The form is old and typewritten, but she is familiar with the language of the autopsy report from her time as a forensic pathologist.
The summary on the first page is aimed at non-medical personnel, such as police officers, prosecutors, defence lawyers and judges. It states baldly that Elita Svart died as a result of blunt force trauma to the head. Her injuries indicated that she was subjected to one or possibly two violent blows to the upper part of the face, which led to instantaneous death. The murder weapon is described as a large blunt object, probably a stone.
There were no traces on the body that could be linked to a possible perpetrator. No fragments of skin under Elita’s nails to suggest a struggle, although there was a certain amount of soil. Several strands of hair were found on her clothing; the reader is referred to a different technical report. Thea checks and learns that these hairs come from horses and dogs – the animals that lived at Svartgården.
A more detailed account of the autopsy itself follows the summary. Thea soon realises that something isn’t right. The beginning and end are there, but a chunk is missing in the middle. She assumes that the original document pages stuck together, so the archivist failed to copy this section. However, when she checks the pagination, she sees that there are no pages missing – and yet the report is definitely incomplete.
She takes a closer look at the numbers from the middle onwards. The typeface looks slightly different, and the numbers are about a centimetre further to the right than in the rest of the document. She photographs some of them with her phone, then enlarges the image on the screen and plays around with the brightness. In a couple of places she thinks she can see a faint, uneven shadow right next to the numbers – as if someone has Tippexed over the original then typed a different one.
Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. If the pathologist had found something significant, it would have been included in the summary on the first page. She photographs that too, adjusts the brightness once more. No Tippex shadows this time, but there is something almost at the bottom. A thin line across the page could indicate that someone placed a piece of white paper over the original so that the last sentence didn’t appear on the copy. A kind of Eighties version of Photoshop.
Thea goes through the autopsy report once more just to make sure, and reaches the same conclusion.
One page is missing – the examination of Elita’s stomach. Someone has removed that page, and tried to hide the information.
What could they have found in her stomach that was so controversial that someone went to so much effort to keep it quiet?
A sentence from Elita’s letter pops into Thea’s head.
Because no secret is greater than mine.
She rubs her forehead again. Tries to tell herself that she’s wrong, that there must be a perfectly simple explanation for the missing page. But the suspicion has already taken root in her mind. It grows and grows until it becomes a conviction.
Elita Svart must have been pregnant when she was murdered.
48
T
hea spends the drive home trying to get her head straight.
Elita’s pregnancy is not mentioned in any of the interviews, which means that the interviewer probably didn’t know about it. Therefore, the person who removed the page from the autopsy report must have come across the information at an early stage and taken steps to ensure that no one else found out.
The autopsy was just a formality, really. The cause of death had already been established, and there was no evidence pointing to Leo. Therefore, it’s likely that the investigating officers would have read the summary and nothing else, and the pathologist wasn’t called to give evidence at Leo’s trial.
But if Thea is right, if Elita really was pregnant, then who concealed that information – and why? The report should have been sent to the senior investigating officer.
She slows down at a junction and is so lost in thought that she barely notices that the car on the opposite side of the road is flashing its lights at her. The driver is waving as if he wants something.
She stays put as he drives towards her and stops with his side window next to hers. It’s Per Nygren.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he says with his usual smile. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, thanks – I’m just trying to get into the daily routine.’
‘Excellent. It’ll be great to see Bokelund all fixed up soon. I haven’t been inside the castle for years – not since the old count’s time.’
Another smile, just on the borderline between charming and flirtatious.
‘What was he like?’ She thinks of the painting in Hubert’s library.
‘Rudolf? A hard master. I don’t think I ever saw him smile, but he and my father got along well. He was actually my godfather.’
‘Oh – so you must know Hubert?’
Per nods. ‘We used to play together when we were children. Have you met him?’
‘Yes, a couple of times.’
‘Good. Hubert needs to get out and meet people.’ Per leans out of the window a fraction. ‘As you might know, he didn’t go to the village school with the rest of us; he had a private tutor. Unfortunately, that made him a little reclusive. A bit different. But he’s well worth getting to know.’
The tenderness in Per’s voice surprises her a little.
‘Anyway, I must go – I don’t want to be late for rehearsal.’
‘Rehearsal?’
‘I’m in a band – we get together a couple of times a week. It’s mostly for fun, but we play the odd gig – weddings, fiftieth birthdays, that kind of thing. Plus I run an open mic night at Gästis in Ljungslöv. You ought to come along some time.’
Only now does Thea notice the guitar case on the passenger seat. ‘I might just do that.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Have a nice evening, Doctor!’
He is about to close the window when she stops him. The question has been burning in her brain ever since she found the blood on Emee’s coat.
‘Any news on the deer? Was it a wolf?’
The smile fades. ‘We still don’t know. Whatever it is, it took a pregnant hind yesterday.’
‘Where?’ She wishes she hadn’t asked. Holds her breath, waiting for the answer.
‘Same place as before – over by the western meadow.’
‘That’s so sad.’ She glances in the rear-view mirror at Emee, whose head is sticking up above the back seat.
‘Yes. We’re going to have to come up with a new strategy soon; this can’t go on. But don’t worry; it’s not the first time we’ve had problems with predators in the enclosures. Hunting is all about patience. And cunning. A bit like love.’ He winks at her, closes the window and drives off.
*
David’s car is in its usual place. Just like yesterday evening, Thea is struck by a sudden desire to be close to him. It’s as if every little piece of Elita’s story makes her understand him better, helps her to know who the real David is.
She parks her car and goes into the castle, calling his name. She thinks she can hear noises from upstairs; she searches around for a while before she spots the ladder and the open loft hatch in the bridal suite. That’s where the voices are coming from.
‘Hello?’ she shouts.
David’s face appears in the gap. ‘Hi, Thea!’ He looks pleased to see her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re getting ready to install a lightning rod. We can’t afford to have a power cut in the middle of the high season. Come up and see!’
Thea clambers up the steep ladder. She says hello to the workman in dungarees and small round glasses who is inspecting the inside of the roof by the light of a builder’s lamp. The loft is huge, the floor covered with sturdy planks. Removal crates and old pieces of furniture are dotted here and there. Beyond the glow of the lamp, the darkness is dense.
‘Cool, isn’t it? We could have ghost walks up here. Get a couple of the summer staff to dress up as the dead girls.’
Thea is taken aback, then realises he’s talking about the two girls Hubert mentioned, not Elita Svart.
‘The loft runs all the way through the castle, so we could finish above the old chapel,’ he goes on, pointing into the gloom. ‘There are some crosses and a pretty horrible statue of a saint over there that nearly frightened us to death. Take a look for yourself.’
‘No thanks!’ Thea says. There’s plenty of headroom up here, but the smell and the darkness somehow remind her of a cellar.
‘I’ll be another hour or so,’ David informs her. ‘Mum and Dad have invited us to dinner. Nettan will be there too, so you’ll be able to meet her at last. See you later.’
Thea hesitates. To be honest she has no desire to have dinner with David’s parents yet again, particularly with Nettan as an unexpected guest. However, David is in a good mood. Presumably he didn’t see the file this morning, which is a relief, so she decides not to raise any objections.
*
Her in-laws’ Mercedes is parked outside the coach house. In the kitchen Ingrid has made coffee and set out fresh rolls with a selection of toppings.
‘Hi, Thea, come on in. I thought you’d be hungry after work. I’ve got a bone for the dog too – there you go, sweetheart.’
Ingrid holds out a big meaty bone. Emee immediately grabs it and settles down under the kitchen table.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Thea takes off her jacket and shoes and sits down. The place looks different from when she left this morning. The removal boxes that were stacked by the walls have been unpacked and cleared away. The furniture is where it’s meant to be, the books are in alphabetical order, and even her jigsaws have been allocated their own space on a shelf. The whole house smells of detergent.
Ingrid pours the coffee while Thea tries not to show how much it bothers her that her mother-in-law has been poking around among her things.
‘How’s it going at work? Has Dr Andersson handed over the reins?’
‘She has.’
‘Excellent.’ Ingrid pauses, just long enough to enable her to change the subject. ‘Listen, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. People have started talking about you.’ She breaks off, takes a sip of coffee.
‘Talking?’
‘In the village. On Facebook. The word is that our new much longed-for doctor is taking a slightly unhealthy interest in an old murder case.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘No? Well, that’s what people are saying. You have to understand . . .’ Ingrid leans across the table. ‘If you and David are going to build a future here in Tornaby, it’s important for you to become a part of the community. Learn the village’s unwritten rules. One of them is not to bring up that terrible business of Elita Svart and her brother.’
Thea nods, mainly because she doesn’t have a choice.
‘The police investigation and the trial were terribly traumatic for David and his friends.’
‘And for Elita’s family,’ Thea blurts out.
Ingrid recoils slightly, narrows her eyes.
‘Elita’s family disappeared as soon as the girl was in the ground,’ she says dryly. ‘They left the farm without so much as a word, with the rent unpaid. But that was probably the wisest decision Lasse Svart ever made.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Ingrid pursed her lips. ‘In the past he’d always been able to lie low, keep himself to himself out there with his women and his dodgy dealings. But because of what happened to Elita, all that changed. He was in the spotlight. All eyes were on him, and he was smart enough to realise that.’
She tilts her head to one side.
‘I know the story might seem fascinating to an outsider. Ritual murder, a death pact – that’s what the newspapers wrote at the time. In fact, Elita Svart’s death was nothing but a . . .’
‘Family tragedy,’ Thea supplies.
‘Exactly.’ Ingrid has either missed the ironic tone or, more likely, has chosen to ignore it. ‘A terrible story that no one in the area wants to be reminded of. Especially David.’
‘Or Bertil.’
Ingrid’s face stiffens.
‘Bertil isn’t the man he used to be – I think you already know that.’ She gives a strained smile. ‘But there are few people who have been as important for Tornaby as Bertil has. He’s helped so many families with their problems. The village and its residents have a great deal to thank him for, let me tell you. Without Bertil . . .’
Ingrid purses her lips again, this time as if to stop herself from saying any more. She gets to her feet, brushing a few imaginary crumbs from her dress.
‘Well, I’d better make a move. I have to go shopping before dinner. If you have any further questions about Elita Svart, I suggest you speak to Arne. He was involved in the investigation, and he knows all the details. And he’s not interested in gossip. OK?’
Ingrid doesn’t wait for an answer, but picks up her handbag and heads for the door. Then she stops.
‘I’m so glad we’ve sorted this out, Thea. I’ll see you this evening. Oh, by the way – I brought in the post.’ She points to the hallstand. ‘I think there’s a letter for you.’
The front door closes behind her. Thea remains seated at the kitchen table. Has her mother-in-law just warned her off digging into the case of Elita Svart? Not in so many words, but this unexpected visit must surely be seen as a warning. What is it about Elita that still bothers people so much?
She collects the post and settles down on the sofa. There’s a parcel on top; it must be the book she ordered. Then bills, but right at the bottom she finds an envelope with her name and address written by hand. She opens it slowly, filled with trepidation even before she unfolds the letter. As she begins to read, she feels as if all the air has been knocked out of her lungs.
Hi, Jenny!
It’s been a while. You seem to be doing well.
Dad saw you on TV. He’d like to talk to you. No need to worry, he’s not angry with you, but he wants you to come home. Right now.
Best wishes,
Ronny
49
T
he rest of the afternoon passes in a fog. David comes home, they change their clothes, get in the car, drive to David’s parents. It’s as if Thea is observing the whole thing from the outside.
All her defences have been torn down – because of a stupid TV feature. The latest in a series of very bad decisions she’s made over the past year.
She shouldn’t have married David, shouldn’t have moved down here, shouldn’t have stood there on the castle steps, shouldn’t have let herself be persuaded to appear on camera.
‘Are you OK?’ David asks as they arrive. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘We don’t have to go in if it’s too much for you. Do you want me to take you home?’
He sounds as if he means it, and she fights the urge to say yes.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll feel better when I’ve had something to eat.’
*
They greet David’s parents. Thea has to force herself to hug her mother-in-law. This is all Ingrid’s fault: the move, the restaurant, the TV feature. It was all her idea.
But you went along with it. For David’s sake . . .
She would like to tell Margaux to shut up. In fact, she would like to tell them all to shut up so that she can sort out the mess inside her head.
Just as David had said, Nettan is there. She’s a smart woman, she’s worked all over the world, and she’s both friendly and polite. Thea does her best to be present and friendly in return, and yet there is immediately a tension between them. Perhaps it’s because Nettan calls David’s parents Aunt Ingrid and Uncle Bertil. Or because she touches David’s arm in a special way from time to time.
David notices the strained atmosphere, flaps around them in a way that Thea doesn’t like.
‘I’m sorry if I stole David away from you the
other day,’ Nettan says. ‘I could have taken a taxi, but he insisted on picking me up from Kastrup.’
‘No problem,’ Thea mutters. She is trying to be pleasant, but it’s difficult. Her head is spinning, not only because of the letter, but everything she’s read over the past few days. Every time she looks at Nettan, she can hear the twelve-year-old girl’s voice in the interviews.
‘Do you often visit Tornaby?’ she manages to ask.
Nettan shakes her head. ‘No. My father died a while ago, and by then he and my mother had already moved to Malmö. This is the first time I’ve been back for years. I couldn’t wait to get away, for various reasons.’ She pulls a face which is hard to interpret. ‘Mum lives with me in Switzerland now; she helps out with the children when I’m away.’ Nettan takes a sip of her drink. ‘How about you? How are you finding life out here?’
‘Good,’ Thea replies.
Nettan leans a little closer. ‘You don’t have to be polite. David’s told me about your travels. You’re restless, just like me. It’s difficult to stay in one place for very long. So why would you want to settle here, in the middle of nowhere?’
The comment surprises Thea. It seems honest rather than snide.
‘I . . . I’ve grown tired of going from one place to another.’
‘Grown tired?’ Nettan raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that possible?’ She leans even closer, lowers her voice. ‘I mean, don’t misunderstand me. David’s a good guy, but neither of you should be here. There’s still a lot of old crap bubbling away beneath the surface. More than you can imagine. You need to be careful.’
‘Careful about what?’ David appears from nowhere.
‘Oh, nothing. Thea and I were just chatting,’ Nettan says. ‘If you’ll excuse me I’m going to top up my drink.’
*
David’s Uncle Arne has also been invited, presumably to even up the numbers. He’s dressed for the occasion; he’s wearing a scarf with his shirt and jacket, his moustache is neatly trimmed, and he smells of aftershave. He glides over to Thea and David in a way that is presumably meant to convey self-confidence.
Rites of Spring Page 19
