Dead of Winter

49

They sit down at the table inside the hut. Tomas makes coffee, and Laura takes a sip out of politeness. The place is surprisingly clean and tidy, with a faint smell of damp and smoke. It is sparsely furnished, with only a camp bed in addition to the table and chairs. She presumes the other door leads to a toilet. There is a small wood-burning stove in the corner. She can just see the flames – enough to make her feel ill at ease.

‘This is where Kent used to make his moonshine,’ Tomas informs her.

His voice is nothing like the way she remembers it. Instead, it is rough and deep – the voice of a middle-aged man, not a teenager. The same applies to his appearance. To be honest, she wouldn’t have recognised him if they’d bumped into each other under different circumstances.

‘The power comes from the electricity box up the road,’ Tomas continues. ‘And there’s a stream behind the house. That’s all you need. Peter brings me food. He takes care of me, makes sure I’m OK.’

Peter looks uncomfortable. Laura waits for him to say something, ask a question, but he doesn’t. Eventually she has no choice but to do it herself.

‘I believe you and Hedda wrote to each other?’

‘Yes – well, it was mostly her. I’m not good at replying.’

‘You told her something about Iben’s father.’

Tomas nods slowly. ‘I’d promised never to say anything to anyone, but Hedda’s letter made me happy, so I thought I owed her that.’

‘When was this?’

‘Not long ago – maybe a month or so? I collect my mail from a postbox in Ängelholm.’

‘Did she say why she was asking?’

‘I think Iben had tried to tell Hedda at some point, then changed her mind. Something about Ulf, which Hedda didn’t really understand. She wrote that she’d been turning it over in her mind for years, and wondered what I knew. So I told her.’

‘Did you have any further contact after that?’

Tomas shakes his head. He reminds her of a large, unhappy bear.

‘No. Peter called and told me that Hedda was dead.’

‘How . . . ?’ Peter clears his throat. ‘When did you find out about Iben and her father?’

‘We must have been eleven or twelve. She said she slept in Ulf’s bed, and she told me other things too. Things I don’t want to say out loud.’

Tomas looks down at the floor, the muscles around his eyes twitching.

‘Do you think her brothers knew?’ Peter asks.

Tomas snorts derisively. The air in the hut feels sticky.

‘They lived in the same house – of course they knew. Christian and Fredrik have always been Ulf’s obedient little lapdogs.’

‘Did Iben try to talk to anyone apart from Hedda?’

‘I don’t think so. She was terrified of Ulf, terrified of what he’d do to her if she told anyone.’

Laura looks at Peter, sees that he’s thinking the same as her. The phone call they’ve just listened to.

‘But I tried to do something,’ Tomas goes on.

‘What?’

Silence.

‘What did you try to do?’ Peter says.

Tomas places his big hands on the table and studies them closely. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to discuss the matter any further.

‘What actually happened that night at the dance hall?’ Laura asks gently.

Tomas looks up. ‘I lit a fire. I used to enjoy lighting fires back then.’

He falls silent, plucks at the sleeve of his jumper.

‘Why?’

‘It feels nice. Something inside me . . . eases.’

‘You dropped the bar on the door,’ Laura says. ‘Locked us in.’

‘No!’ Tomas shakes his head. ‘I didn’t lock anyone in! The fire spread much faster than I’d expected. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I never meant for her to die. Not like that . . .’

We decided, Laura thinks. She holds her breath; is Tomas trying to catch Peter’s eye?

No, he’s looking down at the table again.

‘In your interview with the police—’ she begins, but Tomas holds up his hand.

‘I don’t want to talk about that night anymore.’

He reverts to plucking at his sleeve. There is a patch of pink, bubbly skin on his wrist, and Laura realises what the plucking is about. The scar on her back begins to crawl.

‘You burned yourself,’ she says. ‘You burned yourself too.’

Tomas glances up. Something flickers in his eyes. Laura takes a deep breath, stands up and takes off her jacket. Undoes the top buttons of her shirt, turns her back on the two men and slips down the shirt so that her scar is visible.

‘Jesus,’ Tomas whispers.

Laura adjusts her clothing before turning around again. Tomas has tears in his eyes, Peter’s face is ashen.

‘I’m so sorry, Laura.’ Tomas’s voice is thick with emotion. ‘It was never meant to be like this. I didn’t really want to do it, it was like a favour—’

He breaks off, looks away.

‘A favour for whom?’

Peter’s question comes like the crack of a whip. Tomas recoils.

‘No one,’ he mutters. ‘Forget I said anything.’

Laura goes and sits down beside him. Places her hand on his arm.

‘Who asked you to start the fire, Tomas? Was it Milla?’

He glances up at her, the muscles around his eyes twitching frantically now. Without a word he stands up, grabs his jacket, opens the door and walks out. Laura and Peter look at each other. After a few seconds they push back their chairs and follow him.

‘Tomas!’ Peter yells into the darkness. ‘Tomas!’

But all they can hear is the wind soughing in the trees.