41
Winter 1987
Laura was sitting on one of Milla’s kitchen chairs. The table in front of them was littered with makeup and hair products. Milla had made her put on something that resembled a bathing cap, and was busy teasing strands of hairs through holes in the rubber with a crochet hook.
‘Hedda was here this morning,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’
Milla studied her closely. Their faces were only inches apart.
‘She said I have to move.’
‘What? Where to?’
‘She’s sorted out a place for me in Värmland.’
Milla was still watching Laura’s expression as her fingers worked with the hook.
‘But why?’
‘She didn’t say. She was pretty short with me. Said I had two days to pack – a car will come and pick me up the day after tomorrow, for fuck’s sake!’
The hook dug into Laura’s scalp and she winced in pain.
‘Someone must have ratted on me,’ Milla went on. ‘That’s the only possible explanation.’
She pushed the hook through the next hole, even harder this time. Laura bit her lip.
‘I’m sure you know who it was,’ Milla said.
Laura tried to shake her head, but Milla seized her face between both hands and leaned forward so that the tips of their noses were almost touching.
‘No,’ Laura managed to say. ‘Hedda hasn’t said anything to me, I swear.’
‘Who’s she seen? Who’s she spoken to?’
‘I don’t know – let go of me!’
Milla turned away and started fiddling with a bottle, then she smeared something cold and chemical-smelling over the cap.
‘Who do you think she’d listen to?’
Her voice was gentler now, but the anger was still there beneath the surface.
‘I don’t know,’ Laura said again.
Milla’s eyes narrowed.
‘Maybe Iben told her about the break-ins.’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘If so, how did she find out about them?’
Laura swallowed. The chemicals brought tears to her eyes.
‘Tomas?’ she suggested. She had no idea why.
‘Tomas would never talk.’
‘No . . .’ Laura tried to stay calm. ‘But he’s changed a lot. He and Iben have known each other since they were little. If she noticed something and asked him straight out, he wouldn’t be able to lie. He always owns up, even to things he hasn’t done.’
Milla nodded slowly, her expression softening.
‘Well done, my little master detective. No wonder I like you.’
She spread more of the chemicals over the cap; this time the movement felt more like a caress.
‘As soon as Jack sees you tonight, he’s going to forget all about Iben. And then I’m going to make sure that pious little bitch gets exactly what she deserves.’
42
Laura has run out of food, and has to drive over to Vedarp to do some shopping. On the way she tries to recall Ulf Jensen and Iben together, searching for details, hints, things she’d missed that will back up what Tomas wrote in his letter. Admittedly she was only a child at first and then a young woman, but she was already pretty good at reading people. At least that’s what she’d thought, until she found Tomas’s letter.
She remembers that Ulf was always hard on Iben during training sessions, and insisted that she needed to achieve top grades in her academic subjects. He wanted to know exactly where she was going, and almost always came to pick her up in the evenings, even from Gärdsnäset, which was only a short cycle ride from home. What did that prove? Nothing, except that Ulf was committed to his daughter and took good care of her. Laura had actually felt a little envious. Of course, Ulf could have been a completely different person behind the closed doors of Källegården. Was that why Iben never wanted to meet up at home?
She had always seemed a little subdued when she was with her father. So had her half-brothers, come to think of it. But didn’t that apply to most children who had a parent like Ulf Jensen?
And how did Ulf’s grief fit into the picture? Was he a despairing father mourning a beloved daughter, or was there something more behind it? She thought about what Kent Rask had said – that Iben’s death had given Ulf the chance to put her on a pedestal, that she would remain young and pure forever.
The thought is so unpleasant that a shiver runs down Laura’s spine, in spite of the warmth inside the car.
There is another explanation, of course. Tomas could simply have been suffering from delusion. After all, the poor guy had spent most of his life in various institutions. Or – if you preferred a conspiracy theory – the whole thing was a deliberate lie, a kind of counter-attack on the Jensen family who, according to Tomas’s father, were still after him.
However, that doesn’t explain the anonymous caller who contacted the police two days before Iben’s death.
So what was the truth? Maybe that was what Hedda had been trying to establish.
Laura parks behind the supermarket, pulls her hat well down over her forehead and goes in. She nods and smiles politely as she passes a couple in their sixties who, judging by their red shirts, seem to be running the place. She feels their eyes on her for some time, and she hears them whispering behind her back.
When she’s halfway round she realises she should have used a trolley instead of a basket, but she manages to make it to the checkout.
Two of the tills are open, and she joins the shortest queue. When it’s Laura’s turn, the woman she encountered on the way in places a sign on the conveyor belt: CHECKOUT CLOSED.
Laura looks around. There’s no one behind her, but in the other queue there are two pensioners, trolleys piled high.
‘Can’t you just put me through?’ she asks.
‘No, sorry. You’ll have to go over to the other side.’
The woman demonstratively slams the till shut, then turns her back on Laura with a sniff.
Laura is so taken aback that she can’t think of anything to say. Instead, she obediently moves across to the other queue. When it’s her turn, the man on the till glares at her.
‘Is that it?’ he snaps when he’s scanned her goods.
‘Yes.’
Laura enters her pin number, and the man presses a key. The card reader beeps angrily.
TRANSACTION FAILED, the display states.
‘Try again!’
She repeats the procedure, with the same result.
‘You’ll have to try again.’
This time she presses the buttons more slowly, watching the man’s movements. He hits the key before she’s even entered the fourth digit. The angry beep is repeated.
‘You don’t have another card?’ His tone is overtly unpleasant.
‘No, but you could try leaving the keys alone until I’m done,’ Laura replies as calmly as possible.
He gives her a filthy look. ‘Try again.’
This time it works.
She packs her purchases into a paper bag. A short distance away the woman is chatting to a couple of other customers. Laura can’t hear what they’re saying, but once again she feels their eyes on the back of her neck as she leaves the store.
When she reaches her car, she understands what’s going on.
Sell up and fuck off! someone has scratched into the driver’s door.
She puts down the bag and leans closer. The scratches are so deep that in some places she can see the exposed metal. A key, probably. Someone who wanted to cause trouble and frighten her. Unfortunately, they’ve succeeded on both counts.
She straightens up and looks around. There are only a few lights in the car park, and several vehicles nearby that would have hidden the perpetrator from view. She catches a movement in her peripheral vision and turns to see a small figure in a thick padded jacket coming towards her.