Dead of Winter

40

Laura is still clutching Tomas’s letter in her hand. The words reverberated inside her head, over and over again. Iben hated her father. Hated her father. Hated her father. More than anyone or anything.

The dusty air in the living room runs out, and she gropes her way to the front door. Just as she is about to open it, she registers the crows’ warning cries; the birds are going crazy. She holds back, peers outside. A huge, shiny SUV with a company logo is slowly driving through the holiday village.

She returns to the living room, pins the letter to the noticeboard, then turns the board over.

The black feather falls off and drifts across the room. She props the board against the wall, checks that it looks like a painting and nothing more, then scoops up the feather on her way back to the door.

The driver is a man in a thick winter overcoat with an army cap pulled right down to his eyebrows. Laura opens the door before he has time to set foot on the bottom step. He looks surprised, but quickly recovers his equilibrium.

‘Laura?’ he says, smiling as if they know each other.

‘Yes . . . ?’

She tries to place him. He’s about fifty and looks as if he’s in good shape. The eyes behind the glasses are brown, and a greying, well-trimmed beard covers his cheeks. Adventure-magazine-handsome, as Steph would say.

‘Heinz Norell. I’m the project leader for Vintersjöholm Development – we own the castle.’

Laura nods. She recognises the name from the offer on Hedda’s board.

The crows are still making a hell of a noise, flapping their wings, occasionally hurling themselves off the branches on short, anxious flights between the trees.

‘May I come in? I can hardly hear myself think out here.’

Laura hesitates, and Norell seems to understand why.

‘Don’t worry about the mess. Your aunt invited me in for coffee a couple of times.’

Laura reluctantly steps aside.

‘I see you’re busy sorting the place out. And you’ve made a discovery.’

It takes a moment for Laura to realise that he means the black feather, which is still in her hand.

‘This was mine when I was little,’ she says.

‘Childhood memories. So you grew up here?’

She can hear a slight accent now.

‘I came here every Christmas and every summer until I was fifteen.’

The crows are gradually calming down.

‘Gärdsnäset is very beautiful,’ Norell says. ‘The fact is’ – he gives a little laugh – ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, given that we’ve made an offer for the land, but I’ve worked on construction projects on virtually every continent, and Gärdsnäset and Vintersjön is one of the loveliest places I’ve ever been. I hope that won’t make you push up the price.’

He smiles again, and Laura can’t help doing the same. There’s something about Heinz Norell that makes him instantly likeable.

‘Anyway, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he goes on. ‘I just wanted to call in to introduce myself and offer my condolences. I liked your aunt.’

Laura waits for him to say that Hedda was special, but he doesn’t.

He laughs and shakes his head.

‘The first time I came out here she threatened me with a golf club, but then she realised I was German. She’d spent a few years living in Berlin when she was young, so we had a certain amount in common.’

Laura thinks about the photographs in the box. ‘Your Swedish is excellent.’

‘Thank you. My mother was Swedish.’

She waits for him to expand on this, but instead he takes a brochure out of his pocket.

‘I wanted to show you our plans for Gärdsnäset. Hedda really liked them, and of course I hope you will too. Take a look and call me if you have any questions. My phone number’s on the back.’

He turns and opens the door. The crows strike up their warning cries as soon as he sets foot outside.

‘Those birds clearly don’t like Germans,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you, Laura. I hope to see you again soon.’

He gets into the car and waves to her before driving off. The crows settle down, glaring at her with their peppercorn eyes as they exchange sceptical little noises.

She stands in the doorway for a moment with the brochure in one hand and the black feather in the other. Stares at them, then puts them down. She needs some fresh air. She puts on her jacket and boots and sets off at a brisk pace along the shore of the lake towards the village.

After a couple of hundred metres she switches on her phone; there is a faint signal.

Her inbox is full of missed calls – Steph, Andreas, even her mother. Several voice and text messages, all basically saying the same thing: Call us!

But she has enough to do, and what would she say? That she’s dug so deep into her past that she’s found something horrible? Something that might even be worth murdering for?

She makes do with a text message to Steph.

Everything fine, home soon.

Peter answers after the fifth ring.

‘Hi, Laura – has something happened?’

Laura takes a deep breath. She might as well take the bull by the horns.

‘What do you know about Iben and her father?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Did you know that Ulf treated Iben badly? That she hated him?’

‘Where did you hear that?’

A counter-question instead of an answer. Laura has experienced this many times in her work; it’s a classic trick to avoid talking about something unpleasant.

‘So you do know something.’

Silence. She thinks she hears his office chair squeak, then he sighs.

‘There’s an old note. I came across it when I was reading through the investigation.’

‘Go on.’

‘An anonymous caller claimed that Iben was having a bad time at Källegården.’

‘In what way?’

‘There are no further details.’

‘So what did the police do?’

‘Nothing. The call came in on 11 December 1987. Two days—’

‘Before Iben died.’

‘Yes.’ Peter sighs again. ‘As I’m sure you’ll understand, the anonymous call wasn’t followed up. Ulf had just lost his daughter, so why add to his torture? Besides, there were plenty of people who had a grudge against Ulf, or were envious of his family’s successes. Tall poppy syndrome, or Jantelagen as we say in Sweden. So the note was hidden right at the back of the file.’

Laura’s brain is working overtime.

‘Any information about the caller? Was it a man or a woman?’

‘That’s not clear. If I remember correctly, the person who took the call said the voice was difficult to hear, possibly because the mouthpiece had been covered.’

‘Can I have a copy of the note?’

‘Of course, but tell me what’s going on.’

Laura hesitates. She still doesn’t know if Peter is somehow involved in whatever is happening, but at the same time she needs his help.

‘Hedda and Tomas used to write to each other. He told her that Iben hated Ulf more than anything or anyone, but also that she was afraid of him. Why was that, do you think?’

Silence once more.

‘Tomas isn’t very well,’ Peter says quietly.

‘So I keep hearing, but do you think he could have misunderstood something like that? He and Iben had been friends since they were little.’

She sees the two six-year-olds in the back seat of Kent Rask’s car, clinging to each other as the fire rages at Källegården and Sofia Jensen dances around the yard.

‘Maybe not . . .’

Peter doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

‘We need to talk to Tomas,’ Laura says firmly.

‘Why?’ Peter is wary now.

‘Don’t you want to know the truth? Ulf Jensen has been playing the martyr for thirty years. Everyone feels sorry for him. They’ve even renamed the school in his honour. What if it’s all built on a lie? And besides . . .’

She pauses, takes another deep breath.

‘If Tomas is right, then Ulf could be guilty of a serious crime. Isn’t it your job to put away people like that?’

This time the silence goes on for so long that she thinks he’s hung up, but eventually he speaks.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The call ends and Laura stops dead. She’s reached the glade near the spot where Elsa came off her bike the other day. Right in the middle, where the dance hall once stood, the little iron cross is sticking up out of the snow. Beside it there is an object that must have been put there very recently. As she moves closer, she sees what it is. A burned-out grave lantern.