Dead of Winter

26

We can’t choose our parents, Princess. Just as we can’t choose our children.

Ensligheten, the place where Tomas grew up, is actually on the GPS map. Laura thinks she’s only been there once, with Hedda and Jack. She can’t remember why – did she wait in the car?

The morning sky is grey and overcast, the yard one great big frozen pool of mud. A battered Opel is parked to the side. There is no snow on the roof, which means the car is used regularly, and that someone is probably at home. Two scruffy dogs come racing out of the barn, barking loudly and running around her car a couple of times before disappearing back where they came from.

The rotting roller-door has long since parted company with its mechanism, and is propped up against one wall of the barn. Inside are a couple of old cars that are apparently being used as dog kennels.

Laura parks as close to the house as possible, facing in the right direction so that she can get away quickly if necessary. The wind brings down a swirl of wet, loose snow from the roof of the barn. It stings her face, and she pulls on her hat and buttons her jacket right up to her chin.

The house was once green, but a combination of sun and dirt have turned the wood yellowish-grey. A huge tarpaulin has been fixed over the ridge, and next to the chimney she can see a rusty television aerial at such a drunken angle that it looks as if it might come crashing down at any moment. The concrete steps have been cleared of snow – just about. On the porch a case of beer is just visible beneath a lopsided plastic table.

The whole place gives Laura the creeps. She pauses at the front door, gathers her thoughts. She could have called Peter last night on her way back to the hotel. Told him about Hedda’s board, but after giving the matter some thought, she’d decided not to.

Peter lied to her about Tomas. What is he trying to hide, and is there a connection with Hedda’s interest in Tomas?

The only way to find out is to try to contact Tomas.

She knocks on the door. It takes several attempts before she sees a movement through the frosted glass.

‘Yes?’

The old man who opens the door is wearing a filthy dressing gown and Crocs. His hair is thin, he’s wearing thick glasses and is clean-shaven. Once upon a time he was getting on for two metres tall, but now his back is bent.

‘Kent Rask?’ she asks, although it can’t really be anyone else.

‘Whatdoyouwant?’ He runs the four words together.

‘I’m looking for Tomas.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Do you know where I can get hold of him?’

‘Why?’ The old man’s eyes narrow. ‘You remind me of someone.’

‘I’m Laura Aulin – Hedda’s niece.’

Kent Rask exposes a set of nicotine-stained teeth.

‘Of course – little Laura. How’s your rich daddy?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Is he indeed? And how much did you inherit?’

The smile makes him look like an ageing wolf. He throws the door wide open and steps back.

‘I’m only kidding, Laura. Come on in. Don’t stand out there in the cold.’

Laura hesitates, remembering how frightened of Kent she once was. She and everyone else. But that was thirty years ago, and he’s well over seventy now.

‘Thank you.’

She steps inside. The house is warm. She is prepared for the usual ‘bachelor’ odours, but all she can smell is fried bacon.

‘Come in, come in.’ He leads the way through the hall, beckoning her to follow.

The walls are adorned with hunting trophies – antlers with a white piece of skull bone still attached, screwed onto wooden plaques. Above the living-room door is the head of a wild boar, mouth open, glass eyes staring.

‘Take a seat.’

Kent removes a pile of newspapers from one of the sofas. Otherwise the room is surprisingly clean and tidy. The TV is showing Emmerdale or some similar soap. An electric fire glows brightly in one corner. The old man seems to be almost as cold as she is.

Laura reluctantly unbuttons her jacket, perches on the edge of the sofa.

‘Coffee?’ He points to a thermos in the middle of the table.

‘No thanks,’ she replies, a little too quickly.

Kent sits down in the worn armchair by the fire.

‘So – why does little Laura Aulin want to speak to my Tomas, if I might ask?’

She hesitates, then decides to tell the truth.

‘I want to know if he’s spoken to Hedda recently.’

‘I thought Hedda was dead?’ he says with a grin.

‘Before she died,’ Laura clarifies, unnecessarily.

Kent leans forward. His nose and cheeks are covered in a fine network of broken blood vessels.

‘And what would Tomas and Hedda have been talking about that’s interesting enough to bring you all the way out here?’

‘Only he can answer that.’

The grin disappears. ‘Tomas is in an institution. That’s where he’s spent most of his time over the past thirty years. He’s not right in the head, you see.’ He taps his temple with one finger. ‘God knows I’ve tried to knock some sense into him, in every possible way. Sometimes to the point where my fists hurt.’

Laura bites her lip. Remembers Tomas and his refusal to make eye contact, the way he kind of slunk along by the walls. She and the others couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t take off his T-shirt or jumper and go swimming. It all makes sense now.

‘But even if he’s out, he’s not stupid enough to turn up here,’ the old man adds.

‘Why not?’

A snort. ‘Because of Ulf Jensen and his boys, of course. They’ve been here plenty of times asking for him. That’s why I keep the shotgun ready.’

He turns to face the window and pulls back the curtain to reveal a shotgun leaning against the wall. Laura pretends she’s not scared at all.

‘Tomas was punished, but the rest of you got off lightly. Peter Larsson, running around playing at being a cop. The orphan boy and that trollop, whatever her name was, who took off as soon as they could. Hedda, who should have been keeping an eye on all of you. And then there’s you, with your rich daddy and your slick lawyers.’ A thread of saliva gets caught at one corner of his mouth. ‘Tomas took all the blame. The cops decided it was him and no one else. That was the simplest way.’

He shakes his head.

‘Thirty years, and still no one can really let it go. People spit at me in the village. I assume you know why?’ His eyes darken. ‘Because Ulf Jensen won’t let anyone forget what happened. He even persuaded the council to rename the school, to make sure that future generations would learn what a fucking saint his daughter was.’

He leans back, fishes a snuff tin out of his pocket and inserts a large plug under his top lip. He must have stopped smoking.

‘You know they were together? Saint Iben and Orphan Boy?’

‘You mean Jack?’

The subject is still painful, and Laura wishes the old man hadn’t brought it up.

He ignores her correction.

‘Ulf Jensen couldn’t stand the thought that his snow-white daughter was sleeping with a gypsy—’

‘Jack wasn’t a gypsy,’ Laura interrupts him.

‘No?’ Another grin – she can see the plug of snuff beneath his lip. ‘It doesn’t really matter – nobody would have been good enough for Ulf Jensen’s girl. In a way I think the hypocritical bastard is pleased about the fire. It gave him the chance to put his daughter on a pedestal. Nobody will ever be able to touch her. She’ll stay young and pure for all eternity. A snow-white saint, just like St Lucia.’

Kent adjusts the plug of snuff with the tip of his tongue.

‘Your aunt didn’t like him – did you know that?’

Laura shakes her head. Her memories don’t match the old man’s assertion. Hedda and Ulf were always polite to each other. Which, in hindsight, seems a little odd. Hedda was never polite to anyone else.

‘It’s true,’ Kent continues. ‘That was one of the reasons why I liked Hedda. She could see straight through Ulf Jensen, all that holier-than-thou crap. The brave single father, bringing up three kids all by himself and turning them all into winners.’ He leans forward again. ‘The boys’ mother died, that much is true. But the second wife – Iben’s mother, the woman he imported from up north . . .’ He taps his temple again, as he did when he was talking about Tomas. ‘Sofia was an attractive woman, there’s no doubt about that, but she wasn’t right in the head. She tried to set fire to Källegården one night when Ulf was out.’

Laura suppresses a gasp.

‘He got home just in time – I’d given him a lift. Another twenty minutes and we’d have been too late.’

‘When was this?’

Kent frowns.

‘It must have been ’76 or ’77. Ulf and I were doing some business together back then. Tomas was with us too – he was only five or six. I remember him and Iben sitting in the back seat of my car with their arms around each other while me and Ulf and the boys put out the fire.’

‘And Iben’s mother?’

‘Sofia was dancing around the yard in her nightdress, laughing at the top of her voice. It must have gone on for at least a quarter of an hour before Ulf managed to shut her up.’

Kent licks his lips.

‘Ulf told the kids it was an accident. Then he convinced them and everyone else who asked that Sofia had left them because she couldn’t settle in Skåne, and had gone back up north. In fact, he’d had her admitted to St Maria’s in Helsingborg.’

‘What happened to her after that?’

‘I’ve no idea. I never heard any more about her. People like Sofia and Tomas should be locked up forever.’ He gives a contemptuous smile. ‘Ulf gave me a hunting permit to say thank you for my help. I could hold onto it for as long as I kept my mouth shut. He never dared to withdraw it, not even when he started playing the big man and we fell out. I presume he didn’t want anyone to find out that his little angel’s mother was in the loony bin.’

He sits back.

‘I’ve kept my promise all these years, but now I’m too old to hunt. Plus, Ulf wants to sell the permit to someone else. Rumour has it that he’s running short of money.’

Kent winks at her, which irritates Laura. In fact, everything about this bitter old man infuriates her. Kent Rask used to beat his son instead of trying to help him. He accepted a hunting permit in return for keeping quiet about Sofia Jensen, and let Iben grow up believing that her mother had left her. The thought of young Iben and Tomas alone in the back seat of Kent’s car while Källegården burned and Sofia danced around laughing makes her head pound.

Is this the secret Hedda was interested in?

‘I think I’d better go.’

She gets to her feet, but Kent grabs her wrist.

‘Why are you in such a hurry, little Laura? We haven’t talked about your aunt yet. Hedda and I did quite a bit of business together.’

She remains motionless. The fingers digging into her wrist are rough, dirt ingrained in the cracks. The three dots are still visible between the thumb and forefinger, as is the uneven triangle on the back of his hand.

She ought to leave, right now. But she came here to find information, so she snatches her hand away and sits down again.

‘What kind of business?’ she asks as calmly as she can manage. Tries not to look at the shotgun.

‘Forest business.’ Kent places his index finger on his lips. The nail is long, with a black edging of snuff. ‘In the Eighties I did a little home distilling. It was very lucrative; there weren’t many state-owned off-licences around. Your aunt was one of my best customers.’

He digs out the plug of snuff with his finger, transfers it to the coffee cup in front of him, then wipes the finger on his dressing gown. Laura feels sick.

‘Hedda sold the moonshine on to the summer visitors in the holiday village, of course.’

Kent says this as if it’s common knowledge, then realises that Laura is surprised.

‘Didn’t you know? I thought you helped out. Orphan Boy often came here to collect Hedda’s orders.’

Laura doesn’t reply. She really hates that nickname.

‘Anyway. Once Hedda got the dance hall going, plus the boat and all the rest of it, she had lots of new thirsty customers. My equipment was working overtime.’

He savours the memory for a few seconds before continuing.

‘We had a couple of really good summers, until Ulf Jensen started interfering. Said he didn’t want his daughter anywhere near booze or illegal activities. He threatened to call the police. I can’t understand why Hedda didn’t tell him to go to hell – half the police force were buying from us, and Hedda wasn’t exactly scared of confrontation. But this time she gave in. Ended our association.’

‘When was this?’

Laura can’t look at the old man’s lips, where the remains of the snuff still linger.

‘Autumn ’87. I remember because it was the same year as the fire.’

Laura makes an effort to match what she’s just heard with her own memories.

‘You gave me a lift in your car that winter,’ she says. ‘You said you had to pick up something for my aunt. We came off the road.’

‘Oh, you remember that!’ Kent says with a laugh. ‘Yes, Hedda had paid in advance for a delivery. After Ulf threatened her, she asked for her money back. I stalled for a while, hoped she’d change her mind. But I repaid her a few days before the fire.’

‘You were going to fetch the money that night?’

Kent nods. ‘You ran away like a frightened little rabbit. What did you think I was going to do? Rape you?’

Laura clenches her jaw. She remembers Ulf Jensen turning up, how the two men nearly got into a fight.

‘You must have been furious with Ulf. You’d already fallen out, and now he’d lost you your best customer.’

‘Furious isn’t the half of it. That self-righteous fucker cost me thousands of kronor.’

‘So what did you do about it?’

Kent grins at her once more.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

Another image comes into her mind: the blackened cadaver of a sheep, hanging from a tree while the crows peck at its brain.

She’s about to accuse him when he struggles to his feet. She hears barking in the distance – not the sound of the guard dogs that met Laura when she arrived, but a shriller, more anxious sound.

‘Can you smell smoke?’