‘Great!’
He takes her hand, squeezes it.
‘Thank you for rescuing Dad this morning. Mum called and told me what had happened.’
‘I tried to contact you, but you didn’t answer. Where were you?’
‘At Kastrup. There were problems with the coverage in Denmark. I must have had ten missed calls when I got back.’
‘Kastrup?’
‘I told you yesterday – I was picking Nettan up from her flight.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, you didn’t. You said you had an early meeting.’
‘. . . with Nettan at Kastrup. That’s what I said.’
His expression is perfectly innocent, as it always is when he’s lying.
33
Walpurgis Night 1986
I hate Tornaby. Hate the people who live there. The people who stare at me and call me horrible names. Who tell their kids to keep away from the likes of Elita Svart.
Gyppo, tart, trash.
To them I’m just a nymph in a muddy pool. A tempting morsel that will drag them down into the shit. They haven’t realised who I can become when my wings have dried and I am ready to fly.
A
rne dreamed that he was running through the forest. He was twelve or thirteen, seven or eight, yet at the same time he was grown up in that weird way things are in dreams.
The darkness was pressing against him from all directions, twigs and branches tearing at his face, lashing him with a whining sound that reminded him of a riding crop. He didn’t know why he was running, at least not at first. He just knew he was terrified.
Behind him he could hear the dull thud of horse’s hooves drumming against the soft ground. The air was thick and hard to breathe, his heart was pounding in his chest.
The hoof beats came closer and closer, the horse snorting with every step as if it were eager to catch him up.
He was running blind, the darkness was impenetrable now. He tripped over a branch and fell so slowly that he had time to think that his landing would be painful.
He crashed down heavily, yet at the same time the ground was soft, sinking beneath him. There were creatures all around him, creeping and crawling, animals with slimy bodies and shiny backs, with scales and blue transparent wings. They were trying to get into his mouth, his nose, his ears.
His arms flailing wildly, he tried to find something to hold onto so that he could pull himself up, but his legs were heavy, dragging his body down until only his head was protruding above the mud.
Horse and rider broke through the greenery, and the horse was Bill yet at the same time something else, something ancient that might not even be a horse.
And the rider . . . The body was covered in leaves, tendrils writhing like snakes. The arms were branches, the fingers plaited bramble, the face hard circles of bark beneath a crown of antlers.
Arne closed his eyes, felt the rush of wind as the Green Man and his steed leaped over him. The smell of stagnant water, rotting wood and dead leaves, of things that crept and crawled and transformed what had recently been alive into earth and mould.
He screamed, but no sound came out of his mouth, just a stream of white grubs that stripped the flesh from his legs. Emptied him completely and let the night into his head.
*
He woke as usual right in the middle of that silent scream. Automatically checked whether he’d wet himself, which was ridiculous because he was a grown man, not a teenager who was easily scared.
His clothes were sticking to the car seat, his mouth felt like grade three sandpaper. The full moon shone high above the treetops.
Arne belched loudly and shook off the unpleasant dream. Once when he was a little boy he’d got lost during a mushroom foraging expedition, and had fallen into a sump of mud. His boots had stuck fast, and he hadn’t been able to get out. His father had found him after fifteen minutes – filthy, scared and covered in mosquito bites, but otherwise unharmed.
His father had told him off, firstly for straying from the path, and then because Arne couldn’t stop crying. It was nothing, really, and yet for some reason the incident had stuck in his mind, got mixed up with Ingrid’s ghost stories about the Green Man, tormenting him with nightmares that meant he’d had to sleep with a rubber undersheet until well into his teens.
It must have been ten years since he’d last had that fucking dream. All Lasse Svart’s fault, of course. His eyes, that burning stare.
There are many forces on the move tonight, let me tell you. Nature is hungry and the Green Man will ride through the forests, so you be careful, little Arne.
Arne shuddered. He’d parked the police car on a narrow track. The smell of newness had gone, replaced by a miasma of perspiration, the marsh itself, and fried food. He glanced at the Coke can and the screwed-up foil tray on the passenger seat. Checked his tie and discovered greasy stains left by his supper, just as he’d suspected.
He could have stayed in Ljungslöv after delivering Lasse’s moonshine, but instead he’d returned to Tornaby. Now he was sitting here in the middle of nowhere, half-dozing while he waited for . . . what? He had no idea. He just knew that he had to be here, that she’d invited him. He took out the Polaroid again.
Come to the stone circle at midnight.
Bewitched. That was how he felt. And maybe that was the truth?
It was because of Elita that he’d driven out to Svartgården this afternoon, because of her that he’d been dragged back down into the mud. He’d been well aware of the risks, and yet he couldn’t stay away. And now he was sitting here.
There are many forces on the move tonight.
He picked up the container on the passenger seat, unscrewed the lid and took a deep slug of neat alcohol. It seared his throat, offering a brief respite.
He sat there with the container on his knee, fingering his tie. Found a new patch of grease, on his shirt this time. Then several more on his trousers. He spat on his thumb and rubbed it over the coarse fabric, to no avail.
Suddenly he felt sick. Everything was going downhill. He was going downhill. And it was all because of her. Elita Svart. He ought to get out of here. Right now, before it was too late.
He looked at his watch. The luminous hands showed eleven thirty. Time to make a decision.
He took one last swig, then put the container back on the seat beside him. Took his binoculars out of the glove compartment, then opened the car door and stepped out into the night.
34
‘OK, I admit it. I’ve become completely obsessed with the mystery of Elita Svart. A dead girl whose spirit seems to hover over the area, even though her house was boarded up the day after her funeral. A dead girl whom nobody wants to talk about, yet someone still lays flowers on her grave.’
T
he drive to Lund takes just under an hour in the morning traffic, which gives Thea the opportunity to consider the events of the previous day.
Why are Erik Nyberg and Arne so interested in what Bertil might have said? The broken blood sugar monitor was clearly an excuse; Erik wanted to question Thea about her father-in-law. How did he even know that Bertil had been in the forest that morning? Was it Kerstin who’d told him, or Arne? Or someone else?
One thing she is sure of: there is something going on around her that everyone is trying to hide. Something to do with Elita’s death, but she still can’t see the pattern.
*
A friendly clerk in the regional office deals with her declaration. Fortunately he doesn’t ask any questions about her protected ID; he simply taps away on his keyboard.
‘There you go, all done. I’m sorry you had to come down, but now everything’s updated on our system. Sometimes there’s a bit of a mismatch between hard copies and digital documents.’
‘No problem – it’s nice to get it sorted.’
Thea is struck by a thought as she reaches the door.
‘By the way, I was looking for some patient notes the other day, but they haven’t been digitised. Do
you happen to know where I can access a copy?’
‘Absolutely. All documentation is stored in the regional archive, which is only ten minutes from here. I can tell you how to get there if you like.’
*
The regional archive in Lund turns out to be housed in an enormous complex called the Archive Centre, which occupies an entire block on an industrial estate on the edge of the city.
On the way, Thea has had time to think about what she’s doing. Requesting the notes of a person who is not her patient isn’t allowed, strictly speaking, and there is a risk that she will get a flat refusal. However, the archivist on reception is unexpectedly helpful, possibly because Thea is a doctor and the notes are so old. Whatever the reason, he raises no objections.
‘Take a seat on the sofa – this could take a while,’ he says before disappearing through a door.
Thea fetches a cup of coffee from the machine, then settles down with a magazine. The archivist returns after about fifteen minutes.
‘I’m so sorry – I can’t find the notes you wanted.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. We have very strict rules on how items are archived. Of course things end up in the wrong place occasionally, but my guess is that these notes were never sent over from the clinic in Ljungslöv.’
‘But isn’t that compulsory?’
‘Well yes, but we handle millions of documents every year. No one would notice if one set of notes goes missing – unless someone asks for them.’
‘You mean like now?’
He nods. ‘Once again, I’m sorry. Anything else I can help you with?’
Thea is about to say no when she notices an information board on the wall, listing all the types of documentation held in the archive.
‘What about court cases?’
‘Yes – anything that took place within the district of Skåne before 1990. For anything after that date you’d have to contact the relevant court directly. Or the police.’
‘I’m interested in a police investigation and the subsequent court case from 1986.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’
*
It’s almost midday when the archivist returns with a thick blue file under his arm.
‘There you go. We have private areas if you’d like to read it in peace?’
Thea checks her work phone and her own. No calls from patients or from David. The surgery is closed today, so she has plenty of time.
‘Please – that would be good.’
He shows her to one of several glass cubicles. Lingers for a little too long until she almost exaggeratedly thanks him for his help.
‘No problem – just let me know if you want anything copied.’
There must be a hundred documents in the file. The verdict is at the front, so she begins with that.
It states in formal language that the court sentences Leo Rasmussen to six years’ imprisonment for the murder of Elita Svart, and that this term is significantly reduced because of the fact that he was only twenty years old at the time of the offence, and that he was also ‘heavily influenced by his stepsister’.
This is followed by a summary of the reasons for Leo’s conviction, namely his own confession and forensic evidence linking him to the scene. He was also identified by four witnesses. As Thea had already guessed, these witnesses are David, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof.
She turns to the police investigation – pages and pages of typewritten records of interviews and handwritten notes that will take her many hours to go through. The initial report was made by the first officer on the scene. It describes how Elita’s body was found on the sacrificial stone in the middle of the circle on the morning of 1 May. The body was lifeless, the face covered by a white handkerchief. It was immediately clear that she had been killed, and the area was cordoned off to allow for a crime scene investigation to take place. Erik Nyberg and Bertil Nordin were present; they were the ones who contacted the police.
Thea looks up from her reading. So Erik and her father-in-law were at the scene together, before the police arrived. She raises an eyebrow and continues.
As she was hoping, there is a short interview with both men. Bertil says that he was on his way home from a Walpurgis Night party at the community centre and met David and his three friends, shocked and terrified. They told him that something terrible had happened to Elita at the stone circle. Bertil initially thought it was a joke, but his wife persuaded him to check out the situation. He called Erik Nyberg, who was responsible for the castle estate; there had been problems in the past with teenagers and unplanned Walpurgis celebrations. Erik set off to investigate.
Erik states that he arrived at the stone circle just after six o’clock in the morning and found what he thought was a pile of clothes on the sacrificial stone. Only when he came closer did he realise that it was a body. He hurried to the nearest telephone, which was in the hunting lodge.
Thea thinks about that; he must have told Kerstin Miller about his horrific discovery, which explains why she seems so invested in the tragedy.
After contacting the police, Erik called Bertil Nordin, who arrived shortly before the police. Neither of the men saw anyone else near the scene of the crime.
Thea turns to the post-mortem report from the duty doctor called to the scene to pronounce Elita dead. Severe damage to the os frontale, ossa nasalie, maxilla and os zygomaticum, which in plain language means that someone has violently smashed the poor girl’s face. She wonders if David and his friends saw it happen. Saw the terrible injuries.
She is just about to move on to the interviews with the children when her phone rings. David.
‘Where are you?’
‘Still in Lund.’
‘Shit.’ He sighs. ‘Emee’s taken off again.’
‘Taken off? How?’
‘I was going to take her out for a walk at lunchtime. As soon as I opened the door she pushed past me and ran off.’
‘When was this?’
‘About half an hour ago, maybe a little more. I’ve searched and shouted, but there’s no sign of her. I’ve got two meetings this afternoon so I can’t do any more.’
‘OK, on my way.’
She closes the file and takes it back to the archivist.
‘I’d like a copy, please.’
‘Of course – which documents?’
‘All of them.’
*
As soon as the copying is done, Thea drives home as fast as she dares. She gets there in less than fifty minutes. David’s car and two others are parked outside the castle; she decides not to disturb their meeting. If Emee had turned up he would have called, or at least shut her in the house.
She goes inside; no Emee. She puts the file in her chest of drawers, pulls on her wellingtons, grabs the dog whistle and lead and sets off.
She crosses the stone bridge, calling Emee’s name and blowing the whistle. Nothing. Maybe Emee has headed for the deer enclosure again? Thea turns left at the signpost and follows the track that will take her out of the forest.
Panic is bubbling up inside her; she tries not to think about the dead deer that she saw yesterday. Emee isn’t aggressive, she tells herself.
That’s not true though, is it? Margaux’s voice comes from nowhere. Don’t you remember how she used to catch rats in the yard outside the hospital? And that time there was a dead cockerel on the steps? We laughed, said she was a predator deep down.
Thea increases her speed, blows the whistle, shouts as loud as she can.
‘Emee! Emee!’
Something is crashing through the undergrowth up ahead. She sees a movement, a grey, muscular body hurtling towards her. The relief makes her want to cry.
Emee dances around her and Thea sits down, pulls her close and strokes her nose.
‘Good girl! Where’ve you been?’
Emee can’t keep still. She’s excited, pulls away, jumping up and down. Her eyes are shining, ears pricked, tongue hanging out.
<
br /> Thea realises that her hand is wet. She looks down. There is a red, sticky mark on her palm.
35
Walpurgis Night 1986
Everyone has their secrets, that’s what they say. Tornaby is full of them. A morass of dishonesty and lies.
Soon I will leave it all behind me, spread my wings and fly away from here. Because no secret is greater than mine.
A
rne had completely miscalculated the route. He’d thought that all he needed to do was cross the canal that separated the forest from the marsh. Five minutes and he’d be at the stone circle.
However, the canal turned out to be much wider than he expected. It was more like a stagnant river than the ditch he’d imagined: almost ten metres of mud, reeds and murky water that absorbed both the moonlight and the beam of his torch. He knew there was a ford somewhere, but it was impossible to find in the darkness.
He followed the water for some distance, treading in barely visible pools of mud and almost losing a shoe. The warmth of the spring day had disappeared, and the temperature had dropped below ten degrees. The damp air and his wet feet made it feel even colder.
He looked at his watch: ten to twelve. If he didn’t find a way to get across the canal very soon, he would miss the whole thing.
He was in luck. Just as he glimpsed the lights of the hunting lodge, he came across a large tree that had fallen across the water, creating a bridge to the other side.
He scrambled up onto the trunk. It was wet and slippery with algae, and had presumably been there for several years. He adjusted the binoculars around his neck, then took a moment to get his balance before he began to cross. Within a few metres he realised he wasn’t entirely sober.
The further he went, the worse the smell became. Stagnant water, rotting wood and dead leaves. The same as in his nightmare.
When he reached the middle, the water was greenish black, with insects dancing on the surface. Something made a loud splash. Arne stiffened, feeling the fear creeping up his spine. What if he slipped and fell? The canal looked deep, two or three metres, maybe more. It must be full of larvae and tadpoles and other creatures that he didn’t know the names of. Creatures with slimy bodies, shiny backs covered in scales, blue transparent wings, creatures that crept and crawled and . . .
Rites of Spring Page 14