‘Who killed you?’ Thea asks.
The girl doesn’t answer; she merely gives a sad smile.
‘Who killed Elita Svart?’
Suddenly there is the sound of approaching hoof beats. The girl turns her head, fear in her eyes.
‘He’s coming,’ she whispers. ‘Be careful!’
The hoof beats come closer and closer. Become a roar, become the sound of barrel bombs ripping apart a building and the people inside it.
Thea tries to scream but her mouth is full of concrete dust. The darkness envelops her, takes her back to the cellar of her childhood.
Someone is there, right beside her.
Are you trying to blackmail me, little Jenny? her father whispers the second before she wakes up.
*
She looks at the clock. Four thirty, and the chances of getting back to sleep are non-existent. The nightlight spreads a faint glow through the room. The damp patch has grown darker, as if the plaster, or whatever the bedroom ceiling is made of, is becoming saturated.
She lies there gazing up at the patch for a while. She thinks of her father, and the letter she hasn’t written yet. How long will he wait? What will happen when he gets tired of waiting?
She pushes away the thought, replaces it with yesterday’s conversation with Kurt Bexell. It is surprisingly easy.
Bexell told her that he’d fallen out with the chief of police in Ljungslöv, who sent Arne Backe to threaten him.
Why was the chief of police so keen to put him off? Who was he?
She turns to Google, enters chief of police Ljungslöv in the search box and immediately gets a hit from the local paper.
Crowds turn out to say goodbye to valued chief of police
The article from 2010 is about the funeral of Stig Lennartson, chief of police in Ljungslöv from 1981 to 2006. It is illustrated with two pictures: one of Lennartson himself, a bald man with heavy bags under his eyes, and one of a large group of mourners leaving the church. Thea immediately recognises her in-laws, followed by Arne Backe, Dr Andersson, Erik and Per Nyberg, and various other people she’s seen around the village.
So Lennartson is dead. Was he the one who tried to hide Elita’s pregnancy in the autopsy report? Judging by Bexell’s account, that seems entirely possible – but why? Lennartson had no personal connection to the case, as far as she can see. According to the article, he didn’t even live in Tornaby, but out in the country on the other side of Ljungslöv.
If Lennartson didn’t tamper with the report of his own initiative, then who had enough power and influence to make a senior police officer alter the information in a case file?
Thea looks at the funeral photo again. Her in-laws are almost right at the front. Ingrid looks the same as usual, the same determination in her eyes, chin carried a little too high. Bertil, on the other hand, looks quite different. The gentleness she is accustomed to isn’t there; instead his gaze is fixed, his expression grim.
In 2010 Thea and David hadn’t met. And Bertil wasn’t diagnosed with dementia until two years later. Was he caught at an unfortunate moment, or does the picture show the real Bertil, the man he was before he began to slip into oblivion?
She googles him, finds some photos from roughly the same period. Meetings at the sports club, some celebratory dinner. He looks more cheerful at these occasions, but it’s very clear that the gentleness she likes so much is something that he’s acquired in later years.
Ingrid is there too, standing slightly behind Bertil, her hand tucked under his arm, as if she is deliberately staying in his shadow.
Thea thinks about the strange visit from her mother-in-law the other day. The effort Ingrid has made to help her and David get here. Ingrid’s concerns over what people will think if Thea goes around talking about Elita Svart. Or is Ingrid actually worried about something else? Is she afraid that Thea will find something? A crack in the perfect façade, which will allow the dampness to start spreading, allow secrets to slip out.
*
She and David have breakfast together. He got home late, long after she’d gone to bed. He looks exhausted; he’s spending every waking moment getting ready for the dinner.
She’s finding it difficult to let go of what Kurt Bexell said: that David might have influenced the other children to identify Leo. She’d like to ask him about it, but he’s already made it very clear that he doesn’t want to talk about Elita Svart. Bringing it up now would definitely lead to a row.
Another thought has struck her. If Bexell was right, if Leo’s confession was false and he was actually innocent, then the murderer is still out there. A murderer who has got away with it for over thirty years.
Is that what the warnings were about? The cellar, the Green Man on her car – is she in danger?
‘I have to go.’ David pulls on his jacket as he finishes his sandwich. ‘I’ve got my hands full all day. See you tonight.’
She nods. Forces a smile.
*
Thea has three patient visits planned for her morning rounds. The first two are in Tornaby, and the GPS finds them without difficulty. The third is some distance outside the village.
During the drive she catches herself glancing frequently in the rear-view mirror, keeping any eye out for cars that might be following her. Everything seems normal, at least on the surface, yet she can’t shake off the feeling of being watched. Emee whimpers nervously, as if she’s picked up on Thea’s mood.
As they pass the common she sees that the effigy of the Green Man is in position on top of the bonfire. It looks almost exactly the same as the old photographs in the Folk Museum: a shapeless mass of leaves and branches, the head and arms the only parts that make it vaguely human.
The GPS guides her to four identical houses by the side of the road, so close together that they look as if they’re seeking shelter from the wind. The façades are dirty brown, the tiled roofs covered in moss. A TV aerial is perched on one, slightly askew. She can’t see any numbers, and doesn’t know which house she’s supposed to be visiting, so she knocks on the first door. There’s a rusty little van outside, but she doesn’t realise who it belongs to until the door opens.
‘What do you want?’ Jan-Olof mutters, without returning her greeting.
‘I’m looking for Böketoftavägen 23.’
‘That’s Mother.’ He points to the neighbouring house. ‘I’d better come with you – she doesn’t always hear the bell.’
He unlocks the door with his key and shouts from the porch.
‘Mother! The doctor’s here!’
He goes in, beckons Thea to follow him. The air is rank. The kitchen is littered with packs of medication and empty spirit bottles.
‘Mother!’
A reply comes from upstairs.
‘Mother doesn’t like doctors,’ he says, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘She can be a bit . . .’ he hesitates, searching for the right word ‘. . . difficult, if you know what I mean.’
Thea nods. She read the notes before she came out, but hadn’t realised that the patient was Jan-Olof’s mother. They climb the narrow stairs and he taps on the bedroom door.
‘The doctor’s here.’
‘I told you I don’t want to see a fucking doctor. Is it that fat cow Sigbritt Andersson?’
‘No, we’ve got a new doctor. I did tell you.’
Thea enters the room. It’s small, the ceiling and walls slope so much that she has to fight the impulse to bend her head. Jan-Olof’s mother is in bed. She’s a big woman with lank grey hair; her cheeks and nose are covered in a network of broken capillaries. The air is filled with a sweet yet acrid smell of alcohol and urine. Thea blinks a couple of times.
‘Oh, so you’re the new one, are you?’
‘Yes – Thea Lind.’ She holds out her hand. ‘And you must be Gertrud.’
The woman looks her up and down.
‘Well, aren’t you the little china doll. Are you sure you’re a doctor?’
‘You’ll soon find out.’ Thea o
pens her bag.
Gertrud glares at her. ‘I don’t like doctors. Bigheads, the lot of them.’
‘That’s true. You have to be a bighead, otherwise you don’t get into medical school.’
Gertrud gives a start. ‘Is she trying to be funny, Jan?’
Jan-Olof mumbles something from a corner. He seems to be making every effort to avoid eye contact with both Thea and his mother.
Thea pulls on her Latex gloves.
‘Shall we take a look at that pressure sore?’
Gertrud continues to glare for a few more seconds, then she folds back the covers and allows Thea to examine her.
‘You’re Ingrid Nordin’s daughter-in-law, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ingrid’s a stuck-up bitch who—’
‘Mother!’
‘What? It’s true. Ingrid thinks she’s better than everybody else, thinks she’s got the right to have a finger in every pie just because her family has lived in Tornaby for seven generations or whatever it is. She drags poor Bertil around as if he’s an oily rag. Once upon a time people were afraid of him, can you imagine that?’
She nudges Thea with an elbow.
‘So I’ve heard.’ Thea tries to sound as if the topic doesn’t really interest her.
‘Do you know why? Because Bertil was in charge of the bank. He knew who was short of money, who was about to get divorced, who was tucking away cash instead of paying the tax man. Bertil knew everyone’s secrets. Even the count had to kowtow to him and Ingrid. People still kiss their arses out of pure fear, although these days it’s mostly Ingrid, since she took over as the chair of the Bokelund Foundation. She’s ruthless, your mother-in-law. Never forgets an injustice.’
‘Mother!’
‘Yes, yes.’ Gertrud waves a dismissive hand at her son. ‘I’m sure the doctor knows what I mean.’
Thea straightens up, removes her gloves.
‘There, you’ve got a nice fresh dressing. I’ll come back and take another look next week.’
Gertrud looks disappointed, as if she’d expected Thea to be shocked by what she’d said. She mutters something in response, then pulls up the covers and turns away.
*
Jan-Olof follows Thea down the stairs.
‘I must apologise,’ he says when they reach the porch. ‘She doesn’t mean what she said. Father died in ’91; Bertil helped her to hold onto the house and sorted out a job for her. Without Bertil and Ingrid . . .’ He glances anxiously up the stairs. ‘You won’t mention this to them, will you? Or to David?’
Thea shakes her head. ‘I never discuss my patients with anyone outside the practice. That would be a breach of patient confidentiality.’
Jan-Olof gives a smile that manages to be both worried and grateful.
‘You must have known David pretty well back then,’ Thea goes on. ‘I’m guessing he was pretty cocky in those days.’
Jan-Olof looks uncomfortable, then smiles.
‘He was. David was always the most confident of us all.’
‘And Nettan was the centre of attention?’
He nods, apparently enjoying the topic of conversation now.
‘What about Sebastian?’
‘He was more cautious. Wanted to think through everything.’
‘Aha, so he was the planner. And who were you?’
Jan-Olof thinks for a moment.
‘I guess I was the one who followed. Did what the others told me to do. That’s probably why I never got away from here. Plus I had Mother, of course.’
Thea decides to seize the opportunity.
‘Elita Svart,’ she says. Jan-Olof’s expression darkens immediately. ‘You were there the night she died.’
She takes the Polaroid out of her inside pocket.
‘That’s the four of you, isn’t it? David, Nettan, Sebastian and you. With Elita.’
Jan-Olof half-turns away, but can’t help turning back to look at the photograph.
Thea holds it a little closer to him. ‘Which of the animals are you?’
‘The fox. I was the fox. I’ve always liked foxes.’
‘And what did you see that night?’
He shrugs. ‘I saw a horse, and a rider dressed up. We thought he was the Green Man, so we ran for our lives. Why do you ask?’
‘Are you absolutely certain it was Leo you saw?’
He shakes his head. ‘It was so many years ago – I don’t remember.’
A lie, she’s sure of it. Something about this slightly scruffy man tells her that he remembers every single second, but how is she going to persuade him to talk.
‘Why do you ask?’ he says again.
‘I . . .’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I was involved in an incident in Syria about twelve months ago. The hospital where I was working was bombed.’
Jan-Olof seems to be listening carefully.
‘People around me were killed, injured.’ She pauses. The story makes her feel sick, but she has to continue.
‘I still have nightmares about it. Down to the last detail. The sights, the sounds, the smells, even the taste of my own fear. At the same time I feel guilty because I survived when others didn’t.’
Jan-Olof nods, as if he understands exactly what she means.
‘I hadn’t heard the story of the spring sacrifice until we moved here. David’s never mentioned it, and he refuses to talk about it. He says he’s put the whole thing behind him. Is it really possible . . .’ She swallows, starts again. ‘Is it really possible to forget something like that?’
Jan-Olof looks at her for a long time. The sadness in his eyes answers her question before he opens his mouth.
‘No,’ he says softly. ‘You never forget. Even if you spend your whole life trying to do just that.’
‘And you haven’t forgotten that it was Leo you saw?’
He doesn’t speak for a moment.
‘Leo confessed to the police,’ he says quietly.
‘He did. But now he’s changed his mind.’
She doesn’t know why the words came out like that. Maybe it’s because she was thinking about what Leo said on the phone to Kurt Bexell. Whatever the reason, they have a noticeable effect on Jan-Olof. He gives a start, the colour drains from his face. His lower lip is moving. Thea holds her breath, waiting for him to say something.
A shout from upstairs interrupts them.
‘Jan! Jaaan!’
Jan-Olof presses his lips together. He nods to Thea, then slowly turns and goes back up the stairs. His shoulders are drooping, hands hanging loosely by his sides.
We all have our ghosts, Margaux whispers in her ear. Who do you think his might be?
64
S
he eats her lunch and is back at the surgery at ten to one to be sure of opening on time. There’s already a patient waiting – Philippe, the Canadian who injured his hand.
‘Bonjour, docteur Lind! You told me to come back and have the wound re-dressed. I happened to be in the village today, so if it’s convenient . . .’ He holds up his bandaged hand.
‘No problem – come on in.’ She unlocks the door, lets Emee in and gestures to Philippe to sit down on the bed.
‘Nice dog,’ he says, holding out his uninjured hand. But Emee keeps her distance. Flattens her ears and growls.
When Thea tells her to go and lie down, she reluctantly obeys. Settles on her blanket, but keeps a close eye on the man.
‘OK, let’s take a look.’ Thea pulls on her Latex gloves and removes the dressing. Notices that Philippe is observing both her movements and her face.
‘What mineral was it you were prospecting for again?’
‘Vanadium.’
‘What’s that used for?’
‘Mobile phone batteries, mainly.’
‘And you think there’s some here, in the Tornaby area?’
He nods. ‘The question is whether there’s enough to make it worthwhile extracting. That’s why we’re doing test drilling.’
/> She cleans the wound; it has healed very well. The edges are pink, and the stitches have held.
‘And how do you extract vanadium?’
‘Open-cast mining.’
‘How do the landowners feel about that? Do they really want gaping holes in their land?’
He shrugs. ‘According to the law, they own only the surface layer. The bedrock is the property of the state, and if the state thinks a mine is a good idea, then the landowner doesn’t have much say in the matter.’
‘But why here?’ She’s seen open-cast mines in Africa, huge gaping sores in the landscape, machinery spewing out diesel fumes.
Another shrug. ‘Because this is where the resources are.’
The answer irritates her – or maybe it’s his nonchalant attitude. She places a fresh dressing on the wound.
‘I’m guessing that the locals aren’t too keen on your plans,’ she says.
Philippe clenches and opens his hand a couple of times to test the movement.
‘People want a new phone every year. Better and lighter batteries for each new model. But nobody wants a mineral mine near where they live. As long as the extraction is done in Africa or somewhere else far away, nobody cares how it happens. Even though most mines out there are environmental disasters.’
He’s beginning to sound pompous, and Thea is getting tired of his mansplaining.
‘We, on the other hand, can extract natural resources with minimum impact on the environment. We restore the landscape when we’ve finished . . .’
‘Really?’ she interrupts him. ‘Isn’t that what all the big companies claim? BP, Shell, and all the other friends of the environment. Maximum profit, minimum environmental impact. But that’s not the way things usually turn out, is it?’
He gets to his feet. Glares at her for a few seconds as if he’s trying to work out if she’s serious.
‘Are we done here, Doctor?’
‘We are. That will be two hundred kronor. You can pay by Swish.’ She points to the poster with the QR code. ‘If your phone battery is charged, of course.’
He fiddles irritably with his phone for a few seconds. Stops on his way out and taps the little sign on the door.
Rites of Spring Page 26
