She moves it away, but as soon as she lets go, the hand is back. This time the grip is tighter, more determined.
She turns to face him, receives a teasing smile in response. He says something, but the noise of the fireworks and the oohs and aahs of the audience drown out his voice.
He puts his arm around her, pulls her close, presses his lips to hers.
She pushes him away, but he simply makes another attempt. Everyone is gazing up at the sky, so no one notices anything amiss.
He grabs her wrist tightly – it hurts.
Laura puts down her glass and tries to free herself, but he seizes her other hand too. He looks amused, as if they’re playing a game. The explosions overhead turn into a rattling bombardment. Flashes of bright colours are reflected in Heinz’s eyes, the shadows making his face look eerie. She twists her hands around towards his thumbs, yanks hard and manages to escape his grasp. His smile stiffens, his expression hardens. At that moment the firework display comes to an end, and the guests on the terrace break into spontaneous applause, cheers and whistling. Laura quickly steps to one side so that there are people between her and Heinz, then looks around for Peter once more.
Suddenly there is a loud, piercing scream that silences everyone. All eyes turn to the lawn and the two pyrotechnics experts, but they are looking in the direction of the lake. The door of the boathouse has opened and someone staggers out, the clothing on its upper body on fire. Huge flames come shooting out of the doorway.
Laura’s legs almost give way; she holds onto the stone balustrade to stop herself from collapsing. The burning figure throws itself down onto the snow and rolls over and over, dousing the flames.
The two men on the lawn run towards the boathouse, but a sudden flash of light stops them in their tracks. It is followed by an explosion and a heat wave that makes Laura instinctively cover her face with her arms. When she looks up, the boathouse is ablaze. The person in the snow is on their feet, limping towards the edge of the forest before disappearing among the trees.
Laura’s pulse is racing, the scar on her back wriggling and jumping so wildly that she thinks she can feel the blanket over her shoulders moving. She turns away, sinks down, leaning against the balustrade. The glow of the fire lights up the people around her. Steph is close by, next to Erica and Pontus. Her mouth is open, her expression one of shock. Pontus looks the same. His wife, however, appears to be neither shocked nor afraid. Instead, her face betrays excitement, fascination.
Someone grabs Laura’s arm and pulls her to her feet. She thinks it must be Heinz, gathers her strength to push him away yet again, but it’s Peter. Any trace of anger is gone.
‘Come on!’ he says, gently placing his arm around her waist. He steers her through the crowd, past terrified guests. The girl who represented St Lucia is right by the door, rigid with shock. The fire is reflected in her eyes, and for a second she reminds Laura of Iben.
Peter quickly guides Laura through the castle and out to his car in the car park. He settles her in the passenger seat, starts the engine, turns up the heat and wraps the blanket more securely around her. Then he spends a minute or so on his phone before getting in and driving off.
‘Sandberg and his team are on their way,’ he says. ‘They’ll want to interview all the witnesses at the scene, but he’s happy for us to leave, given our . . . history. There’s nothing to be gained by making either you or me experience that whole circus all over again. I’ve told them which way the suspect went; it shouldn’t be too difficult for them to track him down.’
Laura doesn’t have the strength to answer; she merely nods.
At the end of the long avenue they meet a police car and three fire engines, followed by an ambulance. By this stage the temperature inside the car is well over twenty degrees, but Laura is still shivering. Memories flicker past her mind’s eye, both old and new, in a cycle that is played over and over again, always with the same image: the burning figure screaming as it staggers out of the boathouse.
‘Do you think it was Tomas?’ she asks as they approach the village.
Peter doesn’t answer, but she can see from the set of his jaw that he has come to the same conclusion.
‘Why would he do that?’ she says.
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve no idea. If it was him, of course. There are others who have a problem with the owners of the castle . . .’
He pauses for a few seconds – long enough for her to work out what he’s going to say.
‘. . . and with you.’
‘The Jensens. Do you really think they’re that desperate?’
‘Ulf Jensen is used to getting what he wants, and the farm is at risk. Then there’s his family name, his reputation . . .’
Laura thinks about Fredrik again, the bandage on his hand, which according to Christian was due to a mishap with a firework. Fredrik was also the one who discovered the fire at the Jensens’ farm. She pictures him with burning clothes, throwing himself down on the snow outside the boathouse.
‘Anyway, we should soon know,’ Peter goes on. ‘Whoever it was can’t have got far.’
He turns onto his drive, presses a button on the instrument panel that opens both the gate and the garage door. As the headlights illuminate the inside of the garage, he brakes sharply.
‘What’s wrong?’ Laura asks, but he doesn’t reply. All the colour has drained from his face.
It takes a few seconds for her to realise what he’s seen. Or to be more accurate – what he hasn’t seen. Something that ought to be there, but isn’t. A motocross bike that is slightly too big for a fifteen-year-old girl.
59
Peter leaps out of the car with Laura right behind him. He flings open the front door of the house, calling Elsa’s name over and over again. There is no response.
His hands are shaking so much that he drops his phone at Laura’s feet, and she has to help him call the number. The signal echoes through the silent, empty house. Twice, three times, four times. Then the call cuts off without going to voicemail.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Peter mutters, before trying again.
The signal rings out twice before the call is ended.
On the third attempt, voicemail kicks in immediately.
Laura places her hand gently on Peter’s arm without saying anything. He looks up at her, his eyes filled with despair.
‘It wasn’t her,’ Laura assures him as firmly as she can. ‘It wasn’t Elsa that we saw.’
‘How can you know that?’
‘I just do, OK?’
The scar on her back has stopped burning. She is calm, decisive in a way that she doesn’t recognise.
‘But what the fuck is she doing out? At night? And why isn’t she answering her phone?’
‘My phone has been playing up like that for almost two weeks. She’s bound to be out at Gärdsnäset. There’s hardly any coverage there. I’ll drive, you keep trying.’
She holds out her hand for the car key. Peter stares at her for a few seconds, then nods and passes it over.
The car is easy to drive; it takes her only a couple of minutes to get used to it, even though she’s wearing a big pair of boots she dug out of the closet in Peter’s hallway. She feels stone-cold sober, but knows that she isn’t. She silences the risk calculator in her brain by telling it that this is an emergency, and that Peter is barely capable of making a phone call, let alone driving a car. She shoots through Vedarp going as fast as she dares. The village is deserted. The temperature has climbed a little higher. She tries to peer over towards the eastern side of the lake where the glow of the fire ought to be clearly visible, but a damp mist rising from the ice obscures the view.
Peter keeps calling, but is put through to voicemail each time. Laura can hear him swearing quietly to himself.