She picks up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Laura? It’s Ulf Jensen. I heard you were still at Gärdsnäset.’
‘Yes, I’m staying a few more days.’
She tries to work out who told him – presumably, the ironmonger or his brother-in-law.
‘Do you need any help? Christian and Fredrik would be happy to come over.’
‘Thanks, I can manage.’
‘You only have to give us a call, you know that. Neighbours help each other out.’
‘Thank you . . .’
‘By the way, I was wondering if you’d like to join us at Källegården for dinner this evening?’
Her first instinct is to say no, come up with an excuse, but there are so many questions whirling around in her mind. Who set fire to Kent Rask’s barn, who were the ‘we’ in Tomas’s letter? And what did Hedda mean by Iben’s secret? The best place to find out is probably Iben’s home.
‘That would be lovely,’ she says.
31
Winter 1987
‘Here.’
Milla lit a cigarette, then pushed the ashtray across the coffee table before sinking back against the sofa cushions.
Laura had mastered the art of lighting her cigarette, maintaining a film-star air of cool and taking something that resembled a drag. In fact, she simply held the smoke in her mouth for a few seconds before blowing it out. Milla could probably see right through her, but didn’t say anything. That was one of the things Laura liked about Milla – she didn’t judge.
‘I’ve been thinking about this business with Jack and Iben,’ Milla said.
‘Yes?’
Laura sat up a little straighter. The knot in her stomach made its presence felt, as it always did when the subject was raised. They’d talked about Jack and Iben quite a bit over the past few days. Milla was a good listener – something else Laura liked about her.
‘Iben knew you were keen on Jack. She knew you’d kissed down on the pontoon in the summer.’
‘Mmm.’ Laura took another fake drag.
‘And she still got together with him. She didn’t care how you felt, she exploited the fact that you weren’t here. Your best friend.’
‘Mmm.’ The knot hardened.
‘I’ve seen the way Jack looks at you,’ Milla went on. ‘He might be with Iben, but it’s obvious he still thinks about you.’
‘Is it?’ Laura tried not to sound too eager.
Milla clapped her hands.
‘I know! Let’s arrange a party, make sure Jack and Iben are there. I’ll do your makeup and your hair, and you can borrow some of my clothes. You’ll look gorgeous, I promise. Like Baby at the end of Dirty Dancing. Jack will realise he’s chosen the wrong girl.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Absolutely!’
Milla stubbed out her cigarette in the big glass ashtray.
‘Tomas and Peter will help – we’re all on your side. What do you say?’
The thought was exciting, but a part of her still wanted to say no. She and Iben were friends, in spite of everything. Or rather – had been friends. Because just as Milla had pointed out, it was Iben who’d destroyed everything. Iben who had sacrificed their friendship to get what she wanted. To win . . .
‘When?’ Laura asked.
Milla grinned at her. ‘Thirteenth of December – Lucia.’
32
The driveway leading up to Källegården looks more or less the same as Laura remembers it: a narrow dirt track lined with old willow trees, all leaning away from the wind at the same angle.
A sign next to the postboxes informs passers-by that wood, Christmas trees and fireworks are for sale. Behind it is a bigger sign, hanging askew.
JENSEN & SONS CONSTRUCTION LTD
Laura realises she’s nervous. Ulf surely hasn’t invited her in order to fling accusations at her, but there’s still something unpleasant about approaching the place.
Källegården has two yards. The first is surrounded by stables, a barn and a storage shed for machinery. The second is higher, and is encircled by a stream that turns it into an island. The buildings all have the same yellow-rendered façades, but the garage is considerably newer than the farmhouse itself, which has stepped gables.
The snow has been cleared from the drive and both yards. In front of the farmhouse stands a Christmas tree almost as big as the one by the church down in the village.
She looks for the sports facility that Ulf once built for Iben and her brothers, but the running track, discus circle and long-jump pit have been replaced by a dense plantation of Christmas trees.
As always, the change of temperature makes her shiver as she gets out of the car.
Before she reaches the house, the front door is flung open and Ulf steps out. He is beaming, and looks much brighter than he did at the funeral.
‘Laura – welcome!’ He takes her hand in both of his. ‘It’s so good to see you here again.’
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ she says, glancing at the huge red-and-white painting on the wall.
She recalls the story of the Jensen family coat of arms that was ‘found’ when Ulf renovated the façade, but she’s never thought about what it represents until now. A shield-shaped Danish flag, divided into quarters containing a knight’s helmet, a wild boar, a sword, and three flames.
She shivers once again, but this time it’s nothing to do with the cold.
‘Come on in and have a drink. Can I take your jacket?’
Laura is given a cup of mulled wine to warm her fingers while Ulf shows her around.
She recognises the classic wallpaper, the old muskets and swords on the walls, the aerial photograph of Källegården hanging in the hallway. She also remembers the heavy furniture in dark wood, and the slightly creepy paintings of long dead relatives. She’s not so sure about the smell. Maybe she’s mixing it up with the way her grandmother’s house in Djurholm smelled. Or possibly a museum somewhere.
There are framed photographs of Iben and her brothers on just about every flat surface. Laura avoids looking at them. One wall is reserved for diplomas and awards. His Majesty the King’s Medal for Special Merit – that one is right at the top, followed by Skåne Sport Honorary Award, Sports Coach of the Year, and a dozen or so diplomas of lesser prestige.
After a while Iben’s brothers appear. Christian is the nicer of the two. He chats away happily, introduces his wife, an almost transparent woman whose name Laura instantly forgets. Their three children politely say hello before settling down to gaze at their screens.
‘In our day we only had fifteen minutes of children’s programmes on TV,’ Christian says. ‘Makes you wonder how we survived!’
From the ongoing conversation Laura learns that younger brother Fredrik is divorced. His children live with their mother, while he has moved back to Källegården. Fredrik doesn’t say much. He mostly stares at the floor, avoiding eye contact with Laura as he did at the funeral. No doubt he remembers their previous encounter. She certainly does.
Fredrik is powerfully built. The shirt he’s wearing is too small, the collar too tight, which makes the rolls of fat at the back of his neck look even thicker. He has a fresh-looking bandage around his meaty left hand.
Christian sees that Laura has noticed. He grabs his brother’s hand and holds it up in the air.
‘Fireworks,’ he says. ‘Fredrik was showing off in front of the kids and he burned himself. What an idiot – fifty years old and he still can’t act responsibly.’
Fredrik snatches his hand away and mumbles something unintelligible.
As they head for the dining room, Laura’s phone rings. It’s Peter. She slips into the hallway to talk privately. He’s annoyed, not surprisingly.