Dead of Winter

18

Dusk has begun to fall and the exterior light comes on just as she parks outside Hedda’s house. The crows welcome her with their usual warning cries.

George bursts out of the cat flap as if she recognises Laura’s footsteps. She winds herself around Laura’s legs with such enthusiasm that Laura trips and kicks the empty cat food tins by the door. One, two, three, four – two more than yesterday.

She looks over at the forest, but it’s already dark among the trees.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

Nothing. She stands, listening for a minute or so, but all she can hear is the wind, soughing in the treetops.

She opens the door, goes inside and locks it behind her. In spite of the fact that she’s ready for the chaos, the sense of revulsion is almost as strong as before. She picks her way between the furniture and the piles of crap, flicking on every light switch she can find.

The thermometer is on the kitchen windowsill, next to the binoculars and the china figurines, exactly where she saw it on her previous visit. It is showing nineteen degrees, which means it’s working. At one end there is a float with a plastic loop, so that you can secure the thermometer with a piece of string to stop it drifting away.

So why is the thermometer in here, instead of tied to the ladder off the pontoon as it’s always been, summer and winter? There is a rational explanation. Maybe Hedda had lost interest in the temperature of the water? It’s not difficult to check. Laura picks her way to the woodburning stove in one corner of the living room. The bookcase beside it is crammed with books covered in dust, cobwebs and dead flies. The bottom shelf contains green- or blue-backed notebooks. There must be well over forty.

More fun than a diary. And it’s become a bit of an obsession.

Laura takes out the book on the far left. It is less dusty than the rest, which means it ought to be this year’s.

The pages are ruled into columns, just as she remembers. Date, time, who swam, air temperature, water temperature.

1 January 2017 19.32, Hedda, air 0 degrees, water +2 degrees, says the first entry. It is followed by a second, almost identical.

2 January 2017 19.26, Hedda, air -1 degree, water +2 degrees.

Laura turns the pages. Hedda swims virtually every evening. The date changes, the temperature of the air and water slowly rises. The only column that remains the same, as the days become weeks and months, is the one containing the name. Hedda swims alone, evening after evening, but she still feels compelled to note that fact in the same meticulous way as the other data.

There is something manic and sad about the whole thing, a record of a lonely person’s life.

She continues to turn the pages. The only real break comes in late September. It lasts for almost three weeks, which surprises Laura until she realises that must have been when Hedda was in hospital following her second heart attack. Towards the middle of October, she’s back, defying her doctor’s orders and continuing to subject her heart to high and low temperatures, which she records in the book with the same meticulousness as before.

And then on 12 November, exactly one week before her death, the notes stop. There are two possible explanations for this. The first and most straightforward is that Hedda simply grew tired of making notes about her daily swim. Without warning, she broke off a routine she’d maintained for at least forty years.

The second explanation, and the one that Laura is convinced is correct, is that Hedda took the thermometer out of the water for some reason and decided to stop swimming in the winter. But why?

If the heart attack in September didn’t persuade her to listen to her doctor, then what did?

She thinks back to the photographs, the towel partly wrapped around one leg. It looked as if it had been around Hedda’s body when she went into the water, rather than as if it had blown off the pontoon. She gets out her phone and calls the number Peter gave her. He answers almost right away.

‘Hi, it’s Laura. I think you’re wrong about Hedda’s cause of death.’

There’s a rustling sound on the other end of the line.

‘Why do you say that?’

She tells him about the bathing book and the thermometer. The towel that shouldn’t have been in the water. He listens without interrupting her.

‘There’s something I haven’t mentioned,’ he says quietly when she’s finished.

She hears him moving around the room, the sound of a door being quietly closed. He clears his throat.

‘There was a lighter on the pontoon. When I checked the house I found a packet of cigarette papers and a pretty substantial bag of marijuana on the kitchen table.’

Laura is taken aback.

‘Why isn’t that in the police report?’

‘Because I got rid of the lot – flushed it down the toilet. People were already only too keen to bad-mouth Hedda. But I should have told you at the station. By the way, do you remember the greenhouse behind the toolshed?’

‘Of course. Hedda grew magic herbs in there. Mandrake and belladonna. That was why we were definitely not allowed to go in. Because—’

‘—magic wasn’t for children,’ Peter finishes the sentence.

They are both silent for a few seconds, until Laura’s brain finally catches on.

‘So the magic herbs . . .’

‘Turned out to be good old cannabis sativa. A very professional little home business.’

The revelation surprises Laura – and yet it doesn’t.

‘That does clarify a few things,’ she says after a moment. ‘The padlock on the greenhouse, the hand-rolled cigarettes Hedda smoked out on the pontoon when she wanted to be left in peace. The fact that her clothes sometimes smelled a bit odd.’

‘I thought the same thing. How come we didn’t realise?’

‘We grew up in Hedda’s world, Peter. Magic herbs, the nymph, black swans, reincarnated cats. That’s just the way it was.’

She pictures Hedda sitting on the pontoon on a summer’s evening, alone with a joint in her hand. Feet dangling in the water as she gazed across the lake.

Sometimes, Princess, you need to be alone with your thoughts.

‘Do you think she had more secrets?’ she asks.

‘Maybe. We’ll probably never know.’

Laura hears a door open, then a girl’s voice.

‘Just a minute, Elsa. I’m on the phone.’

The door slams shut.

Peter sighs. ‘I have to go, Laura. I’d be grateful if you could keep quiet about this. Technically I’m guilty of professional misconduct, but I did it out of consideration for Hedda.’

‘Absolutely. You can trust me.’

‘Thanks. And listen – it was good to see you again. Give me a call if you’re ever in the area.’

They say their goodbyes. Before Laura can put down her phone, it begins to vibrate. She assumes it’s Andreas and is about to reject the call, but then she sees it’s Steph.

‘So did he turn up?’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think? Prince Charming. The boy you’ve been pining for over the past thirty years.’

‘No. No, he didn’t come.’

She hears the disappointment in her voice before she feels it.

‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ Steph says. ‘He’s probably married, overweight and has a hairy back. Or even worse . . .’

‘What could possibly be worse than that?’

‘He might be a supporter of the Sweden Democrats. Or one of those people who makes a heart shape in the air with their fingers and thumbs.’

Laura can’t help laughing.

‘Shall we meet up for lunch on Monday, so you can tell me about your inheritance in detail?’ Steph suggests.

‘Good idea. It won’t take long.’

They end the call, and Laura stands there with the phone in her hand. She’s still trying to digest what Peter told her.

When she started working for her father in the early 2000s, she’d soon realised that his frequent business trips weren’t just about work. He had a life of his own outside the family, he smoked and drank way too much, and he had relationships with other women. Things she’d taken for granted as a child were nowhere near as clear-cut when seen through the eyes of an adult.

However, until now she had never turned those eyes on Gärdsnäset and Hedda. What other secrets had her aunt had?

She looks around at the mess. Dust, cobwebs, dead flies, rubbish and scruffy possessions in such quantities that it’s difficult to see what’s there. She suppresses a shudder.

The crows strike up, their cacophony mixed with the sound of a car engine. Laura peers out into the darkness through a dirty window. A white Skoda emblazoned with the council’s logo pulls up next to her car. A portly man climbs out, looks up anxiously at the cawing birds. He must be about sixty. He’s wearing a long coat and a fur hat, which makes him look vaguely amusing. She meets him at the door.

‘Kjell Green from the council,’ he says. His handshake is damp. ‘I just wanted a few words. I won’t take up much of your time.’

Laura hesitates. Can she really invite him in, given the state of the place? Then again, standing out on the steps doesn’t feel right either.

Judging by his expression, Green doesn’t like the inside of Hedda’s house any more than Laura does – but he doesn’t seem surprised, which means he’s been here before. She shows him into the kitchen and manages to free up two chairs.

He takes off his fur hat, revealing a comb-over and a shiny forehead. He looks nervous.

‘First of all I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt was . . .’

He gazes around the kitchen, searching for the right word.

‘Special?’ she suggests.

‘Exactly!’

He nods gratefully, and Laura silently notes that this is the fourth time that word has been applied to Hedda.

‘We’d been in touch a few times during the late autumn,’ Green continues. ‘Hedda was interested in selling Gärdsnäset. We’d more or less reached an agreement when she . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Anyway. I just wanted to call by and offer my condolences.’

‘Thank you.’ Laura waits for the inevitable follow-up.

‘You wouldn’t believe how quickly the community is growing. This is a positive thing, of course, but we need land for houses, schools and nurseries. Gärdsnäset is in such a beautiful location – it would be perfect. It would attract new residents, breathe life into the whole area.’

He sighs with relief, as if he’s delivered a speech.

‘When did you last speak to Hedda?’ Laura asks.

Green shuffles uncomfortably.

‘At the beginning of November. A week or so before she . . .’

He still can’t say the word ‘died’.

‘Was Håkansson involved?’

Green shakes his head. ‘Not as far as I know. I delivered the council’s offer directly to Hedda, but I have spoken to Håkansson in the past few days.’

‘Yes, he mentioned that. Apparently there’s another interested party.’

She can tell from his expression that he’s well aware of this fact.

‘Vintersjöholm.’ He shuffles again. ‘Yes, Hedda mentioned that the castle had made enquiries.’

The answer surprises her. After their conversation at the funeral, she’d assumed it was Ulf Jensen. So where does he come into the picture?

Green leans forward, lowers his voice.

‘As I understand it, the castle offered more money. A lot more. But Hedda wanted what was best for the community. She didn’t like the idea of Vintersjön becoming a playground for the rich. She thought it should remain an oasis for ordinary people.’

She notices the change in his language. He’s gone back into speech mode, well practised and slightly stilted.

He gets to his feet, puts his hat back on, pulling it down over his sweaty forehead.

‘After all, money isn’t everything,’ he says in conclusion, attempting a smile. ‘Needless to say, I and many others around here hope you share that view, Laura.’

She watches the rear lights of his car disappear among the trees. It’s obvious that someone sent him here. Persuaded him to drag himself away from a cosy Saturday evening at home. Someone who makes him nervous.

Maybe even frightens him.

The question is – who?