She walked down to the meadow by the sea, where the wind was even stronger. There were indistinct tracks in the snow-a long line of footprints leading north.
Tilda considered following the trail along the shore, facing
straight into the wind and the raw chill from the sea, but the impressions would soon disappear in the falling snow.
There were only two inhabited houses within reasonable walking distance, as far as Tilda knew: the Carlsson family’s farm and, to the northeast, the manor house at Eel Point. Henrik Jansson, or whoever had made these footprints, seemed to be heading for one of them.
A fierce gust of wind gave Tilda a push, and she turned around and headed back toward the car, away from the shore.
“Where are you going?” shouted Martin behind her.
“It’s confidential,” she replied, and continued on to the police car.
She got in without checking whether he was following her or not. Then she switched on her police radio and called central control in Borgholm. She wanted to report the suspected altercation by the boathouses and to let them know that she was heading north.
There was no reply.
The snow was falling even more thickly now. Tilda started the car, turned the heat full on, and switched on the windshield wipers before slowly setting off.
In her side mirror she saw the interior light of the Mazda come on as Martin opened the door. Then he switched on the headlights and started to follow her car along the gravel track.
Tilda increased her speed-before she looked to the east and saw that the horizon had disappeared. A gray- white wall of snow hung over the sea. It was dropping rapidly toward the coast.
29
Joakim was standing in the kitchen in the twilight, watching the thickening snowfall between the buildings. It was going to be a white Christmas at Eel Point.
Then he looked over at the barn door. It was closed now, and no footprints led toward it through the snow. He hadn’t been back inside the barn since the previous evening, but couldn’t stop thinking about the hidden room.
A room for the dead, with its own church benches.
Ethel’s jacket had been lying there neatly folded on one of the benches, among all the other old mementos. He had left it there.
It was Katrine who had put it there. She must have found the room during the fall and placed the denim jacket on the bench, without telling Joakim. He hadn’t even known that Katrine had the jacket.
His wife had kept secrets from him.
It was only when he called his mother that he found out
she had sent the jacket to Eel Point. Until then he had assumed that Ingrid had simply placed Ethel’s clothes in a box and put it in the attic.
“No, I got it down and wrapped it in brown paper,” said Ingrid. “Then I mailed it to Katrine… It was sometime in August.”
“But why?” Joakim had asked.
“Well… she asked me to send it. Katrine called me last summer, wanting to borrow the jacket. She wanted to check on something, she said, and so I sent it to her.” Ingrid paused. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you talk to each other?”
Joakim didn’t reply. He wanted to say that of course he and Katrine had talked to each other, trusted each other completely-but he remembered the strange look she had given him the night they found out Ethel was dead.
Katrine had hugged Livia and looked at Joakim with shining eyes, as if something wonderful had happened.
When darkness fell outside the kitchen window, Joakim began to prepare dinner. Serving up Christmas fare on the twenty-third of December was perhaps a little early, but he wanted to get the celebrations under way as quickly as possible.
It had been the same last year. His sister had drowned at the beginning of December, and her name had not been mentioned at all over Christmas-instead Katrine and Joakim had bought more presents and even more food than usual. They had filled the Apple House with candles and decorations.
But of course it had still felt as if Ethel were there. Joakim had thought about her every time Katrine raised her glass of alcohol-free cider to him.
He blinked away the tears, continued flicking through the
recipes in
He fried sliced sausage and meatballs. He cut the cheese into strips, shredded the cabbage, and warmed the spare ribs. He grilled the oven-baked ham, peeled the potatoes, and brushed the freshly baked spiced bread with syrup and water. He dished up eel and herring and salmon, and cooked the children’s specially requested meal: grilled chicken with fries.
Joakim placed dish after dish on the kitchen table, and underneath the table Rasputin got a bowl of fresh tuna.
At half past four he called Livia and Gabriel.
“Time to eat.”
They came in and stood by the table.
“Lot of food,” said Gabriel.
“It’s called the Christmas table,” said Joakim. “You take a plate and fill it up with a little bit of everything.”
Livia and Gabriel did as he said, up to a point. They took some chicken and fries, and potatoes and a little sauce, but the fish and the cabbage remained untouched.
Joakim led the way into the drawing room and the family sat down at the big table beneath the chandelier. He poured cider and wished his children a happy start to the Christmas festivities. He waited for them to ask why he had set a fourth place at the table, but they said nothing.
Not that he really believed Katrine would come back during the evening, but at least he could look at her empty place and fantasize that she was actually sitting there.
The way it should have been.
His mother had set an extra place last Christmas. But of course Ethel never turned up either.
“Can I get down now, Daddy?” asked Livia after ten minutes.
“No,” said Joakim quickly.
He could see that her plate was empty.
“But I’ve eaten everything up.”
“Stay there anyway.”
“But I want to watch TV.”
“Me too,” said Gabriel, who still had a lot of food left on his plate.
“There’s horse riding on TV,” said Livia, as if this were a weighty argument.
“Just stay where you are,” said Joakim, his tone harsher than he had intended. “This is important. We’re celebrating Christmas together.”
“You’re stupid,” said Livia, glaring at him.
Joakim sighed. “We’re celebrating together,” he repeated, with no conviction.
The children kept quiet after that, but at least they stayed put. Eventually Livia went off to the kitchen with her plate, followed by Gabriel. Both came back with a helping of meatballs.
“It’s snowing really hard, Daddy,” said Livia.
Joakim looked out of the window and saw thick flakes whirling by.
