The only person who wasn’t scared of Uncle Harald was Mum. Mum wasn’t scared of anyone, except maybe God. Sometimes she and Uncle Harald had arguments. He had heard them say things to each other. Harsh words that he didn’t really understand, but he knew they weren’t nice.
All the same, Uncle Harald’s birthday present was the one he had the highest hopes of. A little rabbit that would be his alone, that’s what his uncle had promised. Maybe just like the one sitting a few metres away from him. If he could catch that one, he’d have two. And Uncle Harald would be proud of him. Proud of him for being a proper hunter.
He’d waited long enough now, so he took another careful step forward. The baby rabbit went on chewing the long grass, didn’t even notice him getting closer. He took another step and slowly reached out his hands. It might just work.
‘Billy, time to come in now!’
The rabbit raised its head, it seemed to be listening to the voice from the house. Then it turned and scampered away.
He felt disappointment tug at his chest. But then the rabbit stopped and looked back at him, as if it was wondering where he’d gone. He hesitated. Mum would be worried if he didn’t go in. The owls were hooting louder now, and the outside lights had come on, making the shadows in the garden deeper. The rabbit was still looking at him. It seemed to be saying: Are you coming?
He took a couple of steps, then a few more.
‘Billy!’ his mum called. ‘Billy, come inside now!’
The hunt was on. The rabbit scampered away from him, and if he was really lucky it would lead him to its burrow. Somewhere full of baby rabbits with big eyes and soft fur. Rabbits he could take home with him. Which could live in the cage Uncle Harald had promised him.
‘Billy!’ Mum’s cry disappeared in the distance. The baby rabbit was still running ahead of him, and even though he was wearing his best running shoes it could probably easily outpace him if it wanted to. Perhaps the rabbit wanted him to catch it? Hug it, make it his.
He followed it through the rows of gnarled old fruit trees. Then in amongst the overgrown bushes. He didn’t really like this furthest part of the garden. Earlier in the summer his friend Isak had found a jawbone on the ground under the dense branches, a white bone with four yellow molars attached. Uncle Harald had said that Grandfather used to bury things there. Things he wanted to get rid of for good. That the jawbone probably belonged to a pig, and that you had to bury some things very deep to stop the foxes finding them.
He had only ever seen one fox in his life. That was when Uncle Harald, Dad and the other men laid the results of their hunt out in the yard last autumn. Narrow eyes, a shimmering red coat, sharp teeth that stuck out beneath the bloodstained nose. The dogs kept their distance from it. They seemed unsettled, almost frightened. Uncle Harald had said that you always shot foxes if you got the chance. That it was the duty of every hunter, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Because foxes were cunning, just like in fairy tales. They knew how to move without leaving a trail.
‘They’ve got incredible noses,’ he said. ‘And foxes love the smell of rabbits and little boys. So make sure you stay inside the fence, Billy!’
Then Uncle Harald had laughed, that rumbling laugh that sounded jolly and dangerous at the same time, and after a while he had started to laugh too. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about foxes digging for skeletons in the garden. He even dreamed about them at night. Sharp teeth, paws digging in the soil, damp, shiny noses sniffing the air. Sniffing in the direction of the house for a little boy.
He had avoided that part of the garden since then, and hadn’t protested when Isak wanted to take the pig’s jawbone home with him, even though it should really have been his.
But right now neither skeletons nor foxes could stop him. The rabbit scampered round the dry bushes and he followed it deeper into the undergrowth. A low branch caught his sleeve and he had to stop for a couple of seconds. By the time he had pulled free the rabbit had disappeared.
He hesitated for a few moments, wondering if he should turn back and go up to the house. But he was still caught up in the thrill of the chase. That gave him the courage to go on. Further in amongst the bushes. Like a proper hunter.
More branches reached out towards him, feeling for his clothes with thorny fingers. Somewhere up ahead in the gloom he thought he could see a little white tail bobbing about. Perhaps he’d reached the burrow now? The thought made him speed up, and he almost ran straight into the tall fence that marked the end of the garden.
He stopped abruptly. Just a metre or so beyond the wire fence a dense crop of maize was growing. It wasn’t going to be harvested for a while yet. Not until it had dried and turned yellow, Dad said.
Crickets were chirruping among the leaves, weaving their song into a crisp carpet of sound that almost drowned out his thoughts. The rabbit was on the other side. It was sitting right beneath the green wall of maize plants, watching him. Waiting for him.
The fence was tall. Maybe even taller than Uncle Harald, and certainly too tall for him to be able to climb over. The hunt was over. He wasn’t going to see the rabbit’s burrow. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved. He had never been this far in the garden on his own before. There was only a thin streak of evening light left in the sky, and the shadows among the undergrowth had turned to dense darkness almost without him noticing.
He decided to go home, and was about to turn back when he caught sight of something. A small hollow had been dug out beneath the fence, just big enough for a small boy to crawl through. He looked over towards the rabbit. It was still sitting there.
A gust of wind blew through the field of maize, then the rusty links of the wire fence and the dark bushes behind him. He looked round, then got down on his knees, then his stomach. He wriggled carefully under the jagged wire fence, stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands and knees. He was tingling with excitement. He was out now, beyond the garden, for the first time on his own. He would tell Isak about it on Monday. Maybe Mattias and Vera too. Tell them how brave he was when he caught a rabbit of his very own, only they mustn’t say anything to Mum.
There was a rustling sound among the maize and at first he thought it was the wind again. Then he saw the white tail disappear among the tall plants. The rabbit wasn’t scampering anymore, it was running, fast. Its ears were tucked flat against its head and soil was flying up from its paws. It wasn’t until the rabbit had disappeared from view that he realised what had happened. That the animal’s sensitive nose had picked up a smell belonging to someone other than him. Someone who had burrowed under a fence. Someone with a red coat and sharp teeth who loved the smell of rabbits. And little boys . . .
His heart was beating fast, racing as if it belonged to a frightened little rabbit. The maize plants loomed above him like dark, swaying giants, pushing him back towards the fence. He felt a sob rise in his throat. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something moving, something red. He turned round and realised at the same moment that the crickets had fallen silent.
Mum! he had time to think. Mum!
About the Author
Anders de la Motte is the bestselling author of the Seasons Quartet; the first three books of which – End of Summer, Deeds of Autumn and Dead of Winter – have all been number one bestsellers in Sweden and have been shortlisted for the Swedish Academy of Crime Writers’ Award for Best Crime Novel of the Year. Anders, a former police officer, has already won a Swedish Academy Crime Award for his debut, Game, in 2010 and his second standalone, The Silenced, in 2015.
To date, the first three books in the Seasons Quartet have published over half a million copies. Set in southern Sweden, all four books can be read as standalones.
DEAD OF WINTER
When fifteen-year-old Laura Aulin arrives to spend Christmas with her beloved aunt Hedda, she is also looking forward to spending time with Jack, Hedda’s foster son.
But a lot has happened since last summer and Laura soon fin
ds out that things are not what they first appear, as old faces and new seem to be keeping secrets from her. Tensions and jealousies come to an explosive finale at a party on the night of Lucia.
And when the smoke clears, all that is left is ash . . .
Coming Winter 2022
Deeds of Autumn
Autumn, 1990: Five childhood friends set up camp by their secret swimming spot, for an evening that is supposed to be a last farewell to their childhoods, and each other. But not everyone is ready to let go, or be left behind. When dawn breaks, a body is found floating in the dark waters of the quarry. The police label it a tragic accident, but not everyone is convinced.
Twenty-seven years later, the accident remains an open wound in the community. When the old chief of police is replaced by Anna Vesper, a newly arrived homicide detective from Stockholm, new information comes to light. Soon, Anna is left with no choice but to ignore all warnings and reopen the case from autumn 1990. An autumn that few will admit to remembering, but no one will ever forget.
Coming Autumn 2022
Originally published In Sweden by Bokförlaget Forum In 2020
First published in the UK in 2021 by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2021 by
ZAFFRE
An imprint of Bonnier Books UK
80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden
Copyright © Anders de la Motte, 2020
Translation by Marlaine Delargy
Cover design by Bonnier Art Team
Cover photographs © Jill Battaglia/Trevillion Images
The moral right of Anders de la Motte to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-78576-949-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-78576-948-1
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
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