She turns to Peter. ‘That’s . . . That’s Iben’s voice.’
48
They remain silent in the car for a long time, both of them trying to process what they’ve just heard and what it means.
‘She sounded terrified,’ Laura says eventually as they approach the outskirts of Vedarp.
Peter doesn’t reply; he just stares straight ahead at the dark road. Without warning he pulls into a lay-by and stops. Turns to face her.
‘What exactly are you doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘First, you showed up to organise the funeral and the sale of Gärdsnäset. You were about to leave, then you moved into Hedda’s house and started digging up the past.’
The question is entirely logical; she’s been expecting it for a while. In fact, she’s surprised it’s taken this long. She has to tell him the truth. She explains about the two offers, and Hedda’s noticeboard. Strangely enough, she feels a sense of relief.
Peter glares at her as if he’s trying to decide whether she’s making the whole thing up, so she goes on. Tells him about the dinner at Källegården, the Jensen family’s financial difficulties, and finally the letter Tomas sent to Hedda.
‘And you think all this is somehow connected to Hedda’s death?’
Laura nods.
‘Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier? When you asked about Iben and Ulf?’
‘Because . . .’
She hesitates, giving him time to work out the answer for himself.
‘You didn’t trust me?’
She thought he’d be angry; instead he looks amused.
‘But now you don’t think I’m involved in . . . whatever this is?’
‘No.’
That’s not entirely true. She hasn’t forgotten that ‘we’ in Tomas’s first letter. She knows that Peter is in touch with Tomas, and that he’s keeping it from her. But he doesn’t know that she knows, which gives her the upper hand.
‘Good. Because what we’re saying now is that we suspect Iben’s father of a very serious crime. Ulf Jensen, known and respected by the entire community. Ulf Jensen, who was given a medal by the King.’
He falls silent, the amused expression no longer in evidence.
‘Poor Iben . . .’ Laura shivers in spite of the warmth inside the car. ‘She was desperate enough to make an anonymous call to the police. It was a cry for help, and no one came. Not the police, not social services – no one.’
Peter shakes his head. ‘She never said anything to you?’
‘No. I’ve gone over the old memories time and time again. How about you?’
‘Not a word – or maybe I was just too young and stupid to understand. Ulf was always around, coming to pick her up, wanting to know exactly where she was.’
‘Do you think the brothers knew?’
‘Maybe, maybe not, but after what Christian said to you yesterday, they seem pretty keen to keep the lid on it.’
‘Are you going to question them?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
He sighs.
‘Well, for one thing the statute of limitations for that particular crime is long gone, and for another the accuser is dead.’
‘I thought the statute of limitations never ran out on certain crimes.’
‘Correct – but that’s when we’re dealing with murder.’
Laura thinks for a few seconds.
‘What if it was murder?’ She sees his expression and quickly goes on. ‘What if Iben’s death is linked to that phone call to the police? Maybe someone wanted to shut her up. You have to admit that there are question marks surrounding the fire. Iben was all alone behind the stage. Someone could have come in and murdered her, then set fire to the dance hall to conceal their crime.’
She holds up one hand to prevent him from interrupting.
‘Just before Hedda’s death, she was thinking about both the fire and Iben. She delayed the sale of Gärdsnäset while she looked for answers, but she died before she found them. Then as soon as I showed up and started asking questions, there were two fires in the local area. Someone has even tried to frame me for arson, and made people suspect me – presumably so that I’ll sell up and disappear as soon as possible.’
She waits for Peter’s objections, but he doesn’t say a word. He starts the car and pulls out of the lay-by.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see an old friend,’ he informs her in a voice that doesn’t invite discussion.
After a mile or so he leaves the main road and turns onto a narrow dirt track that slowly climbs the northern ridge. For a few minutes Laura is convinced that they’re heading for Johnny Miller’s house, and wonders whether to reveal her recent visit and the reason behind it. However, Peter keeps going, following the winding track deeper and deeper into the darkness.
She sees a white sign with the symbol for walking routes. The whole gang used to cycle out here in the summer to enjoy a barbecue at one of the old campsites.
Peter drives past the sign and onto a logging track. The forest changes character, from deciduous to coniferous trees. The track is actually little more than two wheel ruts in the snow, and Peter tries to keep his speed up in order to avoid getting stuck. They should have taken her car instead; her four-wheel drive tank would have easily coped with this. She ought to ask who they’re going to visit, but Peter is fully focused on the task in hand. Plus, she thinks she knows the answer.
They reach a small plateau and Peter parks next to another car, a rusty VW Golf with no snow on the roof or bonnet.
The air is cold and clear. From up here you can see the entire lake, the lights of Vedarp and Johnny Miller’s place. On the far side is a little dot of light that must be the exterior lamp on Hedda’s house. Diagonally down to the left, on the eastern shore, are the towers of Vintersjöholm Castle. The ice covers most of the lake, but the black eye glimmers out in the middle. The eye that never blinks, never freezes over, because it is kept open by an underwater spring. Laura shudders, wraps her scarf more tightly around her neck.
Peter points in among the trees. ‘This way.’
They follow a path for a few minutes before they spot a welcoming glow. As they get closer Laura realises that it is coming from an old workman’s hut, partly covered in undergrowth.
Peter knocks on the door. Someone is moving around inside, and Laura feels her pulse rate increase. The door is opened by a powerfully built man with bushy hair and an equally bushy beard. For a moment she thinks it’s Jack, but then reality catches up with her.
‘Hi, Tomas,’ she says. ‘It’s been a while.’
49
They sit down at the table inside the hut. Tomas makes coffee, and Laura takes a sip out of politeness. The place is surprisingly clean and tidy, with a faint smell of damp and smoke. It is sparsely furnished, with only a camp bed in addition to the table and chairs. She presumes the other door leads to a toilet. There is a small wood-burning stove in the corner. She can just see the flames – enough to make her feel ill at ease.
‘This is where Kent used to make his moonshine,’ Tomas informs her.
His voice is nothing like the way she remembers it. Instead, it is rough and deep – the voice of a middle-aged man, not a teenager. The same applies to his appearance. To be honest, she wouldn’t have recognised him if they’d bumped into each other under different circumstances.
‘The power comes from the electricity box up the road,’ Tomas continues. ‘And there’s a stream behind the house. That’s all you need. Peter brings me food. He takes care of me, makes sure I’m OK.’
Peter looks uncomfortable. Laura waits for him to say something, ask a question, but he doesn’t. Eventually she has no choice but to do it herself.