Laura weeps for the first time in two years. She sits on the porch with her head resting on her arms and sobs, her whole body shaking. It’s as if something has burst inside her. Things she has stowed in plastic boxes with the lid firmly on, locked away deep in the cellar, have escaped. Hit her hard like a punch in the stomach, left her incapable of doing anything but crying. George, Iben, Hedda, Jack, Peter and Tomas.
But most of all she is weeping for her little girl. Her and Andreas’s beautiful daughter. The life that could have been.
Somewhere in the distance she hears Hedda’s phone ringing, but she doesn’t have the strength to get up and answer it. She simply sits there crying until her body is stiff with cold and she has no more tears. Even then she can’t move.
She hears the angry sound of an engine, sees the beam of a single headlight bobbing through the trees.
Elsa.
Laura forces herself to stand up, scoops snow in her hands and rubs it all over her face as she staggers down the steps. The ice crystals chafe her skin, make her wake up. She can’t let Elsa see what’s on the car.
She switches off the engine of the borrowed car, which kills the lights, then she runs along the track to intercept Elsa.
‘Hi,’ the girl says as she takes off her helmet. Her voice is subdued, but as soon as she sees Laura’s face, she knows something is wrong. ‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s been a break-in.’ Laura’s voice falters on the lie. ‘We mustn’t go any closer in case there are traces left behind. Is your dad home?’
Elsa shakes her head. ‘No, but I can call him if you like. He always answers when it’s me, but I’ll have to go back to the main road to find a signal.’
Peter arrives fifteen minutes later. He’s already far from calm when he gets out of the car, and it takes Laura a few seconds to realise this isn’t about his daughter sitting on a motocross bike that she’s too young to ride on the roads. She really wants to throw herself into his arms, but she has to keep the mask in place for Elsa’s sake. She quietly tells him what’s happened.
Peter goes over to look at the car and George’s charred body, then he makes a couple of calls.
‘There’s something else,’ he tells Laura when he’s done. ‘There’s been a break-in at my office. The place has been trashed. A scene-of-crime team are working on it now.’
He lowers his voice and leans closer. ‘The cassette tape and the digital recording of Iben’s voice are gone.’
56
It’s only seven in the morning and the castle is silent as Laura picks up her towel and heads for the pool house.
She didn’t dream last night, at least not as far as she remembers, which surprises her. Maybe her brain is so overloaded with terrible images that it needs to rest.
The weather is milder, the temperature is around freezing and the air is damp. Laura swims fifty lengths, trying to clear her mind.
She told Peter about the unpleasant encounter with Ulf Jensen. Like her, Peter believes that Ulf is the main suspect, both for stealing the recordings and killing poor George.
If the recording of Iben’s voice came out, not even Ulf’s contacts would be able to save him or his farm. But how did the Jensens know that the recording existed? Until the other day, there was nothing but a brief note about an anonymous phone call, buried deep in a thirty-year-old police investigation.
There were only three people who knew about the tape: Peter, herself and the sound technician. That professional studio in Lelle’s garage must have cost a fortune. Unless of course it was a case of cash in hand. ‘Forest business’ with a local builder.
All it would have taken was a phone call to Källegården, a brief summary of the contents of the tape and where the copies were. Fredrik could easily have taken care of the rest. Accessed her phone while she was swimming, broken into Peter’s office. He doesn’t seem the type who’d have a problem with that kind of thing. Or killing and setting fire to a poor defenceless cat.
She sees a movement at the side of the pool and stops when she reaches the end of her length.
Steph and Erica von Thurn are lying on loungers, both wearing bathrobes and holding paper cups.
Laura stays in the water. Her robe is on the table between the two women, and walking past them would mean exposing her back.
‘Well done!’ Steph yells. ‘Erica and I were so inspired by you that we decided to keep you company.’
Laura nods, remains where she is.
‘Come on out – Erica’s made breakfast smoothies!’
Steph holds up a third cup. Laura has no choice but to get out. She tries to keep her back turned away as she grabs her robe, but it proves impossible.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Erica says. ‘Is that the scar from the fire?’
‘Mmm.’
Laura does her best to let her tone and body language show that she really doesn’t want to talk about it, but Erica isn’t the type of person to pick up on discreet signals. Or she doesn’t care.
‘Why haven’t you had plastic surgery?’
‘Because Laura has an intolerance to anaesthetic,’ Steph says quickly.
‘Oh, I see.’ Erica seems to buy the lie.
‘Is everything OK?’ Steph says, changing the subject. ‘We didn’t have the chance to chat yesterday.’
‘I had an early night,’ Laura says. Steph tilts her head to one side, as she always does when she doesn’t believe her friend.
Laura decides to tell them what happened to George, if only to avoid more intrusive questions about the fire.
‘Oh my God, poor cat,’ Steph murmurs. ‘And the police don’t know who did it?’
‘No – not yet, anyway.’
‘It sounds like a madman.’ Erica’s eyes are huge, the smile lingering at the corners of her mouth betraying both distress and fascination. ‘But you don’t need to worry – you’re safe here. We have CCTV cameras and alarms. And there will be lots of people around tonight.’
Laura maintains her composure with some difficulty. She’d forgotten all about the Lucia party, but she can’t back out now. She’s a guest, and going back to Gärdsnäset isn’t an option. Plus, she’s already invited Peter.
‘There’s a really nice group coming; they already have a summer place in Torekov, but they’re starting to find it a bit too . . . lowbrow, if you know what I mean?’
Erica stops herself.
‘I promise we won’t be talking business, Laura. At least not much. We won’t try to influence your decision, but of course Pontus and I would be delighted if you chose to sell to us.’
Laura takes a sip of her smoothie. Steph looks uncomfortable, mouths ‘sorry’ at her when Erica turns away.
Steph slips into Laura’s room shortly before the guests are due to arrive. Inspects the dress Laura bought, decides her shoes don’t cut it and lends her a pair of her own.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ she says. ‘Erica can be a bit too direct sometimes. Must be the German genes.’ Her expression grows serious. ‘I know I shouldn’t get involved in this business of selling your inheritance, but Erica’s right. Whoever did that to the cat and your car is one sick individual. Then there are the fires and the damage to your car the other day . . .’
Steph comes and sits beside her on the bed.
‘Why don’t you just sell up to Pontus and Erica as we discussed, and walk away from this whole mess?’ She pulls a face. ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of selling to the council, letting that . . . paedophile and his cat-killing sons get the contract.’
Laura has asked herself the same logical question several times, and yet she doesn’t have a satisfactory answer. She thinks of Peter, Elsa, Hedda, Johnny Miller . . .