‘My condolences,’ he says. ‘Hedda was a wonderful person.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for coming.’
The words are hollow, and that’s the way she feels. Cold, hollowed out.
She hasn’t seen Ulf since before the fire, but she remembers what Peter told her at the hospitaclass="underline" Iben’s brothers had to wrestle Ulf to the ground to prevent him from running straight into the blazing dance hall. He’d bellowed like an injured animal.
The unpleasant memory causes her to miss a couple of sentences.
‘. . . hear you’re doing well, Laura. We always knew you’d be something special. You and Iben.’
Laura swallows, doesn’t know what she’s expected to say. She glances at Iben’s half-brothers, but they’re no help. In fact, they seem to be avoiding her gaze. Maybe that’s not surprising, given what happened at their last encounter.
‘Well, we’d better go and sit down,’ Ulf says. ‘Have you got time for a chat after the service?’
‘Of course.’
She tries to sound nonchalant, but doesn’t really succeed. Should she say something else, apologise – and if so, for what? How can she explain that what happened thirty years ago was her fault?
The door creaks again and she turns, but she is disappointed once more. This time it’s two elderly ladies, clutching their handbags at chest height. She nods to them, but receives only long stares in response.
The cantor begins to play the prelude, and the sound of the organ means she won’t be able to hear the door anymore.
She sits down, contemplates the coffin only a metre or so in front of her. There are three wreaths. One is part of the funeral package, the second is the one she ordered at the florist’s yesterday, but she doesn’t know where the third and largest wreath has come from. It is made up of beautiful red and white roses, but there is no silk ribbon carrying a final greeting, a ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘In Loving Memory’. No name.
Maybe it’s from Ulf Jensen, but in that case why is there no card? Who orders a great big expensive wreath without saying who it’s from? Maybe someone who doesn’t want to make his presence known, someone who hides in the shadows while he . . .
‘Laura?’
The voice belongs to a man in police uniform who has suddenly appeared beside her. For a second she thinks something’s happened – to the business, her mother, Andreas. But then she realises the man has said only her first name. He’s about the same age as her, his cropped hair is greying and receding. The look in his eyes is a mixture of pleasure and sorrow.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’
It’s the smile that gives him away. She’s seen it a thousand times.
‘Peter,’ she says.
Without thinking, she throws her arms around him. It’s not like her, and she quickly lets go.
‘I just wanted to say hello.’ He sounds embarrassed and turns away.
She grabs his sleeve. ‘Won’t you sit beside me? You’re part of the family too.’
Peter hesitates. His face is a little flushed.
‘Of course,’ he says, sitting down.
Laura tries not to sound too eager. ‘Are any of the others coming?’
It seems as if Peter doesn’t hear the question over the organ music, because he simply smiles at her once more. Before she can ask again, the prelude dies away. She looks back at the door, but apart from Håkansson, the Jensens and the elderly ladies, the pews are empty. No Jack. She feels a stab of disappointment. Thinks about the cigarette stubs. The anonymous sender of the wreath.
Maybe Jack just doesn’t like funerals?
The priest keeps the ceremony blessedly short. His eulogy is so general it could apply to just about anybody.
Her father’s funeral was the polar opposite. St Oscar’s Church was packed, and a whole series of people had spoken about what a fantastic individual and entrepreneur Jacob Aulin had been. Her mother had thoroughly enjoyed herself, nodding in agreement at every other word, playing the role of the grieving widow to perfection. No indication that the company had been on the brink of bankruptcy under his leadership. No hint that she and Jacob had slept in separate bedrooms for the past twenty years. Or that he’d regularly spent time with a woman twenty years his junior. A woman she had discreetly but firmly excluded from every aspect of the funeral.
Laura remembers only fragments of that other funeral, the one with the tiny coffin. She was in a grey fog of grief and pills, and she has no intention of going back there.
All ceremonies end the same way.
Three small shovelfuls of black earth, one last hymn, then it’s over.
One day we shall all turn to dust, Princess. Me too. That’s just the way it is. But before that we’re going to have a long and happy life.
Had Hedda enjoyed a long and happy life?
Was Laura happy?
Once again she looks back at the door, but there’s no one there. Peter notices, smiles sympathetically.
She can’t quite believe he’s become a police officer. Peter was always the clown, the one who tried to entertain the rest of the gang. In addition, their shared experience of the police wasn’t exactly positive. Sandberg, wasn’t that his name? A tall guy with a shaven head and a boxer’s nose who scared the shit out of her.
Are you sure it was him? Did you actually see him start the fire?
Peter’s smile hasn’t really changed, but apart from that he seems much more serious than the boy she knew back then. Maybe it’s because of his uniform – and they are at a funeral, after all. However, Laura is pretty sure the seriousness goes deeper.
She steals a glance at Peter as they mouth along to ‘Härlig är jorden’. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. His nails are cut short, his hands are spotless. His face is clean-shaven. His shoes are well polished, his shirt neatly pressed, his tie is not the cheap kind on an elastic that the police often wear. His watch is a Patek Philippe, which surprises her. That kind of ridiculously expensive timepiece is usually worn by men like alpha-Tobias at Steph’s party, and is definitely not something you could afford on a police officer’s salary.
As they chat outside the church, she learns that he has a teenage daughter. Otherwise he’s the one who asks most of the questions, wanting to know about her work, where she’s staying while she’s here.
She tells him about Gärdsnäset and George, which evokes another smile.
‘So the George dynasty continues. Do you remember when we went on a reincarnation trip?’
‘Which one?’
‘I only remember the time when George the fourth got run over. We must have been about ten.’
She nods. ‘That was my second George trip. We went all the way up to Halland before Hedda found the right cat.’
Peter laughs. His expression is warm, shy and a little bit sad.
‘Tomas got carsick and we had to pull over. Hedda said it was a sign. She made you, me and Iben ring the doorbell of the next farm we came to and ask if they had any kittens. That was how she found George the fifth.’
He pretends to hold a kitten high in the air, and for a brief moment he is the Peter she once knew.
‘Welcome back to our family, little George.’
He falls silent, as if he’s done something wrong.
‘Hedda was definitely special . . .’ he murmurs.
That’s the third time Laura has heard someone use that word about her aunt in just a few days.
‘How often did you see her?’ she asks.
‘I haven’t seen her for years. Hedda kept herself to herself. She wouldn’t open the door if anyone came knocking – especially the police.’
‘Why not?’
He doesn’t reply. He pulls a face that could mean anything.
‘What about shopping?’