They climbed the steps and Hedda tapped gently on Jack’s front door. They heard noises from inside, but no one came. She knocked again, harder this time. The curtain at the window moved, then the door opened. Jack was in his underpants and T-shirt, and looked as if he’d just woken up.
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Yes.’
He stood in the doorway, deliberately filling the narrow space. Laura stood on tiptoe to try and see over his shoulder, but the light had been switched off.
‘We wondered if you’d like a hot chocolate?’
‘Thanks, but not tonight. I’m really tired.’
He smiled uncomfortably. The atmosphere changed. Hedda could feel it too.
‘No problem – goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’
Jack closed the door and Laura heard the key turn in the lock.
There was something in his apartment that he didn’t want them to see. Something or someone. The realisation made her jealousy flare up, and the pain in her stomach came back. She wondered whether to say anything to Hedda, but couldn’t make up her mind.
They lingered at the top of the steps for a few moments. The view from up here was so beautiful – the white blanket of snow embracing the lake, the black water reflecting the lights.
In the distance they heard the sound of sirens, rising and falling tones coming closer and closer until they stopped abruptly.
‘Can you smell smoke?’ Hedda said.
Laura stopped brooding about Jack and sniffed the night air.
‘I think so.’
Beyond the trees, over towards the village, they saw a flickering glow in the sky. The smell of smoke grew stronger.
Another siren, then another.
‘Let’s get you inside,’ Hedda said, putting her arm around Laura.
24
Laura waves Elsa off as she makes her way along the bumpy track. There’s something about the young woman that she really likes.
She hasn’t talked to anyone about her little girl for a long time. No, that’s wrong – she hasn’t talked to anyone except Andreas, but he just wants to go over the same things again and again, getting nowhere. He more or less accuses her of not caring, because she never visits the grave. And her mother doesn’t mention it, pretends it hasn’t happened, as she does with everything that might be unpleasant.
Laura understands why Elsa and Hedda liked each other. They’re very similar – direct, unafraid, honest. And maybe they can both hold a grudge.
She thinks about all the letters she wrote to Hedda. The replies she never received. Then again, she’s not here to bury herself in old disappointments, but to find answers. And she’s already found one – she now knows who’s been feeding George. A small victory.
However, she’s also been left with more questions.
Peter clearly lied to her about Tomas, just as she suspected. Has he lied about anything else? About the details surrounding Hedda’s death?
The little greenhouse is behind the toolshed. Double glazing and a sheltered, south-facing position have provided the cannabis plants inside with optimum growing conditions. Peter was telling the truth about that; she can’t verify the rest, but she has no difficulty in picturing Hedda smoking an evening joint out on the pontoon.
She needs to go back a few steps, back to the time around 12 November. That was when something happened, something that made Hedda change her mind about selling Gärdsnäset.
But what?
She goes back into the house. Selling the home she’d lived in for almost fifty years must have been a huge step for Hedda, requiring a great deal of thought. There were two offers – a generous one from the castle, and a lower one from the council. Hedda had never reached that kind of decision lightly.
Then she abruptly changed her mind. Rejected the money, the chance of a more comfortable life.
Laura suddenly remembers the planning board.
Hedda wanted to see everything laid out in front of her before she reached any major decision. She would stick lots of photographs, sketches and objects on a big whiteboard. Sometimes Laura and Iben were allowed to help by cutting pictures out of magazines, or adding their own drawings until the board was completely covered.
A mood board, long before the concept was invented. Eventually, when he was old enough, Jack would complement the board with more practical contributions such as designs, colour samples, possible timelines and shopping lists, converting Hedda’s vision into reality. He never tried to change her, though. First the board, then the decision. No shortcuts.
You can’t decide on something you can’t see.
Had Hedda still thought that way? Wanted to see the alternatives set out in front of her so that she could weigh up the pros and cons? It was certainly worth investigating.
Laura switches on the lights, pulls on her gloves and rummages among the chaos, but she can’t find the board. George sticks close by her side, as if she’s wondering what Laura is up to. After a while Laura begins to wonder the same thing.
Hedda had probably changed her approach. Moved from a board to something simpler, like a good old-fashioned notepad for example.
The problem is finding a pad in the middle of all this. However, it looks as if Hedda didn’t actually use much of the house, so the kitchen seems like a good place to start.
The table is cluttered with junk mail, catalogues and envelopes with windows. On top of one of the piles is a spiral-bound notebook and a pen. Laura opens the notebook; it’s empty. Nothing, not even a doodle. However, along the binding are small scraps of paper, left behind when pages have been torn out.
So where are the notes? Has someone been in and taken them, someone who wanted to remove evidence?
It takes about ten seconds before her brain leaves TV crime-series territory and returns to normal logic.
For a start, it would have been a lot easier for the mysterious intruder to take the whole book rather than ripping out pages. And evidence . . . of what?
What does she actually suspect? That Hedda was murdered?
What solid evidence is that suspicion based on?
A towel in the water, a bathing book that wasn’t filled in. Last night’s nightmare.
She goes out onto the porch, hoping the cold winter air will clear her head. She needs to stop this, whatever it is.
She hears a sound from the forest, the loud crack of a branch. She gives a start, peers into the darkness to try and make out the source, but the exterior light above her head makes the darkness among the trees even more compact.
She looks up. The crows aren’t particularly agitated, so there’s probably a natural explanation for the sound. A deer, maybe. Still she lingers for a while, attempts to pinpoint the spot where the unidentified smoker must have stood, but all is quiet and peaceful.
She goes back into the house, turns off the lights in the bedroom and studio. Stands in front of the sofa. Hedda sat here, day after day, night after night, all alone. Stared at the TV, smoked and drank her way to three heart attacks.
Laura perches cautiously on the arm of the sofa.
Why is she still incapable of seeing Hedda through the eyes of an adult, in spite of a wealth of evidence? Why can’t she accept the most logical explanation?
Hedda was an old woman who tumbled off her own pontoon. A woman who couldn’t bring herself to sell this dump to the highest bidder, whose only sensible thought was to make a will, presumably because she’d realised that her heart wouldn’t last much longer.
She’ll go back to the hotel in a while, wash off the dust and dirt from this house. Then she’ll swim a few lengths, order room service and go to bed. Get an early start in the morning so that she can fit in lunch with Steph and a few hours’ work at the office. Return to her everyday life.