Dead of Winter

52

She is dreaming about the dance hall again. The minutes before the fire. She can see herself sitting at the table, sleeping. Peter beside her, clumsily edging closer. Then the perspective shifts. She is in the area behind the stage, the wall plastered with pictures of the dance band who played here last summer. The big mirror that covers another wall, the sagging sofa against the third. The toilet door, with the lock showing red.

There is someone else here, someone she senses but can’t see. She looks around, thinks she glimpses a movement in the mirror.

The lock changes to green with a click. The handle is pushed down, and for a second she’s convinced that the Iben from her nightmares is behind the door.

Instead, it’s a different Iben who emerges, the Iben who is her best friend, the Iben she taught to speak with a Stockholm accent, the Iben who would never let anyone come between them.

‘Laura,’ she says, her face lighting up. ‘There you are!’

They fling their arms around each other, Laura hugs Iben as tightly as she can. Presses her cheek to Iben’s, realises she’s crying. She wants to own up, tell Iben that she was the one who called her brothers, but she can’t do it.

Iben holds her at arm’s length, with sorrow in her eyes.

‘You know my secret.’

‘Yes,’ Laura sobs.

Iben nods slowly. ‘I think everyone suspected. But no one dared to say anything. They were all afraid . . .’

Something behind Laura’s back makes Iben stiffen. Her expression changes from sorrow to fear.

‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No!’

Laura turns, sees movements in the mirror once again, shadowy figures with blurred outlines, growing bigger and clearer.

Christian and Fredrik on either side of Ulf, with no compassion in their eyes. Behind them the gloomy façade of Källegården, the flames on the coat of arms flickering slowly.

I have always regarded you as my second daughter. You and our little Iben . . . Ulf whispers, and the hairs stand up on the back of Laura’s neck.

Källegården. Near Vedarp. Ulf Jensen. He’s messing with his daughter, says Iben’s terrified voice on the phone.

The picture changes. Tomas, messing with some boxes next to one of the walls of the dance hall. Flames shoot up around his hands, set fire to his jacket before greedily licking at the dry wood.

The final figure in the mirror is also familiar.

Aunt Hedda outside her house, raising a hand in greeting.

You’re my little princess. You always will be.

The perspective shifts again.

Laura is at the very end of the pontoon, the scar on her back wriggling like a burning snake. On the other side of the lake Miller’s lamp is flashing, and above it the forest is in flames.

A sandwich for father, a sandwich for mother, sing two high, girlish voices.

And one for the nymph who lives down below, the creature standing behind Laura murmurs through rows of sharp fish-teeth in a charred face.

The nymph wraps her arms around Laura and digs her claw-like fingers so deep into her breast that the pain slices right through her dream. Then the nymph drags her down into the cold black water.

George wakes her by jumping up onto her chest, then padding around until Laura pushes her away and sits up. Outside the crows are making an enormous racket, and in the middle of it all Laura thinks she hears a car door slam.

She gets out of bed, pulls on her jacket over her pyjamas. It’s gone ten o’clock, and her head feels heavy.

George must be hungry. She nearly trips Laura up in the living room, so Laura picks her up and carries her. The car from the castle is parked outside the window.

There’s a knock on the door. Laura opens it to see two people standing there – Heinz Norell, and a woman in a fur coat, ear-muffs and huge sunglasses. It takes her half a second to place the woman, but her brain needs more time to process the realisation.

‘Steph?’

‘Oh, so you’re still alive,’ Steph says with a smile. ‘Even if you have stopped answering your phone.’

She lowers her sunglasses to the tip of her perfect nose and looks Laura up and down. The hair standing on end, the jacket over the pyjamas, the cat in her arms.

‘My God, Laura. What have these country bumpkins done to you?’

Laura mumbles something and puts down George, who immediately shoots off through the door.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Andreas and your mother are both convinced that you’ve had some kind of breakdown, so I offered to drive down and rescue you. Not a day too soon, if you ask me.’ Steph wrinkles her nose. ‘When did you last take a shower?’

Laura hesitates, and Steph holds up her hand.

‘Never mind – we’ll sort you out. I’ll wait outside – the smell in there is getting into my clothes.’

She pulls a face, steps down from the porch and digs a vape pen out of her bag. Heinz Norell winks at Laura.

‘Best if we do as we’re told,’ he whispers. ‘Would you like me to come in and give you a hand?’

Laura makes a huge effort not to look at the noticeboard just metres away.

‘No thanks. Give me five minutes.’

She packs the few things she’s brought with her, then puts some food in George’s bowl. The cat dashes in as soon as Laura places it on the floor.

She’s still trying to process the fact that Steph is here – with Heinz Norell from the castle. But the nightmare is still messing with her mind, along with everything that happened yesterday. The tape recording, the fire, the blue lights that eventually appeared high up on the ridge. Peter, who isn’t answering his phone even though she’s called him at least five times from Hedda’s landline.

Outside the smell of smoke still lingers in the air. Heinz puts her bag in the boot of the shiny car with the Vintersjöholm logo on the side. Steph seems to have been for a walk around the property; she stops next to Laura’s car, where the salt from the roads has already turned the deepest scratches red with rust.

Sell up and fuck off! she reads. ‘So, cat lady – you didn’t think it was a good idea to take that advice?’

Heinz holds the car doors open, first for Laura and then Steph before jumping in the driver’s seat.

‘Where are we going?’ Laura asks.

‘To the castle, of course – where else?’ Steph replies, tapping away on her phone.

‘But . . . how . . .?’

Laura’s brain still isn’t functioning properly.

Steph finishes her message and lowers the phone, her expression more serious now.

‘Your mother managed to scare Andreas to the point where he was about to come here himself. Apparently, your brother has had enough of the firm, they’ve had enough of him, and for different reasons everyone is worried because you’re not answering your phone.’ She leans back and smiles. ‘With a little skilful diplomacy I managed to knock that idea on the head. It seemed to me that whatever you were going through, the last thing you needed was your ex-husband trailing around after you. In return I had to promise to come and find you. The things I do for you, Laura.’

Steph winks at her over the top of her sunglasses.

‘Things became a little more straightforward when your mother told me where you’d gone. You’d never actually mentioned Vintersjön, and to be honest I hadn’t asked. I kind of lost interest when you started talking about some backwater in Skåne.’

The car reaches the main road and heads east towards the castle.

‘I’ve had some business dealings with Pontus von Thurn, who owns Vintersjöholm,’ Steph goes on. ‘He and Erica were more than happy to help, so here I am!’ She waves her phone in the air. ‘I’ve just reassured everybody that you’re safe and well, but I won’t send them any pictures of you until later this afternoon when you’ve tidied yourself up. Anyway, enough of all that. Tell me what the hell is going on!’

Laura catches Heinz Norell’s curious gaze in the rear-view mirror.

‘Later,’ she murmurs.

She’s been along the avenue leading to Vintersjöholm a few times with Hedda, but she’d forgotten how impressive it is. Five metres wide, dead straight, lined with huge oak trees, it stretches for almost a kilometre before ending in front of a huge arch. Heinz presses a button on the dashboard, which opens the black wrought-iron gates leading into the park.

The castle itself is in the French Renaissance style, a large main building with a black metal roof and a tower at each end. The lawns and neatly clipped hedges are covered in snow. There are a couple of Portakabins to one side.

Laura’s room is on the second floor. It has heavy velvet curtains and a carpet so soft that it absorbs the sound of her footsteps.

‘We’re having lunch with our hosts at twelve thirty,’ Steph informs her. ‘The bathroom is in there.’ She points to a door at the far end. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, and I want all the details. By the way, there are some clean clothes in the wardrobe. I called in at your apartment. You do know you don’t have to wear trouser suits and cashmere cardigans all the time, don’t you?’

Steph smiles and leaves before Laura has time to think of a response.

She looks out of the tall windows at the park, a couple of hundred metres of trees and snow-covered grass. She assumes the low buildings by the jetty are a sauna and a boathouse. One is surrounded by scaffolding, the roof protected by a tarpaulin, but no work seems to be going on.

Across the ice is the southern shore. She can just see the roof of Hedda’s dilapidated house. The contrast couldn’t be greater.

The bathroom is the same size as the living room at Gärdsnäset, a paradise of brass and Italian marble, warm towels that are at least an inch thick. Laura takes a long shower, closing her eyes and enjoying the heat flowing through her body. At the same time she feels as if she’s waking from a trance. The last few days have been unreal, almost dreamlike. The idea that she – who can hardly bear to shake anyone’s hand because of the risk of germs – has actually eaten and slept in Hedda’s horrible house is incomprehensible. It’s as if that was a completely different Laura from the person she usually is.

Steph wasn’t joking about the clothes. Two of her jackets, cardigans and pairs of trousers are hanging in the wardrobe, along with beautifully ironed white shirts. One of the drawers contains underwear. Admittedly she did once give Steph a spare key to her apartment, but she’d never envisaged it being used in this way. Steph has been in her home without Laura there, touched her possessions, rooted around among her clothes, maybe even learned things about her that Laura would prefer to keep to herself. And yet . . . All she needed was a decent hot shower and a couple of luxury towels to revert to her normal, repressed self.

Steph has launched an entire rescue operation, driven over six hundred kilometres, pulled countless strings – for the simple reason that she cares about Laura. That’s the feeling Laura ought to cherish, instead of giving in to her need to be in control.

There is a full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door. She positions herself in front of it, lets the towel fall below her shoulders. Goes through yesterday evening’s meeting yet again. Herself, Peter and Tomas. Three old friends, all scarred by the fire. They carry visible and invisible scars.

She wonders what happened to Tomas. Did he set fire to the hut himself, and if so, why? She decides to try Peter again. She searches for her mobile, but can’t find it.

She gets dressed, dries her hair in the bathroom. Revels in the feeling of being clean.

She’s just finished when there’s a knock on the door and Steph walks straight in.

‘Now that’s more like it,’ she says with a big smile. ‘How about a quick drink before lunch so you can fill me in on what the hell you’ve been up to over the past week? You can start by telling me whether Prince Charming showed up. No, wait! Judging by the cat lady look you were sporting until half an hour ago, I’d bet a hundred dollars that he didn’t.’

Laura has had the chance to think about how much she’s prepared to share with Steph. She sticks to the basics. Gärdsnäset was in a much worse state than she’d expected, Hedda had been a hoarder, and Laura wanted to clear the house before she sold up. She mentions in passing that she’s met up with one or two old friends, but doesn’t go into detail.

‘And what about the scratches on your car door? The natives seem hostile.’

Laura can’t help smiling at Steph’s choice of phrase, which seems very much at odds with their current environment.

‘There are strong opinions about who I should sell Gärdsnäset to,’ she says.

They go down a staircase, turn right and enter a drawing room that smells of paint. The furniture is heavy, the walls are covered with flock wallpaper and paintings of English hunting scenes. Red jackets, horses with heads that are a fraction too small, packs of almost identical dogs.

Steph goes straight to the drinks trolley and pours them both a generous whisky.

‘This is the good stuff. The one they offer visitors is in the main room.’

They both sink down on leather armchairs.

‘So,’ Steph says. ‘Prince Charming didn’t turn up, and your inheritance looks like the set of a horror film. And instead of heading back to civilisation as soon as possible, you decided to stay and clear out your aunt’s house. My shrink would have plenty to say about that – like for example that you’re running away from something else. Work, family, grief . . .’

The last word hits home, embeds itself in Laura’s flesh like a thorn.

There is a knock on the door.

‘Heinz – come and join us!’

Steph raises her glass, but Norell shakes his head.

‘It’s too early for me, plus I’m working. I just wanted to return this.’

He holds up Laura’s phone.

‘It was on the floor in the car.’

The screen is black. It reacts only when Laura presses the button on the side. Did she really switch it off? She can’t remember.

‘See you later,’ Heinz says and leaves the room, with a long look and an over-the-shoulder smile at Laura.

‘Fit, wouldn’t you say?’ Steph comments. ‘And single. Well, kind of.’

‘How do you know that? Do you know each other?’

‘Heinz is a skilled project leader – one of the best I’ve worked with. He and Erica have been friends since they were young; I think they were at school together in Switzerland or something.’

Steph leans forward and lowers her voice.

‘I think Erica is sleeping with Heinz, and that Pontus knows about it. A gentleman’s agreement, so to speak. Maybe you could help me find out for sure? Use your special skills?’

Laura shuffles uncomfortably.

‘Do you know that Vintersjöholm has made an offer on Gärdsnäset?’

‘Yes, Heinz told me.’ Steph pulls a face that’s hard to interpret. ‘But there’s no pressure on that front. You’re here as my friend, nothing else. No hidden agenda, OK?’

Laura takes another sip of her whisky, feeling the warmth spread through her body. She’s pleased to see Steph, and realises how much she’s missed her.

Steph looks at her small and extremely expensive wristwatch. ‘So – time for lunch with our hosts. Don’t look so worried, Laura – you’ll like them, I promise!’

Steph turns out to be right. The von Thurns are a very pleasant couple. Pontus is a cheerful, slightly overweight man in his early sixties, so full of energy that he finds it difficult to sit still. He holds forth with passion about the history of the castle and the renovation projects they’ve undertaken and are planning for the future, then switches his focus to Laura at precisely the right moment. He seems genuinely interested in both her work and her background.

Erica is fifteen years younger, about the same age as Laura. She is beautiful in that strained way that suggests too many surgical interventions. She is tanned even though it’s the middle of winter, and the diamond in her wedding ring is one of the biggest Laura has ever seen.

At first Laura gets the impression that Erica is a cooler, dark-haired version of Steph, but as lunch progresses she proves herself to be both intelligent and amusing in a more subtle way than her husband. Sometimes, when he is on the point of immersing himself too deeply in some anecdote, she pats him gently on the arm, which immediately makes him break off or let someone else speak.

Her Swedish is very good, but like Heinz Norell she has a faint accent which comes through occasionally. German, with a hint of French – hardly surprising if she grew up in Switzerland.

From time to time Laura notices that Erica is watching her – not with any hostility, but with curiosity.

Heinz joins them for coffee. The wine has enabled Laura to relax, and she can’t help observing him discreetly.

She’d already established that he is good-looking in a weather-beaten way, and there’s something about that warm smile. At first she found it irritating, but now it seems increasingly attractive.

Heinz, Erica and Pontus chat like old friends, but Laura can’t see any signs of a closer relationship between the lady of the castle and the project leader. On the other hand, the absence of such signs could simply mean that the two of them are behaving with the utmost discretion.

‘Have you had time to look at the brochure I gave you?’ Heinz asks her. ‘About what we’d like to do with Gärdsnäset?’

The question takes her by surprise. She tries to catch Steph’s eye, but it is Erica von Thurn who steps in.

‘Laura is our guest, Heinz,’ she says tersely. ‘She’s not here to talk business.’

Heinz looks embarrassed. ‘My apologies, Laura.’

‘No problem.’

‘We really love Vintersjön,’ Erica says. ‘It reminds me of my childhood home in Switzerland. Or north-eastern USA. It must have been wonderful to grow up here.’

Laura nods. ‘I was really only here in the summer and Christmas holidays, but it was fantastic.’

‘When was your last visit?’

‘Almost exactly thirty years ago.’

‘So the winter of 1987?’

Laura nods slowly. Erica holds up her hands as the realisation hits her.

‘Oh, how stupid of me! I didn’t mean to bring up . . .’

‘Bring up what?’

Heinz leans forward, curiosity written all over his face.

Erica gives Laura an apologetic look.

‘The Lucia fire,’ she says slowly. ‘In the winter of 1987. A young woman lost her life over at Gärdsnäset. But let’s talk about something else.’

Laura feels everyone’s eyes on her. She has avoided this subject all her life. Never told anyone, but maybe it’s time. Time to free herself from the past at long last.

‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘It was a long time ago, and there’s not much to tell. We had a party in the dance hall, which was closed for the winter. A fire started, and one person died.’

‘Who?’ Pontus asks.

‘Her name was Iben Jensen,’ Laura says slowly. ‘She was my best friend.’

Steph’s eyes are shining with unshed tears, and Laura can’t help loving her for that. Pontus looks troubled. His wife and Heinz Norell share the same expression: sympathy, on the surface at least. But there’s something else just beneath the surface. A feeling Laura can’t quite put her finger on – a feeling she doesn’t like.