Dead of Winter

22

Laura helps Elsa to brush off the snow and the leaves, and to pick up the bike and prop it against a tree. It’s heavy, at least one size too big for its owner.

‘My name’s Laura. I saw your photo in your dad’s office.’

Elsa refused to meet her eyes.

‘Dad doesn’t want me to ride the bike,’ she mumbles. ‘He’s threatened to sell it, even though Grandad gave it to me. Since my mum’s accident, he worries about everything. That’s why I ran. People like to tell tales.’

Laura nods slowly.

‘I’m sorry for your loss. It must be tough.’

Elsa looks up. Her eyes are black.

‘My mum was sick in the head. Do you know what really happened?’

‘No.’

‘She was out with her boyfriend – or maybe I should say lover. He was driving way too fast. He came off the road and went straight into a tree. The car burst into flames. Whoosh!’ She waves her hand to illustrate a sudden blaze. ‘No survivors.’

‘How terrible!’ Laura shudders.

‘It was my dad who really suffered. Mum and I didn’t have much contact with each other. She had an apartment in Helsingborg; she only turned up in Vedarp when she needed someone to make a fuss of her, or she felt like playing Mummy for a couple of days.’

Elsa’s directness surprises Laura, and arouses her curiosity.

‘And how did your dad react?’

Elsa snorts.

‘He’s way too nice. He let her come and go as she liked, consoled her when the latest boyfriend dumped her, helped her feel better when she’d partied too hard.’ She touches the tip of her nose to underline what she means. ‘She treated him like shit.’

There is a brief silence, and Laura decides to change the subject.

‘You’re the one who’s been feeding George, I assume.’

Elsa nods. ‘I didn’t want the poor little thing to starve to death. Now Hedda’s not here anymore . . .’ She pauses, looks genuinely upset for the first time.

‘So how did you know Hedda?’

‘I ride my bike up there in the forest.’ She points in the direction of the main road. ‘There’s hardly ever anyone around, no one to tell my dad. One day last summer, my chain broke. Hedda came along when I was messing with it – she nearly scared me to death.’ A grimace that might be a smile. ‘We wheeled the bike to the holiday village and she helped me to fix it. From then on I used to stop and have coffee with her whenever I came here.’

The grimace turns into a proper smile.

‘She could be a bit difficult, but I really liked her. And I liked the cat. My mum was allergic, so I was never allowed a pet of my own.’

‘Same here,’ Laura says. ‘George was my substitute cat. Not the same George, of course. All Hedda’s cats were called George.’

‘Yes, she told me that. I looked after George when Hedda was in hospital in the autumn.’

Elsa looks around. There is a large glade in front of them, with the lake beyond. Over by the shore a small iron cross is sticking up above the thin covering of snow.

‘That’s where Iben Jensen died, isn’t it?’ Elsa says.

Laura nods. Her brain has already conjured up the dance hall that once stood in the glade. The flames, the heat, the smells, the noise. Her scar comes to life.

‘My school’s named after her,’ Elsa goes on. ‘All her trophies and medals are in a display cabinet by the main entrance.’

Laura makes a non-committal sound, trying to block the images in her memory.

‘My dad was injured in the fire – he suffered burns to one leg, although you can hardly see it now. Mum sent him to a plastic surgeon before they got married. Hedda lost two fingers. Were you hurt?’

They could just as easily be chatting about the weather. Laura makes an effort to maintain her composure. The scar is burning so fiercely that the droplets of sweat must be turning to steam.

‘I have a scar on my back.’

Oddly enough, the words ease the pain a little.

‘And you haven’t had plastic surgery to remove it?’

Laura shakes her head.

‘I carry a virus – nothing infectious,’ she quickly adds. ‘But anything that has a traumatic effect on the body could activate it – like an operation. Or a pregnancy,’ she hears herself say.

‘So you don’t have any children?’

‘No.’

Laura takes a deep breath. Decides to tell the truth.

‘Just over two years ago I was expecting a little girl, but she died before she was born.’

‘Because of the virus?’

‘The doctors couldn’t be sure, but I think so. Anyway, she died in the womb, with no explanation.’

‘That’s awful!’ Elsa tilts her head to one side. ‘What was her name?’

‘Andreas wanted to call her Saga.’

‘And you?’

‘I wanted to wait until she arrived.’

Because you knew the winter fire could take her, a voice whispers in Laura’s head.

Elsa can see that she’s uncomfortable. She takes Laura’s arm.

‘Come on, let’s go back to the house. George must be hungry.’

They’re sitting on the porch while George tucks into the food Elsa has brought.

Laura’s shirt is still damp, but the scar has stopped burning, and a strange sense of relief is spreading through her body.

‘Does your dad ever talk about the fire?’ she asks.

Elsa strokes George’s back, and the cat rubs her head against Elsa’s hand before going into the house.

‘No. It was my mum who told me about his leg.’

‘Do you know if he’s still in touch with any of the others who were there? Tomas Rask, for example?’

She is thinking of Peter’s abrupt answer to her question.

Elsa frowns, takes a lighter out of her pocket.

‘I know he speaks to Tomas on the phone occasionally, and it’s nothing to do with his job. Dad has a work tone of voice and a personal one,’ she clarifies. ‘Almost all his calls are to do with work, but with Tomas it’s almost like when he used to talk to Mum. That’s why I’ve noticed it.’

Laura leans forward.

‘When did you last hear them talking?’

Elsa plays distractedly with the lighter, flicking the wheel back and forth to create sparks.

‘I don’t remember, but Dad’s phone was on the kitchen table this morning, and I saw he had a text message from Tomas.’

Laura tries not to sound too interested.

‘Did you see what it said?’

Elsa looks up, apparently untroubled by Laura’s questions. In fact, she seems faintly amused.

‘He wanted to know if he and Dad were meeting up this evening.’