Dead of Winter

19 Winter 1987

The holiday village was full of subdued voices. Hedda’s, Ulf Jensen’s, Iben’s two half-brothers’. They had gathered around Ulf’s pickup truck, and Laura had opened the frosted bathroom window a fraction so that she could eavesdrop without being caught.

Not another one, her aunt had said when they found the horrific sheep’s carcase about an hour ago. Laura had asked what she meant, but Hedda had simply told her to stay in her room. She had sounded stressed in a way that Laura had never heard before.

Hedda had made a phone call from her studio, then hurried over to the boathouse. A few minutes later Jack’s car had driven away, and shortly after that the Jensens had arrived.

‘Why the hell did you get the police involved?’ Ulf demanded. Laura could just see him through the opening.

‘Because this is the third incident in a month. It’s not just kids messing about.’

‘And what do you think the police are going to do? Station surveillance teams out on the marsh?’

‘Well, keeping quiet about it hasn’t worked, has it? Whoever killed that sheep is sick in the head. I have to think about Laura.’

At the sound of her own name, Laura gave a start and leaned closer to the window.

‘. . . someone trying to get at me,’ Ulf said. ‘Some envious bastard who’s too much of a coward to have a go at me personally, so he’s attacking my animals instead. Costing me thousands. Sooner or later me and the boys will catch up with him.’

‘This was different. Someone had poured paraffin all over the poor animal and set fire to it, possibly while it was still alive.’

Silence.

‘Set fire to it . . .’ Christian Jensen said. ‘So do you think it’s connected to the other fires?’

‘If so he must be one sick fucker,’ Fredrik joined in. He carried on talking, waving his arms around, but his words were drowned out by the sound of an approaching car.

A dark blue Saab with a large antenna on the roof pulled up. Two men got out, one short and broad-shouldered with an underbite that made him resemble a bulldog, the other well over six feet tall, with a boxer’s nose and a shaven head. They were both wearing leather jackets, and although Laura immediately realised they were police officers, they scared her.

‘Sandberg,’ said the tall man. ‘This is my colleague Holm. Where was the animal found?’

‘This way,’ Hedda said, and the group disappeared from view.

Laura crept into the living room and saw them heading off towards Alkärret. She stood at the window, not knowing what to do. Staying in her room like a little kid just felt stupid.

She spotted a movement among the trees, a hooded figure. When the person emerged and paused by the police car, Laura could see that it was Milla. Without really knowing why she pulled on her boots and jacket and went out to join her. Milla gave her a brief nod.

‘Plain-clothes cops,’ Milla said, kicking one of the Saab’s tyres. ‘You can tell by the antenna and the extra rear-view mirror. What are they doing here?’

Laura told her about the dead sheep.

‘Someone set fire to it? Seriously? Fuck’s sake!’

‘Aunt Hedda said it wasn’t the first time.’

‘What?’ Milla’s eyes were shining.

‘No. Ulf Jensen thinks it’s someone who’s envious of him.’

‘That’s crap.’

‘Why?’

‘Envious people talk about you behind your back. Scratch your car door, stick chewing gum in your hair. But to kill a sheep, hang it from a tree then set fire to it – that’s not envy.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘Hatred, probably. Or love. Love makes people do weird things.’

Laura looked down, making patterns in the snow with her feet.

‘I was going to make some coffee,’ Milla said. ‘Would you like a cup?’

Number six looked exactly the same as Laura remembered it. Fifty square metres, pine-panelled walls and ceiling, vinyl flooring which Jack had fitted in all the cabins last year. And yet the place felt completely different.

First of all, there was the smell. Perfume, hairspray, reminding her of her mother’s bathroom. The kind of things she rarely encountered out here.

During the high season Laura usually helped out with cleaning the cabins. Most were done at changeover, but if guests were staying for longer than a week, an ongoing service was provided. Laura would volunteer for those jobs; there was something exciting about moving around among the visitors’ stuff, trying to get to know them through their habits and possessions. She knew things about them that their families might not know – which books they read, which pills were in their bathroom cabinet. Which little secrets they kept hidden at the back of their underwear drawer or under the mattress. She enjoyed matching what she knew about the guest with their behaviour out and about in the holiday village. Who was lying, who was pretending. Milla’s cabin made her feel the same kind of excitement. It aroused her curiosity, her desire to find out more.

‘Take a seat.’ Milla pointed to the sofa with its back to the kitchenette. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

The coffee table was strewn with magazines – OK!, Frida, Starlet, and at least ten cigarette packets. A large ashtray attracted Laura’s attention. All the cabins had an ashtray made by Hedda. Not exactly works of art, but the summer visitors often thought they were sweet, and sometimes bought them to take home as a souvenir. The one on Milla’s table, however, was made of glass, with JOHN SILVER written on one side. It looked as if it belonged in a restaurant rather than in a rustic cabin. Where had Milla got it from, and why had she brought it here? She didn’t have an answer to that. And why were all the cigarette packets different brands?

‘You do drink coffee?’ Milla put down two mugs and a jar of Nescafé.

‘Of course.’ Laura had no idea why she was lying.

She looked at Milla, tried to read her. There was plenty to work on: the pink streaks in her hair, the plastic bracelets, the earrings, the ripped jeans. And yet it was unexpectedly difficult to draw any clear conclusions.

‘Why do you come here?’ Milla asked, interrupting her train of thought. ‘Jack told me you’ve got a pool and everything where you live. Sunshine, palm trees, your very own housekeeper. Why come to this dump every holiday?’

Under normal circumstances the answer would have been simple: because all her friends were here. Everyone she cared about. Loved. But after yesterday that explanation no longer felt right.

‘I’ve spent every summer and Christmas holiday with Aunt Hedda ever since I was little. You could say it’s a tradition.’

‘OK.’

Milla looked searchingly at Laura, as if she didn’t really buy that.

‘And what about you? What are you doing here?’ Laura countered.

Milla pulled a face.

‘I needed to get away. Kjell, my foster father, got a bit too friendly, if you know what I mean.’

She picked up a packet of Prince, tapped out a cigarette and lit it.

‘He sat a bit too close to me on the sofa when we were watching TV, wanted me to rest my head on his knee. “Just happened”’ – Milla held the cigarette in the corner of her mouth as she drew quotation marks in the air – ‘to come into my room when I’d had a shower. In the end he said he was in love with me. Wanted us to run away together.’

She took a deep drag.

‘So what did you do then?’

Milla’s brutal honesty surprised Laura, but at the same time she felt privileged that Milla had chosen to confide in her.

‘I called social services, of course, and asked to change families. Your aunt offered, so here I am. But only temporarily. I’ll be eighteen in January, and then I’m out of here.’

‘Where will you go?’

Milla blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

‘Copenhagen, Berlin, London. Or maybe somewhere warmer. Anywhere’s better than fucking Sweden. My passport’s already in my suitcase. That slimy bastard Kjell signed my passport application. The stupid idiot really believed we were going to run away together.’

Milla leaned forward.

‘Can you keep a secret? You have to promise not to tell anyone!’

Laura nodded, realised she was holding her breath.

‘The passport wasn’t the only thing I got from Kjell. He gave me what you might call travelling expenses too.’

‘How come?’

Milla smiled. ‘I promised to say we just didn’t get along, rather than telling social services what he’d done. They would have reported him to the police.’

‘So he paid you to keep quiet?’

‘Exactly.’

Milla looked very pleased with herself. She got up to fetch the boiling water.

Laura didn’t really know what to say. Milla’s story was unpleasant, but she was pleased to have been given a piece of the puzzle that told her something about the girl. A piece Milla presumably didn’t give to just anyone.

Milla filled their cups, replaced the pan on the hob and sat down on the sofa once more.

‘You’re pretty,’ she said. ‘I can do your makeup if you like. Make you look a bit older – like your best friend, the one with the funny name.’

‘Iben? We’re not best friends.’

‘No? Peter said you were. That the whole gang had more or less grown up together.’

Laura stared down at the table.

‘A boy,’ Milla said. ‘It has to be a boy. That’s the only thing girls fall out about so fast. You’re both in love with the same person. Not Peter, he’s too much of a clown. And Tomas is too weird. Which leaves Jack, the guy with the guitar.’

Laura clamped her lips together.

Milla shook her head, amused and annoyed at the same time.

‘I told you about slimeball Kjell,’ she said.

Laura hesitated for a few seconds. Milla was a stranger, someone she didn’t really know. Then again, she was also the only person who was interested in Laura. Who wasn’t preoccupied with her own secrets. Who treated her like an adult.

‘It’s all Iben’s fault,’ Laura muttered.