Dead of Winter

24

Laura waves Elsa off as she makes her way along the bumpy track. There’s something about the young woman that she really likes.

She hasn’t talked to anyone about her little girl for a long time. No, that’s wrong – she hasn’t talked to anyone except Andreas, but he just wants to go over the same things again and again, getting nowhere. He more or less accuses her of not caring, because she never visits the grave. And her mother doesn’t mention it, pretends it hasn’t happened, as she does with everything that might be unpleasant.

Laura understands why Elsa and Hedda liked each other. They’re very similar – direct, unafraid, honest. And maybe they can both hold a grudge.

She thinks about all the letters she wrote to Hedda. The replies she never received. Then again, she’s not here to bury herself in old disappointments, but to find answers. And she’s already found one – she now knows who’s been feeding George. A small victory.

However, she’s also been left with more questions.

Peter clearly lied to her about Tomas, just as she suspected. Has he lied about anything else? About the details surrounding Hedda’s death?

The little greenhouse is behind the toolshed. Double glazing and a sheltered, south-facing position have provided the cannabis plants inside with optimum growing conditions. Peter was telling the truth about that; she can’t verify the rest, but she has no difficulty in picturing Hedda smoking an evening joint out on the pontoon.

She needs to go back a few steps, back to the time around 12 November. That was when something happened, something that made Hedda change her mind about selling Gärdsnäset.

But what?

She goes back into the house. Selling the home she’d lived in for almost fifty years must have been a huge step for Hedda, requiring a great deal of thought. There were two offers – a generous one from the castle, and a lower one from the council. Hedda had never reached that kind of decision lightly.

Then she abruptly changed her mind. Rejected the money, the chance of a more comfortable life.

Laura suddenly remembers the planning board.

Hedda wanted to see everything laid out in front of her before she reached any major decision. She would stick lots of photographs, sketches and objects on a big whiteboard. Sometimes Laura and Iben were allowed to help by cutting pictures out of magazines, or adding their own drawings until the board was completely covered.

A mood board, long before the concept was invented. Eventually, when he was old enough, Jack would complement the board with more practical contributions such as designs, colour samples, possible timelines and shopping lists, converting Hedda’s vision into reality. He never tried to change her, though. First the board, then the decision. No shortcuts.

You can’t decide on something you can’t see.

Had Hedda still thought that way? Wanted to see the alternatives set out in front of her so that she could weigh up the pros and cons? It was certainly worth investigating.

Laura switches on the lights, pulls on her gloves and rummages among the chaos, but she can’t find the board. George sticks close by her side, as if she’s wondering what Laura is up to. After a while Laura begins to wonder the same thing.

Hedda had probably changed her approach. Moved from a board to something simpler, like a good old-fashioned notepad for example.

The problem is finding a pad in the middle of all this. However, it looks as if Hedda didn’t actually use much of the house, so the kitchen seems like a good place to start.

The table is cluttered with junk mail, catalogues and envelopes with windows. On top of one of the piles is a spiral-bound notebook and a pen. Laura opens the notebook; it’s empty. Nothing, not even a doodle. However, along the binding are small scraps of paper, left behind when pages have been torn out.

So where are the notes? Has someone been in and taken them, someone who wanted to remove evidence?

It takes about ten seconds before her brain leaves TV crime-series territory and returns to normal logic.

For a start, it would have been a lot easier for the mysterious intruder to take the whole book rather than ripping out pages. And evidence . . . of what?

What does she actually suspect? That Hedda was murdered?

What solid evidence is that suspicion based on?

A towel in the water, a bathing book that wasn’t filled in. Last night’s nightmare.

She goes out onto the porch, hoping the cold winter air will clear her head. She needs to stop this, whatever it is.

She hears a sound from the forest, the loud crack of a branch. She gives a start, peers into the darkness to try and make out the source, but the exterior light above her head makes the darkness among the trees even more compact.

She looks up. The crows aren’t particularly agitated, so there’s probably a natural explanation for the sound. A deer, maybe. Still she lingers for a while, attempts to pinpoint the spot where the unidentified smoker must have stood, but all is quiet and peaceful.

She goes back into the house, turns off the lights in the bedroom and studio. Stands in front of the sofa. Hedda sat here, day after day, night after night, all alone. Stared at the TV, smoked and drank her way to three heart attacks.

Laura perches cautiously on the arm of the sofa.

Why is she still incapable of seeing Hedda through the eyes of an adult, in spite of a wealth of evidence? Why can’t she accept the most logical explanation?

Hedda was an old woman who tumbled off her own pontoon. A woman who couldn’t bring herself to sell this dump to the highest bidder, whose only sensible thought was to make a will, presumably because she’d realised that her heart wouldn’t last much longer.

She’ll go back to the hotel in a while, wash off the dust and dirt from this house. Then she’ll swim a few lengths, order room service and go to bed. Get an early start in the morning so that she can fit in lunch with Steph and a few hours’ work at the office. Return to her everyday life.

As she gets to her feet she notices the picture at the front of a dusty stack propped against the wall behind the TV. She recognises it.

That particular picture of the lake early on a summer morning used to hang in the main cabin. Veils of mist hover above the surface of the water, and beyond them the silhouette of the ridge is just visible. As a child, its contours made Laura think of a sleeping giant, but as an adult she realises there’s something else about the work that appeals to her – an air of melancholy, reinforced by the solitary lamp on Miller’s boathouse, shining at the exact point where land meets water.

She moves closer. It’s the best thing Hedda has ever done. The lake at dawn, the mist, the sparkling water, the outline of the ridge and that lonely, yearning light on the other side.

She is reaching out for the painting when she notices something. It’s in a stack of five, but the other four are covered in a thick layer of dust. This one, however, is hardly dusty at all, which means it’s recently been cleaned. Or moved.

Laura picks it up. Her fingers touch something on the reverse. She turns it over, lays it on top of the pile. A piece of white canvas has been stapled to the back.

The first thing that draws her attention is the black swan’s feather right at the top. It must be her feather, which means Hedda found the cigar box containing her childish treasures.

Roughly in the middle of the canvas two documents have been attached. Two offers for Gärdsnäset, one from Kjell Green and the council, the other from Vintersjöholm Development, signed by Heinz Norell, Project Leader. A whole host of other papers have been stuck around the offers. Cuttings of old newspaper articles with familiar headlines: TRAGEDY AT VINTERSJÖN, ARSON COST YOUNG WOMAN HER LIFE, ARSONIST SENT TO YOUTH OFFENDERS’ INSTITUTION. Right at the bottom is a page torn out of a notebook, with three lines in Hedda’s handwriting.

Laura is holding her breath.

Make will  , followed by a neat tick.

Call Laura  , followed by a question mark.

Finally, five words in capitals:

ASK TOMAS ABOUT IBEN’S SECRET!