Rites of Spring Read online

  ‘I hear you’re off the medication. Glad you’re getting better.’

  Thea says nothing. Silently thanks David for overstepping the mark.

  ‘You and David need each other.’ Ingrid nods in the direction of her son, who is talking to the producer and the interviewer. ‘You need a chance to recover. Get away from everything that’s happened.’ She continues to nod, emphasising her words. ‘By the way, I’m working on the guest list for the preview dinner. So sad that your parents are no longer with us.’

  The new topic of conversation seems innocent enough, but it’s always hard to tell with Ingrid.

  ‘Yes,’ Thea replies. The lie is so well-practised that it doesn’t even feel untrue.

  Ingrid touches her arm. ‘You should know that Bertil and I regard you as our own daughter.’

  The gesture surprises Thea, and she doesn’t really know what she’s expected to say. She and David have been together for a number of years, on and off, but they’ve only been married since last November. She can probably count the number of times she’s met her in-laws on the fingers of one hand, and Ingrid Nordin is not the kind of person who’s in the habit of showing her emotions or her appreciation.

  ‘How is Bertil today?’ Thea manages to ask.

  ‘Good. He wanted to come, but he was a little tired.’ Ingrid points to the TV team. ‘I think they’re starting.’

  David has taken up his position on the steps, exactly where the drone footage ended. The interviewer is a young man with dazzling white teeth and a close-fitting suit. He looks a little too ambitious to be doing this kind of lightweight reporting. Judging by his body language and the irritated glances he keeps giving the producer, he is of the same opinion.

  The first question sounds as if it belongs in a sports programme.

  ‘David Nordin – how does it feel to return home after more than twenty successful years as a chef and restaurant owner in Stockholm?’

  Thea already knows the answer. She and David have been rehearsing this interview for almost a week, but she is still a little nervous, for some reason.

  ‘Fantastic, of course. Bokelund Castle is a wonderful environment for a restaurant. I’m so happy to be able to promote my local area and the traditional cuisine of Skåne. It’s a natural step for me, and one I’ve longed to take for many years.’

  David ends with a smile that radiates self-confidence. Apparently. This part of the narrative is vitally important. He is the local boy made good, triumphantly returning home to attract tourists and summer visitors. Not a disgraced restaurateur who has been forced to quietly close his businesses and scuttle south with his tail between his legs.

  ‘So you and two of your childhood friends are behind this project?’

  Thea breathes out. The interviewer is sticking to the agreed questions. David also seems relieved.

  ‘That’s correct – Jeanette Hellman and Sebastian Malinowski. Sebastian is one of the founders of the IT company Conexus, and Jeanette has had a long and successful career in finance. We all grew up in Tornaby, and we see the restaurant as an opportunity to give something back to our beloved local area.’

  Goodness me. Who wrote that reply for him? It wasn’t you, was it, ma chère?

  Margaux’s voice comes from nowhere. Thea gives a start, quells the impulse to look around. She knows that Margaux can’t possibly be here. Although she’s right, of course. ‘Beloved local area’ is way too much.

  ‘An amazing opportunity,’ David continues, answering a question that Thea has missed. ‘We’re so grateful to the Bokelund Foundation for modernising the castle and investing in the restaurant. Paving the way, so to speak . . .’ He laughs.

  Thea glances at her mother-in-law, who is entirely focused on the interview. No mention of the fact that she is the chair of the foundation, or that Ingrid is behind most things that happen around here, including this interview.

  David is comfortable now. His voice is less tense, his smiles more spontaneous. Thea relaxes a fraction.

  Next question.

  ‘Is the castle haunted?’

  Margaux comes into her head again – her image this time. That chopped-off fringe, those brown eyes, that slightly crooked front tooth she always presses her tongue against just before she smiles.

  ‘Absolutely. We have two ghosts, in fact. In the middle of the eighteenth century a young woman drowned when she fell through the ice into the moat. According to the legend, she was on her way from the castle to a secret tryst with the huntsman’s son. In the late nineteenth century another young woman came off her horse during a fox hunt in the forest and broke her neck. It’s said that sometimes you can hear the two of them galloping through the trees at night. If you believe in ghost stories, that is.’

  The interviewer nods with interest.

  ‘But there’s a real-life story too, isn’t there? A third girl who died. I’m thinking of the spring sacrifice.’

  David’s smile stiffens. Thea sees Ingrid straighten her shoulders.

  ‘Yes, it was a tragedy. Maybe we shouldn’t . . .’ David looks at Thea, then at the producer.

  ‘Cut!’ The producer takes the interviewer to one side, and a fractious discussion ensues.

  David chews on his thumbnail, his brow once again shining with perspiration. Thea goes over to him, takes his other hand. It is hot and sweaty.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I just lost the thread.’

  The make-up artist reappears and powders his forehead. The producer and the interviewer are still arguing.

  ‘But why? The true-crime angle is much more interesting. The viewers love that kind of thing, I don’t get why we . . .’

  The producer interrupts, says something that makes the interviewer turn on his heel and stomp down the steps.

  David squeezes Thea’s hand. Ingrid goes over to have a quiet word with the producer, who beckons the cameraman and says: ‘We’ll take it from the top. I’ll ask the questions this time, stick to what we agreed. OK?’

  David nods stiffly. Thea lets go of his hand and quickly moves out of shot.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The producer asks the same introductory question as before, and David immediately trips over his words. They try again and again, but his concentration is gone. His responses sound mechanical and automatic, and there is no trace of his warmth and charm.

  Thea sees the producer glance at his watch, then at the sky, where the band of grey is getting closer and closer.

  ‘We’ll take a short break. Have a drink of water, David.’

  The producer and Ingrid confer once more. David sips at a bottle of water. The make-up artist continues to fight a losing battle with his shiny forehead.

  ‘It’s all going wrong,’ he mutters. ‘Before we’ve even started.’

  Thea takes his hand again. ‘You can do this. Just try to relax.’

  ‘It’s no good, we’ll have to rethink. Come up with something else.’ He squeezes her hand, looks pleadingly at her, raising his eyebrows to make sure she understands what he means. ‘I can’t do this without you, Thea. Please . . .’

  She swallows, tries to assess the risks.

  Ingrid interrupts her train of thought.

  ‘So, Thea – Peter, the producer, and I have decided it would be good if you were involved in the interview. The supportive wife, the area’s new GP and so on.’

  Thea can feel everyone’s eyes on her. There is a lump of ice in her stomach, her mouth feels as dry as dust. David squeezes her hand again, harder and harder until she almost can’t bear it.

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘OK,’ she says, and regrets it almost immediately. But it’s too late now.

  She hears Margaux’s throaty voice inside her head.

  We all have our ghosts, Thea. Some more than others.

  Far away, beyond the darkening grey band on the horizon, the thunder rumbles threateningly.

  2

 
; ‘I’m sure you’re wondering how Emee is. She runs away as soon as I let her off the lead. Disappears into the forest, won’t come back when I call her. I think she’s searching for you, Margaux. She misses you. We both do. Are you missing us? Sorry – stupid question.’

  T

  hea cuts through the box garden and continues across the lawn behind the castle. Emee already knows the way; she is pulling at the lead, eager to get on.

  The moat forms a pond here, or even a small lake, divided by the stone bridge leading over to the forest. The bridge is only a couple of metres wide. It was built in the early nineteenth century, presumably so that the fine folk could ride directly from the castle into the forest.

  Beneath the bridge the water is bottle-green and slow-moving; the surface is largely covered with aquatic plants and a slimy layer of algae. The water comes from the marsh, bringing with it a smell that Thea recognises from other places: the jungles of Nigeria, the desert landscape of Ethiopia, the forensic pathology lab in Solna and among the ruins of Syria. It is a mixture of earth and yeast, iron and ammonia, insects with vibrating wings, and grubs that live on decay.

  Thea shudders. Emee snorts, as if she too wants to escape the musty smell. As soon as they reach the other side Thea lets her off the lead, and she races away among the tall trees like a streak of grey.

  Thea follows the path, waiting until she is out of sight of the castle before lighting up. Gauloises with no filter, which Margaux taught her to enjoy. She has promised David that she will stop.

  She takes a deep drag, holds the smoke for a few seconds until she feels the pain in her lungs.

  What’s worse than a doctor who smokes? Margaux used to say. Two doctors who smoke, of course!

  A silly joke, but Margaux always got away with it. She only had to dip her head, hiding her eyes beneath her dead-straight, cartoon-character fringe to make everyone burst out laughing.

  Today’s TV interview worries Thea. She tries to tell herself that she only appears on screen for a minute or two, that over twenty-five years have passed, and that no one is going to recognise her. Plus she had no choice; David couldn’t have carried on alone. The opening is getting closer and closer, he’s working long hours, and the phone is always ringing. He is under enormous pressure.

  And yet she is convinced that it was the unexpected question that really threw him. A third dead girl, a much more recent event, something the interviewer definitely wanted to talk about rather than continuing with the sunny positivity. David has never mentioned the story to her. She will have to find the right opportunity to ask him about it.

  *

  The castle forest rises above the surrounding marsh on a slight hill, an area of solid ground where the trees have been able to grow bigger than in other places. The Bokelund Foundation has put all its funds into the castle itself, leaving the forest to its own devices. The section closest to the bridge and the castle was once more like a park, but weeds have invaded the gravel paths, the old lampposts are no longer connected to the electricity supply, and only a couple of the benches are sturdy enough to sit on. Not that anyone ever does. During the week or so she has been here, Thea hasn’t seen a single person in the forest, but maybe that’s not so strange. Tornaby is five kilometres away, and the castle has few neighbours. There are hardly any roads leading here; it’s as if the world has forgotten this place, left all its decaying beauty to her. The newly opened leaves have not yet formed a solid canopy, and the sunlight filters down onto the carpet of wood anemones. The birds are singing, the wind is soughing through the treetops. Everything is so lovely, and yet a little sad. Maybe that’s why she feels at home here?

  A crooked signpost informs her that it is five hundred metres to the castle (heading south, back the way she came), five kilometres to Tornaby (west along the overgrown track to her left), six hundred metres to the stone circle that she hasn’t yet explored (straight ahead to the north), and finally five hundred metres to the canal (east along the track on the right).

  David has told her that the canal is actually a wide ditch about a kilometre in length. It slices through the forest, diverting the water from the wetland to the moat. He has plans to create a floating restaurant, travelling via the moat and along the canal all the way to the hunting lodge at the far end. Personally, Thea wonders whether the almost stagnant water and the smell of the marsh might make the diners lose their appetite, but of course she hasn’t said anything to David.

  She chooses the track leading east, talking slow drags to make her cigarette last as long as possible. After a couple of minutes she reaches a glade. On one side there is an ancient tree with a gnarled trunk and heavy, twisted branches. The bark is grey, but the light in the glade makes it look almost white.

  Instead of continuing along the track she goes over to the tree. Its girth must be four metres, maybe more. Beside it there is a grubby information board that she hasn’t noticed before. She rubs away some of the green algae so that she can read the text.

  OAK – QUERCUS ROBUR

  The oak is one of Scandinavia’s largest trees, and can be found from Skåne all the way up to Gästrikland. This particular tree is known as the Gallows Oak, although it is unclear whether it was actually used for executions. According to an investigation carried out in 1998, its age is estimated at over nine hundred years old, which makes it the oldest tree in the castle forest, along with the hawthorn grove by the stone circle. The nodular growths on the trunk are known as burls, and are probably caused by a genetic defect that makes the wood fibres grow in the wrong direction in relation to the trunk itself.

  Approximately three metres from the ground there are two large burls and a hole, which together give the impression of a man’s face, familiarly known as the Green Man. According to a local legend, the Green Man is a creature who takes on human form on certain nights during the spring, and rides through the forest to chase away the winter and the darkness. This same legend says that spring gifts should be inserted in the Green Man’s mouth in order to hasten the return of life.

  Thea gazes up at the trunk; the formation is easy to find. Two protruding oval shapes side by side, with swollen edges and a smooth centre, and below them a black, circular hole. It definitely resembles a warped male face with empty eyes and a gaping mouth.

  A patch of wood anemones is growing right beside her. Without really knowing why, she picks a few and tucks them into her pocket. She stubs out her cigarette, places her foot on the lowest burl, pushes off and grabs the next one with her hand. She hasn’t climbed a tree since she was a little girl, but she remembers the technique her big brother taught her. Use your hands to hold on, your legs to push. She doesn’t weigh much, and her back, arms and shoulders are strong.

  The pale bark is coarse and rough, full of nooks and crannies that she can use. It doesn’t take her long to reach the creepy face. She stares into its dead eyes and suddenly feels ridiculous. This is something Margaux would do. Thea’s forte is being sensible and logical, focusing on things that can be measured and organised. She loves jigsaws, always knows where the emergency exits are, keeps a rucksack packed with the essentials just in case the worst happens. Used to keep, she corrects herself. Until the worst actually happened.

  Thea takes the wood anemones out of her pocket and pushes them into the Green Man’s mouth. The hole is bigger than it looked from the ground, and her fist easily fits inside. She feels an edge, as if the thick trunk is partly hollow. She extends her arm as far as she can, closes her eyes and thinks of Margaux. Tries to summon up every detail of her face. Her dark fringe, her eyes, the tiny freckles on her nose. Her smile.

  Then she drops the flowers.

  To the return of life.

  A gust of wind passes by, bending the treetops and sending up swirls of dry leaves from the ground. It carries with it the smell of electricity, of a storm. Thea shivers.

  Somewhere deep in the forest, Emee begins to bark.

  3

  Walpurgis Night 1986


  Dear readers!

  Every narrative must have a beginning, a middle and an end. This is my beginning.

  My name is Elita Svart. I am sixteen years old. I live deep in the forest outside Tornaby.

  By the time you read this, I will already be dead. But let’s take it from the start, shall we?

  A

  rne Backe realised almost straightaway that the garage foreman was messing with him. The fat bastard leaned across the counter speaking loudly enough for his two colleagues, who were doing an oil change on a Volvo 245, to hear every world.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Police Constable 2971 Backe, Ljungslöv police. I’ve come to pick up a radio car.’

  Arne stroked his moustache in a way that he imagined made him look older and more experienced.

  ‘Have you indeed.’ The foreman ran a fleshy finger down the page of his ledger. ‘A radio car for the Ljungslöv police. Do you really need one? I thought you mostly drove tractors out there in the sticks.’

  Arne could hear the two grease monkeys laughing behind him, but he didn’t bother turning around. Instead he rapped on the counter with his knuckles.

  ‘Keys. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘In a hurry! Why would you be in a hurry? Do you have to get home to do the milking? Or are you helping Hans Holmér to solve the murder of Olof Palme?’

  More laughter, louder this time. The foreman straightened up and produced a bunch of keys, which he dramatically placed on the counter in front of him. He obviously intended to draw this out for as long as possible.

  Arne was used to people trying to wind him up. He was twenty-two years old, the youngest officer at the station in Ljungslöv. A newly qualified kid, wet behind the ears, who was only allowed to make the coffee, man the reception desk and run errands. Lennartson, the chief of police, had very reluctantly organised a lift to Helsingborg in the mail van so that Arne could pick up the new radio car. Lennartson always adopted a particular expression when their eyes met, a mixture of irritation and distaste that Arne had seen way too often. It seemed to be something he evoked in others, something he couldn’t do anything about.