Dead of Winter
(Årstidskvartetten #3)
Anders de la Motte
To Annette, for everything we have done together.
And everything that still awaits us.
Prologue
She had always loved the lake. For almost half a century this place had been her sanctuary, a world that was not free from sorrow, but a haven where evil had never gained a foothold. At least that was what she had told herself. Now she knew better.
She shivered as she perched on the edge of the pontoon, and lifted her legs out of the ice-cold water. Wrinkled skin, crooked toes, varicose veins forming thin purple spider’s webs over her calves. When had this happened? When had she acquired an old woman’s feet and legs?
When it came to the ageing process, it wasn’t possible to pinpoint a specific moment when it began. It was a change that came creeping in, just like the way the autumn leaves slowly drifted to the ground, then you woke up one morning and it was winter around the lake.
The ice had already drawn a thick chalk circle along the shore, and the bare branches of the tall trees that extended almost as far as the sauna next to the pontoon were highlighted starkly against the night sky. The colony of crows, the only residents of the holiday village these days, were observing her from above with their watchful little peppercorn eyes.
It’s fine, she thought. I’m not going swimming. You don’t need to worry.
She tucked her feet beneath her and wrapped the towel more tightly around her body. The movement made the pontoon bob up and down, and the rusty chains attaching it to the stakes protested hoarsely. The warmth from the sauna leaked out from under the towel, turning into steam as it met the cold winter air.
She ran a hand over the grey, split planks. They should have been cleaned and creosoted at least a month ago, meticulously prepared for the winter as in years gone by, but like so many other things in the holiday village, she had long since given up the struggle. Resigned herself to the inevitable. Or maybe she’d simply lost her spark.
After the heart attack in the early autumn – her second and probably penultimate, as Dr Olsson had acidly informed her – he had forbidden her from swimming in the winter.
‘Your heart won’t tolerate any more strain, Hedda. Not of any kind . . .’
She really ought to have surgery. There were several letters to that effect among the piles of post in the house, but she loathed hospitals as much as she loathed doctors.
Which was why, until a few weeks ago, she had ignored both the letters and Dr Olsson’s exhortations. Her life consisted of sitting in front of the television with the cat on her lap, allowing her morning, afternoon or evening drink to transport her to a different, happier time. Evoking faces, voices, laughter. Memories of summers and winters gone by. Memories of the children. Her children, that was what she’d called them. Laura, Jack, Peter, Tomas. And Iben, of course. Poor, poor little Iben.
On some winter evenings she almost thought she could hear them outside. Car doors opening and closing, cheerful conversation, feet stamping off the snow on the porch. Occasionally she even got up to welcome them home, tell them how much she’d missed them, longed for them to return. But when she opened the front door the yard was always deserted. Thirty years of emptiness. Of yearning, of guilt. Why draw it out? Sacrifice the few pleasures she still had, in order to live for another couple of years? The doctor could go to hell. That was what she thought.
Until the morning when a car had arrived. It was one of the few occasions when she had agreed to receive a visitor. Reluctantly stayed sober, even had a shower and put on clean clothes. Told herself everything would be sorted out in no time.
But when the car door opened it was as if something clicked inside her head. Brought a flash of light so bright that she had to cover her eyes with her hands.
For a brief moment she thought she’d had another heart attack. Thought she was going to drop down dead on her own doorstep before she’d exchanged a single word with her visitors, but then everything went back to normal, and she was looking out onto a grey November day. Polite exchanges, introductions, business proposals and figures, exactly as planned.
And yet a faint perception lingered throughout the entire conversation, a voice in the back of her mind that she hadn’t heard for many years. When she was young she had allowed that voice to guide her, but after the Lucia fire, when she realised that her intuition had failed her, she had stopped listening. Suppressed it with alcohol and self-pity. Until now.
Because in the days following the visit, the voice had grown louder, insisting with increasing vigour that the impossible had become possible. That after all these years, she’d been given a chance. A chance to return to the past. A chance to put right some of her mistakes, to protect those she loved.
As long as she proceeded cautiously – avoided the flames.
She looked down at her damaged left hand. The pattern of scars across the back, the two stumps – all that remained of her little and ring fingers. With the other hand she picked up her evening joint and the lighter she’d placed on the edge of the pontoon. She’d been growing her own marijuana in the greenhouse behind the toolshed since the summer of ’75, or maybe it was ’76. She really ought to give that up too, but grass helped her to gather her thoughts. Consider what to do next.
Her first instinct had been to call Laura, but she hadn’t done it. Maybe she was afraid? Probably. Afraid of being dismissed like a crazy old woman before she had the chance to explain the incredible thing she’d discovered. Or maybe she was afraid of something even worse – that Laura would simply slam down the phone. Which would be entirely understandable, of course.
She’d let Laura down back then, let them all down. All her children.
She held the sweet smoke in her lungs before exhaling, allowing it to drift into the night sky. The moon, slowly rising above the lake, gradually transformed the surface of the water into liquid glass. On the northern shore directly opposite her, the ridge loomed like a steep shadow. Only a solitary lamp shone at the water’s edge, breaking the compact darkness. Drew her eyes inexorably, as always.
She should have sold the holiday village, of course. They’d offered her a lot of money, more than she would ever need.
A sensible person would have signed right away. Left the crows, the house and the dilapidated pontoon to spend her final years in a more comfortable place. Paid no attention to the intuition that had remained silent for so many years, refrained from digging up the past.
A sensible person.
Once again she gazed across at the north shore. At the solitary light.
Thirty years – had so much time really passed? She would have to call Laura, regardless of her fears. Explain what was going on, warn her to be careful, but first she had to be certain. Replace intuition with concrete proof. Because the truth was so painful, and it could be dangerous. After all, one young person was already dead, and several others scarred for life. Maybe others were at risk? That possibility couldn’t be excluded.
Once again she looked at her burned hand. Stretched the pink finger stumps.
A gust of wind passed through the treetops, and at the same time the crows began to move agitatedly, flapping their wings and emitting harsh warning cries. A fox, maybe, or an owl that had come too close? In which case the birds would soon settle down, once the threat had gone.
But the warnings continued, growing louder to form a cacophony of sound and movement.
She knew what it meant. Someone was approaching. Someone the crows didn’t recognise.