She ran straight to him, threw her arms around his neck and promptly burst into tears.
‘What on earth has happened, Laura? Are you OK?’
She sobbed into his chest, incapable of saying anything.
The door of the Volvo opened.
‘What the hell are you up to, Kent?’ Ulf asked.
‘There were deer on the road. We went into the ditch. I think she’s just a bit shocked.’
Laura still couldn’t catch her breath or speak, just stood there shaking in Ulf ’s arms.
‘Is that really what happened, Laura?’ Ulf said.
Laura kept shaking. Kent came closer, with the big black dog beside him.
‘Like I said, she’s had a shock. She’s not used to life in the country. I’ll drive her back to Gärdsnäset.’
Ulf held up his hand.
‘You’ve done enough for tonight. I’ll take Laura home, and you can explain yourself to Hedda tomorrow morning.’
Kent glared at Iben’s father. The dog began to growl.
‘She’s my responsibility. I’m taking her home.’
The two men stared at each other, neither prepared to give way.
‘You sanctimonious bastard,’ Kent muttered. ‘Swanning around on your farm, boasting about your fine ancestors. But don’t forget – I know about the skeletons in your closet.’
‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’
Ulf’s face was red with anger.
‘Nothing.’
Kent took a step back and grunted a command that made the dog shut up.
‘You drive her home if you’re so keen, Ulf. I’ve got better things to do than take care of silly little girls.’
He spat out a gob of phlegm that landed centimetres from one of Ulf’s shoes, then he turned and headed back to his car.
16
The police station in Vedarp is next door to the town hall, and consists of only two rooms with a kitchenette in between. The outer room is a small reception area, the inner is Peter’s office.
A notice on the door informs her:
Open Tuesdays and Thursdays 12.00 – 14.00.
At other times please contact the police station in Ängelholm, or call 114 14.
In an emergency call 112.
‘So this is where I work,’ Peter says, spreading his arms wide. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d prefer tea.’
‘No problem. Go on in and take a seat.’
There are two armchairs, a desk and a bookcase. On the top shelf is a model aeroplane from the Second World War, so detailed and cleverly made that you can even see the tiny pilot giving the thumbs-up inside the cockpit. Peter has obviously carried on with the model making he did as a boy, and taken it to a new level. It’s kind of sweet, Laura thinks.
On the shelf below is a large school photograph of a teenage girl, who must be Peter’s daughter. She has short, coal-black hair, heavily made-up eyes, and two rings in her right eyebrow. Her expression manages to combine defiance and utter boredom.
There is also a wedding photo. Peter is probably about thirty. He is wearing his dress uniform and a white peaked cap, gazing at the camera and looking very happy. The woman beside him can’t be more than twenty-five. She is platinum blonde and very beautiful, in a cool and slightly impersonal way. Her dress looks expensive, as does the ring on her finger. Presumably Daddy paid. Johnny Miller might not be a troll, but he’s as rich as one, as the saying goes. Laura thinks about Peter’s expensive watch. Guesses it might have been a wedding present.
There are several framed diplomas on the walls: Interpol, Europol, the UN.
She finds it difficult to reconcile all this with the Peter she used to know. Judging by the diplomas, he’s a talented police officer who’s travelled the world, and yet now he’s working here, all by himself in a tiny local station in the middle of nowhere.
He reappears with two mismatched mugs, puts them down on the desk and holds out a small box of assorted teabags.
‘Where did you work before you came here?’ Laura asks.
‘The National Crime Unit, until two years ago.’ He sits down. ‘After Victoria passed away, I took some time off. I didn’t go back to work until last spring.’ He takes a sip of his coffee. ‘This is a good job. It might not be exciting, but I have a lot of autonomy, and I can cycle to the station. I’m home when Elsa finishes school. Are you married, by the way?’
She shakes her head, surprised by the sudden change of subject.
‘Divorced just over a year ago.’
Her turn to change the subject – and quickly, before he asks if she has children.
‘Your daughter’s very pretty,’ she says, nodding in the direction of the photograph.
‘Thank you.’ Peter’s face lights up. ‘She’s had a tough time since we lost Victoria, but we’re getting there. She starts university in September.’
He puts down his mug and taps away at the computer keyboard. A printer in the corner of the room comes to life.
‘I was first on the scene at Gärdsnäset. The postman found Hedda early in the afternoon. He rang the emergency services, and I got there just before the ambulance and the fire service.’
He collects the printout and hands it to her.
‘This is the initial report and my notes. That’s all there is. A post-mortem isn’t required when someone dies of natural causes. Hedda had had two heart attacks, the latest in the early autumn. Dr Olsson had warned her against taking saunas and swimming in the lake in the winter, but you can imagine Hedda’s reaction to that.’
‘I expect she told him to go to hell.’
Peter gives a wry smile. ‘Something along those lines.’
Laura likes his smile.
Back in the hotel room she spreads out the documents on the desk. Her phone rings, as it’s done a couple of times during the drive from Vedarp. It’s Andreas, but she has neither the time nor the inclination to talk to him right now.
She doesn’t actually know what she’s looking for; maybe it’s just a way of silencing that irritating little voice.
Peter’s report is brief and impersonal, written in dry official language.
Detective Inspector Peter Larsson was called out today to Gärdsnäset holiday village because the body of an elderly woman had been found in the water by the pontoon. The discovery was made by John Elwin, the local postman.
He then lists the subsequent course of events. Hedda’s body was recovered by the fire service, the ambulance was sent away because it wasn’t required, the duty doctor officially confirmed what everyone already knew.
Duty Dr G. Olsson pronounced the victim dead at 14.43. In his opinion, the body had been in the water since at least the previous evening. He identified the deceased as Hedda Aulin, aged 72, one of his patients who was resident at the address in question.
And then the last line, in summary:
At this point there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death.
Laura reads the interview with the postman, who tells the same story she’s already heard from Håkansson. He drove up to the house, knocked on the door but didn’t get an answer. He realised the place was empty, then spotted something in the water. Realised what it was and called the police.
The last sheet of paper is a detailed analysis of the scene, and several digital photographs that Peter must have taken.
She steels herself.
The first shows the body in the black water. Hedda is face down, with only her upper back and the back of her head and arms above the surface. Her skin is chalk-white, the grey hair is studded with fragile ice crystals, and the image is horrific, beautiful and unreal, all at the same time. It reminds Laura of a picture in an old book of fairy tales.