Dead of Winter

32

The driveway leading up to Källegården looks more or less the same as Laura remembers it: a narrow dirt track lined with old willow trees, all leaning away from the wind at the same angle.

A sign next to the postboxes informs passers-by that wood, Christmas trees and fireworks are for sale. Behind it is a bigger sign, hanging askew.

JENSEN & SONS CONSTRUCTION LTD

Laura realises she’s nervous. Ulf surely hasn’t invited her in order to fling accusations at her, but there’s still something unpleasant about approaching the place.

Källegården has two yards. The first is surrounded by stables, a barn and a storage shed for machinery. The second is higher, and is encircled by a stream that turns it into an island. The buildings all have the same yellow-rendered façades, but the garage is considerably newer than the farmhouse itself, which has stepped gables.

The snow has been cleared from the drive and both yards. In front of the farmhouse stands a Christmas tree almost as big as the one by the church down in the village.

She looks for the sports facility that Ulf once built for Iben and her brothers, but the running track, discus circle and long-jump pit have been replaced by a dense plantation of Christmas trees.

As always, the change of temperature makes her shiver as she gets out of the car.

Before she reaches the house, the front door is flung open and Ulf steps out. He is beaming, and looks much brighter than he did at the funeral.

‘Laura – welcome!’ He takes her hand in both of his. ‘It’s so good to see you here again.’

‘Thanks for inviting me,’ she says, glancing at the huge red-and-white painting on the wall.

She recalls the story of the Jensen family coat of arms that was ‘found’ when Ulf renovated the façade, but she’s never thought about what it represents until now. A shield-shaped Danish flag, divided into quarters containing a knight’s helmet, a wild boar, a sword, and three flames.

She shivers once again, but this time it’s nothing to do with the cold.

‘Come on in and have a drink. Can I take your jacket?’

Laura is given a cup of mulled wine to warm her fingers while Ulf shows her around.

She recognises the classic wallpaper, the old muskets and swords on the walls, the aerial photograph of Källegården hanging in the hallway. She also remembers the heavy furniture in dark wood, and the slightly creepy paintings of long dead relatives. She’s not so sure about the smell. Maybe she’s mixing it up with the way her grandmother’s house in Djurholm smelled. Or possibly a museum somewhere.

There are framed photographs of Iben and her brothers on just about every flat surface. Laura avoids looking at them. One wall is reserved for diplomas and awards. His Majesty the King’s Medal for Special Merit – that one is right at the top, followed by Skåne Sport Honorary Award, Sports Coach of the Year, and a dozen or so diplomas of lesser prestige.

After a while Iben’s brothers appear. Christian is the nicer of the two. He chats away happily, introduces his wife, an almost transparent woman whose name Laura instantly forgets. Their three children politely say hello before settling down to gaze at their screens.

‘In our day we only had fifteen minutes of children’s programmes on TV,’ Christian says. ‘Makes you wonder how we survived!’

From the ongoing conversation Laura learns that younger brother Fredrik is divorced. His children live with their mother, while he has moved back to Källegården. Fredrik doesn’t say much. He mostly stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact with Laura as he did at the funeral. No doubt he remembers their previous encounter. She certainly does.

Fredrik is powerfully built. The shirt he’s wearing is too small, the collar too tight, which makes the rolls of fat at the back of his neck look even thicker. He has a fresh-looking bandage around his meaty left hand.

Christian sees that Laura has noticed. He grabs his brother’s hand and holds it up in the air.

‘Fireworks,’ he says. ‘Fredrik was showing off in front of the kids and he burned himself. What an idiot – fifty years old and he still can’t act responsibly.’

Fredrik snatches his hand away and mumbles something unintelligible.

As they head for the dining room, Laura’s phone rings. It’s Peter. She slips into the hallway to talk privately. He’s annoyed, not surprisingly.

‘You were supposed to be at the police station at two o’clock for your witness interview. Ring any bells?’

She swears to herself. ‘I’m so sorry, I completely forgot.’ She hates those words, hates them even more when she’s the one saying them. ‘I can come in first thing tomorrow if you like?’

The apology and the offer seem to mollify him.

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘Have you found out any more about the fire?’

‘We’re still waiting for forensics, but it was probably arson.’

A brief silence. Laura thinks about Kent Rask’s comments on the Jensens, about the fresh burn on Fredrik’s hand. Should she say something? Peter gets there first.

‘I wanted to ask you . . .’ He hesitates. His voice has softened. ‘If you’re not doing anything this evening, would you like to join me for something to eat?’

‘That’s so kind of you, but I’m already at a dinner.’

‘Where?’

‘Källegården.’

‘I see. In other words, you’re still keeping a low profile.’

‘Ulf called and invited me here.’

‘And why do you think he did that? To be nice?’ A snort of derision. ‘Ulf Jensen never does anything without an ulterior motive. You can tell me what it is when I see you tomorrow. Nine o’clock at the station. Have a nice evening.’

He ends the call abruptly, which annoys her. Peter has absolutely no right to dictate what she can and can’t do. She’d like to call him back and make that clear, but the others are already taking their seats around the table.

On the dining-room wall there is a large portrait photograph of Iben at the age of fifteen. She wears her dark hair loose, and is gazing straight into the lens. Laura tries not to look at it, but it’s impossible. Time and time again it draws her in, until she has memorised every last detail. The determined expression, the colours of her clothes, even the way the wallpaper nearest the frame has a yellowish tone.

In spite of the photograph, dinner is more pleasant than Laura had expected. The food is good, and Christian and his wife do their best to make sure she is enjoying herself. They ask about Stockholm and her job, treat her like an honoured guest. Ulf also asks the odd question now and again.

Fredrik, on the other hand, speaks in monosyllables and still won’t look at her.

Ulf taps his knife against his glass.

‘Dear Laura,’ he begins. ‘As I said before, it’s so good to see you at Källegården again. I’ve always regarded you as my second daughter, in a way. You and Iben . . .’ He breaks off, his eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘You were like sisters.’

Christian’s wife reaches out and pats her father-in-law on the arm.

‘I remember it like yesterday – the two of you up in Iben’s room, with you trying to teach her to speak Swedish without a Skåne accent . . .’

He relates the entire anecdote, and Laura adopts a suitable expression. Her memory of the incident is quite different from Ulf’s. Nor does she remember spending time here as a child. On the contrary, Iben never wanted to meet up here. However, she doesn’t say anything; she simply nods.

‘Your aunt and I had a number of conversations about the future of Gärdsnäset,’ Ulf goes on. ‘It took a long time before Hedda decided to sell, mainly because she didn’t want the land to go to someone who was only interested in making money from it.’

Laura doesn’t react. Peter’s warning is ringing in her ears.

‘Hedda wanted the land to be used for something good,’ Ulf continues. ‘She was so pleased when I told her that the council wanted to build a sports facility out there. Several different training grounds with both Astroturf and real grass. A new, modern sports hall to replace the old one, equipped for a whole range of activities.’

He pauses.

‘Both Hedda and I agreed that Iben would have loved the idea. It would be a wonderful way to honour her memory.’

A single tear trickles down his cheek.

‘Excuse me.’

Ulf gets to his feet and leaves the room, followed by Christian’s wife. No one says a word. Laura can feel Iben’s eyes burning into her from the photograph.

‘I . . .’ She clears her throat. ‘I’ll talk to Håkansson tomorrow.’

Christian exchanges a glance with his brother, then he nods and smiles warmly at Laura.

Laura waits until they’ve had dessert. As they move into the living room, she excuses herself and slips away to the bathroom. By this time she’s kept the mask in place for almost two hours, and is exhausted. She splashes her face with cold water, then sits down on the toilet and rests her head on her knees.

She should never have come here. Not to Källegården, not to Gärdsnäset, not to Vintersjön.

She takes out her phone. She needs to call Steph, to hear her voice, tell her she’ll be home soon, think about and talk about things that have nothing to do with fires or huge photographs of dead friends.

But suddenly she realises something, and almost swears out loud. Scheming bastards!

Coffee, tea and cake have been set out in the living room. She sees Fredrik pour himself a large whisky, then one for his father before starting to cut slices of cake for his nephews and nieces.

Laura goes over to the fireplace. Above it hangs an oil painting of a stern-looking elderly gentleman wearing a curly seventeenth-century wig. She gently lifts one corner of the frame and inspects the wallpaper behind. It’s just as she thought.

‘There you go.’ Christian hands her a cup of tea. They remain standing in front of the portrait.

‘Who’s that?’ she asks.

‘To be honest, I don’t remember. We could ask my father, but there’s a risk we’d get a fifteen-minute history lesson.’ He smiles in a way that is presumably meant to be conspiratorial.

‘It probably looked better in the dining room.’

Christian’s smile fades. ‘How did . . .’

‘The wallpaper. The photograph in there has a yellow line all the way round it. This –’ she lifts the frame again – ‘covers the yellow area and a good bit more. I’m guessing you swapped it with Iben’s photo so that I’d be looking at her all the way through dinner. You were trying to manipulate me.’

Christian nods, his face red with what appears to be genuine embarrassment.

‘I take full responsibility – it was a stupid idea. But I’m desperate.’

‘Why?’

He leans closer, lowers his voice. Everyone else is busy with coffee and cake.

‘We’re on the verge of bankruptcy – the company, the farm, the whole lot. Fredrik and my father made some foolish investments a few years ago, put everything into building a golf course. But then the costs soared out of control and we ran out of capital. We’re up to our necks in debt.’

He falls silent, seems worried that the others might have overheard.

‘I’ve done my best to try and clean up after them,’ he says even more quietly. ‘Christmas tree sales, strawberry picking, fireworks, hunting trips – anything that brings in a bit of extra money. The Gärdsnäset project is our only lifeline. The council have already promised us the building contract.’

‘Can they do that? Doesn’t that kind of thing have to go out to tender?’

‘My father’s done a lot for the council and the community over the years – nobody would dare give the contract to anyone else. Particularly because it’s Gärdsnäset.’

‘And what if the land is sold to Vintersjöholm Castle instead?’

Christian spreads his arms wide in despair.

‘Then we’ll have to leave Källegården after six generations. That will finish my father.’

Laura glances over at Ulf. He is sitting in an armchair with one of his grandchildren on his lap. When he feels her eyes on him, he looks up at her and smiles in a way that is impossible to interpret.