Dead of Winter

58

Laura was expecting a live band, but instead there’s a DJ. A dozen couples are already dancing in front of the stage. The women’s jewellery sparkles by the light of the crystal chandeliers, and at one side of the room a bartender is busy mixing cocktails. Laura tries to find a way of convincing Peter that she didn’t invite him here to talk about the fire or Iben, but before she comes up with anything Heinz appears out of nowhere.

‘Excuse me,’ he says to Peter. ‘I’d like to ask my table companion to dance.’

Peter gives a brief nod and heads over to the bar, where Steph is holding court.

Laura doesn’t really like dancing. She’s never understood the appeal of pressing her body against that of a sweaty stranger in what is essentially a prolonged embrace, following a series of predetermined movements. Nor does she like the sensation of someone else’s hand on her back.

Needless to say, however, her mother forced her to learn how to deliver some basic moves, at least.

Heinz steers them to a part of the room where the music allows them to talk to each other.

‘So is he your boyfriend?’ He nods in the direction of Peter, who has just sat down next to Steph.

‘An old friend.’

‘From your childhood?’

She can feel the warmth of his hand through her dress, on the scar, turns a fraction to try to shift it, but instead Heinz draws her closer.

‘You’re a very special woman, Laura.’

The expression brings her up short. She’s heard it a number of times over the past week, always to describe Hedda.

‘You deserve someone who realises how special you are,’ he murmurs in her ear, pulling her even closer.

She looks at Peter, sees him watching them. Feels Heinz’s lips brushing against her skin.

‘Why don’t we get out of here for a while, just you and me?’

Before she can answer, the music stops and Erica von Thurn takes over the microphone.

‘Dear friends – how lovely to see you all here. My darling Pontus has been working on the renovation of the castle for several years, and it’s high time we celebrated his achievements!’

She blows her husband a kiss, and Laura think she sees a flash of irritation cross Heinz’s face.

‘If you could make your way out onto the terrace, I have a little surprise for Pontus. Don’t worry about the cold – there are blankets, and plenty of champagne!’

The glass doors are flung open. Outside there are a dozen or so fire baskets burning brightly, and the waiters and waitresses are ready with trays laden with glasses.

Heinz takes Laura’s hand and leads her towards the doors. She looks for Peter, but there’s no sign of him. The flames in the fire baskets are high, and she stays as far away from them as possible. Heinz wraps a blanket around her shoulders and passes her a glass of champagne. The girl holding the tray is the one who represented St Lucia earlier. Laura tries to avoid looking at her.

Roughly a hundred metres away on the snow-covered lawn halfway between the castle and the lake, two figures wearing head torches are moving back and forth. Laura can just make out some kind of frame that has been set up, presumably for a firework display.

Erica leads her husband to the balustrade.

‘Darling Pontus,’ she declaims. ‘I know how much you love the castle and its history. You like to tell the story of its inauguration in 1712, when an overenthusiastic and intense canon salute set fire to the roof.’

‘Seventeen thirteen!’ Pontus shouts, making everyone laugh.

‘Whatever,’ Erica responds. ‘I would like to offer you your very own little salute – hopefully a less dangerous one. Skål, my love.’

She clinks glasses with her husband, then picks up a torch from the balustrade and flashes the beam twice in the direction of the lawn. Seconds later the sky explodes in a huge firework display. Laura is standing right next to the von Thurns; she sees Pontus’s eyes shining, sees Erica tuck her arm beneath his. At the same moment she feels Heinz’s hand on her hip, then it slides further down.

She moves it away, but as soon as she lets go, the hand is back. This time the grip is tighter, more determined.

She turns to face him, receives a teasing smile in response. He says something, but the noise of the fireworks and the oohs and aahs of the audience drown out his voice.

He puts his arm around her, pulls her close, presses his lips to hers.

She pushes him away, but he simply makes another attempt. Everyone is gazing up at the sky, so no one notices anything amiss.

He grabs her wrist tightly – it hurts.

Laura puts down her glass and tries to free herself, but he seizes her other hand too. He looks amused, as if they’re playing a game. The explosions overhead turn into a rattling bombardment. Flashes of bright colours are reflected in Heinz’s eyes, the shadows making his face look eerie. She twists her hands around towards his thumbs, yanks hard and manages to escape his grasp. His smile stiffens, his expression hardens. At that moment the firework display comes to an end, and the guests on the terrace break into spontaneous applause, cheers and whistling. Laura quickly steps to one side so that there are people between her and Heinz, then looks around for Peter once more.

Suddenly there is a loud, piercing scream that silences everyone. All eyes turn to the lawn and the two pyrotechnics experts, but they are looking in the direction of the lake. The door of the boathouse has opened and someone staggers out, the clothing on its upper body on fire. Huge flames come shooting out of the doorway.

Laura’s legs almost give way; she holds onto the stone balustrade to stop herself from collapsing. The burning figure throws itself down onto the snow and rolls over and over, dousing the flames.

The two men on the lawn run towards the boathouse, but a sudden flash of light stops them in their tracks. It is followed by an explosion and a heat wave that makes Laura instinctively cover her face with her arms. When she looks up, the boathouse is ablaze. The person in the snow is on their feet, limping towards the edge of the forest before disappearing among the trees.

Laura’s pulse is racing, the scar on her back wriggling and jumping so wildly that she thinks she can feel the blanket over her shoulders moving. She turns away, sinks down, leaning against the balustrade. The glow of the fire lights up the people around her. Steph is close by, next to Erica and Pontus. Her mouth is open, her expression one of shock. Pontus looks the same. His wife, however, appears to be neither shocked nor afraid. Instead, her face betrays excitement, fascination.

Someone grabs Laura’s arm and pulls her to her feet. She thinks it must be Heinz, gathers her strength to push him away yet again, but it’s Peter. Any trace of anger is gone.

‘Come on!’ he says, gently placing his arm around her waist. He steers her through the crowd, past terrified guests. The girl who represented St Lucia is right by the door, rigid with shock. The fire is reflected in her eyes, and for a second she reminds Laura of Iben.

Peter quickly guides Laura through the castle and out to his car in the car park. He settles her in the passenger seat, starts the engine, turns up the heat and wraps the blanket more securely around her. Then he spends a minute or so on his phone before getting in and driving off.

‘Sandberg and his team are on their way,’ he says. ‘They’ll want to interview all the witnesses at the scene, but he’s happy for us to leave, given our . . . history. There’s nothing to be gained by making either you or me experience that whole circus all over again. I’ve told them which way the suspect went; it shouldn’t be too difficult for them to track him down.’

Laura doesn’t have the strength to answer; she merely nods.

At the end of the long avenue they meet a police car and three fire engines, followed by an ambulance. By this stage the temperature inside the car is well over twenty degrees, but Laura is still shivering. Memories flicker past her mind’s eye, both old and new, in a cycle that is played over and over again, always with the same image: the burning figure screaming as it staggers out of the boathouse.

‘Do you think it was Tomas?’ she asks as they approach the village.

Peter doesn’t answer, but she can see from the set of his jaw that he has come to the same conclusion.

‘Why would he do that?’ she says.

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve no idea. If it was him, of course. There are others who have a problem with the owners of the castle . . .’

He pauses for a few seconds – long enough for her to work out what he’s going to say.

‘. . . and with you.’

‘The Jensens. Do you really think they’re that desperate?’

‘Ulf Jensen is used to getting what he wants, and the farm is at risk. Then there’s his family name, his reputation . . .’

Laura thinks about Fredrik again, the bandage on his hand, which according to Christian was due to a mishap with a firework. Fredrik was also the one who discovered the fire at the Jensens’ farm. She pictures him with burning clothes, throwing himself down on the snow outside the boathouse.

‘Anyway, we should soon know,’ Peter goes on. ‘Whoever it was can’t have got far.’

He turns onto his drive, presses a button on the instrument panel that opens both the gate and the garage door. As the headlights illuminate the inside of the garage, he brakes sharply.

‘What’s wrong?’ Laura asks, but he doesn’t reply. All the colour has drained from his face.

It takes a few seconds for her to realise what he’s seen. Or to be more accurate – what he hasn’t seen. Something that ought to be there, but isn’t. A motocross bike that is slightly too big for a fifteen-year-old girl.