posture – they all tell their tale. Iben’s father is seriously ill, but he’s trying to pretend that everything is fine.

‘My condolences,’ he says. ‘Hedda was a wonderful person.’

‘Thank you. And thank you for coming.’

The words are hollow, and that’s the way she feels. Cold, hollowed out.

She hasn’t seen Ulf since before the fire, but she remembers what Peter told her at the hospital: Iben’s brothers had to wrestle Ulf to the ground to prevent him from running straight into the blazing dance hall. He’d bellowed like an injured animal.

The unpleasant memory causes her to miss a couple of sentences.

‘. . . hear you’re doing well, Laura. We always knew you’d be something special. You and Iben.’

Laura swallows, doesn’t know what she’s expected to say. She glances at Iben’s half-brothers, but they’re no help. In fact, they seem to be avoiding her gaze. Maybe that’s not surprising, given what happened at their last encounter.

‘Well, we’d better go and sit down,’ Ulf says. ‘Have you got time for a chat after the service?’

‘Of course.’

She tries to sound nonchalant, but doesn’t really succeed. Should she say something else, apologise – and if so, for what? How can she explain that what happened thirty years ago was her fault?

The door creaks again and she turns, but she is disappointed once more. This time it’s two elderly ladies, clutching their handbags at chest height. She nods to them, but receives only long stares in response.

The cantor begins to play the prelude, and the sound of the organ means she won’t be able to hear the door anymore.

She sits down, contemplates the coffin only a metre or so in front of her. There are three wreaths. One is part of the funeral package, the second is the one she ordered at the florist’s yesterday, but she doesn’t know where the third and largest wreath has come from. It is made up of beautiful red and white roses, but there is no silk ribbon carrying a final greeting, a ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘In Loving Memory’. No name.

Maybe it’s from Ulf Jensen, but in that case why is there no card? Who orders a great big expensive wreath without saying who it’s from? Maybe someone who doesn’t want to make his presence known, someone who hides in the shadows while he . . .

‘Laura?’

The voice belongs to a man in police uniform who has suddenly appeared beside her. For a second she thinks something’s happened – to the business, her mother, Andreas. But then she realises the man has said only her first name. He’s about the same age as her, his cropped hair is greying and receding. The look in his eyes is a mixture of pleasure and sorrow.

‘Don’t you recognise me?’

It’s the smile that gives him away. She’s seen it a thousand times.

‘Peter,’ she says.

Without thinking, she throws her arms around him. It’s not like her, and she quickly lets go.

‘I just wanted to say hello.’ He sounds embarrassed and turns away.

She grabs his sleeve. ‘Won’t you sit beside me? You’re part of the family too.’

Peter hesitates. His face is a little flushed.

‘Of course,’ he says, sitting down.

Laura tries not to sound too eager. ‘Are any of the others coming?’

It seems as if Peter doesn’t hear the question over the organ music, because he simply smiles at her once more. Before she can ask again, the prelude dies away. She looks back at the door, but apart from Håkansson, the Jensens and the elderly ladies, the pews are empty. No Jack. She feels a stab of disappointment. Thinks about the cigarette stubs. The anonymous sender of the wreath.

Maybe Jack just doesn’t like funerals?

The priest keeps the ceremony blessedly short. His eulogy is so general it could apply to just about anybody.

Her father’s funeral was the polar opposite. St Oscar’s Church was packed, and a whole series of people had spoken about what a fantastic individual and entrepreneur Jacob Aulin had been. Her mother had thoroughly enjoyed herself, nodding in agreement at every other word, playing the role of the grieving widow to perfection. No indication that the company had been on the brink of bankruptcy under his leadership. No hint that she and Jacob had slept in separate bedrooms for the past twenty years. Or that he’d regularly spent time with a woman twenty years his junior. A woman she had discreetly but firmly excluded from every aspect of the funeral.

Laura remembers only fragments of that other funeral, the one with the tiny coffin. She was in a grey fog of grief and pills, and she has no intention of going back there.

All ceremonies end the same way.

Three small shovelfuls of black earth, one last hymn, then it’s over.

One day we shall all turn to dust, Princess. Me too. That’s just the way it is. But before that we’re going to have a long and happy life.

Had Hedda enjoyed a long and happy life?

Was Laura happy?

Once again she looks back at the door, but there’s no one there. Peter notices, smiles sympathetically.

She can’t quite believe he’s become a police officer. Peter was always the clown, the one who tried to entertain the rest of the gang. In addition, their shared experience of the police wasn’t exactly positive. Sandberg, wasn’t that his name? A tall guy with a shaven head and a boxer’s nose who scared the shit out of her.

Are you sure it was him? Did you actually see him start the fire?

Peter’s smile hasn’t really changed, but apart from that he seems much more serious than the boy she knew back then. Maybe it’s because of his uniform – and they are at a funeral, after all. However, Laura is pretty sure the seriousness goes deeper.

She steals a glance at Peter as they mouth along to ‘Härlig är jorden’. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. His nails are cut short, his hands are spotless. His face is clean-shaven. His shoes are well polished, his shirt neatly pressed, his tie is not the cheap kind on an elastic that the police often wear. His watch is a Patek Philippe, which surprises her. That kind of ridiculously expensive timepiece is usually worn by men like alpha-Tobias at Steph’s party, and is definitely not something you could afford on a police officer’s salary.

As they chat outside the church, she learns that he has a teenage daughter. Otherwise he’s the one who asks most of the questions, wanting to know about her work, where she’s staying while she’s here.

She tells him about Gärdsnäset and George, which evokes another smile.

‘So the George dynasty continues. Do you remember when we went on a reincarnation trip?’

‘Which one?’

‘I only remember the time when George the fourth got run over. We must have been about ten.’

She nods. ‘That was my second George trip. We went all the way up to Halland before Hedda found the right cat.’

Peter laughs. His expression is warm, shy and a little bit sad.

‘Tomas got carsick and we had to pull over. Hedda said it was a sign. She made you, me and Iben ring the doorbell of the next farm we came to and ask if they had any kittens. That was how she found George the fifth.’

He pretends to hold a kitten high in the air, and for a brief moment he is the Peter she once knew.

‘Welcome back to our family, little George.’

He falls silent, as if he’s done something wrong.

‘Hedda was definitely special . . .’ he murmurs.

That’s the third time Laura has heard someone use that word about her aunt in just a few days.

‘How often did you see her?’ she asks.

‘I haven’t seen her for years. Hedda kept herself to herself. She wouldn’t open the door if anyone came knocking – especially the police.’

‘Why not?’

He doesn’t reply. He pulls a face that could mean anything.

‘What about shopping?’

‘You remember the mobile grocer?’

Laura nods.

‘His son took over, and Hedda bought what she needed from him. As far as I know, she never set foot in the village after the fire. There were those who held her responsible . . .’

He falls silent, then almost seems to recoil, as if he’s seen someone in the shadows beneath the pine trees a short distance away in the churchyard.

‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘There’s someone over there I haven’t seen for ages.’

Before Laura can respond, he heads quickly down the path. She can just make out a man, and her heart begins to beat faster. She’s about to follow Peter when Iben’s father and half-brothers intercept her.

‘So you’ve met that poor bastard.’

Ulf waves a hand in Peter’s direction. Laura wants to ask what he means, but Christian Jensen gets in first.

‘Nice ceremony.’ He smiles warmly, while Fredrik keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Thank you.’

‘What’s happening with Gärdsnäset?’ Ulf ’s abrupt question takes her by surprise.

‘Hedda’s solicitor is sorting out the sale as soon as possible.’ She points to Håkansson, who is standing by the gate.

‘Who are you selling it to?’

‘I think there have been a couple of offers. If you’re interested, speak to Håkansson.’

Ulf shakes his head. He is clearly annoyed.

‘I thought Hedda had made a decision. Didn’t she leave any papers?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Laura sees no reason to mention the chaos in the house.

Behind the Jensens she sees Peter approaching with the stranger. He’s wearing a suede fringed jacket and a baseball cap pulled well down over his forehead. The rest of his face is almost completely covered by a large pair of sunglasses and a bushy beard.

‘Are you staying long?’ Christian asks.

Laura hears herself replying that she’s leaving tomorrow, but all her attention is focused on the man with the beard.

‘That’s a shame. We were hoping you’d have time to call and see us, just like you used to do.’

Ulf’s tone has softened. Laura manages to summon up a vague smile as she continues to stare at the man.

‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Nice to see you again.’

She slips past the three men and sets off towards Peter and his companion, but as soon as she gets closer she can see that he’s much too old to be Jack. He and Peter shake hands, and just before he turns to leave he meets her gaze and gives her a brief, respectful nod. She watches him go. He wears his grey hair in a ponytail that reaches halfway down his back. There can only be one person in Vedarp who goes for the ageing rock star – or old troll – look.

‘Was that Johnny Miller?’

Peter nods.

‘Do you two know each other?’

‘He’s my father-in-law,’ Peter explains. ‘Or rather he was.’

‘Are you divorced?’ Laura asks. Too late she remembers the lack of a wedding ring on his finger.

‘I was widowed two years ago.’

‘Cancer?’

She doesn’t know why she said that. The word just came out.

He shakes his head. ‘Car accident.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

A widower with a daughter – so that’s why Ulf Jensen referred to him as ‘poor bastard’. They’ve both been grieving for the same amount of time, she and Peter, and she almost shares her story. Tells him about the box with its precious contents. But she stops herself.

‘Have you heard anything about the others?’ she says when enough time has passed to be able to change the subject.

‘Tomas’s father still lives out at Ensligheten, that’s all I know.’

He clearly doesn’t want to say any more. She’s about to mention Jack, but he gets in first.

‘Shall we go over to Iben’s grave?’

She’d like to say no. She hates churchyards and graves, but Peter has already started walking. He turns down one of the paths and stops in front of a huge memorial in marble and metal.

The Jensen family grave. A list of Danish names in ornate writing, dating from the early seventeenth century. Down at the right-hand side, a little white stone is sticking up in the snow.

Iben Margarethe Jensen

2 January 1972 – 13 December 1987

Even though Laura is prepared, her body reacts violently. Her scars feel alive, as if they are crawling all over her back, eating into her until she is as hollow as the nymph in the painting above her bed.

Iben is lying here beneath the snow, while she herself has lived half a life. In more ways than one. Neither she nor Peter says anything, they simply stand in silence, side by side.

The covering of snow on the grave is untouched. She looks around for Iben’s father and half-brothers, but they’ve already left the churchyard.

Peter reads her mind.

‘Rumour has it that she’s not actually buried here. That Ulf scattered her ashes in the lake instead. It’s illegal, but I don’t think anyone would have objected. Ulf’s always done exactly what he wanted.’

Laura nods.

It somehow feels right that Iben isn’t lying here in a windy churchyard, by a ghastly monument to a load of dead ancestors.

Iben is resting in the lake. Well done, Ulf.

Maybe she should do the same with Hedda’s ashes? Let Hedda and Iben rest in the lake together.

She closes her eyes, pictures her aunt and Iben out on the pontoon, just a few paces ahead of her, on their way to the ladder and the water.

Come on, Princess, don’t hesitate – just do it!

From out of nowhere, the niggling feeling is back, even stronger now. The feeling she refused to pay attention to, because unlike Hedda she doesn’t believe in inklings or intuition, but in facts. In things that can be seen, measured and proved. And yet it just won’t go away. It keeps whispering that there’s something about all this that doesn’t add up, that something is going on below the surface, something she’s missing.

She opens her eyes and turns to Peter.

‘Is there a police report on Hedda’s death?’