Jack had noticed that she was awake. ‘Not long now,’ he said.
Iben was still asleep, and Laura kept very still so as not to disturb her. At last they were alone. Nearly.
Jack smiled at her, but that air of worry still lingered in his eyes and in the line of his jaw. In fact, the closer they got to Gärdsnäset, the worse he looked.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Come on, Jack. I can tell there’s something.’
He shuffled in his seat, moved his head as if he wanted to check that Iben really was sleeping.
‘Everything’s kind of . . . different,’ he said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
He focused on the road ahead. The forest was closing in around them now, interrupted less and less often by open ground.
‘Things have happened around the lake. Things that . . .’
They were passing the big sign showing symbols for the holiday village, swimming and camping. Jack slowed down and turned off for Gärdsnäset.
‘What things?’
Laura spoke a little louder than she’d intended, and Iben stirred. Jack clamped his lips together.
‘It doesn’t matter – forget it.’
Iben sat up, stretched. ‘Are we there already?’
‘Yes,’ Jack said, with a little too much enthusiasm. He shook his head faintly at Laura, making it clear that the conversation was over.
They passed the fir plantation, and after a few hundred metres they reached a tall deciduous forest where the snow had formed a white carpet beneath the straight tree trunks.
The headlights picked out the archway that had been their summer project. It had started out as cut-out pictures and sketches on Hedda’s planning board, and ended with them helping Jack to build it.
‘It’s good to have you back,’ Jack said in his normal voice.
And there was Gärdsnäset, twenty or so pretty little red cabins distributed among the trees. Every external light was lit, spreading a welcoming glow that was brightened by the thin covering of snow.
It was so beautiful that Laura almost forgot what Jack had said.
Rows of burning torches lined the track. They passed the big cabin in the centre and pulled up in the turning circle outside Aunt Hedda’s house. Laura could see the lake beyond the house and the jetty. There were several metres of ice extending out from the shore, then dark water reflecting the lights from the village.
‘Welcome home, Princess!’ Jack said, back to his usual self.
Hedda’s front door flew open and Laura’s aunt came running out, followed by Tomas and Peter – and someone else. A young woman about the same age as Jack, who stopped on the top step.
‘Who’s that?’ Laura asked.
‘That’s Milla – she moved in back in the autumn. Didn’t Hedda tell you? Tomas and Peter are already crazy about her.’
Laura shook her head. Noticed out of the corner of her eye that the worried expression was back on Jack’s face.
8
Laura is so lost in thought that she almost misses the turning for Gärdsnäset. The big sign with the symbols on it is gone, there’s just a faint, barely perceptible gap between the tall firs.
The forest has closed in around the track. The potholes are so deep that even her big car jolts and judders. The snow is dying away, but the odd flake still drifts down.
When the evergreens give way to deciduous trees, she finally knows where she is. She catches sight of the archway, or rather the remains of it. It was once their summer project, but now it just looks sad.
The framework is still there, but most of the carefully crafted wooden letters are broken or missing, and it is no longer possible to make out the words GÄRDSNÄSET HOLIDAY VILLAGE. The pretty little rose bushes that she and Hedda planted on either side have grown into huge hedges, their sharp fingers clawing at the car’s wing mirrors.
It’s almost completely dark among the trees, but her headlights pick out the silhouettes of dilapidated cabins. Gaping holes where there were once windows and doors make them look like skulls. She passes the biggest cabin, the central point of the village. The roof has collapsed, the windows are boarded up. The front door is ajar, probably stuck that way. She keeps going, avoids checking to see if the phone box is still there.
Almost the entire village is in darkness. The only light is a solitary lamp down by the water’s edge.
The forest opens out into the turning circle, and she sees the familiar building down by the water. Hedda’s house, with the lake beyond. Ten to fifteen metres of ice extending from the edge, then black water. The light from Miller’s boathouse over on the north shore is reflected in its surface, making it resemble a giant eye, silently watching her.
‘Welcome home, Princess,’ she murmurs to herself.
Kurt Håkansson’s car – a Mercedes – appears after only five minutes – at exactly the time they’d agreed on the phone, which Laura appreciates.
The family solicitor looks more or less as she’d imagined – in his sixties, short, slightly overweight, with glasses. He’s wearing a flat cap and driving gloves. He makes small talk for thirty seconds about how the track is in need of repair, then chats for exactly thirty seconds more about the weather, while retrieving a bundle of papers from the back seat. He opens the boot and spreads the papers on the floor.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to go indoors?’
Håkansson grimaces.
‘No, your aunt . . . collected things. It’s a bit of a mess in there, which is why I suggested . . .’ He leaves the rest of the sentence hanging in the air. It was Laura’s idea to meet this evening, rather than at his office tomorrow. She was the one who couldn’t wait.
‘Besides, this won’t take long. I just need your signature in three places. As I said, there was a small insurance payout that will cover the cost of the funeral – a headstone, a simple coffin and a wreath. The only other asset in Hedda’s estate is the land, as you can see.’
He points to the property designation on one of the papers.
‘We’ve already had a couple of expressions of interest. Is that something you’d like me to take care of, or would you prefer to deal with it yourself?’
‘I’m happy for you to do it. I’m not intending to keep anything.’
‘Sounds sensible.’
Håkansson finds the right page and puts a cross by each line where Laura needs to sign. Judging by his body language, he doesn’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Laura says when the paperwork is done. She feels a little guilty for dragging him out here in the dark, but she could never have imagined that Gärdsnäset would be so rundown.
‘No problem. We have a summer cottage closer to the village, and I usually come over to check on it a couple of times in the winter anyway. Run the water for a little while, empty the mousetraps and so on.’
Laura pulls on her gloves. Her fingers are already stiff.
‘How long have you had the cottage?’
‘Since the early Eighties. My wife and I used to come dancing here in the summer. That’s how I got to know Hedda.’
He breaks off, realises he’s gone too far. Strayed into a topic he wanted to avoid.
‘Tragic, that fire in ’87,’ he says quietly. ‘Gärdsnäset was never the same after that. Nor was your aunt.’ He waves a hand in the general direction of the dilapidated holiday village. ‘You could say it was the beginning of the end.’
‘Who found her?’ Laura asks, mainly to change the subject.
‘The postman. The mailbox up by the road got knocked down a long time ago, so he used to drive down on the few occasions when Hedda received post. He realised something was wrong when the door was unlocked but no one was home, then he spotted her down there.’