The current has pushed the body against the ladder rather than carrying it across to Alkärret. There is something pale by one leg. She leans closer. It’s probably a towel – but why is it in the water, partly wrapped around Hedda’s leg? It could have blown in, of course. Hedda was lying there all night and for most of the next day, plenty of time for the wind to pick up the towel.
She reads through Peter’s comments on the photographs, including the changing room in the sauna. He checked the heating element, and established that it’s linked to a timer that begins to warm up the sauna at five thirty each evening, and switches it off at ten. Hedda’s clothes were hanging on one of the hooks.
She moves on to the last photo – the pontoon, from a slight distance away. A light mist hovers over the lake, and far away on the other side she can see the outline of Johnny Miller’s house.
The picture is lovely yet disturbing, although she’s not sure why.
She leans back and clasps her hands behind her neck. There’s nothing out of the ordinary here. An old woman takes a sauna then goes swimming in the middle of winter, in spite of two heart attacks and her doctor’s specific orders. Why can’t she accept that?
She is beginning to suspect that it’s really about something else, that it’s her disappointment at Jack’s failure to show up that is eating away at her. She’s come down here, put herself through all this, and there’s no Jack. Maybe he didn’t want to come, but it’s more likely that he lives abroad and has no idea that Hedda is dead. He probably hasn’t given Vintersjön, Gärdsnäset, Hedda or Laura herself a thought in years. And why would he? Jack was virtually chased away from here, in fear of his life.
What about the cigarette butts? whispers a little voice in her ear. Five Prince Red, the brand Jack used to smoke.
Then again, Prince Red isn’t exactly an uncommon brand. Maybe it was some curious local who wanted to take a look at her. It’s a feeble explanation, she can see that, but right now it’s all she has.
She gets to her feet. Her swimsuit has dried off in the bathroom, and she decides to swim a few thousand metres to clear her head. Put Jack, Peter, Hedda and Vintersjön behind her once and for all, before she goes home tomorrow morning.
Unfortunately, there is a noisy family with small children in the pool. Laura waits on one of the benches for a while, but when the family is joined by a couple of businessmen with hairy beer bellies, she decides to give up.
On her way to the changing room, she passes the sauna. It’s empty, so she slips inside. Keeps her swimsuit on in spite of the notice saying it’s forbidden. Sits down and enjoys the heat and the smell of warm pine.
Eighty-five degrees, according to the thermometer on the wall. The perfect sauna temperature, as Hedda would have said.
And suddenly Laura realises what she’s missed.
What it is that doesn’t feel right.
17
Winter 1987
The next morning, the ice extended further out into the lake.
‘If it carries on like this we’ll be able to get our skates out at the weekend,’ Hedda said, putting her arm around Laura. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten how to skate!’
They were walking through the holiday village on the eastern path, following the shoreline, passing cabins ten and twelve, then the snow-covered minigolf course and football pitch. Laura had glanced up at Jack’s window when they reached the boathouse, but the lights were out and the curtains closed.
It was only seven fifteen, and the sun was beginning to rise. Hedda was pulling the sled, with the axe resting on top.
Vintersjöholm Castle had a large Christmas tree plantation beyond Alkärret, at the eastern corner of the lake. Every year, early one morning in the days leading up to Lucia, Hedda and Laura sneaked in. When they’d located the perfect tree, Laura kept watch while her aunt wielded the axe. Then they hurried home with their booty before anyone spotted them.
The outing was usually one of Laura’s favourite traditions, but on this particular day she was finding it hard to get in the right mood.
‘How’s the bruise?’
Hedda stopped and gently ran her hand over Laura’s forehead.
‘OK.’
Laura hadn’t revealed all the details of the previous evening; she’d simply agreed when Ulf Jensen gave his version of events. She’d accepted a lift from Kent Rask, they’d ended up in the ditch, and the bang on her head had left her a little confused. She didn’t want to tell Hedda that Kent had frightened her, or why she’d set off for home on foot instead of waiting for the bus.
Fortunately, Hedda hadn’t said much. She’d thanked Ulf for his help, examined the bump on Laura’s forehead and shone a torch in her eyes to make sure she hadn’t suffered a concussion. Then she’d made macaroni cheese for supper and sat with her arm around Laura on the sofa until the girl fell asleep, as if she realised it was closeness that was needed rather than a cross-examination.
‘Do you feel sick?’
Laura shook her head.
‘Ulf said you came off the road just before Källegården’s drive. Why didn’t Kent drop you at the turning for Gärdsnäset?’
A good question, one that Laura had asked herself several times. Why had Kent Rask kept going? What would have happened if the deer hadn’t appeared in the middle of the road?
‘He said he had to pick up a couple of things for you.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you know what he meant?’
Hedda nodded. ‘It’s something and nothing – I thought he’d forgotten about it. Forest business, you know?’
Forest business – the kind of business you kept to yourself. Like when Hedda taught her to make ‘elk poo’ out of mud and fir needles and put it in jars to sell in the shop to German tourists.
Laura wanted to ask what forest business Hedda and Kent were involved in, but her aunt had sped up and was now several metres ahead. Laura felt relieved, and a little stupid at the same time. Kent really had had a legitimate errand. She’d been scared for no reason.
‘Jack wants to start draining here in the spring.’ Hedda had stopped and was pointing in among the trees. ‘He thinks we’ve got room for eight or ten caravans and at least as many tents if we can just get rid of the ground water from the marsh.’
Jack’s name made Laura’s heart skip a beat.
They reached the stone wall that formed the border between the holiday village and the marsh. A set of steps with sturdy railings on either side made it possible to get over the wall.
‘Grab the back end.’
Together they managed to lift the sled over. The snow made the wood slippery, and it was a couple of minutes before they were safely on the other side.
Alkärret was Källegården’s only contact with the lake. A few hectares of low-lying marshland, squeezed in between Gärdsnäset and the castle, no good for agricultural use or construction. Ulf Jensen grazed his sheep on the marsh, a rare breed that could stay outdoors all year round. Their name was difficult to pronounce. Laura and Iben had always found the sheep a little creepy, with their blue-black heads and bulging eyes, but the animals tended to stick to the area nearest the main road, where the ground was less muddy.
The path gave way to an overgrown duckboard footbridge that wound its way between the trees. Here and there the snow had been blown away, exposing dark patches of frozen water. Hedda pointed to them and said: ‘The eyes of the nymph. So be careful what you do.’
She nudged Laura in the side with her elbow.
Laura pulled a face to show that she didn’t care about old superstitions, yet she couldn’t help glancing at those black patches from time to time. They really did look like eyes.