Dead of Winter

28

Kent Rask stumbles into the hallway with Laura close behind him. The old man is right; the smell of smoke is getting stronger.

He flings open the door. ‘No!’ he shouts, hurrying down the steps. He runs across the yard as best he can, accompanied by the two dogs. Laura remains standing just outside the door, incapable of moving.

A wall of thick dark grey smoke is pouring out of the barn, spreading across the yard and making it increasingly difficult to see. The air is filled with the stench of burning wood and straw, which makes Laura’s knees give way.

She grabs the handrail to stop herself from falling, sinks down on the top step, gasping for air. Her heart is racing, the scar is crawling all over her back. Her brain is full of messages, all telling her to flee, run, escape. Get as far away from the fire as possible.

Kent is doing the opposite, heading for the barn with his Crocs flapping against his heels, his dressing gown fluttering behind him like a cape, exposing his half-naked body.

The dogs run ahead, still barking.

She sees them all disappear into the cloud of smoke. Realises in spite of her panic that he’s never going to be able to put out the fire on his own, and after a few seconds she manages to make her shaking hands take out her phone and key in the emergency number.

‘There’s a fire,’ she says. ‘At Ensligheten outside Vedarp.’

The call handler on the other end of the line is unnaturally calm, asking lots of questions that Laura answers in monosyllables. Kent has been inside the barn for more than a minute now.

One of the dogs emerges, its belly almost touching the ground, tail tucked between its legs. There is no sign of Kent.

The call handler is still talking, but Laura has stopped listening.

The smoke thickens, she can hear the flames crackling, an uneven staccato sound as the fire tries to consume the damp wood. Still no sign of Kent. The dog is running around in circles at the bottom of the steps; it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

The scar heats up the cold sweat, making Laura’s skin boil.

‘Ambulance,’ she mumbles into the phone. ‘Send an ambulance too.’

She hangs up, drags herself to her feet. Her brain is still yelling at her to get away. She staggers over to her car, opens the driver’s door and collapses on the seat. The feeling of safety the car always gives her allows her head to clear a little. Her only escape route lies through the smoke. She will have to drive virtually blind, hoping she doesn’t crash into something and end up right next to the barn.

She starts the engine, puts the car in Drive. Her fingers are clamped to the wheel. She can see only a metre or so in front of her. Kent’s car is parked somewhere up ahead. She has to avoid it, while at the same time keeping away from the burning barn.

Just as she is about to depress the accelerator, she senses a movement in the smoke. Kent comes stumbling out with another dog jumping around his legs. His thin hair is standing on end, his face is streaked with soot and tears, and the bottom of his dressing gown is singed.

His pockets are bulging, and he is clutching something dark-coloured to his chest. She opens the car door, and as he sinks down by her left front wheel she sees what he’s risked his life for. Five scruffy little puppies.

Less than an hour later, the fire is under control. Eight men from the part-time fire service are still working to make sure the site is safe, but the thick, suffocating smoke has dispersed, leaving only faint wisps finding their way out between the blackened planks and cracked roof tiles.

‘So is this you keeping a low profile?’

Peter sits down beside Laura on the steps. She is wrapped in a blanket thanks to the paramedics, and her legs are shaking from the adrenaline rush. She is desperate to get away; the only reason she’s still here is that her car is boxed in by the fire service.

The back doors of the ambulance are open, and Kent Rask is lying inside on a bed with an oxygen mask over his face.

‘Would you like to tell me what you’re doing here?’ Peter goes on.

Laura decides to be honest – more or less.

‘I wanted to ask Kent if he’d heard from Tomas.’

‘And had he?’

She shakes her head.

‘He claims that Tomas never comes here, because he’s afraid of the Jensen family. However, I’m pretty sure it’s down to him.’

She points to Kent, who is still holding the runt of the litter, gently stroking its head.

‘Can you believe he risked his life for a few puppies, yet he beat Tomas black and blue just because he was different?’

Peter doesn’t answer. There is a streak of soot down the side of his face, and without thinking Laura reaches out and wipes it away. Her touch makes him jump, but he doesn’t stop her. She realises what she’s doing and rubs her hand on her thigh, feeling a stab of revulsion.

‘Did you see how the fire started?’

Laura shakes her head. ‘It was already well under way when we came out. I helped Kent back into the house while we waited for the fire service. What have they said?’

‘That it was probably deliberate. You can smell petrol in there, but fortunately the straw was so damp that the whole place didn’t go up.’

‘Who would want to burn down the old man’s barn?’ Laura asks, trying not to look at the sooty mark on her jeans.

‘Well, Kent Rask isn’t exactly short of enemies. Did he say anything to you?’

‘No, he could hardly speak. But he keeps a shotgun in the living room. He told me it was because of the Jensens, but I don’t know if that’s true. He’s certainly scared of someone.’

Peter nods.

Inside the ambulance the paramedics seem to be arguing with Kent. Judging by the body language, they want to take him to hospital, but he’s having none of it. After a while one of the paramedics calls to Laura.

‘He refuses to leave until he’s spoken to you.’

She stands up, makes her way shakily to the ambulance with Peter following behind.

Kent’s eyes are glassy, and he looks exhausted. He lifts the mask.

‘She wrote to him,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Hedda. She wrote letters to Tomas all through the years. That was a kind thing to do.’

Peter leans forward to hear better, but the old man sees the movement and glares at him. He beckons to Laura to come closer.

‘I’m pretty sure he wrote back,’ Kent whispers in her ear. ‘Hedda never threw anything away, so those letters must be at Gärdsnäset somewhere . . .’

‘What did he say?’ Peter asks when the ambulance has gone.

‘He was worried about the dogs.’

She knows that Peter isn’t telling the truth about Tomas – plus he was first on the scene today. He arrived a few minutes before the firefighters, just as he did when Hedda was found dead.

What does that mean?

Maybe nothing, except that he happened to be working on both occasions. She can feel his eyes on her, but refuses to meet them.

‘I need to conduct a formal witness interview with you,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow will be fine, when everything’s calmed down. Shall we say two o’clock at the police station?’

He makes it sound like a question, even though it isn’t. And it might be her imagination, but there is a sharpness in his tone, as if he’s worked out that she’s lying to him.

Peter offers her a lift back to the hotel, but she declines. As she arrives at her destination the last of the adrenaline finally leaves her body, and shock sets in with full force.

After what feels like only moments she is sitting on the floor of the shower with hot water cascading over her body. Her pulse is racing, the scar on her back is on fire and she is shaking with cold.

She is exhausted. Her brain keeps replaying what happened. The smoke, the smell, Kent Rask risking his life for his dogs. Then the blue flashing lights, the sirens.

She keeps blowing her nose until she’s got rid of all the black snot that’s imbued with the burning smell. Drags herself to her feet and washes her body and her hair until all the little bottles provided by the hotel are empty.

When she’s finished she pushes her clothes into the laundry bag and places it in the corridor along with her shoes and jacket. Still the smell of burning won’t go away. It seems to be forcing its way in around the edges of the door.

She calls reception, asks them to come and collect her clothes immediately. That doesn’t help either. The smell has established itself in the room; it is hiding in the carpet, the sheets, the curtains.

In the end she has no choice but to attack the window. Using the iron she finds in the wardrobe, she smashes the lock on the security chain and flings the window wide open. She stands there in her bathrobe with wet hair, taking deep breaths of the cold winter air until both her heart and her scar finally calm down.