From the window she can see the whole lake – and Miller’s house, far away on the northern shore.
Johnny Miller, Elsa’s maternal grandfather, the troll on the other side of the water. He’s the guy with the guitar, the man Hedda once loved. The man for whose sake she did something crazy and ended up in jail.
Suddenly, it’s as if several pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The binoculars on the kitchen windowsill. Johnny Miller’s appearance at the funeral. Hedda, sitting by herself at the end of the pontoon on summer evenings. The melancholy painting that doubles as a noticeboard, the painting that features that solitary, yearning lamp on Johnny Miller’s boathouse. The music coming from the record player.
She shuffles through the pile and finds more pictures of Hedda and Johnny. Happy pictures of two people who love each other.
A couple of the photos have stuck together, and when Laura eases them apart she finds a flat object that she immediately recognises.
A plastic ID bracelet, the kind you’re given in hospital. It was once white, but now it’s yellowed with age. Hedda’s name is at the top, followed by a series of numbers, then three words that take Laura’s breath away.
ÄNGELHOLM MATERNITY UNIT.
Laura manages to get rid of Elsa before lunch, making the excuse that she has a couple of errands to take care of. Elsa is disappointed, but she accepts the lie. Laura hasn’t exactly been good company. The bracelet has occupied all her thoughts, and she’s barely answered when spoken to.
It can only mean one thing, and there’s someone who can confirm her suspicions. She picks up the receiver and dials the long Spanish number.
‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’
The reproaches rain down on her immediately.
‘Why have you given out our contact details? The office is calling every five minutes – poor Marcus hasn’t had any peace!’
Laura doesn’t answer the question, but allows herself a little smile.
‘We were starting to think you’d had some kind of breakdown. Why aren’t you answering your phone?’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
A brief pause. The rustle of a cigarette packet.
‘Are you at home?’
Laura is a fraction too slow with her response, which gives her mother time to work out what’s going on.
‘Tell me you’re not still in that dump.’
‘There are a few things I need to sort out.’
‘Like what? Taking all Hedda’s empty bottles to the recycling centre?’
Laura is taken aback.
‘How did you know that Hedda drank? Who told you?’
Silence, the click of a cigarette lighter. A weary exhalation, then a quick change to martyr-mode.
‘Is that why you’re ringing, to cross-examine me? Even though I’ve been worrying about you for days?’
Laura doesn’t take the bait.
‘Hedda had problems for as long as I knew her,’ her mother continues. ‘Spirits, marijuana, more serious stuff when she was young.’
‘And you still let me stay with her?’
‘That was your father’s idea. If it had been up to me, you’d never have set foot in that ghastly holiday village. Hedda ruined your life—’
Her mother breaks off, takes an irritated drag on her cigarette. Laura decides to change the subject, ask the question which is the real reason why she called.
‘Did Hedda ever have a child of her own?’
‘Why do you ask?’
The counter-question comes immediately.
‘I found an old maternity unit bracelet among her things. I know she ended up in jail in France for attacking her boyfriend, and I know Dad helped her. I think she was pregnant when she came back to Sweden, and maybe Dad bought Gärdsnäset for her so that she’d have somewhere to go.’
She pauses, waits for a response. For a few seconds all she can hear is her mother’s breathing.
‘Hedda knew exactly how to manipulate Jacob’s feelings, and he walked straight into her trap every single time. Cleaned up after her, got her back on her feet.’
Laura had expected a denial, or at least some kind of delaying tactic.
‘So I was right? Hedda fell pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to the baby?’
Her mother blows out more smoke, or maybe it’s another sigh.
‘Hedda was in no state to look after a child, so your father helped her to have it adopted, as discreetly as possible.’
‘When was this?’
‘I don’t really remember – it’s such a long time ago.’
That’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter. Laura’s already worked it out.
‘Nineteen sixty-nine?’ she says, writing down the number on the pad in front of her and drawing circles around it. She’s on the fourth loop when her mother answers.
‘Possibly.’
She sounds tired, almost defeated.
After the call Laura sits down on the sofa and places the pad on the table. She stares at the ringed date.
1969 – Hedda moves to Gärdsnäset. Gives birth to a child in Ängelholm Maternity Unit. Laura’s father helps her to have the baby adopted.
She leaves a couple of lines blank, then writes down another date.
1979 – Hedda’s got her life in order, and ten-year-old Jack Olsson arrives at Gärdsnäset. He has finally found a place where he is loved.
Laura looks for more photographs of Jack, finds one of him sitting with a guitar resting on his knees. Her heart is beating so hard that it hurts.
A guy with a guitar.
45
Winter 1987
Iben and Jack were standing in a corner of the dance hall. The music from the boom box drowned out their voices, but one look at their body language told Laura that they were quarrelling. Tomas was pouring vodka into a glass. Peter was still sitting at the table. His face lit up as soon as he saw Laura, but he became serious again when he realised she was upset.
‘What’s happened?’
Before Laura could answer, Iben and Jack came towards them. Iben’s expression had softened, and the burning gaze from before was gone. Jack looked grim.
‘Can I talk to you?’ Iben said.
Laura hesitated, glanced around to see where Milla was. But Iben’s tone was conciliatory rather than aggressive – and Jack was watching for Laura’s reaction.
‘OK.’
Iben gently took her hand and drew her behind a pile of chairs, out of sight of the others.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You’re my best friend, I didn’t mean to . . . Please forgive me!’
Iben let out a sob and hid her face in her hands. Laura didn’t know what to think. A few minutes ago Iben had been furious, ready to punch her in the face. Now she was crying.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, awkwardly patting Iben’s hand.
But Iben flung her arms around Laura’s neck, weeping so that her whole body was shaking. Laura’s tears began to flow too, and the hard knot that she’d had in her stomach ever since that first evening began to dissolve.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she murmured in Iben’s ear. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
Suddenly they heard angry voices, followed by some kind of fracas. Iben and Laura ran outside.
Ulf Jensen’s truck was parked in the yard, with the engine running and the headlights full on. In the middle of the beam Jack was fighting with Iben’s half-brother Fredrik, swinging his fists wildly. Fredrik was stronger, and clearly used to this sort of encounter. He effortlessly parried a blow with his left hand, and punched Jack in the midriff with his right. Jack’s knees gave way. Fredrik grabbed hold of his collar, held him up and hit him again. And again.
‘No!’ Iben and Laura yelled almost simultaneously.
They rushed over, but Christian, Iben’s other half-brother, had crept forward in the darkness and held his sister back.