Dead of Winter

36

Everyone’s afraid at some point, Princess. Anyone who says differently is lying. Everyone has something they fear.

Laura is woken by loud knocking. It takes a few seconds before she remembers where she is, and what happened during the night.

Did she really see someone out there in the forest, or was it all a part of her dream?

The knocking comes again. She pulls on her jacket, pushes her feet into her shoes.

Peter is standing on the top step. Behind him she sees a liveried police car and two uniformed officers.

‘What time is it? Have I missed the meeting?’

Peter shakes his head. ‘Can I come in?’

She moves back. ‘Of course, but the place is still a tip.’

She glances at Hedda’s planning board; to her relief she’s turned it around so that only the painting can be seen.

Peter waves to his colleagues and follows her inside.

‘Do you have any coffee?’

‘I’m sure there’s some in there.’ She points to the kitchen. Her head still feels heavy, her mind slow.

She sits down on a stool she scrubbed yesterday, hears Peter rummaging around in the other room. Through the window she sees one of the officers walking around the boathouse.

After a while Peter reappears with two cups of instant coffee and hands one to her.

‘I don’t drink coffee,’ she says, but he stands there holding out the cup, so she takes it and forces down a couple of sips. The coffee is lukewarm and tastes bitter.

‘We’ve just come from Källegården,’ Peter says. ‘There was a fire out there last night.’

Laura gives a start. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Fortunately not.’

Peter falls silent as if he’s expecting her to say something, but her brain is preoccupied.

‘Where was the fire?’ she asks eventually. At least it’s a sensible question.

‘In an accommodation block behind the stables. Polish immigrant workers live there in the summer, but in the winter it’s empty. Thank goodness.’

He gazes at her pensively, then takes his notebook out of his pocket.

‘What time did you leave Källegården?’

‘About ten thirty. When did the fire start?’

‘Fredrik discovered it just after midnight and woke his father. They called the emergency services, then Christian, before tackling the blaze as best they could. Did you see anyone as you drove away?’

Laura shakes her head.

‘No, it was snowing heavily. It was hard even to see the road.’

Peter makes a note. ‘Why did you come here instead of going back to your hotel?’

‘As I said, it was snowing heavily. I was tired, and I didn’t want to risk getting stuck in a drift or in a jam on the motorway.’

He makes another note. His expression is tense, almost grim.

Maybe it’s down to the coffee, but her brain finally wakes up.

‘Am I suspected of something?’

‘We’re talking to everyone who was in the area.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

Peter meets her gaze.

‘This is the second fire in two days. You were there on both occasions.’

‘I left Källegården an hour and a half before the fire broke out. Ask Fredrik – he saw me drive away.’

‘I’ve already spoken to him. He claimed you were angry.’

‘What?’

‘He said you talked about fires, brought up Tomas and Jack.’

‘He was the one who brought up Jack! And if anyone was angry it was Fredrik – he more or less threatened me. Told me I ought to sell Gärdsnäset to the council, that the whole place was a fire hazard.’

Peter makes yet another note.

‘You don’t believe me,’ Laura says.

He doesn’t answer, he just keeps writing, which infuriates her. She’s about to challenge him when there’s a knock on the door and one of the uniformed officers appears.

‘We’ve found something,’ he informs Peter.

They head for the boathouse. Nobody has told Laura to stay away, so she follows them. The door of Jack’s apartment is open, surprisingly. Didn’t she lock it when she was up here the other day?

The familiar creaking of the wooden steps takes her mind back to the events of last night.

The three men are standing in one corner of the room. On the floor is a red petrol can and a well-filled plastic bag that definitely wasn’t here on her previous visit.

‘Insulating material and petrol,’ she hears one of the officers say to Peter. ‘All you need to start a fire.’

‘Those aren’t mine!’ she blurts out. ‘I heard someone on the steps last night. I saw someone running away.’

Peter exchanges a glance with his colleagues, then turns to face her.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany us to the station, Laura.’

They drive to the station in Ängelholm, not the little one in Vedarp. Peter mumbles something about bigger cases being handled from here, but Laura is lost in her own thoughts.

Someone is clearly trying to frame her for the fires at Kent Rask’s place and at Källegården. But who, and why? How is everything connected – the fires, Hedda’s death, the sale of Gärdsnäset?

Those questions will have to wait, because right now she has a more practical problem to resolve. She is going to be questioned – quite possibly regarded as a suspect – and she ought to contact the legal practice that the company uses. However, if she does that there’s a significant risk that her mother will find out what’s going on, followed by Marcus, Andreas and finally Steph. The last thing she wants is for any of them to turn up, so she decides to call Håkansson instead.

The interview room measures only ten metres square and has neither windows nor anything on the walls. In the middle of the floor is a pale wooden table with a tape recorder and four chairs. In two of the corners, just below the ceiling, are small cameras that are impossible to ignore.

Håkansson is there in fifteen minutes. He looks worried, says it’s years since he dealt with criminal law, he’d be happy to recommend someone else. Laura waves away his misgivings.

‘What are you going to say to them?’ he asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s your version of events?’

‘My version . . . You mean the truth?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘You don’t seriously believe . . . ?’ she begins.

Håkansson holds up his hand.

‘Of course not. I’d just like to know what you’re intending to say to the police.’

‘That I have nothing to do with the fires, and that I haven’t a clue where the petrol can and the bag of insulating material came from.’

‘Good.’ Håkansson nods, although his expression says something else entirely.

After another fifteen minutes or so Peter enters the room, accompanied by an older officer, a tall, powerfully built man aged about sixty-five, with a shaven head.

‘This is the head of the crime team,’ Peter says. He avoids looking her in the eye.

The man holds out his hand.

‘Laura.’ He gives a wry smile that makes his boxer’s nose look even more crooked. ‘Do you remember me? It’s been a while.’

Laura can’t bring herself to return his smile. Her brain has seized up, and she is fifteen years old again.

‘Bengt Sandberg,’ the newcomer introduces himself to Håkansson. ‘You could say that Laura and I are old acquaintances.’