She checks her phone before she gets out of the car. Discovers that while there’s hardly any coverage out here, one text message has made it through.
Hope everything’s OK down there in the provinces. Keep in touch! Love Steph
Everything’s fine, she replies. As usual she finds it hard to decide on an ending. Goes for a dutiful Love Laura, then puts her phone away and opens the car door.
She’s had a rethink. Instead of taking George with her, she’s going to feed her, then fill up the bowls so there’s plenty of food to last into next week. Then she’ll go to the hotel to have a shower and change her clothes before sorting out a wreath for Hedda. If she can get through the funeral tomorrow, she’ll be able to leave this sad place for good and return to her normal life.
Unless Jack turns up, of course. The thought is still strangely appealing. Or irritating, depending on your point of view.
Without warning her feet go from under her. She sees her toes in the air in front of her before she lands on the ground with a heavy thud. The sudden movement frightens the crows; they take off from the treetops in a flurry, filling the air with their discordant noise.
She lies there on her back gasping for air as she tries to assess the damage. Her lower back hurts; has she broken anything? Is she capable of crawling to the car and driving to the hospital, given how little coverage her phone has?
After a couple of minutes the pain begins to ease, and she manages to get to her feet. She brushes snow and frozen leaves off her jacket; her back really hurts. The patch of ice she slipped on is hidden beneath a thin layer of snow, but that’s not what catches her attention. Next to the patch, at the foot of a large beech tree, are several cigarette butts.
She crouches down, examines them closely. Five Prince Red on top of the snow. It stopped snowing around the time she arrived yesterday evening, which means that the butts are fresh.
She straightens up. From here she can see Hedda’s front door and some of the windows. So someone stood out here last night, or even this morning. Stood for long enough to smoke five cigarettes. She looks for footprints, spots them right away. Thick soles, heading this way from the forest in a meandering line, then back again.
A smoker who came here for only one reason.
To watch her.
13
Winter 1987
Laura slept late, stayed in bed for a while listening for Hedda, but the house was silent. She couldn’t stop thinking about the figure she thought she’d seen during the night. Had it been a dream? She didn’t think so.
So what was it? Or rather – who?
She looked out of the window. A grey mist hung low over the lake, carrying with it a disturbing smell of smoke that had somehow penetrated her bedroom.
She went into the kitchen and found George, who immediately started winding herself around Laura’s legs.
There was a note on the worktop.
Good morning, darling Laura!
A water pipe in the boiler room has sprung a leak, so I have to go to Ängelholm to pick up a few things. You were fast asleep, so I didn’t want to wake you.
Back soon,
Hedda
She peered outside; both Hedda’s and Jack’s cars were gone.
George seemed to sense her disappointment, and kept rubbing against her legs as if to console her.
Beneath the note lay the bathing book, a ledger with squared pages in which Hedda meticulously documented every swim. Dates, times, temperatures, who’d swum.
More fun than a diary, she always said. And it’s become a bit of an obsession.
This year’s book was green. The past few weeks and months contained only Hedda’s and Jack’s names, but when Laura turned back the pages it was summer once more, and there were other names.
Laura, Iben and Hedda.
Hedda, Laura and Jack.
Hedda, Jack, Laura, Iben and Peter.
The only name that never appeared was Tomas.
He certainly wasn’t afraid of the water, because he rowed, sailed and fished. He could even wade out a short distance from the shore if necessary, but he had never, ever had a sauna or taken a dip from the pontoon. Even Peter didn’t know why.
Laura made herself some toast and flicked through the local paper as she ate. Almost half the paper was taken up by adverts from various businesses, wishing their clients Merry Christmas. There were a couple of small articles, one about a car accident and one about a fire in a deserted house. Surely such fires didn’t break out by themselves, so could Ulf Jensen have been right? Was someone deliberately starting fires around the lake? The thought was unpleasant yet exciting at the same time.
On the next page there was a picture of Ulf himself standing in a gym, hands spread wide.
Record year for Vedarp Athletics Club. Successful trainer heading for bigger things.
Laura skimmed the article, in which Ulf proudly listed the medals the club had won in various competitions. Iben was responsible for over half of them. The previous day came into her mind once more. The gestures, the looks. The songs Iben and Jack had practised together.
The pain in her stomach was back.
There was still no sign of Hedda by three o’clock, so Laura walked up to the main road and caught the bus. The driver recognised her, asked her to pass on his best wishes to her aunt, and let her travel for free.
Part of her wanted to stay as far away from Iben as possible, but another more insistent part wanted to know the truth.
Peter was sitting on his moped outside Wohlin’s. He didn’t notice her approaching, and jumped when she tapped on his helmet.
‘Hi – what are you doing?’
He took off his helmet, gave an embarrassed smile.
‘Waiting for Tomas. How about you?’
‘I’m having coffee with Iben, but then she has a training session. Shall we meet up later?’
‘Me and Tomas have things to do.’
‘What kind of things?’
He shuffled uncomfortably, couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘Just a couple of errands.’
‘For Milla?’
She didn’t know where the question had come from.
He still refused to meet her gaze. She was about to say something else when they both heard the sound of another moped. Peter quickly crammed on his helmet.
‘See you!’
He kick-started his engine and took off as Tomas appeared.
Laura remained standing on the pavement, watching them go.
Wohlin’s café and bakery dated from the 1940s, its décor favouring dark wood and brass. The whole place smelled old-fashioned in a homely, comforting way.
‘Hi, Laura – so you’re back!’
Ella Bengtsson, who must have run Wohlin’s for twenty years, was a strong woman with sparkling eyes and a loud laugh.
‘You’ve grown since the summer – how old are you now?’
‘I’ll be sixteen in March.’
‘Sixteen, who’d have thought it! I remember the first time Hedda brought you in. You can’t have been more than four or five. You were so sweet, with your hair in plaits – and now you’re a young woman.’ She stroked Laura’s cheek. ‘I bet all the boys in school are after you!’
Laura blushed.
‘I go to a girls’ school. There aren’t any boys.’
‘What a shame! But I’m sure you have plenty of admirers here in the village. Peter Larsson has always followed you around like a faithful puppy, and then there’s that other boy . . .’
‘Tomas.’
‘That’s it, Tomas Rask.’
A small furrow appeared in Ella’s brow. Laura knew it was because of Tomas’s father. A lot of people were afraid of Kent Rask.