‘God knows we’ve had our differences over the years, Bertil and I,’ Erik continues. ‘But I’ve always respected him. Everyone around here respects Bertil Nordin. He was on the executive committee of the Centre Party, and chaired both the sports club and the local community council for many years. He was re-elected over and over again. People trusted him. They knew he’d keep his word, and always had the village’s best interests at heart. And he was discreet – that was why the count asked him to help set up the Bokelund Foundation.’
Erik suddenly stops talking. Thea has experienced this before: all at once a patient is overwhelmed by their own unexpected chattiness, and falls silent. She leaves him in peace while she completes her examination. He doesn’t flinch when she pricks his finger to measure his blood sugar.
‘Does he talk a lot of rubbish?’ Erik asks when she’s finished. She can’t read his eyes behind those dark glasses, but once again she feels sure that he is watching her closely. ‘Bertil,’ he adds when she doesn’t respond. ‘Does he say stupid things? I’ve heard that people with Alzheimer’s often do that.’
Before Thea can say anything, the kitchen door opens and Per walks in, followed by an older man with a bushy red beard, wearing a baseball cap.
‘I saw the car and realised we had visitors. You must be our new doctor.’
Per smiles and holds out his hand, as though this is their first meeting. ‘Per Nyberg. This old fox is my father,’ he adds, patting Erik on the shoulder.
‘Thea Lind.’
The whole thing makes her feel kind of ridiculous, but as Per has started it, she has to play along.
‘David Nordin’s wife,’ Erik informs his son.
‘I knew that. I read about you on Facebook.’
Per holds onto her hand for a second too long, squeezes it gently before letting go. As before, she is struck by how soft his skin is. She glances at his left hand; no wedding ring, no telltale trace of one. Around his wrist he wears several braided leather bracelets, which briefly remind her of her father.
‘This is Little Stefan,’ Per says, gesturing towards his companion. He works for us. He’s in the middle of cutting the hedges up at the castle, so you’re bound to come across him again before long.’
Thea nods to the other man, who gives her a little wave.
‘So how’s it going with the restaurant?’ Per asks. ‘Dad and I are looking forward to the dinner.’
‘They’ve had a power outage,’ Erik says. ‘After the storm the other night.’
‘Oh dear. If you need help with anything, you only have to ask. David has my number.’ Per winks conspiratorially at Thea. ‘And Dad knows everything there is to know about the castle and its secrets. Where all the bodies are buried, so to speak.’
He fires off another smile which is definitely flirtatious.
‘Thanks – good to know,’ Thea says.
In spite of Erik’s dark glasses, she thinks the old man is glaring angrily at his son.
23
Walpurgis Night 1986
The dragonfly is my favourite insect. It starts life as an egg, then lives as a nymph at the bottom of the muddy pools deep in the bog. The nymph catches tadpoles and lives on them so that it can grow bigger and stronger. When it is strong enough, it crawls up out of the mud to begin its final metamorphosis. To become something better, more beautiful.
As soon as the legs and abdomen harden, it spreads its fine wings and drifts with the wind like a new, perfect creation, far away from the dampness and mud where it was born. Far away from everything that has held it down.
Do you understand where I’m going with this? Or are you still interested only in my death?
A
rne walked out of the front door of Svartgården. He’d paused for a minute just inside the porch, wiped the sweat from his forehead, adjusted his uniform and attempted to regain at least some of his dignity.
The truck he’d heard was now parked between his own and Lasse’s. The same white pick-up he’d seen outside the bank. Erik Nyberg, this time accompanied by his pretty-boy son.
Erik and Lasse seemed to be involved in an angry discussion. Erik held out a piece of paper, but Lasse knocked his hand aside. Arne realised what was going on: Erik was serving notice.
‘Go to hell, Nyberg!’ Lasse roared. ‘Both you and the count can kiss my fucking arse!’ With that he jumped into his own pick-up, started the engine and shot away, gravel spraying up around his wheels.
Slowly Arne went over to the Nybergs. Noticed in passing that there was a dead fawn in the back of their truck.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Erik looked him up and down. Raised an eyebrow, presumably at his muddy shoes and trousers and his grubby shirt.
‘Are you here in an official capacity, Arne?’
Arne didn’t bother answering. He couldn’t stand Nyberg or his son. Per was only a couple of years younger than him. Sang and played the guitar, had an earring in one ear.
‘It’s good that you’re here,’ Erik went on. ‘You can be a witness to the fact that we’ve given Lasse notice to quit, even if he refuses to sign.’ He folded up the paper he’d tried to give Lasse and tucked it away in his inside pocket, then turned his back on Arne to show that their conversation was over.
Arne ambled over to his car. Opened the door, got in and pretended to busy himself with the police radio. After a minute or so he realised that no one was looking at him. He’d just decided to leave when the front door opened and Elita emerged.
His heart began to beat faster. Maybe the day could be saved after all. But Elita ignored him, walked straight past his car.
Eva-Britt had come out too, and Erik Nyberg went over to her. He dug out the notice to quit again, and Eva-Britt reluctantly took it.
Arne turned his attention to Elita. She and Per Nyberg had moved a short distance away and were talking to each other. A little too close together, a little too intimate. Elita reached out, touched Per’s arm, and Arne saw her slip something into his hand, a little white square that he recognised only too well.
A Polaroid photograph. A photo of her, taken with his camera. A private photo, and she’d given it to Per fucking Nyberg.
Another person came out onto the steps: Leo in his uniform. He put on his beret and pulled it down over his forehead. Then he caught sight of Elita and Per. His confident, relaxed expression gave way to something else.
Arne knew exactly what it was. The same thing he was feeling.
Disappointment, jealousy.
Rage.
24
‘You could never understand why I liked doing jigsaw puzzles, Margaux. The satisfaction of creating order. The faint click when a piece fits, forming a clear pattern where before there was chaos.
‘Yes, I admit it – I’m fully committed to the puzzle that is Elita Svart, and I won’t give up until I have the whole picture.
‘Why? you wonder yet again. What is it that draws me to this story?
‘I’ll tell you: Elita Svart reminds me of someone I know. Or rather – someone I used to know.’
T
here are already patients waiting in the corridor outside the surgery. Dr Andersson and Thea work their way through them, and once again Thea is struck by the fact that almost all of them already seem to know about her. They ask questions about David and the castle, and several have already booked tables in the restaurant even though the official opening is still a month away. Many also know that she and David are living in the old coach house, they know where she used to work – they even know the name of her dog. When Thea discreetly questions one of her most talkative patients, it turns out that the information comes from the Facebook group both Per and Dr Andersson have mentioned.
Just before midday, the doctor takes a phone call.
‘I have to pop out,’ she says. ‘I won’t be gone for more than an hour. Is it OK if I leave you here on your own, then we can have lunch when I get back? You could log into the records system, see if there’s anythi
ng you’re still unsure about.’
‘No problem.’ Thea has nothing against being alone for a while with her thoughts.
‘Great – see you later.’
The doctor’s rapid footsteps fade away along the corridor, then the outside door slams shut.
Thea realises that she still has the packet of cigarettes in her pocket, and decides to nip outside for a sneaky smoke.
There is a large garden behind the community centre. A set of goalposts, some broken swings and a strip of asphalt with the remains of hopscotch grids suggest that it was once a playground. This must have been where David and his friends hung out. She narrows her eyes, tries to visualise the faces from Kirsten’s scrapbook: David, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof. Four nerdy twelve-year-olds who suddenly attracted the attention of Elita Svart – someone who was older, cooler, and beautiful. Thea can easily understand why their heads were turned.
She takes a deep drag, thinks of her own school playground.
Fucking gyppo!
She shakes off the memory, finishes her cigarette as quickly as she can.
On the way back inside she peers through one of the windows overlooking the garden. She sees display stands and glass cabinets, walls filled with photographs. This must be the Folk Museum. Didn’t Dr Andersson say something about Elita being inspired by photographs of the rite of spring she’d seen there?
Once inside, Thea follows the signs until she is standing in front of the right door. It’s locked. She tries the surgery key; it must be some kind of master, because the lock clicks open.
The room is approximately twice the size of the surgery. It smells of dust and old artefacts. The stands and cabinets she saw through the window contain everything from embroidered cloths and traditional hand tools to Stone Age axes and fossils. Handwritten signs indicate the theme of each area: HANDICRAFTS, HARVEST, THE HISTORY OF TORNABY.
On one of the walls she finds what she’s looking for: LOCAL CUSTOMS. A dozen black-and-white photos, taken around the beginning of the twentieth century, grouped in threes. One group is labelled THE CEREMONY OF THE SPRING SACRIFICE.
The pictures take Thea’s breath away. The similarity with the Polaroid photo is striking. The same arrangement: a young woman in the centre with antlers in her hands, long silk ribbons attached to her wrists. Four children beside her, wearing grotesque animal masks. Hare, fox, owl, deer.
The next group is BURNING THE GREEN MAN, and shows a Walpurgis Night bonfire. In the first one the fire must just have been lit; the figure at the top is clearly visible, tied to the same kind of T-shaped frame that she saw down on the common. The head and arms are easily distinguished, while the rest of the body is a shapeless mass of leaves and branches. In the last picture the flames have begun to lick at the Green Man; the heat has caused the leaves to shrivel, and you can almost see right through him. In front of the blazing fire stands the young woman and her masked helpers.
Thea shudders. Just as with the Polaroid, there is something deeply unpleasant about this image. Beneath the photograph there is a typewritten caption:
During Walpurgis Night the veil between life and death is at its thinnest. Things are on the move, nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forest.
She photographs the pictures and the caption on her phone and returns to the surgery.
Back at her desk she repeats the Google search she carried out earlier. She doesn’t really know why, or what she’s hoping to find. Once again the old newspaper articles are listed, but this time she scrolls down the page. As expected the hits become less and less relevant, but a couple of times she sees references to a book with the title False Confessions.
She checks it out with an online bookseller. It’s written by a journalist called Kurt Bexell, published in 2004, and as the title suggests it looks at why certain people confess to crimes they haven’t committed. According to the blurb, the book contains both notorious international cases and several Swedish examples, including the murder of Elita Svart in 1986.
So Bexell doubted Leo’s guilt – but why? And who did he think murdered Elita? With each new piece of the puzzle Thea’s fascination grows; the idea that there are other theories beside the official line is riveting.
She is still wondering about David’s role in all of this. Was he questioned? What did he and his friends actually see?
You must never tell anyone. Never, never, never . . .
She clicks on the link and orders the book.
When she’s finished she remains where she is, staring into space. As far as she is aware, she has exhausted the internet when it comes to facts about the murder of Elita Svart, but of course there are other possibilities. One of them is right in front of her on the desk.
She opens up the practice laptop and logs into the patient database. Types Elita’s name in the box, then hesitates. Technically it’s illegal for her to run a search on someone who isn’t her patient; on the other hand, the risk of being caught is negligible. Who would check out her search history?
After a few seconds she clicks on enter. All that comes up is a single line: Elita’s name and ID number, followed by deceased 30-04-1986.
She looks for a link that will take her further, but all that appears is a fact box informing her that patient records before a certain date have not been digitalised, but that hard copies can still be found in the regional archive in Lund. She jots Elita’s ID number down on a Post-it note. She’s so absorbed in what she’s doing that she doesn’t hear the footsteps in the corridor.
Someone clears their throat in the doorway, and Thea looks up in surprise. A man is standing there with a blood-soaked cloth wrapped around one hand.
‘Excuse me,’ he says in English. ‘Are you a doctor?’
Thea quickly closes the laptop and gets to her feet.
‘I am – come on in!’
The man looks relieved. He is a few years older than her, tall and muscular with an angular face and short hair, thinning on top. He’s wearing an army jacket, jeans and sturdy boots.
She sits him down and begins to unwind the cloth. Blood is flowing freely from a large gash in the lower half of his palm.
‘I cut myself. Stupid.’ He attempts a smile.
‘Lie down,’ she says, raising his hand as high as possible in an attempt to reduce the bleeding. She washes the wound; it’s deep, almost to the bone, but fortunately it doesn’t look as if any tendons have been damaged.
‘It happened not long ago. I was going to drive to A & E in Helsingborg, but then I remembered there was a surgery in the village.’ His English is good, but Thea thinks there’s a faint accent. His face is ashen now, his lips white. She has to stop the bleeding so that she can suture the wound, but can’t find anything to use as a tourniquet. She resorts to an old trick.
‘Lift your arm a little higher.’
The man does as she asks. She wraps the blood pressure cuff around his wrist and pumps it up until the blood stops.
‘Keep still – I’ll give you some local anaesthetic before I start stitching.’
He nods, then obediently lies there motionless while she numbs the area, inserts six stitches, then dresses the wound.
‘There you go. Stay where you are for a while until you feel better. Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please.’
She pours him a plastic cup of water.
‘Thanks.’ His eyes are brown and friendly. ‘My name is Philippe Benoit, by the way.’ He holds out his uninjured hand.
‘Thea Lind. Are you French?’
‘Almost,’ he replies with a smile. ‘Québécois. Do you speak French?’
‘Of course.’ Thea switches languages and realises that she too is smiling. It’s a long time since she spoke French to anyone except Margaux. ‘What happened to your hand?’
‘A stupid accident. I was cutting a piece of rope and the knife slipped. In my defence, I was on the phone at the time. Then again, maybe that’s not a point in my favour.’
&
nbsp; ‘So what’s someone from Quebec doing in Skåne?’
‘I work in mineral prospecting.’
‘Gold?’
He laughs. ‘Nothing quite as exciting. Vanadium – at least that’s what we hope to find when we do the test drilling. If I can manage not to slice through an artery before then.’
Maybe it’s the fact that they’re speaking French, but something about this whole situation has put Thea in a good mood.
‘Nice trick.’ He points to the blood pressure cuff. ‘Very smart. I’m guessing you didn’t learn that at medical school?’
‘No. I used to work for Doctors Without Borders. Africa, the Middle East. You learn to improvise.’
‘Aha – that explains why your French is so good. I imagine you’ve seen worse things than a little cut.’
‘I have.’
‘I’m pleased to be in experienced hands if anything else happens.’
Philippe is just about to get up when Dr Andersson comes bustling in. She stops dead, stares at the blood-soaked cloth and the stranger half-lying on the couch.
‘Goodness me – what’s going on here?’
‘A gash to the hand. Six stitches.’
Philippe holds up his hand, displaying the dressing. So he understands Swedish, Thea thinks.
‘Very dramatic! Have you updated the daily log?’
‘Not yet – I’ve only just finished.’
‘No problem – I’ll do it.’
The doctor sits down at the desk and opens the laptop. Thea thinks she looks a little taken aback, but it passes so quickly that she can’t be sure. Then she realises that she might not have deleted the illicit search for Elita’s notes. She studies the other woman’s face carefully, but Dr Andersson gives nothing away.
25
A
t the end of the working day, Dr Andersson drops her off at the coach house. It might be Thea’s imagination, but she thinks her companion has been a little less talkative than usual. She can’t shake off the feeling of having been caught out.
There’s a pick-up and trailer outside the house. A man in overalls and goggles is cutting the hedges with some kind of power tool. He waves as she approaches the front door, and she recognises him. He’s the man with the bushy red beard who was in Erik Nyberg’s kitchen.
Rites of Spring Page 10