Rites of Spring Page 24

  Her heartbeat speeds up.

  She is in the right place. She has found Svartgården.

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  vartgården consists of three buildings, as Thea saw in the photographs in the case file. The forest has almost swallowed them up, taken over the yard, crushed the roof of the stable and the barn, leaving only the gables intact.

  The house itself looks more or less undamaged, but the vegetation around the walls, which are thick with lichen, has grown so tall that the place appears to be sinking into the ground. Grass and moss on the roof contribute to the look of dilapidation, weeds are growing through the cracks in the stone steps, and rust has eaten away the handrail.

  The boarded-up doors and windows make the house resemble a face with neither eyes nor mouth. The boards are held in place with sturdy bolts, as if someone wanted to make sure that it remained both dumb and blind.

  Thea calls to Emee, blows the whistle again, but the dog still doesn’t respond. This worries her a little, but she consoles herself with the thought that they’re a long way from the deer enclosure.

  She tries the bolts on the front door. Almost thirty-five years of dampness have done their work. The wood is rotten, the nails brown with rust. She inserts the crowbar between the bolt and the board; there is a faint creaking sound.

  She glances anxiously over her shoulder; of course there’s no one there, but she can’t help feeling tense. She’s about to do something illegal. Literally open a door that she shouldn’t be opening.

  A pheasant crows somewhere deep in the forest, making Thea’s heart beat faster. Is she really going to do this?

  What is she hoping to find?

  She hasn’t come here to ask more questions, but to find answers. She pushes down on the crowbar; the bolt resists for a second, then gives up with a faint crack as the nails part company with the damp wood.

  Thea repeats the manoeuvre twice more to remove the other bolts, then she tears off the boarding bit by bit to reveal the front door. She is prepared to break in, but discovers that it isn’t locked. However, it has swollen, so opening it is a struggle.

  The musty smell of an old house fills her nostrils. It’s pitch dark inside; all she can make out is a pile of shoes on the floor, and a few items of outdoor clothing on hooks underneath the hat shelf.

  She puts down the crowbar, switches on her torch and cautiously moves forward. The smell gets worse; it reminds her of the cellar back home. Dampness, earth, old wood and something indescribable. She shudders.

  The house isn’t very big. There’s a closed door to her right, the bathroom straight ahead, next to the stairs. She can just see the kitchen on the left.

  She opens the closed door. A double bed, neatly made. A bedside table, a chest of drawers, a mirror. Two wardrobes.

  On the bedside table there is a book, its covers warped by the damp, plus a faded photograph in a metal frame. Thea picks up the photograph, which shows a girl and a boy on a bench. The boy is looking into the distance, while the girl gazes admiringly at him. Someone has written on the white strip at the bottom: Leo ten years old, Elita six years old. Thea feels her excitement rising. This is the photo Elita mentioned in her letter, so this must have been Eva-Britt’s bedroom.

  It’s a strange feeling, holding the picture in her hand – as if the years have been erased and she’s stepped straight into Elita’s world.

  She sweeps the beam of the torch across the walls. The paper is yellowed and has fallen off in places, lying in a heap by the skirting board. Above the bed hangs a watercolour in the naïve style: various forest creatures dancing in a glade. It reminds Thea of the ceiling paintings in the main dining room at Bokelund.

  She opens one of the wardrobes. It’s full of clothes. So is the other – and the chest of drawers.

  Why would you leave your home without packing some clothes?

  She heads for the bathroom. Washbasin, toilet, bath, mouldy shower curtain. The bathroom cabinet is open, and the contents have been dumped in the washbasin.

  Creams, ointments, toothbrushes, plasters, bottles of pills.

  She looks at the labels. The first contains tranquillisers for Lola Svart, prescribed only two days after Elita’s death. Flunitrazepam. Strong, but not surprising in the case of someone who was already fragile and had lost a child.

  The other bottle was prescribed for Eva-Britt Rasmussen in February 1986 and contains Levaxin, a hormone tablet given to patients with thyroid problems. It’s more than half-full. It might be possible to explain why Lola left her tranquillisers behind, but medication for thyroid deficiency is usually prescribed for life. And yet Eva-Britt didn’t take it with her.

  The impression of a hasty departure is reinforced when Thea enters the kitchen. The smell in here is more acrid than in the rest of the house. There are glasses and plates on the table; judging by the mould, they’d been used. One of the chairs has been knocked over.

  On the cooker Thea sees a greasy frying pan, and a saucepan with something black and unidentifiable in the bottom. She opens a cupboard; it’s full of empty packets, mouse droppings, dead mealworm beetles and various other insects that have eaten themselves to death on a selection of dry goods.

  The next cupboard has an array of bottles and jars, with both solid and liquid contents. She reads the labels: castoreum, digitalis, valerian. This must be Lola and Eva-Britt’s natural medicine cabinet.

  There is a white plastic container on top of the fridge; it’s the same as the ones she saw in the ruins of the shed a little while ago. It’s half-full of a clear liquid.

  Thea shines her torch on the table. Three people sat here eating. Two of them had lost a child, the third person’s child was accused of murder. How do you deal with a situation like that? What do you talk about over dinner?

  She directs the beam at the overturned chair. Someone seems to have leaped to their feet. She thinks it was Lasse, maybe because the chair was at the head of the table.

  She shudders again, not just because of the smell this time. Svartgården is a deeply unpleasant place, but she can’t leave. Not yet.

  The steep stairs are covered in a thick layer of dust; they creak beneath her feet. There are two bedrooms, one at each end, with a landing and a toilet in between. She begins with the room on the left, which contains a double bed, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. The furniture and sloping ceiling make it feel cramped. This must have been Lasse and Lola’s room. The bed is unmade. A movement among the sheets makes Thea jump, and she almost drops the torch.

  Shit!

  A mouse, who was obviously just as scared as she was.

  She waits until her pulse slows before looking in the first wardrobe. Men’s shirts, covered in damp patches. She can’t help touching one of them. Lasse Svart’s shirts have hung here for over thirty years, and yet it’s as if they still hold a small part of him, make him appear more clearly to her. He somehow resembles her own father, even though she actually has no idea what Lasse looked like.

  The other wardrobe is full of women’s clothes. A blue silk blouse catches her eye. Everything else is cheap and ordinary, but the blouse is different. Thea takes it out, shakes off the dust and hooks the hanger over the door. The fabric has aged well, keeping its sheen. This must have been Lola’s best blouse, the one she wore on special occasions, the one that made her feel really good about herself. So why is it still here? Just like her medication, Lola didn’t take it with her.

  Thea checks under the bed and sees two suitcases.

  She straightens up. Something made Lasse and the two women jump up from the table in the middle of dinner. Get into their cars and disappear into the night without suitcases, clothes or medication.

  But what?

  She goes along the landing to the other bedroom. As she gets closer she realises the door is covered in a beautiful, hand-painted pattern of leaves.

  She can just make out ELITA’S ROOM through the dust. And underneath, in smaller letters that almost blend in with th
e artwork:

  Nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forests.

  She’s seen those words before, read them in Elita’s letter, but this time they feel more creepy, somehow.

  She reaches for the door handle, hesitates. The feeling she had earlier is back, the feeling that she’s about to cross a line. Do something she shouldn’t do.

  She pushes down the handle and slowly opens the door.

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  hea pauses in the doorway, shining her torch around the room. She has a sense of unreality; Elita’s room is exactly the same as in the photographs in the case file. A single bed, an IKEA desk, an armchair, a lamp, a wardrobe.

  She goes over to the desk, directs the beam at the place where the letter had lain.

  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.

  Thea opens the desk drawers. Pens, a biology textbook, a pile of cassette tapes. One of them is labelled TOP TRACKS, but she doesn’t think it’s Elita’s handwriting. Another says BRYAN ADAMS. She looks around for a tape player, but can’t see one.

  In one of the drawers, beneath papers yellow with damp, she finds a Polaroid photograph of Elita sitting on her bed. Judging by the angle, she must have put the camera on the desk and used the automatic timer. Dampness has caused the surface to bubble, and the colours have faded; even though Elita is smiling, the image is unpleasant.

  Thea slips it in her pocket and goes over to the wardrobe. Elita Svart has worn these clothes. She pictures the girl standing here trying things on in front of the mirror on the inside of the door. Listening to Top Tracks. Miming to Duran Duran, Wham!, Madonna. Dreaming of getting away from this place.

  Half of the hangers are empty. Thea thinks back to Lola’s wardrobe; her best blouse was still there. The opposite is true of Elita’s clothes. The items that are left are old, faded, or too childish for a young woman.

  She bends down and peers under the bed. A few pairs of worn-down shoes, a pile of books, an empty space.

  She takes out the photograph again. The top of the pile of books is visible, and there is something blue and rectangular where the empty space is now. A suitcase.

  A blue suitcase in which Elita packed her nicest clothes, not because she was planning to die, but because she would be flying away from here. Floating high above everyone’s heads.

  Can you see me, dear readers?

  I can see you.

  Thea is absolutely certain now. Elita was going to run away, on the very night when she died. She’d packed her suitcase, left a cryptic letter explaining why. So where did the case go? It’s definitely not mentioned in the police investigation.

  She uses her phone to take some shots of the room, the wardrobe and the space under the bed.

  Another thought occurs to her: Was Elita really intending to leave alone? Just her and the child she was carrying? Or was the father involved? Was he waiting somewhere with the case, waiting for a girl who never showed up?

  A sound makes her jump; was it the creak of a floorboard?

  Her heart misses a beat. She listens hard, but there is only silence. No doubt old houses are always moving, making all kinds of noises.

  She edges onto the landing, shines her torch down the stairs. Nothing. She heads down to the ground floor. It’s just after eight; she needs to leave if she’s going to open the surgery in time.

  Maybe she ought to take the medication with her, or at least photograph the bottles?

  As she enters the bathroom she notices something on the floor in one corner, something she recognises. Empty green plastic packaging. She picks it up, turns it over.

  EMERGENCY DRESSING.

  She used dozens of these when she was out in the field. She always carried at least one, usually two, in her trouser pockets.

  She takes a closer look at the washbasin and the floor. In spite of the dust, she thinks she can see several dark patches.

  They could be anything. But they could also be blood.

  Someone could have stood in here dressing an injury. Tried to staunch a bleed that was too serious for a plaster.

  She glances around for towels, but the hooks next to the basin are empty. She steels herself and draws back the disgusting shower curtain. She can’t suppress a gasp.

  Two dark towels lie screwed up in the bottom of the bath. In the middle of the wall, dried onto the white tiles, is a big, rust-coloured handprint.

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  hea photographs the handprint, the towels and the empty packaging. She compares the print with her own hand; it’s much bigger. A man’s, presumably Lasse’s, unless a fourth person was here.

  She returns to the kitchen.

  Lasse Svart leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair. But what happens next? She sweeps the beam of the torch all around the room, looking for more bloodstains, but the wooden floor is too worn and dirty. She crouches down; there is a piece of dark material next to one of the table legs. It takes a few seconds before she realises what it is: a green beret. Someone has written 223 Rasmussen inside with a black felt tip. This must be Leo’s beret, the one with the cap badge that definitively tied him to the scene of the murder. So what is it doing here?

  Thea tucks the beret into her pocket and continues to examine the floor. She soon makes another discovery; among the rag rugs there is a hatch. She glances at her watch; it really is time she left. It will take her a good half hour to walk back to the car, then it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the surgery. Plus she has to find Emee.

  She can’t help it; she has to at least open the hatch and take a look.

  The recessed bolt also acts as a handle. She gets hold of it and pulls as hard as she can, but the hatch refuses to move. She goes back to the porch and fetches the crowbar; she also steps outside for a few gulps of fresh air, and looks around for Emee.

  The yard is silent. Maybe too silent. The birds have stopped singing again, just as they did a little while ago. She suddenly feels uneasy. She clutches the crowbar, peers into the gloom beneath the trees.

  ‘Emee! Emee!’

  Nothing. She can’t wait any longer. Either she leaves now, or she goes back inside and forces the hatch.

  She chooses the latter option, and the hatch gives up the fight surprisingly quickly, releasing a gust of that familiar cellar smell. Thea puts down the crowbar, shivers, and directs the beam of the torch down the hole.

  A narrow wooden staircase leads to a large cellar directly below the kitchen. A shelf obscures her view; the only way to see what’s behind it is to go down there. She hesitates. It’s getting late; is she really going to investigate a pitch-dark cellar? If she doesn’t, she might miss something important. She hasn’t come all the way out here to leave without following every possible lead.

  Slowly she begins to make her way down the steps. The smell is nauseating, making her breathe in short gasps.

  When she reaches the bottom, she stops and takes in her surroundings. The shelf is packed with old-fashioned glass jars; the contents are cloudy, but the labels are still legible. Apples, pears, plums, even eggs. Bottles of elderflower cordial.

  Cautiously she edges around the shelf. Pipes, a rusty boiler, a huge pile of wood. She’s about to turn and go back to the stairs when she hears something. A faint scraping, followed by the creak of a floorboard. She looks up, sees a flash of light. There’s someone up there.

  Rapid footsteps, a different kind of creak, and she realises what’s happening. She makes a run for the stairs, but trips and falls head first. Her torch bounces across the floor and goes out. She looks up and glimpses a pair of wellington boots before the hatch is slammed shut, and she is plunged into total darkness.

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  he crash of the hatch bounces off the cellar walls. Thea hears the rattle of the bolt, then footsteps crossing the kitchen floor, followed by the front door closing.

&nb
sp; She is alone here. Alone and locked in a pitch-black cellar.

  Her heart is racing. In her head she is five years old, or eight, or ten. It’s a different cellar, but it smells the same. Dampness, earth, fear.

  She can already hear the faint sound of insects scuttling across the floor. The ones with hard bodies and vibrating wings.

  She is almost paralysed with terror, but forces herself up onto all fours. Gropes around in the darkness, but fails to find the torch. Her hand brushes against something alive, and she snatches it back. Presses her back against the wall, wraps her arms around her knees.

  She is alone. No one knows she is out here in the forest, no one except the person who’s locked her in, left her alone in the darkness. She could die here without anyone realising. Sooner or later the old house will collapse, like the stable and the barn. Bury her under a pile of rubble and dust, just as in her nightmare.

  Her chest contracts, her breathing becomes shallower. Her vision flickers.

  She has to calm down, stop hyperventilating before she faints. She is no longer a terrified little girl, she is a grown woman who has worked in war zones, seen people die, continued operating even though bombs were shaking the building she was in.

  She fumbles in her pocket, takes out one of Emee’s poo bags. Breathes into it. The trick works. The flickering stops, her pulse slows.

  She must try to think. The priority is to find her torch. She pushes the bag back into her pocket; her fingers touch something hard.

  Her phone – Jesus, how stupid!

  She brings the screen to life, clicks on the torch. There is enough light to find her proper torch and, maybe more importantly, to chase away the worst of the fear.

  She checks the phone, but as she suspected there is no coverage down here. She climbs the steps and pushes at the hatch, but it’s rock solid. She searches the cellar, but can’t find anything that might help her to break out. Presumably the crowbar is still on the kitchen floor. Why the hell didn’t she bring it with her?