‘You remember the mobile grocer?’
Laura nods.
‘His son took over, and Hedda bought what she needed from him. As far as I know, she never set foot in the village after the fire. There were those who held her responsible . . .’
He falls silent, then almost seems to recoil, as if he’s seen someone in the shadows beneath the pine trees a short distance away in the churchyard.
‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘There’s someone over there I haven’t seen for ages.’
Before Laura can respond, he heads quickly down the path. She can just make out a man, and her heart begins to beat faster. She’s about to follow Peter when Iben’s father and half-brothers intercept her.
‘So you’ve met that poor bastard.’
Ulf waves a hand in Peter’s direction. Laura wants to ask what he means, but Christian Jensen gets in first.
‘Nice ceremony.’ He smiles warmly, while Fredrik keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.
‘Thank you.’
‘What’s happening with Gärdsnäset?’ Ulf ’s abrupt question takes her by surprise.
‘Hedda’s solicitor is sorting out the sale as soon as possible.’ She points to Håkansson, who is standing by the gate.
‘Who are you selling it to?’
‘I think there have been a couple of offers. If you’re interested, speak to Håkansson.’
Ulf shakes his head. He is clearly annoyed.
‘I thought Hedda had made a decision. Didn’t she leave any papers?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Laura sees no reason to mention the chaos in the house.
Behind the Jensens she sees Peter approaching with the stranger. He’s wearing a suede fringed jacket and a baseball cap pulled well down over his forehead. The rest of his face is almost completely covered by a large pair of sunglasses and a bushy beard.
‘Are you staying long?’ Christian asks.
Laura hears herself replying that she’s leaving tomorrow, but all her attention is focused on the man with the beard.
‘That’s a shame. We were hoping you’d have time to call and see us, just like you used to do.’
Ulf’s tone has softened. Laura manages to summon up a vague smile as she continues to stare at the man.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Nice to see you again.’
She slips past the three men and sets off towards Peter and his companion, but as soon as she gets closer she can see that he’s much too old to be Jack. He and Peter shake hands, and just before he turns to leave he meets her gaze and gives her a brief, respectful nod. She watches him go. He wears his grey hair in a ponytail that reaches halfway down his back. There can only be one person in Vedarp who goes for the ageing rock star – or old troll – look.
‘Was that Johnny Miller?’
Peter nods.
‘Do you two know each other?’
‘He’s my father-in-law,’ Peter explains. ‘Or rather he was.’
‘Are you divorced?’ Laura asks. Too late she remembers the lack of a wedding ring on his finger.
‘I was widowed two years ago.’
‘Cancer?’
She doesn’t know why she said that. The word just came out.
He shakes his head. ‘Car accident.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
A widower with a daughter – so that’s why Ulf Jensen referred to him as ‘poor bastard’. They’ve both been grieving for the same amount of time, she and Peter, and she almost shares her story. Tells him about the box with its precious contents. But she stops herself.
‘Have you heard anything about the others?’ she says when enough time has passed to be able to change the subject.
‘Tomas’s father still lives out at Ensligheten, that’s all I know.’
He clearly doesn’t want to say any more. She’s about to mention Jack, but he gets in first.
‘Shall we go over to Iben’s grave?’
She’d like to say no. She hates churchyards and graves, but Peter has already started walking. He turns down one of the paths and stops in front of a huge memorial in marble and metal.
The Jensen family grave. A list of Danish names in ornate writing, dating from the early seventeenth century. Down at the right-hand side, a little white stone is sticking up in the snow.
Iben Margarethe Jensen
2 January 1972 – 13 December 1987
Even though Laura is prepared, her body reacts violently. Her scars feel alive, as if they are crawling all over her back, eating into her until she is as hollow as the nymph in the painting above her bed.
Iben is lying here beneath the snow, while she herself has lived half a life. In more ways than one. Neither she nor Peter says anything, they simply stand in silence, side by side.
The covering of snow on the grave is untouched. She looks around for Iben’s father and half-brothers, but they’ve already left the churchyard.
Peter reads her mind.
‘Rumour has it that she’s not actually buried here. That Ulf scattered her ashes in the lake instead. It’s illegal, but I don’t think anyone would have objected. Ulf’s always done exactly what he wanted.’
Laura nods.
It somehow feels right that Iben isn’t lying here in a windy churchyard, by a ghastly monument to a load of dead ancestors.
Iben is resting in the lake. Well done, Ulf.
Maybe she should do the same with Hedda’s ashes? Let Hedda and Iben rest in the lake together.
She closes her eyes, pictures her aunt and Iben out on the pontoon, just a few paces ahead of her, on their way to the ladder and the water.
Come on, Princess, don’t hesitate – just do it!
From out of nowhere, the niggling feeling is back, even stronger now. The feeling she refused to pay attention to, because unlike Hedda she doesn’t believe in inklings or intuition, but in facts. In things that can be seen, measured and proved. And yet it just won’t go away. It keeps whispering that there’s something about all this that doesn’t add up, that something is going on below the surface, something she’s missing.
She opens her eyes and turns to Peter.
‘Is there a police report on Hedda’s death?’
15
Winter 1987
Laura had just missed the bus to Gärdsnäset and had no desire to wait an hour for the next one. Besides which, the bus stop is the first place Iben would come looking for her.
Iben who had betrayed her, gone behind her back. It must have been Iben she’d seen in the middle of the night. Iben who had slunk out of Källegården when her father and brothers had fallen asleep so that she could spend a few more hours with Jack.
The pain in her stomach had become an agonising cramp that was making her feel sick, forcing her to stop from time to time and bend forward, hands resting on her knees.
Tears were searing her throat, but she refused to cry. Not yet, not until she was back home with Hedda. She straightened up, kept walking. It was less than four kilometres from Vedarp to the holiday village; she could usually cover the distance in half an hour.
She’d just passed the spot where the street lamps ended and the forest took over when she started to shiver. Her body hadn’t got used to the difference in temperature between Sweden and Hong Kong, and after a few minutes her legs began to tremble.
She increased her speed, kept looking over her shoulder in the hope that a car would appear.
Before long she saw lights approaching among the trees. She raised her arm and waved. The car was moving fast; now she could see that only one headlight was working, which made the vehicle look as if it had one eye. She took a cautious step into the road so that she could be seen better. The sound of the engine changed as the car slowed down and stopped. It was a battered old Volvo that she didn’t recognise. The side window was wound down.