Dead of Winter

57

The drive leading up to the castle is lined with burning torches. Fir branches have been laid out in the courtyard and along the steps by the main entrance.

Peter arrives dead on seven o’clock. He has brought a bottle of wine, which judging by Pontus von Thurn’s expression is more than decent, and he is wearing a dinner jacket that is well tailored but clearly not new.

He has surprised Laura. She’d underestimated him, been worried that he might show himself up in company. Instead, she’s the one who’s embarrassed.

‘Not bad,’ Steph whispers in her ear after Laura has introduced Peter to her. ‘And yet he’s not Prince Charming . . .’

After a couple of minutes Steph already has him wrapped around her little finger. She chats away in exaggerated Swenglish, jokes with him as if they were old friends, touches his elbow at regular intervals. Laura is used to this performance and usually finds it quite entertaining, but this evening it is irritating her for some reason.

Steph guides them up to the balcony above the big staircase.

‘Best spot for people watching,’ she says.

Down below the guests are pouring in, dressed to impress. They hand over furs and overcoats, carrying with them a blend of perfume and cigar smoke that drifts all the way up the steps.

‘Who are these people?’ Peter asks.

He’s talking to Laura, but it’s Steph who answers.

‘Money in various shapes and sizes,’ she says. She points to a group who have just arrived and are greeting Pontus loudly and enthusiastically. Men in their sixties with female companions at least twenty years younger.

‘Those are Pontus’s old friends. All on wife and family number two – three, in some cases. Old money, boarding school, a touch of inbreeding and all that kind of thing . . .’

She points to another group – younger, more bored.

‘And they’re the new economy. IT, Bitcoin, streaming, you name it. Snotty kids with more money than they can spend. Both ends of the spectrum have that problem in common, and Erica and Pontus are very good at relieving them of significant sums and doing something sensible with it, something that brings pleasure to a lot more people. That’s one of the reasons why I like the von Thurns.’

She gives Laura a long, meaningful look, then tucks her arm beneath Peter’s.

‘I need another drink,’ she says. ‘Would you mind escorting me to the bar? Laura tells me that Johnny Miller is your father-in-law. I’m a huge fan . . .’

Laura stays where she is, studying the activity down below. Time and time again her eyes are drawn to Erica, who is skilfully working the room, making a point of speaking to everyone and making them feel welcome. She seems to change depending on who she’s with, speaking fluent German with a foreign guest, exchanging cheeky banter with Pontus’s male friends, saying something that makes the younger gang burst out laughing.

There is no doubt that Erica is good at handling people. Maybe even manipulating them. Was that what she was trying to do in the library the other evening? On the other hand, Steph insists that Erica and Pontus are good people.

She continues to observe her hostess. Her movements, her expressions. The way she switches between playing beautiful and slightly dumb, to as sharp as a razor blade.

Someone touches her arm and she turns around.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ says Heinz Norell, handing her a fresh glass of champagne with that cryptic smile of his. ‘What do you think of our little gathering?’

‘Nice.’

She regrets the word, but can’t think of anything better.

Heinz moves a fraction closer than is comfortable; the balustrade means she can’t move away. He smells good – cigars, aftershave.

‘What’s happened to your companion?’

‘Steph took him off to the bar.’

‘Ah.’ His smile grows wider. ‘Caught in Stephanie’s web. So I have you to myself for a few minutes.’

Laura has no idea what she’s expected to say. There’s something attractive about Heinz, something slightly dangerous.

‘You look very beautiful this evening.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How about meeting some of the other guests?’

He holds out his arm, and after a brief hesitation she takes it.

As they walk down the stairs, she notices several men in the room looking at her in a way she isn’t used to. She begins to wish she hadn’t chosen a dress and Steph’s high-heeled shoes instead of her usual attire, but after a while she begins to relax, thanks to the champagne and Heinz’s company.

They wander around the whole room, but none of the guests makes much of an impression.

Just as she starts wondering where Peter and Steph have got to, the lighting is dimmed and the sound of beautiful singing can be heard. A procession of ten young girls in white dresses each with a wreath of candles on her head moves through the drawing room, followed by two boys looking distinctly uncomfortable in their ‘star boy’ costumes. They gather in the hallway and sing some of the traditional songs associated with the feast of Lucia. Their voices are lovely, but Laura hardly hears them. Her eyes are fixed on the young woman representing St Lucia. She is sixteen or seventeen years old, with long dark hair. Tall candles flicker in the wreath on her head.

The flames make Laura very uneasy.

The feeling remains after the procession has left. Even the guests’ warm applause doesn’t drive it away. Cold sweat breaks out on her back, meeting the heat of her scar.

‘Laura?’

She glances up, realises that Heinz has said something she missed. He seems worried.

‘Are you OK? You’ve gone very pale.’

She nods. ‘I just need something to eat.’

He accompanies her to the table and it turns out they’re sitting next to each other, which is hardly a coincidence – nor is the fact that Steph has Peter beside her. She suspects that Steph has planned the whole thing, that Heinz is another one of her little matchmaking projects. In which case she has to admit reluctantly that it’s one of her more successful ideas. Heinz Norell is good company, and he’s intelligent. He reads books, has a sound grasp of current affairs, and also asks her questions that suggest he’s genuinely interested in her life.

‘Stephanie tells me you’re dangerous,’ he says when they’ve finished the main course. ‘She says you can read people, reveal secrets they’d prefer to hide.’

Laura glances at Steph, wishes she’d kept quiet about that particular skill.

‘I love Sherlock Holmes – have done ever since I was a little boy. I love the way he looks at people’s clothes and immediately works out where they’ve come from.’

He lifts his chin, puts on an English accent:

‘You, sir, work for a lord whose finances are in a poor state. You took the 11.32 train to Paddington this morning, and had scones for breakfast.’

Laura can’t help laughing.

‘Is that the kind of thing you do?’

She shakes her head.

‘As I said, my work involves screening. The people I interview are smart, they know what’s at stake, and they make every effort to show their best side. My job is to try and see behind the façade, compare what they say with their behaviour, search for things that don’t quite match.’

‘Such as?’

Laura takes another sip of red wine. It’s her second glass, and after the champagne and the white wine that accompanied the first course, she is feeling a little tipsy. It’s not like her at all, but she’s enjoying herself – which is unexpected.

‘Such as your name, for example. Your surname is Norell, but you said your mother was Swedish and your father was German. Why don’t you have your father’s surname?’

Heinz pulls a face.

‘Nothing dramatic. My parents weren’t married. I grew up mainly with my mother. Is that all, Miss Holmes?’

He looks disappointed, so Laura decides to dig deeper. She observes him closely, his face, his hands, the smile that never really leaves his lips. His dark eyes.

‘You wear coloured contact lenses,’ she says.

To be honest she isn’t completely certain, but there is a faint discrepancy between his eyes and his general colouring – his skin, his pale eyebrows, the neatly trimmed beard.

He is clearly taken aback, but then that confident smile returns, accompanied by an impressed whistle.

‘Busted!’ he says. ‘Caught out in one of the worst sins – well done!’

‘Which sin is that?’

‘Vanity, of course. I have an eye defect known as coloboma. The pupil in my right eye appears to spill over the iris. I noticed from an early age that certain people found it unpleasant, and avoided looking me in the eye. Coloured contact lenses solved the problem. I’ve worn them since my late teens.’

‘So your eyes are actually blue?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately that’s the shade that shows up coloboma particularly well. So I live in disguise. Hardly anyone knows my dark secret, or rather my pale blue secret, but you exposed it. Bravo, Miss Holmes.’

After coffee Laura finally gets the chance to catch up with Peter.

‘Are you having a good time?’

‘Absolutely. Steph is charming. By now I know more or less everything about you.’

‘Like what?’

‘That you keep the company going more or less single-handed, in spite of a manipulative mother, a freeloading younger brother and an ex-husband who refuses to let go. That you haven’t had a holiday for years.’

‘I see.’

The description is so accurate that she can’t help blushing and smiling at the same time.

‘Steph said something about germophobia, but after seeing you rummaging around at Gärdsnäset, I told her you must have got over it.’

Laura grabs a drink from the tray of a passing waiter. She thinks she recognises him as one of the star boys from earlier.

‘The fact is I’m taking some time off right now. I’ve dragged my brother Marcus out of the blind spot and made him do some work.’

She makes a gesture to illustrate what she means, and spills some of her drink. Peter catches both the glass and her hand. Holds onto her hand.

‘I’m glad you invited me,’ he says.

Laura empties her glass, then gives in to a sudden impulse.

‘I think Iben was murdered,’ she says. ‘I think someone wanted to stop her from revealing what was going on at Källegården. And I think Hedda was murdered for the same reason.’

She sees Peter’s smile fade. At first, she doesn’t understand why – not until he lets go of her hand.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I’m glad you’re here. Very glad.’

Peter turns away.

‘We’re missing the dancing,’ he says tersely.