‘And that’s where you came into the picture?’
‘That’s right. The count needed help to withdraw that amount of money from the bank. Lasse had also seen Arne’s patrol car in the forest on Walpurgis Night, and he threatened to tell the police if we didn’t pay up.’
‘Was framing Leo part of the deal?’
Bertil shakes his head.
‘Lasse did that of his own accord. He hated his stepson. He never regarded him as a member of the family. Arne said they’d had a fight on Walpurgis afternoon, and Lasse had pulled a knife. He was a vile person, but . . .’
Bertil pauses and his eyes cloud over for a moment, then he’s back. Thea realises she doesn’t have much time.
‘Leo was already the main suspect,’ she says. ‘The children had identified him, and Elita’s letter suggested that he might be involved. All Lasse had to do was change his statement slightly, claim that Bill had come home covered in mud, then shoe him so that the prints more or less matched Nelson’s.’
‘Something like that. But as I said, he did that off his own bat.’
‘What about the cap badge? The one Erik Nyberg just happened to find?’
Bertil closes his eyes, as if he’d forgotten that detail.
‘A bad decision. Nothing to do with me.’
‘So Erik knew where to look? Knew where Lasse had planted evidence against Leo? And he and the count had no problem with Leo taking the blame?’
‘The count and Erik did what they thought was best in order to protect Hubert.’ Bertil’s face has lost all its colour. ‘I think I need to sit down.’
Thea helps him over to the sacrificial stone.
‘How much do you actually remember, Bertil?’
‘It comes in waves. I . . .’ He breaks off, seems to be thinking.
‘Have you talked about this to anyone outside the family before?’
He looks a little more present.
‘No, and it’s high time. Soon I won’t be able to remember anything anymore, and I don’t want to take the lies with me to the grave. They’ve already caused too much misery. Poor Jan-Olof, who has carried this for so long. David and the others too.’
‘Do you think they had their doubts?’
‘I’m sure they did – David definitely. Why do you think he stayed away for so many years? He knew he’d lied, both to the police and in court.’
‘Did you tell him that he’d helped to frame an innocent man?’
Bertil shakes his head.
‘No. We didn’t tell him or Arne, but I think they had their suspicions. Particularly when . . .’ He makes an irritated gesture as if he’s forgotten what he was going to say.
‘When the count set up the Bokelund Foundation with your help, and disinherited Hubert,’ Thea says. ‘Gave virtually his entire fortune to the community as a kind of recompense for what Hubert had done.’
‘Yes.’ Bertil sighs. The air seems to have gone out of him all of a sudden.
‘Elita was pregnant. Who removed that information from the case file?’
‘Lennartson, the chief of police. He and I played bridge together. We agreed that it was an unnecessary detail that would give rise to a whole lot of speculation. Make the situation worse.’
‘I presume Lennartson owed a lot of money to your bank?’
Another sigh. ‘He did.’
‘Who was the child’s father?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Bertil shrugs; he looks as if he’s telling the truth.
‘And what happened to Hubert?’
‘The count sent him to stay with relatives in England the very next day. Kept him away for years.’
‘And the count had Nelson shot and the body incinerated as soon as possible to get rid of any evidence. With Erik Nyberg’s help?’
‘Yes.’ Bertil leans heavily on his stick.
‘And what about the Svart family?’
No response. She repeats the question, but Bertil doesn’t look up or move.
‘Bertil?’ She touches his arm. His body jerks and he raises his head. The confusion is back.
‘Kerstin?’
‘No, it’s me, Thea. Your daughter-in-law.’
Bertil frowns.
‘Daughter-in-law? That can’t be right. David’s only . . .’
He loses the thread. Gets to his feet and gazes around.
‘This is where it happened,’ he murmurs. ‘Poor girl.’
He takes a few steps, trips over something and falls headlong. Thea rushes over to him and helps him up. He’s cut his forehead. She searches her pockets for something to staunch the bleeding, the moves on to his. Finds a white linen handkerchief and helps him to press it against the wound.
‘We need to get back to the car, Bertil. That’s going to need a stitch.’
‘No, no. We’ll go to Kerstin’s . . .’
He points towards the hunting lodge, takes a couple of wobbly steps and almost falls again. Thea catches him just in time.
‘Don’t you think it would be better to go to the car and . . .’
‘No!’ he shouts. ‘We’ll go to Kerstin’s. Dear, dear Kerstin. She’ll help us.’
He sets off again with the handkerchief pressed to his forehead, and Thea realises she’s not going to be able to steer him in any other direction.
She tucks her arm under his and lights the way with the torch.
86
I
t doesn’t take too long to reach the hunting lodge. Bertil plods along determinedly. He doesn’t say much, just concentrates on keeping the handkerchief in place.
Thea thinks about what he told her. Or rather confirmed.
Hubert murdered Elita, and Leo was sacrificed to save him. To save the reputation of the Gordon family, save the children who’d lied to the police, save Arne’s career, and in the long term the whole community, since it is the Bokelund Foundation’s money that keeps the village alive. All the pieces of the puzzle are in place – or almost all of them.
She still doesn’t know what happened to the Svart family.
Once again she thinks about the beret she found in the kitchen at Svartgården. Had Eva-Britt and Lola somehow discovered what Lasse had done? Realised that he’d planted the cap badge, maybe even come across the blackmail money, or seen him shoeing Bill?
They arrive at the lodge before Thea has completed her train of thought. The grey tabby cat is sitting on the step, staring at them. Thea knocks on the door and Kerstin opens it almost immediately.
‘Dear me, Bertil, did you get lost again?’
Bertil straightens up. ‘No, not tonight. I’ve been talking to Thea. Telling her about the spring sacrifice . . .’
He shakes his head in frustration, as if to clear his mind.
‘He’s had a fall,’ Thea says. ‘Do you have a first aid kit?’
‘Of course. Come into the kitchen and we’ll fix you up, Bertil.’
They settle him on the kitchen sofa, just like last time. The bleeding has slowed.
Kerstin produces a surprisingly well-stocked first aid box, then makes tea while Thea tapes the wound.
‘There you go – that’ll do for now, but it would be best to get it stitched.’ She turns to Kerstin. ‘Can you call Ingrid? We’re not on the best of terms at the moment, after what happened with Jan-Olof.’
Kerstin shakes her head.
‘Poor Jan-Olof. He’s had a difficult time for many years, both with his mother’s health and his own. It was hardly your fault that he got drunk and fell – you saved his life!’
Thea feels a warmth spread through her chest, and it’s not just from the tea. Kerstin glances at Bertil, who seems to have fallen asleep.
‘Ingrid is very black and white. Empathy isn’t her strong point. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think it was a bad decision – throwing you out and giving you the sack just because you’d kept quiet about who your father was. I think a lot of people would have done the same in your situation.’
Thea sighs.
‘I assume all this is on the Tornaby Facebook page? That the whole village knows about my family history?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Thea takes a gulp of her tea. It’s one of Kerstin’s own blends; it’s slightly too bitter, but she can’t bring herself to say so.
‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’
‘Go ahead. I’ll give Ingrid a call.’
Thea sinks down on the toilet seat. Her body feels heavy.
She tries to gather her thoughts. Eva-Britt and Lola confront Lasse. They toss the beret on the table in front of him. Then what? No doubt there’s a row. You don’t demand answers from a man like Lasse Svart. Someone gets hurt, bleeds so much that he or she has to have the wound dressed in the bathroom. The print on the wall was made by a man with big hands. Is Lasse the one who’s bleeding?
Thea’s head feels heavy now. She stands up, splashes her face with cold water. Flops down again.
There are some magazines in a basket at her feet; the top one is Bridge. Another bridge player, like Bertil and the chief of police.
Suddenly another piece of the puzzle slots into place.
What was it Kerstin Miller said when Thea asked how she ended up in Tornaby?
Oh, the usual reason when someone moves halfway across the country – love. It didn’t work out . . .
Dear, dear Kerstin – that was how Bertil referred to her. And Ingrid seems to do her best to stay away from the hunting lodge.
Thea returns to the kitchen. Bertil is fast asleep. Kerstin is sitting beside him on the sofa holding his hand. It could be a tender gesture, but Thea now realises it’s much, much more than that.
‘You love him,’ she says. ‘You moved down here because of him, in spite of the fact that he was married.’
Kerstin looks up, nods slowly.
‘We met at the national bridge championship in Stockholm. I watched him win the title, then went and introduced myself afterwards. I told him how much I admired his game. As soon as our eyes met, I knew. He was ten years older than me, and married, but none of that mattered. It was Bertil I wanted to be with. When the post at Tornaby school came up I applied right away, even though I knew he’d never leave Ingrid. Love isn’t something you can control.’
‘You know what happened? The spring sacrifice, Elita, Hubert and Leo?’
‘Yes. Bertil tried to do the right thing, but he was in an impossible situation. Someone had to do something, make a decision.’
‘And that was what he did.’ Thea sits down opposite them. ‘Let Leo go to jail. Sacrificed him to save the village.’
Kerstin says nothing.
‘How could he live with himself? An innocent young man going to jail while a murderer walked free?’
‘He couldn’t, really. Bertil is a man of great integrity. He was tortured by what he’d done, and together with the count he tried to make sure that as much as possible was put right afterwards.’
‘Leo received money when he’d served his sentence,’ Thea says. ‘Hubert was sent away to England. The castle was given to the foundation, and the monastery received land as a penance for the count’s sins.’
‘Correct.’
‘And the Svart family? What happened to Eva-Britt, Lola and Lasse?’
Kerstin doesn’t answer.
‘They’d quarrelled,’ Thea says, a little too loudly although she doesn’t know why. ‘Lasse was injured. Lola and Eva-Britt ran to their car to drive to . . .’
Her brain feels like cotton wool, but suddenly she remembers something Per told her – about where the two women used to go when Lasse hit them. Not to the police, but to someone they trusted.
‘They came here,’ she says. ‘Lola and Eva-Britt came here to get help that night. And Lasse followed them.’
Kerstin looks at her with sorrow in her eyes.
‘It was the worst night of my life.’
87
18 May 1986
K
erstin and Bertil had just finished dinner. They were sitting on the sofa in front of the TV, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm around her.
On Wednesday and Sunday evenings Bertil said he had a lodge meeting in Lund, and his wife didn’t ask any questions. However, in recent months Kerstin had begun to see small signs that Ingrid knew what was going on. That she tolerated their relationship even if she didn’t approve of it. Ingrid was a strong woman. She loved Bertil just as much as Kerstin did, and was presumably prepared to sacrifice some of her pride in order to keep him.
That didn’t matter. On Wednesdays and Sundays he was hers, and hers alone. They could be happy out here, away from everyone else. He parked his car on one of the logging tracks, then walked or cycled through the forest. She was happy with that; half a life was better than none. She knew she would never love anyone as much as she loved Bertil; she would do almost anything for him.
The noise made them both jump – a loud, metallic crash. Kerstin leaped up and ran over to the window. The rain was lashing down. She thought she could see car headlights among the trees.
‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, which made Bertil get to his feet too.
But the lights were pointing in the wrong direction, down the slope towards the canal. An accident. Someone had come off the road.
‘I need to go and find out what’s happened.’
Bertil simply nodded; he knew he couldn’t let anyone see him.
Kerstin pulled on her raincoat and boots, got in her car and drove along slowly with the windscreen wipers going full speed.
It was as she’d thought: a car had ploughed down the slope, churning up deep ruts in the sodden ground until it came to a halt only a metre or so from the slow-moving water, its wheels buried in the mud.
The engine was running, but the driver was making no attempt to free the vehicle. She recognised it, and as always it made her feel uncomfortable. Lasse Svart’s red pick-up.
Kerstin briefly considered putting her car in reverse and going home. Cuddling up to Bertil and leaving Lasse to his own devices. But out here people helped their neighbours, even if they didn’t like them – besides which, Lola or Eva-Britt might be in the car. She liked both women. They were good friends, and on a couple of occasions she’d let them sleep over when Lasse had gone too far.
She despised Lasse Svart, despised all men who thought they had the right to beat their women. Her father had been one of them. He’d allowed her mother to go off to work and come up with excuses for her bruises, even though everyone knew where they came from. He’d destroyed her pride, her dignity, until she barely existed. She moved around at home like a silent shadow.
Kerstin left the engine running and made her way down the slope. She was careful where she placed her feet; she didn’t want to slip in the mud.
She shone the beam of her torch on the back window of the pick-up, but couldn’t see the outline of the driver or passengers. When she reached the driver’s door, she understood why. Lasse was slumped over the steering wheel, and beside him on the passenger seat lay a blue nylon bag with the words TORNABY SAVINGS BANK printed in white.
She knocked on the window, saw him stir. She knocked again, then opened the door.
Lasse looked up at her. He was as white as a sheet. His shirt was unbuttoned, and beneath it she could see a bandage that was dark red and shiny with blood. His boots and trousers were covered in mud.
Instinctively she took a step back.
‘Don’t move, Lasse. I’m going home to call an ambulance.’
She knew it was urgent. She would have to get Bertil to make the call while she hurried back with the first aid box to try and staunch the bleeding.
Lasse grinned at her.
‘They got what they deserved,’ he said in a thick voice, as if his throat was filled with blood.
‘Who?’
‘Those bitches. Those bitches who stabbed me and tried to steal my money.’
He pointed through the windscreen with a bloody finger. Kerstin adjusted
the angle of the torch and saw something sticking up out of the water.
She froze. The torchlight was reflected in a bumper and a number plate, and she could see a half-open boot. She was looking at the back end of an old blue Ford. Eva-Britt’s car, its nose buried deep in the muddy canal.
‘Where are they?’ she gasped. ‘Where are Lola and Eva-Britt?’
Lasse pointed to the car again.
‘Down there with the Green Man. Where no one will miss them.’
‘What have you done, Lasse?’
Kerstin staggered backwards up the slope, slithering and sliding and landing on her bottom more than once, but keeping the beam of her torch on the Ford.
She didn’t let herself cry until she was in her car reversing away. The same tears as when she was a little girl. Tears of anger, of impotence.
When she was only a hundred metres away from the hunting lodge, she stopped. She applied the handbrake, switched off the engine and sat in silence with the rain hammering on the roof. She wondered how long it would take for someone of Lasse’s size to bleed to death. Ten minutes, maybe?
She checked her watch, closed her eyes and thought about her mother. She’d promised herself she would never be like that, never let anyone walk all over her as her mother had done. When twelve minutes had passed she started the car and slowly drove back to the lodge. Back to Bertil, to warmth and safety.
88
‘L
asse was dead when Bertil and I got down there.’ Kerstin’s voice is quiet, but the anger is clearly audible. ‘Lasse murdered Lola and Eva-Britt. Pushed their car off the road and into the canal. They didn’t have a chance in the muddy water. And as if that wasn’t enough, Bertil worked out that he must have got out of the pick-up and opened the boot of the Ford, retrieved the bag of money without making any attempt to rescue the women. Lasse got what he deserved . . .’
She falls silent. Thea wants to ask a question, but the thought slides away. She takes another sip of her tea.
‘What happened next?’ she manages to ask.
‘We didn’t dare contact the police. Bertil was afraid they’d realise what had gone on, that the count, Erik and he himself would be dragged in, and the whole sorry story would come to light. So he called Erik and together they sank Lasse’s pick-up next to the Ford. They made sure both vehicles ended up deep in the mud, where no one would find them.’
Rites of Spring Page 35