Rites of Spring Page 11

  Emee is pleased to see her. Thea is about to fetch the lead to take her out when there’s a knock on the door. The man with the beard is standing there.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but could I possibly use your bathroom?’

  ‘Of course.’ She steps aside. ‘It’s on the left in the hallway.’

  ‘I know – Per and I worked on the renovations.’

  He disappears, and returns after a couple of minutes.

  ‘We’re still in a bit of a mess – we haven’t settled in properly yet,’ Thea says, waving a hand in the direction of the piles of boxes and removal crates.

  ‘This is nothing. I helped my eldest daughter to move before Christmas, and she’s still got stuff in boxes.’ His smile is wide and infectious. ‘Stefan Holmkvist, usually known as Little Stefan.’

  ‘Why?’

  He laughs. ‘You’re the first person who’s asked that question for many years. There were two Stefans in my class when I started school. I was small and skinny back then, so . . .’ He spreads his arms wide. ‘I overtook the other Stefan within a few years, but by then the name had stuck.’ He laughs again. Little Stefan seems to be a very likeable person. He’s also worked for both the castle and for Erik Nyberg, so he probably knows a great deal about the area. Thea decides to postpone the dog walk.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  They go into the kitchen and she makes them both an Americano in David’s ridiculously expensive coffee machine. She even manages to find a packet of biscuits.

  ‘How many children do you have, Stefan?’ she asks, softening him up.

  ‘Three, plus two grandchildren and another one on the way.’

  He takes out his phone and shows her pictures of his grandchildren while telling her an anecdote about their nursery school. Thea lets him talk for a while before gently nudging the conversation in the direction she wants it to go.

  ‘Dr Andersson and I were out at the hunting lodge the other day.’

  ‘Kerstin Miller’s place? She’s a fantastic teacher – she taught all my children.’

  ‘She and Dr Andersson told me about Elita Svart. What an awful business!’

  Little Stefan nods.

  ‘Did you know Elita?’

  ‘No, although I bumped into her occasionally on the estate. She lived at Svartgården, deep in the marsh. A terrible place.’

  ‘In what way?’ Thea does her best to sound vaguely interested.

  ‘Lasse Svart ran it down to the ground. He wanted the castle to pay for every little repair, even though the tenancy agreement stated that he was responsible for the upkeep of the property. And he didn’t pay the rent on time. We often went out there to . . .’

  He breaks off, helps himself to a biscuit and takes a bite.

  ‘We?’ Thea says encouragingly.

  ‘Me and Erik Nyberg. Per too, sometimes. It was best if there were two of us when it came to dealing with Lasse Svart. He was a dangerous man.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Violent – at least according to the rumours. There was a lot of gossip; plenty of people were afraid of him. I know he had a hell of a temper. It can’t have been easy for those he lived with – Eva-Britt and Lola.’

  ‘What about Elita’s stepbrother?’

  ‘Leo?’ Little Stefan pulls a face. ‘Things weren’t easy for him either. Lasse gave him a hard time, but I always thought Leo was a nice kid. Certainly not someone who was capable of killing his own sister. On the other hand, I’ve lived long enough to learn that you never know what goes on in other people’s heads. And like I said, Svartgården was a dreadful place.’

  He shakes his head slowly, as if an unpleasant memory has just surfaced.

  ‘So what happened to the family?’

  Little Stefan takes a deep breath.

  ‘They all took off, the day after the funeral. Disappeared without a trace as soon as the girl was in the ground.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. I was the one who found out. I went over there to read the water meter; both cars were gone and the house was empty. It was kind of creepy, to be honest.’ He hunches his shoulders a little. ‘Although with hindsight, I suppose it wasn’t that strange. Lasse had already been given notice to quit, and then Elita died, so . . .’

  He looks at his watch, straightens up.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee – I must get on. Per wants the hedges finished today. The clippings need a few days to dry out so that they’ll burn better on the bonfire.’

  Thea can see that he’s just realised how much he’s said. He’s regretting it now, as Erik Nyberg did the other day. However, she’s not ready to let him go yet.

  ‘What happened to Svartgården after the family vanished?’ she asks as he gets to his feet.

  Little Stefan hesitates, checks his watch again. Then he glances over his shoulder as if he’s worried that someone is eavesdropping. He leans forward and lowers his voice.

  ‘Erik Nyberg told me to board up the whole place that same day – windows, doors, the whole lot. Old Gren and I did it in a few hours, worked as if the devil himself was at our heels. As if there was something inside that house that absolutely mustn’t be allowed to escape.’ He shakes his head again. ‘The following day the track was ploughed up. The count sold the whole lot to the military and they extended the fence around the firing range.’

  He breathes out through his nose as if he’s accomplished a difficult task, then he nods to Thea and heads for the door.

  ‘Thanks again. I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Is it still there?’ she asks his back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Svartgården. Is it still standing?’

  He shrugs. Or maybe he’s trying to suppress a shudder.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been anywhere near since the spring of 1986. Ask Erik Nyberg – he’s bound to know.’

  *

  When Little Stefan has returned to his hedges, Thea puts Emee on the lead and goes over to the castle to say hello to David. From a distance she can hear him arguing with one of the builders. Money, of course, and the schedule. She’s heard several similar conversations over the phone during the past few weeks, but this one is more agitated, more aggressive. She hears a shout, gravel spurting up around feet.

  ‘Fucking idiot!’

  Thea rounds the corner of the east wing to see the builder lying on the ground. David is bending over him; he’s grabbed the man’s jacket with one hand, while the other is raised in a fist.

  ‘David!’ she shouts.

  He turns, his eyes black, his lips a thin line.

  Emee starts barking, hurls herself in David’s direction, baring her teeth and snapping at thin air. Thea has to grasp the lead in both hands and dig her heels into the ground to hold her back.

  David blinks a couple of times, becomes his normal self again. He lets go of the builder’s collar and straightens up. Emee stops barking but continues to growl, hackles raised. She doesn’t take her eyes off David.

  ‘Sorry,’ David mutters. Thea’s not sure who he’s apologising to. He turns on his heel, disappears through the kitchen entrance and slams the door behind him.

  The builder scrambles to his feet.

  ‘I do apologise,’ Thea says. ‘David’s under a lot of stress. There’s so much . . .’

  The man nods, brushing the dirt off his jacket.

  ‘He’s bloody lucky he’s Bertil Nordin’s boy,’ he mutters as he lumbers towards his van.

  26

  Walpurgis Night 1986

  ‘Love is hard, Elita.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say. The hardest thing in life.

  I only met her a few times. Lola didn’t like going there. Grandma was always nice to me, but I understood that she hadn’t been that way with Lola. The few times they were together, there was something strange about Lola’s expression, as if she both adored and hated her mother.

  Sometimes Lola gets the
same look on her face when Lasse is around, but only when he has his back to her. The other day I saw her tuck a knife into her pocket.

  Love and hatred are very close to each other, Grandma said.

  I understand exactly what she meant.

  A

  rne drove fast through the forest, ploughing through muddy puddles, ignoring the branches and undergrowth scraping against the wing mirrors and paintwork.

  Elita had used him, just as her father had done. Treated him as a lackey, pretended to be his friend, toyed with his emotions. She’d borrowed his camera so that she could take a picture for her fucking boyfriend. She hadn’t even had the wit to hand it over secretly; instead she’d done it right in the middle of the yard where everyone could see them. Elita and that fucking mother-in-law’s dream Per Nyberg. The very thought made him feel sick.

  Arne slammed on the brakes, leaped out of the car and grabbed the camera in its case. He didn’t want it anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of what it had been used for. He swung it back and forth by the strap a couple of times, intending to throw it as far as possible into the bog, deep into the mud where no one would ever find it, but the catch came undone and the camera fell to the ground.

  ‘Shitshitshit!’ He kicked at the camera, then saw that something else had fallen out. Another white rectangle, another photograph.

  He picked it up, brushed off the dirt.

  Elita, in a white dress with her hair loose. She was standing on a stone with her eyes closed, hands folded across her chest, holding two antlers. Long silk ribbons were attached to her wrists, and two small figures in animal masks stood on either side of the stone – four in total, clutching the ends of the ribbons. Arne was sure he’d seen a similar picture somewhere else, but where?

  He stared at the photograph, held it close to his eyes so that he could pick out every tiny detail. Something about the image made him feel weird. Dizzy, feverish, sick, all at the same time.

  Elita had written beneath the picture:

  To Arne. Walpurgis Night 1986. Come to the stone circle at midnight.

  Then three more words.

  His heartbeat pulsated through his whole body. Reached his throat, his temples, his stomach, his crotch, repeating the words she’d written.

  The spring sacrifice

  The spring sacrifice

  The spring sacrifice

  27

  ‘They boarded up her house – can you imagine that, Margaux? Blocked up every opening and took away the access road. Why would anyone do that? What secrets were they trying to seal up inside?’

  D

  avid is himself again by the evening. He cooks dinner, lights candles, opens a bottle of decent red wine. He doesn’t mention the altercation with the builder, and nor does Thea. The TV piece on the restaurant is due to be broadcast tonight. Thea is nervous, but tries not to show it.

  ‘How was work today? Are you starting to get to grips with everything?’ David asks.

  ‘Oh yes – I now know the history of Tornaby all the way back to pre-Christian times! Today Dr Andersson told me about the old count and the Bokelund Foundation. And about poor Hubert over in the west wing, who was robbed of his inheritance. By the way, I saw him the other night – I forgot to mention it.’

  ‘Hubert?’

  She nods. ‘He was peeping out from behind a curtain when I was looking for Emee. Isn’t it a bit odd that he hasn’t called round to say hello? Shouldn’t we go and introduce ourselves?’

  David pulls a face.

  ‘Hubert’s . . . different. I’ve only met him once since it was agreed that we were going to rent the castle. He’s something of a recluse, plus I think he’s away quite often.’

  ‘Can he afford that? According to the doctor the count only left him a pittance.’

  ‘I’ve no idea – you’d have to ask my mother. Madam Chairman can account for every krona that passes through the foundation. Nothing escapes her eagle eye, I can promise you that.’ He smiles, pours himself another glass of wine.

  Thea leans back in her chair. She’s missed this David. He’s attractive too, especially when he relaxes. She tries to remember the last time they made love, and concludes that it was much too long ago.

  Outside the window the moat is in darkness. Some of the lamps on the bridge have been fixed, but on the other side the night is impenetrable. She wants to bring the conversation back to Elita Svart. She wonders how to do it, then decides to come straight to the point.

  ‘I found something in the forest the other day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A photograph. I’ll show you.’

  She fetches the Polaroid from her jacket pocket and places it on the table in front of him. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof.’

  David stiffens. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘In an old paint tin inside the Gallows Oak,’ Thea says eagerly. ‘Someone must have pushed it through the hole in the face.’

  David is ashen.

  ‘It’s exactly like the old pictures of the spring sacrifice in the Folk Museum,’ Thea goes on. ‘Was it Elita who persuaded you to dress up? Where did you get the masks from?’

  She pushes the photograph closer to his plate. Only when she meets his eyes does she realise she’s gone too far.

  ‘Take it away,’ he hisses. ‘I don’t want to talk about Elita fucking Svart – haven’t you got that yet? I’ve got other things to think about, like how we’re going to bring this massive project in on budget and on time. Don’t you realise how much is down to me? How many people are monitoring every little thing I do?’

  He shoves the picture away.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘You saw what happened yesterday. How upset Dad got when you mentioned Elita. Mum too, although she didn’t show it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, David. You’re right.’

  She removes the photograph and tops up their glasses, but the pleasant atmosphere is gone. They both make an effort, but they can’t get it back.

  They sit down on the sofa and watch the TV report, everything from the drone shots to the interview. It’s a warm, positive piece, just as David had hoped, yet he seems dissatisfied. Meanwhile Thea tries to suppress her anxiety at having appeared on TV, tells herself that she was on screen for no more than a minute or so, almost thirty years have passed, no one will recognise her.

  Later they have sex anyway, but the feeling from earlier just isn’t there, and it becomes a series of dutiful, mechanical movements.

  David stays in her bed for exactly as long as politeness demands, then retires to his own room, blaming an early meeting.

  Thea lies there staring at the ceiling. The damp patch seems to have grown since this morning. The edges have become more irregular, as if it’s slowly expanding into the room.

  Maybe it’s a sign? However much you renovate and clean, all it takes is a tiny little crack in the façade for the dampness to seep in and begin the destruction.

  28

  ‘Dreams are strange, aren’t they? They transport us through time, open doors to things we thought we’d forgotten. Things we’ve put behind us.

  ‘Do you dream, Margaux? I so want to believe that you do. Happy dreams.’

  S

  he is in a forest. Conifers, anthills, self-seeded birch. Their house is in a dip right at the bottom of the slope. She, her big brother and his friends are playing up among the trees.

  They’ve built two dens near the top, one for Ronny and one for her. It’s Ronny who’s made all the decisions, helped her to put up the frame and fix the poles. Inside she’s made a little pen out of four branches, filled it with pine-cone animals that she and Ronny have made together. The wooden doll her daddy whittled for her is sitting beside the pen. He carved eyes, a nose and a mouth into a sturdy branch, with four protruding twigs forming arms and legs. She’s called it Stubby. She has prettier dolls at home – two Sindys with lots of different outfits, but still she likes
Stubby best. Likes sitting in her den with him in her arms, listening to the older boys outside. She feels safe, secure.

  Then suddenly it’s evening. Blue lights flashing down by their house, doors slamming, agitated voices.

  Ronny and his friends have disappeared, but someone else is running up the slope towards her. Daddy. His face is white, he’s carrying something. An object wrapped in a Konsum carrier bag. He takes Stubby off her, pushes the bag into her hands.

  ‘Jenny – take this and run and hide it. Quickly! Good girl!’

  She gets to her feet and runs as fast as she can. Behind her she can hear more shouting, dogs barking.

  In the forest she falls over. Hurts her knee, but doesn’t cry. She has to help Daddy. Has to be a good girl.

  She scrabbles with her fingers, digs a hole in the ground, pushes the plastic bag into the hole. Presses a piece of turf down on top and covers the whole thing with dry branches. Then she goes back to her den and hides right at the back with her eyes tightly closed.

  Afterwards, when Daddy comes back, he praises her. Says she’s his best girl. Promises to buy her something nice. But when he asks her to show him where she buried the bag, she can’t remember. Everything looks so different in the dark, and she can’t find the right spot.

  Daddy goes crazy, he smashes up both dens, stamps all over the pine-cone animals. He shouts horrible words at her, at Mummy, at Ronny. Grabs her by the arm, it hurts, puts his face close to hers and hisses that the bag doesn’t belong to him, that this is a fucking disaster. Says he’s going to lock her in the cellar and throw away the key if the bag doesn’t come to light.

  She is crying now. So is Ronny.

  Daddy isn’t listening. He makes them spend the whole of the next day searching in the forest.

  In the afternoon Ronny finds the bag at long last, which makes Daddy calm down. She is spared the cellar this time, but Daddy barely looks at her for weeks. She never sees Stubby again. Maybe Daddy threw him on the fire, like he said?