30
When Laura opens her eyes it is already Monday morning. Her mouth is dry as it always is when she’s taken a double dose of her medication. Her teeth are aching in spite of the mouth guard. She orders breakfast from room service, even though she’s not really hungry.
Three missed calls on her phone, two from Andreas last night, one from Steph this morning. She sends the same text message to both of them. She can’t face talking to anyone right now.
Sorry, things are taking a bit longer than expected.
Steph replies almost immediately.
Are you OK?
Laura summarises the previous day in her head. Kent Rask, the fire, her own delayed collapse. No, she is fucking far from fucking OK, as Steph might have put it. But she can’t say that; Steph would probably get the first flight down here.
Absolutely, she writes instead. Adds a couple of suitable emojis.
She tries to gather her thoughts. What is stopping her from simply turning her back on all this, getting in the car and driving home as planned?
Nothing.
So why doesn’t she do it?
Her phone starts buzzing. She’s pretty sure it’s Steph, in which case she won’t answer. In fact, it’s the office, calling about yet another of Marcus’s cock-ups. She listens for thirty seconds, then makes a decision. It’s high time her little brother came out of her blind spot. Or rather, it’s time she forced him out.
‘I’m busy,’ she says. ‘I’ll send you a number where you can reach Marcus.’
She ends the call then sends the office her mother’s mobile number, plus the landline at the villa in Spain, then switches off her phone.
The man in the ironmonger’s in Vedarp is just over fifty and well built. She doesn’t recognise him, wonders if he’s related to Sven-Erik who used to run the shop. Maybe he’s his son? Too much time has passed for her to see any resemblance.
‘A skip?’ the man says as he adds up her purchases. ‘Let me think . . . my brother-in-law can probably help you out. Would you be paying cash?’
‘Absolutely. I just want the stuff gone.’
While she packs the car with cleaning products, rubber gloves, buckets and plastic sacks, the ironmonger makes a call, then comes out to join her.
‘You’re in luck – he can deliver the skip this afternoon. What’s the address?’
‘Gärdsnäset. The old holiday village.’
He lets out a long whistle.
‘I thought so – you’re Hedda Aulin’s niece, the one from Stockholm.’
‘I am. Laura Aulin.’
‘You were there when the dance hall caught fire. You, Peter Larsson, Tomas Rask and the other two. The foster kids, whatever they were called.’
Laura doesn’t bother to supply Jack and Milla’s names.
‘I used to train with Ulf Jensen,’ the ironmonger goes on. ‘Shot put and hammer, alongside Fredrik, his youngest son. Ulf was the best coach I’ve ever had. He still remembers my results whenever we bump into each other. Fredrik and Christian were good, they were nearly always in the top ten when they competed, but Iben was the real star. Who knows how far she could have gone?’
His expression hardens.
‘I heard you were out at Kent Rask’s place yesterday when the fire started.’
‘I was – what about it?’
He leans closer. His breath smells of coffee.
‘You know, some people around here think Tomas Rask wasn’t the only guilty party back in the day. They believe that more of you were involved. You turn up for the funeral, and there’s another fire. After three decades. Strange, wouldn’t you say?’
Laura swallows hard, searches for something to say.
‘You’re going to sell Gärdsnäset to the council as agreed?’
The question and the sudden change of subject take her by surprise.
‘After all, that’s the least you can do for the village. Not to mention poor Ulf Jensen. I’m sure a few hundred thousand here or there doesn’t make much difference to you – you’ve got plenty of money.’
He pats the roof of her car as if to show that he knows exactly how much it costs.
‘The last thing those of us who live here need is an influx of rich bastards driving up house prices and not paying their local taxes. And we don’t need construction companies who employ Polish builders and don’t buy locally.’
He pats the car again. Gives her a chilly smile.
‘But I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, Laura Aulin. Let’s hope so, anyway.’
Back at Gärdsnäset Laura starts by putting on the overalls, protective head covering, mask and wellingtons she bought earlier. She flings open all the windows in Hedda’s house, then goes down to the shore for a while in the hope that the cross-draughts will disperse the worst of the odours. George follows her like a dog, glancing up at her from time to time as if she’s trying to work out what on earth Laura is doing.
It is cloudy and grey, and only a few degrees below zero. A faint mist lingers among the trees, and the ice on the lake is tightening its grip on the black eye in the centre.
The nightmare. The nymph that was also Iben, rising from the lake to sink her claws into Hedda. Even though it was only a dream and she doesn’t believe in trolls or fairies, it won’t let go. And then there are the words Hedda wrote on her board: Ask Tomas about Iben’s secret.
What secret, and how was it connected to the sale of Gärdsnäset?
The conversation with the ironmonger has supplied her with more pieces of the puzzle. It is clear that people in the village have an opinion about the sale. Did they pass on that opinion to Hedda? More than likely.
So where does Ulf Jensen come into the picture? Is he the one who sent Kjell Green?
She remembers what Kent Rask told her about Ulf and about Iben’s mother.
Kent hated the Jensens, yet at the same time he was so scared of them that he kept a shotgun at the ready in his living room. And the fire in the barn showed that he had good reason to be afraid.
But why was the fire started yesterday, during the brief period when she happened to be visiting Kent? Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Who was responsible for the fire, and why? Was the intention to frighten Kent Rask, or Laura? Or both?
She kicks out at the snow in frustration, then leans back against a tree trunk. Too many questions.
Kent Rask said that Hedda and Tomas wrote to each other, which means that at least some of the answers ought to be somewhere in the house. Searching for letters means digging through three decades of dirt and crap – not exactly her idea of a good time. George seems to realise that she needs support, and keeps rubbing around Laura’s legs.
The nasal buzz of an engine interrupts her train of thought. George obviously recognises the sound. She slips away through the trees and hurries around the corner of the house to greet the visitor. Laura follows more slowly and sees Elsa sitting astride her motocross bike.
‘What are you doing?’ the young woman asks when she’s removed her helmet.
‘Cleaning,’ Laura replies, which is at least partly true.
Elsa climbs off her bike and props it against a tree.
‘Cool. Do you want some help?’
They begin by clearing a passageway straight through the house, from the front door to the room Hedda used as her office and studio.
In spite of the fact that she is more or less covered from head to toe in protective clothing, Laura has to make a real effort to ignore the little voice in her ear, telling her how many different micro-organisms there are per cubic metre of air, or the potentially fatal consequences of sustaining even the tiniest scratch from one of the dusty corners lurking all over the house.