The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  Still no one had come, so she called out a tentative hello. The door behind reception, which presumably lead to the offices, was closed, and she couldn’t see anything through its narrow glass panel without going behind the desk. Obviously, short of yelling, no one would hear her. She cleared her throat, and eyed the bell on the countertop. It always seemed sort of officious to ring a bell, but she couldn’t stand here any longer, putting off the moment. She reached for it.

  At that exact second, the main door swung open behind her. She turned to see a tall, blond man—yes, Norwegian knitwear material—coming in with a brown paper lunch bag.

  He stopped in his tracks when he saw her, and smiled. “Hej.”

  She smiled back. “Hi. I mean, hej.”

  “English,” he said, switching languages effortlessly. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” If she could call it home. But that was a whole story that didn’t need to be shared.

  He put the bag down on the counter and unwound his scarf. “How can I help you?”

  How could he help her…? She bit her lip, while he looked at her expectantly. Really, the only thing to do was dive in.

  “I’m actually looking for a friend of mine…I think she might have come here.”

  He tipped his head. “She? I’m afraid we don’t have any women working here right now. Just the usual computer geeks, all men.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if she actually worked here. And it might have been some time ago…about ten years ago. Do you know of anyone called Claire Evans? She worked with computers…coding, and apps, and…”

  She wasn’t really a hundred per cent sure how to describe what Claire did. She was reasonably tech-savvy herself, but Claire was at a whole other level—talking about JavaScript and Python, coming up with concepts for games and apps, fiddling around with websites. Inside the internet, as her dad Paul used to say. It was his usual call when she wouldn’t come down for dinner: Get out from inside the internet and join us in the real world. Well, now Claire was in the real world—if only Zoe could find her.

  But the man in front of her shook his head, making a lock of blond hair fall across his forehead. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve been here for about ten years, so I would have met her.”

  “Oh. Damn. Are you sure?”

  She peered past him, trying to see through the glass panel in the door again, but he stepped slightly to the side, obscuring her view.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Oh…okay.”

  Without any more leads, this was about as far as she could go. She stood there in reception, suddenly at a complete loss about what to do next.

  Her uncertainty must have been obvious, because he held out his hand.

  “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Fredrik.”

  She took his hand. Or rather he took her hand, as his seemed to be about twice as big. One firm shake, one big grin, and one wink, and suddenly she knew she was being flirted with.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Zoe.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” he said, with a decided emphasis on the very.

  “You too.” She paused. If this was where he was going, she’d take the chance to press a bit further. “The only thing is, I think Claire might have been in touch with Alvar Lundberg, and she might have come here to…”

  His eyebrows shot up, but he quickly got them back under control.

  “You look surprised,” she said.

  “No, not at all,” he replied. “Alvar is…a ladies’ man. He has been in touch with all kinds of women.”

  “Oh…” She screwed up her nose. “I see.”

  Well, she could imagine. Older man, wealthy, running a company that an aspiring young coder would die to work at, even if it was in the middle of nowhere. After all, everyone knew that Minecraft, Candy Crush and Spotify had all come from developers in Sweden, and Angry Birds from just across the border in Finland. And Defrost Digital had joined the big names with their game Dynamite Defrost, which Zoe had never played, but everyone else had seemed to be hooked on for ages. Although it was still a fledgling company then, would Claire have been seduced by the attraction of his business, and the man himself, if she’d come here? Zoe would have guessed not…but you never know.

  “Don’t tell him I said that,” Fredrik added. “I want to keep my job.”

  He made a faux-scared face, and she had to laugh.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you find your friend.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks anyway.” Her mind was already working, working, trying to imagine where Claire might have gone if she hadn’t come here.

  He nodded towards the sofas in the reception area. “Would you like to have a coffee? I could tell you about the new games we’re developing.” He said it as though it would surely be impossible for her to resist. “And we have kanelbullar,” he added.

  She knew now that kanelbullar were the little cinnamon rolls topped with pearl sugar that Greta had given the girls that first night. And she knew they were good. But she really wanted some time to think, and figure out where to look for Claire now. The thought of bringing her back together with her parents, when they needed her most—and maybe before it was too late—added a new urgency to the task.

  And she didn’t want to be rude, but she wasn’t particularly interested in gaming stuff, even when explained to her by someone tall, blond, and cheek-boned enough to be a lost Skarsgård brother.

  “Thank you, but I won’t today.”

  “Okay,” he said. “If I told you our company secrets I’d have to kill you, so probably better not anyway.” He laughed. “But maybe another time? How long are you staying in Lillavik?”

  “About two and a half more weeks,” she told him. “I’m volunteering at the Nilssons’ wildlife lodge.”

  “Ah. Beautiful and environmentally friendly,” he said.

  “Yes, it really is,” she agreed.

  But he shook his head. “I was talking about you.”

  Oh, too much. And yet—gah!—she felt her cheeks warm with a blush. Surely she wasn’t such a sucker as to fall for that kind of shamelessness. “Ha! Well…thanks.”

  He grinned, obviously satisfied to see proof of his flirting’s effect. “If you’re staying, I’m sure I’ll see you around. It’s a small place, you can’t avoid anyone.”

  “All right then.” She turned to go. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  “I will.”

  He opened the main door for her, and waited until she’d made it to her car before finally letting it close.

  She leaned back in the seat. He was…sort of weird, although friendly enough. A bit too friendly, maybe. Then again, she wasn’t going to be offended by a flirty compliment, cheekily offered. One of those a day would keep the doctor away, and was more fun than an apple.

  Anyway, the point was, Claire wasn’t here and apparently never had been, despite the attraction of Alvar’s business. Judging by his picture in the magazine article, he was way too old for her. Still, charisma did count for a lot, she accepted that. And power, and money. God knows, she’d seen it in her own world in London. The most jowly, gnarled and obnoxious men had the youngest, most beautiful trophy wives, acquired once they’d risen so far in the business world that income and prestige tipped the scales in their favour. It was an old tale. More than one of the women she’d worked with in PR had ended up married to a guy who could have been their great-uncle. And every one of them was better than that, and cleverer. They didn’t need a man to leverage themselves up in their careers, or in life. Neither did Claire.

  And neither do I, she reminded herself. Which was lucky, given that she currently had no man at all. Oh well, her room in the Bayswater flat was so small, she couldn’t fit one in anyway. She laughed to herself, and started the engine.

  Now what?

  Well, she had a job to do here…if she could make any progress at all with Jakob. He didn’t seem in desperate need for help with his own research—he had
n’t shown up at all that morning. She’d better make herself useful, and fast. She was only here for three weeks, and she had no intention of sneaking through his papers and his computer.

  On the other hand—ethics aside—maybe it would be the safer option. He was…distracting, and she couldn’t let herself be distracted. She was getting what she came for, and then going back to London, to stick it to The Shark and her sneery colleagues.

  As for Claire, she’d have to dig around a bit more online, and see if she could find anything. It was unbelievable how a person could disappear so thoroughly, in this age of Google, when you were supposed to have an indelible digital footprint. Either Zoe wasn’t tech-smart enough to figure out how to find Claire—apart from the usual Google/social media search trail—or Claire was so clued-up in the ways of the digital world that she was able to erase all obvious references to herself. Maybe it was a bit of both.

  Her stomach rumbled, and she realised she hadn’t eaten since early that morning, before starting work. Thinking of the bakery she’d seen, she turned the car back in the direction of the square.

  As she parked the car in what she hoped was a more-or-less legal spot—there were no painted lines, but other cars were parked here and there in the centre of the square—she saw Greta and a blonde woman with Lena and Ebba, each one of them carrying a white bag. She pulled her gloves back on, then got out of the car and waved in their direction. They saw her and waved back.

  “Hej,” she said as she reached them. “What are you ladies doing?”

  “Hej,” said Lena, and both the girls broke down in giggles, still tipped into hilarity every time Zoe attempted the simplest Swedish.

  She laughed too. It was pretty contagious, even if she was basically joining them in laughing at herself.

  “We’re going ice skating at the rink,” Greta said. “Oh, and this is Malin.”

  “Hej, Zoe,” Malin said, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Ah. Another tall, elegant Swede with immaculate grooming and perfect bone structure, her hair was the palest blonde Zoe had ever seen. Although Lena and Ebba had darker blonde hair, Malin looked like the blueprint from which those two sweet little facsimiles had been made. If her adorable kids were anything to go by, along with the warm smile she offered now, their mother must be as nice as she was beautiful.

  Zoe took her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you too,” she said, and meant it.

  Then Lena tugged on her mother’s hand, saying something in Swedish.

  “Okay,” Malin told her. Then she turned back to Zoe. “Lena wants me to ask if you can ice skate with us.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I’d better not,” Zoe said, tucking her still-cold hands under her armpits. “I don’t have any skates. And I’ve decided to do all my falling over in private from now on.”

  Greta laughed. “Zoe slipped on the ice, on her first night here.”

  “Oh no,” Malin said. “But ice skating is fun. Are you sure?”

  As Zoe hesitated, Lena said something to Greta, who nodded.

  “Lena says she’ll teach you, remember? You can use my skates if you like.”

  Zoe looked at the little girl. Her hopeful face reminded her of herself as a kid, when they’d stayed with the Evans family. Hopeful that she could hang out with Claire, just because she liked being in her company. Some people just make you feel that way.

  “Okay.” She smiled as she saw the spark of excitement in Lena’s eyes. “That would be lovely. Thank you so much, Lena. Tack så mycket.”

  An afternoon of being a kid again, with someone who wanted her company? That actually sounded pretty good.

  Nine

  When light finally started to dawn the next morning, it was overcast, and Zoe hoped the clouds might bring snow. The clear blue days since her snowy arrival at the train station had been gorgeous, but she was longing for some more actual snowflakes. If it was going to be this damn cold, she might as well have the full experience.

  She made a coffee and had breakfast in her cabin. Breakfast here was way heartier than at home, where she had a bowl of cereal at best, or one of those cardboardy wrapped breakfast bars at worst. No, actually, worst was stopping for an emergency raspberry and white chocolate muffin and a takeaway hot chocolate at the café on the corner. But here…wedges of Greta’s tasty, almost chewy, homemade bread. Slices of cheese and ham, and all kinds of toppings. Most different of all was the slightly gluggy filmjölk, from a carton, on top of cereal and fruit. It had a weird consistency and flavour—not really yoghurt, but definitely not milk either, although Greta had called it fermented milk when she’d tried to explain what it was. Either way, it was surprisingly good.

  She ate as quickly as she could, then put the breakfast things away and went up to the volunteer office in the almost-light to grab the camera. No sign of Jakob, yet again. Well, it was still early, she told herself. He’d turn up eventually.

  For the first time, she did a solo run to the eagle nest. With markers set along the path, she actually had no need of the GPS, and she made it there and back safely without seeing any sign of wolfish activity. And there was still no sign of the eagles either—they seemed to be proving as elusive as Claire.

  Parking the snowmobile back by the office, she realised that although she’d been holding her breath before every turn in the path, she was a little disappointed not to find any evidence of the wolves. It would have been nice to know that some of them at least were safe here in Nilsson territory. And…it would have made Jakob happy.

  She blew puffs of steam as she checked the weather station before going into the office. It seemed impossible to make them cigar-ring shaped, but she’d keep practising. With stinging cheeks, she went inside, trying to ignore the little zing in her tummy that had started at the thought of seeing Jakob.

  He wasn’t there.

  She looked at the clock on the wall. He didn’t seem the type to keep gentleman’s hours…he was probably out in the forest somewhere, doing his Scandinavian Bear Grylls thing. She eyed his computer. How the hell was she going to make any progress with her Vertex assignment if he was never around?

  Willing the heavy sky to produce something magical, she went into the guesthouse to see how she could help out. Greta asked her to start by tidying the guest rooms, and gave her brief instructions. The guests were out with Bengt, so she went into each of the comfortable rooms in turn, straightening beds and replacing towels. Most of the rooms held bunks or single beds, and shared the two bathrooms in the long upstairs corridor. But two were furnished with wide, rustic four-posters, and had en suite bathrooms with big bathtubs. She paused by the window in one of the luxury rooms, drinking in the view—across the frozen pond in front, to the snow-blanketed fields and woods, and the mountains far beyond. With a fire burning in the stone fireplace behind her, and the right company, this would make a dreamy romantic getaway.

  Finding the right company was always the tricky part in those scenarios. She hadn’t done particularly well in that department so far. Guys had come and gone, in and out of her bed and her life, but there’d been no one she’d found too hard to let go.

  She shook herself back to reality and finished the rest of the rooms in record time. Then she reported back to Greta’s office near the entrance.

  “I’m finished.”

  Greta looked up from her computer. “Already? I think you are the most efficient volunteer we’ve ever had.”

  She shrugged. “I’m used to accounting for every minute of my time, so it can be charged out to clients. Nothing goes unpaid-for. It’s soul-destroying, but it does make you more focused.”

  Greta looked doubtful. “I feel like we should be paying you.”

  “God, no,” Zoe said hurriedly. “What you’re doing for me is better than any salary.”

  It was true. Since she’d got here, despite the uncomfortable awareness of her subterfuge, she’d felt the knots slowly, gradually, start to unravel. In her tensed-up shoulders, and in her head, whic
h had felt permanently taut with the relentless need to be slicker than she really was. Even the setback in finding Claire hadn’t fazed her as much as she thought it would.

  “It’s doing me good to just get away, especially somewhere so beautiful,” she added.

  Greta smiled. “I have something else that might be good for you.”

  “That sounds interesting. Better than ice skating?”

  The girls-only afternoon on the rink had been fun. The two little ones had set off like extras from Disney on Ice, twirling and swooping and generally looking remarkably effortless for such little kids. Malin had followed them, pushing off from the side without a moment’s hesitation, gliding swan-like after her cygnets.

  Zoe, on the other hand, had slid and shuffled onto the ice in Greta’s slightly-too-big skates, then tentatively inched her way around the edge of the rink, holding onto the railing. By the time she’d done one circuit, Lena and Ebba had done, ooh, a hundred? It made her feel about a hundred herself. But soon she’d started to find her feet, and after a while she was cautiously striking out from the safety of the side. Like a nervous swimmer in a pool, she first tried cutting across the corners, then graduated to crossing the rink from side to side. The short side, admittedly, but it was something. Amazingly, she only fell twice, but the second time she was able to grab the railing and stop herself crashing to the ice. No one was going to be tapping her for a bit part in an Ice Capades reboot, but all up, she counted it as a success. And afterwards, hot chocolate and prinsesstårta in Lillavik’s bakery was a fitting treat for two little princesses and their attendants. The princess cake was a heavenly confection—layers of sponge and pastry cream, topped with a dome of whipped cream, and then a layer of green marzipan, topped off with a delicate pink marzipan rose. In short, it was the absolute opposite of Jakob’s threatened rotten herrings.

  Now Greta nodded. “Yes, I think this will be better for you, even though your skating was not so bad. Shall we fika? And then I’ll tell you.”