Rites of Spring

by Anders de la Motte

  ‘So have you settled in, Dr Lind? Worked out who has piles and who suffers from erectile dysfunction?’

  ‘Absolutely. Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.’

  She doesn’t know why she says that. Maybe because the part of her brain that normally filters her behaviour is otherwise occupied.

  Arne stiffens, then bursts out laughing.

  ‘Your wife is very funny, little David,’ he says, thumping his nephew on the back. ‘You hang onto her!’

  David smiles, but Thea can see that the comment irritates him. He doesn’t like being called little David, doesn’t want to be reminded of the person he was. Nor does she.

  She can’t stop thinking about the letter. Her father wants her to come home. What happens if she doesn’t go? Dare she even contemplate that idea?

  *

  Bertil is having a pretty good day – possibly because of his new medication.

  He joins in the conversation over pre-dinner drinks, remembering names and places. Thea hasn’t seen him since the incident in the forest, but neither Bertil nor anyone else mentions it. At one point he gently pats her on the back and gives her a little smile, which is presumably a silent thank you.

  After their drinks they sit down at the table. The food is delicious as always, and David has brought several bottles of wine from the castle. Ingrid gives Arne a meaningful look every time he refills his glass; Thea is keeping an eye on him too. He’s trying to charm Nettan, telling her stories about his police work that become more and more detailed as his wine consumption increases. He ignores his big sister completely. The interaction – or lack of it – between the two of them is actually quite entertaining, and makes Thea forget the letter for a little while.

  ‘So when’s the big day?’ Arne asks when he finally reaches the end of a lengthy tale about a huntsman, a dog with diarrhoea and a bullet that accidentally hits a windscreen.

  ‘You mean the launch?’ David says. ‘End of May, but we’re having a dinner on Walpurgis Night. The first test, so to speak.’

  ‘When’s Sebastian arriving?’ Nettan wants to know.

  ‘He had a meeting in London, but his flight lands first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll be here in time for lunch.’

  ‘Sebastian has done very well,’ Ingrid says, half-turning towards Bertil. ‘He started a technology company when he left university, remember? He has over a thousand employees right across the world.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ Bertil sounds slightly offended. ‘How are his parents?’

  ‘They moved to Helsingborg, then home to Poland when Pawel retired,’ Ingrid says. ‘Sebastian bought them a big house by the sea. I’m friends with them on Facebook. Theresa’s still hoping for grandchildren, but Sebastian isn’t ready to settle down.’

  ‘Am I invited?’ Arne fills his glass over-enthusiastically, splashing red wine onto the cloth. ‘To the Walpurgis Night dinner?’

  David shuffles uncomfortably, exchanges a glance with his mother, who comes to his rescue.

  ‘David didn’t think it would be your kind of thing, Arne.’

  ‘Not my kind of thing? A dinner with good food and expensive wines?’ He points unsteadily at David. ‘Tell the truth – you’re afraid I’ll show you up in front of all your fine friends.’

  David shuffles again. Ingrid opens her mouth, but Arne silences her with a gesture. His eyelids are heavy, his face red and puffy.

  ‘No, let the boy answer for himself. Why am I not invited? After everything I’ve done for you? It’s thanks to me that the two of you and that poverty-stricken little Pole ended up with such successful lives.’

  He wags his index finger at David, then at Nettan.

  ‘If Uncle Arne hadn’t stepped in and sorted things out that night . . .’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Arne!’

  ‘What?’ Arne jerks back as if he’s been punched in the face.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, you stupid bastard!’ Bertil’s voice is rough, the look in his eyes ice-cold.

  Arne blinks a couple of times, stares blankly at Bertil, then his sister.

  ‘I was just having a little joke with the boy, Bertil. You know I’d never . . .’

  He clears his throat, looks away. Bertil is still staring at him. Ingrid places a hand on her husband’s arm.

  ‘Of course you’re welcome at the dinner, Arne,’ she says. ‘Our family sticks together, isn’t that right?’

  She smiles at Bertil, squeezes his arm. After a couple of seconds his expression softens.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he murmurs.

  *

  They have coffee and cognac in the library. Bertil shows Nettan his bridge trophy; she pretends to admire it, just as Thea did. Thea is trying to stop studying the other woman, but Nettan touched on a sore point earlier.

  Is she really intending to stay here with David forever, give up travelling for good?

  And what did Nettan mean when she told her to be careful?

  Arne still looks cowed. He glances at Bertil from time to time, clearly embarrassed. Thea is about to go over and talk to him when David slips an arm around her waist.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Good . . .’ David sounds as if he doesn’t believe her. ‘Sorry about that business with Arne. You have to take whatever he says with a pinch of salt. He’s a bit too fond of . . .’ David pretends to drink from an invisible glass.

  ‘Well, your dad certainly put him in his place,’ she says.

  David laughs. ‘Yes, Dad’s always kept an eye on Arne. He was the one who got him into the police back in the day, otherwise God knows what would have happened to him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  David shrugs. ‘He used to get into trouble when he was a teenager, but Dad sorted him out. He’s always been something of a father figure to Arne.’

  Thea glances at Arne. He’d come rushing over to the lodge the other morning, treated Bertil with a kind of respectful reverence that can be seen in his anxious glances this evening. He’d probably do anything for Bertil, just as Ronny would for their own father.

  Dad wants you to come home. Right now.

  50

  ‘You’re right, Margaux. It’s time for me to talk about my own ghosts. About the ones I’ve left behind. About the person I once was.

  ‘Jenny Boman. That was my name.

  ‘At a different time. In a different life.’

  M

  um is so thin lying there in the bed, her cheekbones look as if they could pierce holes in her skin, which is almost transparent. The little hair she has left almost disappears into the pillow.

  They’ve been sitting with her for half an hour, maybe more, and Dad is getting restless. Even though he is in cancer’s innermost room, he is desperate for a cigarette. One heel waggles up and down, his fingers drum on his thigh. Mum is sleeping. Her eyelids flicker like a butterfly’s wings. Her breathing is shallow.

  Dad looks at his watch for at least the third time. Gets to his feet.

  ‘We need to go. There’s something I have to do on the way home.’

  There’s always something he has to do, but no one is allowed to ask what it is. He tosses the car key to Ronny.

  ‘Fetch the car and I’ll see you out the front. I’m just going for a smoke.’

  Ronny nods, kisses Mum gently on the cheek before he leaves the room.

  Dad’s hand on her shoulder. ‘It’ll be OK, Jenny. You can always try again.’

  She knows he’s trying to console her, and yet she can’t take in what he’s saying. Her head is empty. Her belly hurts.

  Miscarriage. A bloody fragment in her knickers a few mornings ago. A child she didn’t even realise she was expecting.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll work out next time,’ Dad whispers, his breath smelling of cigarette smoke. ‘You and Jocke have your whole lives in front of you. He’s a good lad. Reliable.’

  She knows what he means by that. What Jocke must
have done to deserve that accolade. Dad heads for the door.

  ‘Are you coming, Jenny?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  He nods, disappears into the corridor.

  She goes over to her mother. Bends down and kisses her cheek. The tears are not far away. She really wants to push aside all the tubes and crawl into the bed. Be six or seven years old again, be comforted. For a moment she is on the way to becoming a child again, and Mummy is no longer dying, but young and healthy.

  Then Mum opens her eyes and Jenny is back in the moment. Mum’s expression is clear, full of sorrow. She takes Jenny’s hand, squeezes it, pulls her close. Her fingers are cold and warm at the same time.

  ‘The life insurance,’ Mum whispers. ‘Take the money, Jenny. Get away from here. Forget about us!’

  *

  It is still dark in the bedroom when Thea opens her eyes. The only point of light is the faint glow of the nightlight by the door. It is just after five, and as usual she is wide awake.

  She switches on the bedside lamp. The damp patch on the ceiling has grown, it reminds her of a handprint, its long yellow fingers reaching further and further into the room.

  Mum’s words echo in her mind.

  Forget about us!

  Thea has tried, done her absolute best, but clearly her family haven’t forgotten her. So what should she do? Ignore them?

  What if Ronny sends his next letter to David? What if David finds out that she’s lied about her background? That she isn’t an orphan after all, that she’s just a fucking . . . gyppo, like Elita Svart.

  The idea that her father’s world might somehow be linked to David, the castle or Tornaby is so unpleasant that her stomach turns over. A part of her brain, a terrified part, just wants to pack a bag, leave everything behind once more. Another part is resisting. For a while longer, at least.

  She picks up her phone and opens a search engine. As usual she can’t find any trace of her father. Leif stays away from the internet, he doesn’t even have a registered address. Ronny is still at the same address as usual, which doesn’t necessarily mean that he lives there. However, she’s pretty sure he does. Dad wants you to come home!

  She gets out of bed and goes over to the window. Emee looks up, watching her with those grey, ghostly eyes. The forest is dark and forbidding beyond the moat.

  Thea fell pregnant at nineteen. Elita Svart was only sixteen. She must have been so frightened, but would she really have planned her death if she was carrying a child?

  And an equally interesting question: who was the father? Could it have been Leo? For some reason Thea doesn’t think so.

  Because no secret is greater than mine . . .

  What did Leo actually know? Maybe the book she ordered can throw some light on the matter, or at least help her to focus, shut down the part of her brain that is screaming at her to pack a bag.

  False Confessions is a slim, stylishly written volume. The author, Kurt Bexell, lists a number of psychological mechanisms that can lead to false confessions; he also provides lots of statistics. The phenomenon of false confessions, he states, is more common among younger suspects, particularly if the crime may have been committed under the influence of drugs, and the suspect is subjected to aggressive interrogation methods combined with isolation.

  Bexell goes through various cases that strengthen his hypothesis, all overseas. Thea recently saw a documentary about one of them: the police in New York got five young men to confess to a rape they hadn’t committed.

  She turns to chapter twelve.

  In 1986, Leo Rasmussen confessed to the brutal murder of his stepsister Elita, who was four years his junior. At the time he was only twenty. Rasmussen stated that he was drunk when the crime took place, and couldn’t remember his actions in detail. However, he flatly denied any involvement during eight interviews, and confessed only in the ninth. By then he’d been held in isolation for almost four weeks.

  Rasmussen admitted killing his stepsister, and explained that he had acted in accordance with her wishes. He was convicted of manslaughter, and because of his age and the circumstances surrounding the crime he was sentenced to six years in prison. On the advice of his lawyer he decided not to appeal, since there was a significant risk that he would be handed a much longer sentence.

  Rasmussen served his time, but later expressed doubt about his guilt. He claims he was subjected to enormous psychological pressure while in custody, that he was deliberately deprived of sleep, and was isolated from his family.

  The witnesses who claimed to have seen Rasmussen at the scene of the crime were all children, and were initially interviewed together. This type of interrogation is against police regulations, and means that the children could have influenced one another’s testimony.

  The forensic evidence in the case was largely circumstantial, and certainly not definitive. There were no blood traces or fingerprints linking Rasmussen to the crime, and no murder weapon was found.

  However, no alternative perpetrator for the murder of Elita Svart was ever sought. All resources in the police investigation were immediately concentrated on Leo Rasmussen.

  Thea puts down the book. The sun is beginning to rise. She dresses quietly so as not to wake David. Emee comes out with her, reluctantly allowing herself to be put on the lead outside the front door. The birds in the forest are slowly waking.

  Emee pulls on the lead, turns her head and glares at Thea to show that she wants to run free, but the incidents with the deer mean that Thea daren’t let her go.

  Her mind is darting between what she’s just read, and Ronny’s letter.

  Was Leo the victim of a miscarriage of justice? And if so, is the doctored autopsy report a part of something much bigger?

  Her father and her older brother want her to come home. It must have something to do with money. The money she took, the money she can’t repay. So what is she going to do?

  A branch snaps somewhere behind her. The sharp sound makes her stop dead. Emee flattens her ears and growls.

  Suddenly the feeling Thea had in the churchyard is back. The feeling of being watched.

  ‘Hello!’ she calls out. ‘Is anyone there?’

  The only answer is the wind, soughing in the treetops.

  51

  ‘It feels as if everything is falling apart. The dampness has destroyed my walls, and is slowly seeping into what remains of my world. Maybe it would be best to leave, float away like a dragonfly. After all, I’ve done it before.

  ‘Would anyone even miss me here? Would you miss me, Margaux?’

  S

  ebastian Malinowski arrives just after ten. He is driving an expensive sports car and is accompanied by a young woman who can’t be more than twenty-five, and is much too attractive for him.

  He hasn’t changed a great deal since the school photograph. He’s about the same height as David and also has fair hair, but Sebastian is considerably slimmer and has a bald patch stretching a long way back from his forehead. He comes across as a mixture of a professor and a dynamic entrepreneur – but once he was just a frightened twelve-year-old, Thea thinks.

  Nettan turns up a few minutes later in a dark blue rental car, followed by David’s parents in their Mercedes. Ingrid is driving as usual.

  David shows them up the castle steps. ‘This way, ladies and gentlemen.’ He’s in a good mood.

  In the entrance hall they are met by two waitresses who serve champagne. David then guides the group through the great hall, telling them about the history of the castle. Thea listens with half an ear; she’s heard it before. Instead she discreetly studies Sebastian and Nettan. They are trying to act like old friends, yet they both seem a little stressed.

  David stops by one of the portraits.

  ‘This is Isabelle Gordon, who drowned in the moat during the tragic winter of 1753, on her way to a secret tryst with her lover. The first of our two beautiful ghosts.’

  Thea suddenly remembers a phrase from Elita’s letter.

 
Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.

  An odd construction, especially for a sixteen-year-old. Had Elita read it somewhere?

  She recalls what Hubert told her about the two deaths, and wonders what David would say if he found out the truth. She suspects it wouldn’t matter. He has chosen a narrative that suits him, so the truth is less relevant. Just as she did when she became Thea Lind.

  David continues his guided tour, taking them through the drawing room and into the newly renovated kitchen, where he spends almost fifteen minutes talking about the ultra-modern equipment. They then move on to the dining room.

  The curtains are open and the spring sunshine floods in through the tall windows. The chairs and tables have been set out, white cloths and napkins are in place. The gold panelling on the walls shimmers, the crystal chandeliers sparkle, with the lovely ceiling paintings high above.

  ‘Space for ninety covers,’ David says proudly. ‘We’ve already got bookings well into the autumn.’

  The doors to the terrace open, the waitresses return and top up their glasses. David pauses to chat to a member of staff and everyone starts mingling. Sebastian and his companion, whose name Thea didn’t catch, go over to talk to David’s parents. She decides to slip outside. This morning’s breeze has died down, and it’s warm enough to enjoy the fresh air without a jacket. She glances up at Hubert’s window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but there’s no sign. She thinks about the book, those beautiful, melancholy poems. About what he’d written on the flyleaf.

  The strongest love is unrequited love.

  For some reason the words make her feel better. They open a door inside her head to which her father has no access. To which no one has access.

  She hears a movement behind her. Nettan has come out and is taking an e-cigarette out of her handbag when she sees Thea.

  ‘I’m trying to give up smoking,’ she says apologetically. ‘It’s not going too well, to be honest. These things aren’t the same at all.’

  Thea pulls a face which she hopes is sympathetic.

  Nettan clicks the cigarette, takes a drag and exhales a puff of vapour.