The Jensens would go a long way to stop that from happening.
But how far? And how big is the secret? Does it stop at abuse, or is there something even worse?
She tries to recall the fight outside the dance hall, Fredrik beating up Jack, Iben screaming at Christian to try and get him to let go of her.
What if Iben had yelled something about Ulf, threatened to tell everyone what had been going on? How would Christian and Fredrik have dealt with that?
Could one of them have returned later in the evening and seized the opportunity when Iben was separated from the others? It’s not impossible. Iben was young and strong, and she was only a few metres from the back door. Nobody had been able to explain why she didn’t get out of the dance hall – but what if she was already unconscious, or even dead, when the fire broke out?
Could the ‘we’ Tomas had mentioned in his letter – the ‘we’ that had almost slipped out an hour or so ago – could he have been referring to Iben’s brothers? Tomas certainly seemed to loathe the two of them as much as he hated Ulf, but during the fight he’d been paralysed with fear. Had they threatened him, forced him to start the fire so they’d have a scapegoat?
A faint glow high up on the ridge catches her eye. At first she thinks it’s the lights of a car, but then she realises it’s getting bigger and brighter.
The scar on her back begins to move, writhing faster and faster as she grasps where the glow is coming from.
She is sweating now, shivering with the cold at the same time, and yet she can’t make herself go indoors. Instead, she stands there on the pontoon staring at the dark slope of the ridge on the other side of the lake, where Tomas Rask’s hideaway is in flames.
52
She is dreaming about the dance hall again. The minutes before the fire. She can see herself sitting at the table, sleeping. Peter beside her, clumsily edging closer. Then the perspective shifts. She is in the area behind the stage, the wall plastered with pictures of the dance band who played here last summer. The big mirror that covers another wall, the sagging sofa against the third. The toilet door, with the lock showing red.
There is someone else here, someone she senses but can’t see. She looks around, thinks she glimpses a movement in the mirror.
The lock changes to green with a click. The handle is pushed down, and for a second she’s convinced that the Iben from her nightmares is behind the door.
Instead, it’s a different Iben who emerges, the Iben who is her best friend, the Iben she taught to speak with a Stockholm accent, the Iben who would never let anyone come between them.
‘Laura,’ she says, her face lighting up. ‘There you are!’
They fling their arms around each other, Laura hugs Iben as tightly as she can. Presses her cheek to Iben’s, realises she’s crying. She wants to own up, tell Iben that she was the one who called her brothers, but she can’t do it.
Iben holds her at arm’s length, with sorrow in her eyes.
‘You know my secret.’
‘Yes,’ Laura sobs.
Iben nods slowly. ‘I think everyone suspected. But no one dared to say anything. They were all afraid . . .’
Something behind Laura’s back makes Iben stiffen. Her expression changes from sorrow to fear.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No!’
Laura turns, sees movements in the mirror once again, shadowy figures with blurred outlines, growing bigger and clearer.
Christian and Fredrik on either side of Ulf, with no compassion in their eyes. Behind them the gloomy façade of Källegården, the flames on the coat of arms flickering slowly.
I have always regarded you as my second daughter. You and our little Iben . . . Ulf whispers, and the hairs stand up on the back of Laura’s neck.
Källegården. Near Vedarp. Ulf Jensen. He’s messing with his daughter, says Iben’s terrified voice on the phone.
The picture changes. Tomas, messing with some boxes next to one of the walls of the dance hall. Flames shoot up around his hands, set fire to his jacket before greedily licking at the dry wood.
The final figure in the mirror is also familiar.
Aunt Hedda outside her house, raising a hand in greeting.
You’re my little princess. You always will be.
The perspective shifts again.
Laura is at the very end of the pontoon, the scar on her back wriggling like a burning snake. On the other side of the lake Miller’s lamp is flashing, and above it the forest is in flames.
A sandwich for father, a sandwich for mother, sing two high, girlish voices.
And one for the nymph who lives down below, the creature standing behind Laura murmurs through rows of sharp fish-teeth in a charred face.
The nymph wraps her arms around Laura and digs her claw-like fingers so deep into her breast that the pain slices right through her dream. Then the nymph drags her down into the cold black water.
George wakes her by jumping up onto her chest, then padding around until Laura pushes her away and sits up. Outside the crows are making an enormous racket, and in the middle of it all Laura thinks she hears a car door slam.
She gets out of bed, pulls on her jacket over her pyjamas. It’s gone ten o’clock, and her head feels heavy.
George must be hungry. She nearly trips Laura up in the living room, so Laura picks her up and carries her. The car from the castle is parked outside the window.
There’s a knock on the door. Laura opens it to see two people standing there – Heinz Norell, and a woman in a fur coat, ear-muffs and huge sunglasses. It takes her half a second to place the woman, but her brain needs more time to process the realisation.
‘Steph?’
‘Oh, so you’re still alive,’ Steph says with a smile. ‘Even if you have stopped answering your phone.’
She lowers her sunglasses to the tip of her perfect nose and looks Laura up and down. The hair standing on end, the jacket over the pyjamas, the cat in her arms.
‘My God, Laura. What have these country bumpkins done to you?’
Laura mumbles something and puts down George, who immediately shoots off through the door.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Andreas and your mother are both convinced that you’ve had some kind of breakdown, so I offered to drive down and rescue you. Not a day too soon, if you ask me.’ Steph wrinkles her nose. ‘When did you last take a shower?’
Laura hesitates, and Steph holds up her hand.
‘Never mind – we’ll sort you out. I’ll wait outside – the smell in there is getting into my clothes.’
She pulls a face, steps down from the porch and digs a vape pen out of her bag. Heinz Norell winks at Laura.
‘Best if we do as we’re told,’ he whispers. ‘Would you like me to come in and give you a hand?’
Laura makes a huge effort not to look at the noticeboard just metres away.
‘No thanks. Give me five minutes.’
She packs the few things she’s brought with her, then puts some food in George’s bowl. The cat dashes in as soon as Laura places it on the floor.
She’s still trying to process the fact that Steph is here – with Heinz Norell from the castle. But the nightmare is still messing with her mind, along with everything that happened yesterday. The tape recording, the fire, the blue lights that eventually appeared high up on the ridge. Peter, who isn’t answering his phone even though she’s called him at least five times from Hedda’s landline.
Outside the smell of smoke still lingers in the air. Heinz puts her bag in the boot of the shiny car with the Vintersjöholm logo on the side. Steph seems to have been for a walk around the property; she stops next to Laura’s car, where the salt from the roads has already turned the deepest scratches red with rust.