Dead of Winter

30

When Laura opens her eyes it is already Monday morning. Her mouth is dry as it always is when she’s taken a double dose of her medication. Her teeth are aching in spite of the mouth guard. She orders breakfast from room service, even though she’s not really hungry.

Three missed calls on her phone, two from Andreas last night, one from Steph this morning. She sends the same text message to both of them. She can’t face talking to anyone right now.

Sorry, things are taking a bit longer than expected.

Steph replies almost immediately.

Are you OK?

Laura summarises the previous day in her head. Kent Rask, the fire, her own delayed collapse. No, she is fucking far from fucking OK, as Steph might have put it. But she can’t say that; Steph would probably get the first flight down here.

Absolutely, she writes instead. Adds a couple of suitable emojis.

She tries to gather her thoughts. What is stopping her from simply turning her back on all this, getting in the car and driving home as planned?

Nothing.

So why doesn’t she do it?

Her phone starts buzzing. She’s pretty sure it’s Steph, in which case she won’t answer. In fact, it’s the office, calling about yet another of Marcus’s cock-ups. She listens for thirty seconds, then makes a decision. It’s high time her little brother came out of her blind spot. Or rather, it’s time she forced him out.

‘I’m busy,’ she says. ‘I’ll send you a number where you can reach Marcus.’

She ends the call then sends the office her mother’s mobile number, plus the landline at the villa in Spain, then switches off her phone.

The man in the ironmonger’s in Vedarp is just over fifty and well built. She doesn’t recognise him, wonders if he’s related to Sven-Erik who used to run the shop. Maybe he’s his son? Too much time has passed for her to see any resemblance.

‘A skip?’ the man says as he adds up her purchases. ‘Let me think . . . my brother-in-law can probably help you out. Would you be paying cash?’

‘Absolutely. I just want the stuff gone.’

While she packs the car with cleaning products, rubber gloves, buckets and plastic sacks, the ironmonger makes a call, then comes out to join her.

‘You’re in luck – he can deliver the skip this afternoon. What’s the address?’

‘Gärdsnäset. The old holiday village.’

He lets out a long whistle.

‘I thought so – you’re Hedda Aulin’s niece, the one from Stockholm.’

‘I am. Laura Aulin.’

‘You were there when the dance hall caught fire. You, Peter Larsson, Tomas Rask and the other two. The foster kids, whatever they were called.’

Laura doesn’t bother to supply Jack and Milla’s names.

‘I used to train with Ulf Jensen,’ the ironmonger goes on. ‘Shot put and hammer, alongside Fredrik, his youngest son. Ulf was the best coach I’ve ever had. He still remembers my results whenever we bump into each other. Fredrik and Christian were good, they were nearly always in the top ten when they competed, but Iben was the real star. Who knows how far she could have gone?’

His expression hardens.

‘I heard you were out at Kent Rask’s place yesterday when the fire started.’

‘I was – what about it?’

He leans closer. His breath smells of coffee.

‘You know, some people around here think Tomas Rask wasn’t the only guilty party back in the day. They believe that more of you were involved. You turn up for the funeral, and there’s another fire. After three decades. Strange, wouldn’t you say?’

Laura swallows hard, searches for something to say.

‘You’re going to sell Gärdsnäset to the council as agreed?’

The question and the sudden change of subject take her by surprise.

‘After all, that’s the least you can do for the village. Not to mention poor Ulf Jensen. I’m sure a few hundred thousand here or there doesn’t make much difference to you – you’ve got plenty of money.’

He pats the roof of her car as if to show that he knows exactly how much it costs.

‘The last thing those of us who live here need is an influx of rich bastards driving up house prices and not paying their local taxes. And we don’t need construction companies who employ Polish builders and don’t buy locally.’

He pats the car again. Gives her a chilly smile.

‘But I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, Laura Aulin. Let’s hope so, anyway.’

Back at Gärdsnäset Laura starts by putting on the overalls, protective head covering, mask and wellingtons she bought earlier. She flings open all the windows in Hedda’s house, then goes down to the shore for a while in the hope that the cross-draughts will disperse the worst of the odours. George follows her like a dog, glancing up at her from time to time as if she’s trying to work out what on earth Laura is doing.

It is cloudy and grey, and only a few degrees below zero. A faint mist lingers among the trees, and the ice on the lake is tightening its grip on the black eye in the centre.

The nightmare. The nymph that was also Iben, rising from the lake to sink her claws into Hedda. Even though it was only a dream and she doesn’t believe in trolls or fairies, it won’t let go. And then there are the words Hedda wrote on her board: Ask Tomas about Iben’s secret.

What secret, and how was it connected to the sale of Gärdsnäset?

The conversation with the ironmonger has supplied her with more pieces of the puzzle. It is clear that people in the village have an opinion about the sale. Did they pass on that opinion to Hedda? More than likely.

So where does Ulf Jensen come into the picture? Is he the one who sent Kjell Green?

She remembers what Kent Rask told her about Ulf and about Iben’s mother.

Kent hated the Jensens, yet at the same time he was so scared of them that he kept a shotgun at the ready in his living room. And the fire in the barn showed that he had good reason to be afraid.

But why was the fire started yesterday, during the brief period when she happened to be visiting Kent? Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence.

Who was responsible for the fire, and why? Was the intention to frighten Kent Rask, or Laura? Or both?

She kicks out at the snow in frustration, then leans back against a tree trunk. Too many questions.

Kent Rask said that Hedda and Tomas wrote to each other, which means that at least some of the answers ought to be somewhere in the house. Searching for letters means digging through three decades of dirt and crap – not exactly her idea of a good time. George seems to realise that she needs support, and keeps rubbing around Laura’s legs.

The nasal buzz of an engine interrupts her train of thought. George obviously recognises the sound. She slips away through the trees and hurries around the corner of the house to greet the visitor. Laura follows more slowly and sees Elsa sitting astride her motocross bike.

‘What are you doing?’ the young woman asks when she’s removed her helmet.

‘Cleaning,’ Laura replies, which is at least partly true.

Elsa climbs off her bike and props it against a tree.

‘Cool. Do you want some help?’

They begin by clearing a passageway straight through the house, from the front door to the room Hedda used as her office and studio.

In spite of the fact that she is more or less covered from head to toe in protective clothing, Laura has to make a real effort to ignore the little voice in her ear, telling her how many different micro-organisms there are per cubic metre of air, or the potentially fatal consequences of sustaining even the tiniest scratch from one of the dusty corners lurking all over the house.

However, Elsa sets about the task with such enthusiasm that Laura has no choice but to steel herself and get on with it. By the time the skip arrives, they’ve made good progress.

The truck driver is a sullen individual who appears to be as kindly disposed to Laura as the ironmonger was, but Elsa jollies him along, and he ends up helping them to carry out two of the old fridges, a bed and a rusty sink unit that are blocking the way into the living room.

When the driver has left, they decide to take a break. They brush the snow off the top step and sit down on two faded garden chairs with a can of Coca-Cola Zero each and a packet of cinnamon buns to share.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘Christmas holidays.’

‘Come on, Elsa – it’s not even Lucia yet.’

‘Are you going to tell my dad?’

‘That depends on how well you clean.’

Elsa tries not to smile, but fails.

‘You had a little gang when you were kids, didn’t you?’

‘Mmm. Your dad used to call us the Goonies. Like in the film,’ Laura adds, realising from Elsa’s expression that her generation are probably not interested in comedies from the Eighties.

‘What was she like?’ Elsa asks after a pause.

‘Who?’

‘Iben Jensen. Dad never wants to talk about her. Was she as amazing as everyone says?’

‘She was smart – really smart. Top marks in everything . . .’

Elsa waves a dismissive hand.

‘I already know all that. Tell me something else, something nobody knows.’

Laura thinks for a moment.

‘Iben was very competitive. She always had to win – she got really angry if she didn’t. She’d even get mad playing Uno.’

Elsa looks slightly more interested.

‘That must have been annoying.’

Laura shrugs. ‘We all have our hang-ups.’

‘Did you ever fall out?’

‘I guess so.’

‘What about?’

Laura tosses the question straight back at her.

‘What do you and your friends usually fall out about?’

‘What makes you think I have a lot of friends?’ Elsa stands up, makes a point of looking at her phone. ‘I have to go home. I might stop by tomorrow.’

‘Fine.’

Laura stays where she is while Elsa puts on her helmet, kick-starts the bike and disappears.

It feels a little sad to be left alone, not least because twilight is falling. On the other hand, it suits her very well. She doesn’t want curious teenage eyes watching her when she’s searching for Tomas’s letters.

The studio/office is probably the best place to start. She removes the cardboard boxes containing the accounts for the holiday village, a couple of old lamps and a broken chair, but the room still feels cluttered. The shelves are crammed with more boxes, folders and piles of papers, and the floor space is filled by three ill-matched filing cabinets, a large desk and a lathe. Oil paintings of various sizes are stacked against the walls; some are finished, some are not. Most are in the naïve style using bright colours, and they’re really not very good. Nowhere near the same class as the one Hedda has been using as a noticeboard.

Laura goes over to the desk, flicks through some of the papers. Most are old, and seem to be related to the accounts. Dust whirls around the room, and for what must be the fiftieth time she presses her fingers against her mouth to make sure the mask is as tight-fitting as possible.

But maybe the dust can help her.

She moves to the bookshelves and looks closely at the layer of dust that covers everything like a grey mat. On the top middle shelf there are six shoeboxes with a much thinner coating of dust. She lifts them down, places them on the desk.

The first contains slides, the next photographs. She picks up a couple. Hedda when she was young, at a pavement café somewhere with palm trees in the background. She is surrounded by happy, smiling people, raising their glasses in a toast to the photographer. From a purely statistical point of view, at least half of them must be dead by now, just like Hedda. She hears Steph’s voice in her head:

What a little ray of sunshine you are, Laura!

The next box is full of bundles of postcards and letters. She tips them out onto the desk, immediately recognises the handwriting in the thickest bundle.

Her own.

She skims through some of the correspondence. The tone is so childish. Steph would call it needy.

Dear Hedda, I can’t wait to see you. I’ll be there soon. What are you doing? What are the others doing?

The same dear Hedda who saved all these letters suddenly stopped writing to her.

Laura is slightly ashamed of herself. The whole thing was her fault, after all. If she hadn’t done what she did, Iben would have lived, had a family of her own. Maybe Laura and Jack would have found their way back to each other, maybe Peter and Tomas’s lives would have been different, maybe . . .

She puts down her old letters, turns to the postcards. The first one makes her heart leap.

I’ve arrived in Hamburg. Don’t worry, everything’s fine.

Happy Christmas, by the way.

Jack

The card is dated 21 December 1987. A week after the fire. Five days after he kissed her goodbye at the hospital.

There are five postcards from Jack in total, all with equally brief messages, sent at intervals of a few months. First a couple from Hamburg, then one from Munich. All saying the same thing: I’m fine, don’t worry. No contact details. No address, no post box number, no phone number.

The last two were sent from Berlin in 1989. The final one is dated in October, less than a month before the wall came down. This time there is an addition that makes her heart leap again.

I hope you’ve heard from Princess, and that she’s doing OK.

Jack was thinking about her. Almost two years after the fire, he was still thinking about her.

She tries to focus, move on, but an irritating sliver of happiness remains.

At the bottom of the box she finds letters from her father. The handwriting is clear and plain, the tone matter-of-fact. They’re mostly about money, shares from Laura’s grandfather, a property they inherited that Jacob has sold.

He ends the letters to his sister with Yours sincerely, which doesn’t surprise her. More surprising is the discovery of a couple of letters from her mother in the same bundle. They deal with practical details – Laura’s term dates, planning for summers and winters at Gärdsnäset. The tone is polite, nothing more.

One single letter is tucked down the side of the box. The envelope is stamped 1995, which makes it considerably more recent than the rest. The handwriting is rounded, almost childish.

Dear Hedda,

Thank you for your letters.

I often think about what happened. Sometimes I see her face before me. No one was meant to get hurt. But things didn’t turn out the way we expected.

Tomas Rask

She reads the letter several times, trying to interpret the clipped sentences. Tomas seems to be admitting that he was behind the fire. That he has regrets. It’s somehow reassuring, but the last sentence leaves her shaken.

Things didn’t turn out the way we expected.

We? Who else was involved? What had Tomas and this other person expected?

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. Automatically she reaches for her mobile, then remembers that she turned it off because she wanted to be left in peace, plus there’s hardly any coverage out here.

The ringing continues; it’s coming from the living room. On the floor between the sofa and the wall she tracks down a dusty old push-button phone.

She picks up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Laura? It’s Ulf Jensen. I heard you were still at Gärdsnäset.’

‘Yes, I’m staying a few more days.’

She tries to work out who told him – presumably, the ironmonger or his brother-in-law.

‘Do you need any help? Christian and Fredrik would be happy to come over.’

‘Thanks, I can manage.’

‘You only have to give us a call, you know that. Neighbours help each other out.’

‘Thank you . . .’

‘By the way, I was wondering if you’d like to join us at Källegården for dinner this evening?’

Her first instinct is to say no, come up with an excuse, but there are so many questions whirling around in her mind. Who set fire to Kent Rask’s barn, who were the ‘we’ in Tomas’s letter? And what did Hedda mean by Iben’s secret? The best place to find out is probably Iben’s home.

‘That would be lovely,’ she says.