Dead of Winter

47

The dirt track on the northern side of the lake is narrow and climbs the slope of the ridge, higher and higher until Laura can only just glimpse the ice cover down below.

Dense deciduous forest lines the track, straight trunks and bare branches highlighted against the grey winter sky. The snow cover between the trees looks deeper than on the southern side.

At one point Laura meets another vehicle and is forced to move so far onto the verge that the car begins to tilt alarmingly. The other driver – a man in his fifties wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses – barely acknowledges her.

The turning for Johnny Miller’s house is marked by a red-and-yellow traffic sign and a notice with the words: PRIVATE PROPERTY. The track winds its way down the slope, straightening out only when it reaches a high wall with a sturdy iron gate. There is a CCTV camera on one gatepost. The large house is at the very end of a headland, surrounded by water just like Hedda’s home across the lake.

There is an entryphone by the gate, and Laura presses the button. No answer. She goes over everything one more time. Hedda’s relationship with Johnny Miller could easily be a red herring. There was nothing on Hedda’s noticeboard to suggest that Miller had anything to do with the situation.

She tries to recall Hedda’s expression when she found out that Laura was in love with Jack, but that he and Iben were together. Had she seemed relieved? She should have been, because if Laura is right, then she and Jack are cousins.

Did Jack know? Laura doesn’t think so – or at least, not who his father was. But what happens if Jack really is Hedda’s biological son? That means Gärdsnäset is his, which makes it impossible for her to sell the place without talking to him.

Is that really why she’s here? To find a cast-iron reason for starting to search for him in earnest? Or does she believe that Hedda’s forty-five-year love affair has something to do with her death? Good questions. Unfortunately, she isn’t anywhere near having the answers. Not yet.

A huge skein of geese flies over the lake, fifty or sixty birds in a perfect V-formation on their way to the sea. Their mournful cries echo across the water.

She presses the button again.

‘Hello?’ says a hoarse male voice.

‘Hi, I’m looking for Johnny Miller.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘My name is Laura Aulin. You knew my aunt – Hedda Aulin over at Gärdsnäset.’

Silence. For a moment Laura thinks the man has hung up, but then the gate slowly begins to open.

The two-storey white house is impressive. The tower at one end goes all the way from the ground to a considerable height above the roof.

Johnny Miller opens the door himself. He looks the same as before, with a big bushy beard and dark glasses.

‘Come on in.’

He shows her into a gigantic living room at the back. Down by the jetty she sees the boathouse. She thinks about the lamp that burns there every night, year after year. The lamp in Hedda’s painting.

‘Coffee?’

‘I’d prefer tea, if you don’t mind.’

He disappears, giving her the chance to explore. Gold and platinum discs are displayed on the walls, along with photographs and framed concert posters – Budokan, Whiskey a Go Go, Madison Square Garden. There are five different guitars, plus a grand piano. The room smells faintly of chesterfield furniture, along with something else that can’t be blown away by throwing the windows wide open, something she has been aware of in Hedda’s house and even in her own newly built apartment: loneliness.

Thanks to Wikipedia, she knows that Johnny Miller’s real name is John Mellgren. He was born in 1945, and his glory days were from the early Seventies until the late Eighties. He stepped back from life in the public eye in 1994. He has lived in Ireland and Cyprus for tax reasons, and Elsa’s mother Victoria was his only child, born to his second wife.

Johnny reappears with a tray, which he places on the coffee table. He moves some books and magazines out of the way.

‘Sorry about the mess – I don’t often get visitors.’

Laura sits down in an armchair and takes the cup of tea he offers her.

‘So, Laura Aulin, what do you want with me?’

He pours himself a coffee and sits down on the sofa opposite her.

‘The last time I saw you was in the churchyard at Hedda’s funeral,’ she begins. ‘The big wreath on the coffin – that was from you, wasn’t it?’

He adds sugar to his coffee, his expression neutral.

‘I’ve seen her old photos. You knew each other in the Sixties.’

He slowly sips his drink, showing no sign of joining in with the conversation. Laura decides on more drastic measures.

‘She hit you over the head with a bottle. I’m assuming you deserved it.’

His coffee goes down the wrong way and he starts coughing so violently that she almost leaps up to thump him on the back.

‘You’re definitely Hedda’s niece,’ he mutters when his colour has returned to normal. ‘You act like her and you look like her.’

He takes a tentative sip; his expression has softened slightly.

‘Hedda and I met at a party in Paris. I was used to getting any girl I wanted, which looking back was pretty arrogant of me. But Hedda put me in my place right away. I fell in love with her that same night.’ He smiles to himself. ‘We were together for about six months. She came on tour with me. I adored her; I was much more deeply in love with her than she was with me.’

‘Why did it end?’

He shrugs.

‘Too much partying. Booze, drugs. We were young and stupid. Especially me.’

‘And you forgot to tell her you were already married.’

He sighs heavily.

‘It was a drunken Vegas wedding with a girl I barely knew. It was over within a month, but neither of us had filed for divorce.’

‘So Hedda hit you over the head with a bottle.’

He nods. ‘She had a hell of a temper, your aunt. And we were both high and drunk. It wasn’t her fault.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Her brother showed up. Made sure she got the shortest possible sentence, then took her home to Sweden.’

‘That was my father. And what did you do?’

He pulls a face.

‘I kept a low profile. My manager thought it was for the best. I hid away in a recording studio in LA, but to be honest I didn’t get much done.’

‘You didn’t stay in touch?’

‘I wrote to her, but she didn’t reply, so in the end I came here to find her. She threw me out, said she never wanted to see me again.’

‘But you didn’t give up?’

He shakes his head.

‘I bought this plot and built the house, hoping she’d change her mind.’

‘She didn’t.’

Another shake of the head. The sorrow in his eyes is unmistakable.

‘So you remarried and had a daughter?’

‘Yes. I’m sure Peter’s told you about Victoria’s car accident.’

‘I’ve heard both his version and Elsa’s.’

‘Poor Peter. He worshipped Victoria, he still won’t say a word against her. But Elsa’s a smart kid.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘Maybe it’s a terrible thing to say about your own child, but Victoria was a very selfish person who always put her own needs first, even before Elsa’s. It was my fault – I gave her whatever she wanted. I thought that was how to be a good parent.’

‘Why did she marry Peter? Surely she had her choice of men – why go for a boy from the local village?’

‘He was stable, and he was good at his job. He was in the murder squad back then; I guess she thought it was exciting, like a TV crime show. But she soon grew tired of him. Wealth provides no protection against unhappiness, as I’m sure you know.’

He pauses, finishes off his coffee.

‘Did Hedda ever talk about me?’

‘Not that I can remember. We drifted apart after—’

‘The fire. Yes, Peter told me all about it. Such a tragedy. I know the Jensen girl’s father; I’ve donated money to the sports club over the years. He seems like a good guy. We both know what it’s like to lose a daughter.’

Laura takes a deep breath. She isn’t sure how far to go, but the sadness in Johnny’s eyes helps her to decide.

‘Hedda had a child shortly after she moved here. My father helped her to have it adopted, but when the boy was ten he came back. He grew up at Gärdsnäset, presumably without knowing that Hedda was his biological mother. After the fire he left, just like me.’

Johnny has gone pale.

‘The boy’s name was Jack,’ Laura went on. ‘And I’m pretty sure he’s your and Hedda’s love child.’

Johnny sits in silence for a minute or so, eyes shining.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,’ he says, sounding exhausted.

Back in the car Laura discovers that her phone is once again full of missed calls. Four are from Andreas, and further down the list she sees both her mother’s and Steph’s numbers.

It’s her own fault. Things had just settled down, but the middle-of-the-night call to Andreas and the interrogation of her mother have set the whole circus going again.

She switches off the phone and tosses it on the passenger seat. Looks up at the big house. For years and years the lonely old man inside has kept a lamp lit for Hedda. Put his life on the back burner, hoping in vain that she would come back to him.

She starts the car; can’t help feeling relieved when the gate closes behind her and she drives away from Johnny Miller’s gloomy home.

On the way to Gärdsnäset she meets a dark-coloured Volvo and thinks the driver is gesturing at her, but she can’t make out who it is. In her rear-view mirror she sees the car do a U-turn and set off after her, with blue-and-red lights flashing on the radiator grille.

A police car. She slows down, pulls over onto the verge and stops. The driver gets out and comes up to her side window. It’s Peter.

‘I’ve been trying to call you, but you’re not answering your phone.’

‘No. Work is onto me all the time, so I keep it switched off.’

‘OK – well, I checked the notes on that anonymous call. Back then there was an exchange that put callers through to a different station if there was no one on duty locally, and this one ended up with the neighbouring district of Nedanås instead of Vedarp. So I contacted them.’

‘What did they say?’

‘It turns out that the colleague who dealt with the report in 1987 was a real stickler for procedure. Henry Morell – he actually became Chief of Police eventually. Anyway . . .’

Peter reaches into his inside pocket and brings out an old cassette tape.

‘Morell recorded parts of the conversation. The tape has been in their archive all these years; no doubt it’s as dry as dust, which means there’s a risk it will break if we put it in an ordinary cassette player. However, there’s a sound technician that we sometimes use. He lives half an hour from here – are you up for a little Goonies adventure?’

They take his car and leave hers at Gärdsnäset.

‘I heard you met Elsa,’ he says. ‘She told me someone scratched your car. You ought to report it to the police.’

‘Do you think you’re likely to make any arrests?’

He snorts, a mixture of laughter and resignation.

‘I like Elsa,’ Laura goes on. ‘She’s a cool girl.’

Peter looks pleased. ‘She had a tough time after Victoria’s death.’

‘In what way?’

‘Unauthorised absences from school, poor results, difficulty in making friends. She says she prefers to be by herself. She thinks I don’t know she goes whizzing around in the forest on her motocross bike.’ He shakes his head. ‘I really ought to lock it away.’

They sit in silence for a little while.

‘There’s something I’ve been wondering,’ Laura says. ‘About the fire at the dance hall. And what happened afterwards.’

‘Go on.’

‘Milla and Iben took Jack to the toilet behind the stage to clean him up, but then Iben was alone when the fire started. Why?’

‘According to interviews with both Milla and Jack, he was bleeding heavily and they couldn’t stop it. Milla had a first aid kit in her cabin, so he went off with her.’

‘Just the two of them? Without Iben?’

‘Iben needed the toilet – she said she’d follow them over. Apparently, she was badly shaken after the incident with her brothers, so maybe she was afraid to leave the dance hall. Milla hinted as much when she was questioned.’

‘Which way did they leave?’

‘Through the back door – that was the quickest route from where they were.’

‘Weren’t you heading the same way?’

‘Yes, but the fire spread so fast that I couldn’t get through.’

‘Did you see Tomas?’

He shakes his head, without taking his eyes off the road.

‘Did they ever find out who dropped the bar on the outside of the main door?’

‘In his confession Tomas said he lit the fire then ran out through the back – he didn’t mention the main door. But later, when Sandberg pressed him, Tomas changed his statement and said he was the one who’d dropped the bar. But he never explained why.’

‘And what do you think? Was it him?’

Peter doesn’t answer. Instead, he points to a house up ahead. A small sign tells them that this is HELLREC STUDIOS.

‘Here we are.’

The sound technician is called Lelle. He’s about sixty years old, with thick glasses and thinning hair. His studio is in the garage, and is considerably more impressive than the modest exterior would suggest. He has a huge array of technical kit, including a mixer desk along one wall, linked to three monitors.

He works on the cassette for a while, explains which method he is using to ensure that the fragile spool won’t break when it’s stretched in the tape player. Laura listens with half an ear. She is busy trying to picture Jack in Milla’s cabin, Milla playing the nursemaid, bandaging the wound on his head. Why did Milla do that? Did she feel guilty about the fight?

‘There you go,’ Lelle says. ‘I’ve made a digital copy of the recording. The sound quality is pretty poor, but I’ll try to improve it. I’ll send you copies when I’m done.’

He moves the mouse and a scraping noise can be heard from the speakers, a thud followed by a deep voice speaking in a broad Skåne accent.

‘I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?’

Laura assumes this must be the police officer, who’s just switched on his tape recorder.

A thick, subdued voice speaks, then a rasping sound as something hits the microphone.

‘. . . Källegården . . . his daughter.’

‘Sorry, it’s a bit difficult to hear you,’ says the police officer.

‘Källegården. Near Vedarp. Ulf Jensen. He’s messing with his daughter.’

The voice is still unclear. It sounds like a young man, and Laura tries to compare it with her memories of Jack’s voice.

‘It sounds as if the caller has covered the mouthpiece,’ Lelle explains. He moves the mouse again, makes some adjustments.

‘What do you mean, messing with his daughter?’

‘He forces her to sleep in his bed. He does things to her, terrible things.’

The voice is slightly clearer now. Is she hearing Jack for the first time since 1987? She leans in closer to the speaker, and Peter does the same. There is a mechanical click, and the call ends abruptly.

Lelle replays the last part and manages to enhance the click.

‘A phone box,’ he says with absolute certainty. ‘The old green metal type, if you remember those.’

‘There were only two in Vedarp,’ Peter says. ‘One in the village square . . .’

‘And one behind the main cabin at Gärdsnäset,’ Laura chips in. She pictures Jack standing there, dialling the number for the police, covering the mouthpiece with a scarf.

Lelle goes back to the beginning of the recording, makes one or two further adjustments. This time the caller’s voice is clearer; the muffled effect is almost gone.

‘He forces her to sleep in his bed. He does things to her. Terrible things.’

Laura inhales sharply. Admittedly the voice is deep, as if the caller is making a huge effort to disguise it, but now it’s clear that it belongs to a young woman.

She turns to Peter. ‘That’s . . . That’s Iben’s voice.’