Rites of Spring

by Anders de la Motte

  She pauses, takes a deep breath.

  ‘But since you were used to being the leader, you took over. You knew you were right. Arne had already told you that it was Leo who was riding the horse. Everyone agreed that it was him, so all you did was help out. But what if you were all wrong? What if it wasn’t Leo?’

  Arne shakes his head.

  ‘It was. I saw him with my own eyes. I nearly ran into Bill when I drove away. Plus Leo confessed.’

  ‘He was twenty years old. He was interviewed over and over again, deprived of sleep or contact with his family. He was more or less brainwashed.’

  Arne shakes his head even more emphatically.

  ‘Leo’s lawyer was present at every interview. There were no irregularities. And his family took off, left him because they knew he was guilty. Because they didn’t want to get dragged into his mess.’

  ‘How come you’re so invested in this story, Thea?’ Ingrid asks. ‘Explain it to me. Because the only reason I can think of is that you’re in league with Leo. That he’s somehow out for revenge.’

  ‘Revenge for what?’ Thea snaps back. ‘For the fact that you framed him for a crime he didn’t commit?’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, all of you!’ David is on his feet. His face is chalk-white, his eyes black.

  ‘I don’t want to hear one more word about Elita Svart. Ever. And you,’ he points to Thea, ‘you can go to hell. Take your fucking theories and all the crap you own and get out of here.’

  His voice breaks as he turns and runs towards the kitchen door.

  ‘David!’ his mother calls after him. ‘David!’

  There is total silence in the room for a few seconds, then Bertil says: ‘Poor boy. That poor, poor child.’

  84

  ‘Is it over now? you’re wondering. Is this how the story ends? Will we never find out what really happened to Elita Svart?

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe this is a tale without a happy ending. Rather like yours and mine, Margaux.’

  T

  he room in the guesthouse in Ljungslöv has heavy curtains and a thick fitted carpet. Thea isn’t planning to stay here long-term, but it will take a few days to sort out a car and fetch the rest of her stuff from the coach house. The situation isn’t made any easier by the fact that David refuses to answer when she calls him.

  She understands why he’s angry, understands that it’s easier to take out his anger on her than admit that he was partly responsible for sending an innocent person to prison. Because she’s now convinced that Leo is innocent, and that someone else was responsible for Elita’s death. Unfortunately she can’t prove it.

  Leo is linked to the scene of the crime, and everything else is mere speculation. The photograph, the suitcase and the masks in the chapel suggest that Hubert was also at the stone circle. The poetry book shows that he and Elita knew each other. But none of it constitutes proof. Thea still doesn’t know exactly what happened on Walpurgis Night, or what made Elita’s family disappear. Or who gave Leo money when he got out of jail, and why.

  Questions that may never be answered.

  Dr Andersson called round to collect the keys to the Toyota and the surgery. They exchanged no more than a few words until she was leaving, when she looked Thea in the eye and said:

  ‘You saved Jan-Olof’s life. Thank you.’

  Thea suspects those are the last friendly words she will hear in Tornaby. No doubt the Facebook group is already full of all kinds of rumour and gossip.

  Her secret is out, the past has caught up with her at last, just as her father said it would.

  Her phone rings. The man from the car rental company is waiting in reception. She signs the contract and is given the key. She spots a familiar face in the bar.

  Philippe.

  She goes over to him.

  ‘Docteur Lind. Nice to see you again. How is the poor man?’

  ‘I spoke to the hospital a little while ago; he’s going to be fine, but it was a close thing. Thank you for your help.’

  She says the last sentence in Swedish as a little test. Something Ingrid said stuck in her mind, a hint that Philippe is somehow involved in the whole story. He’s from Canada, after all, and must be about the same age as Leo.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says in heavily accented Swedish before reverting to French. ‘Apologies – my Swedish isn’t very good. Can I buy you a drink?’

  He orders wine for her and beer for himself.

  ‘What were you doing there anyway? At the castle?’ she asks when they’ve raised their glasses to each other and taken the first sip.

  Philippe shrugs. ‘I missed the burning of the Green Man on the common; I got there just as it was all over. I’d intended to take some photographs and send them to my father. He’s a history professor; he loves talking about the pagan Northerners.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘One of the villagers told me there was a bonfire at the castle too, so I drove over. Then things became a little more dramatic than I’d bargained for.’

  Thea nods. ‘Did you get any pictures?’

  ‘Yes, enough to make my father happy. We don’t speak very often. You could say I’m something of a disappointment, having chosen to work with my hands rather than my brain as he so eloquently puts it, especially after a couple of whiskies.’ He shrugs. ‘No matter how old you are, you remain a child in your parents’ eyes.’

  Thea thinks of her own father.

  ‘True. Listen, I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Do you know someone called Leo Rasmussen? He’s a Swede, about the same age as you, and he lives in Canada.’

  ‘No. The only Swedes I know are the ones I’ve met through work.’

  She studies his expression closely. If he’s lying, he’s doing it very well.

  They chat for quarter of an hour or so before she makes her excuses and returns to her room. She managed to get the name of his father out of him, and googles it as soon as she gets through the door. Bruno Benoit is indeed a history professor. He lives in Quebec and has two children, a son and a daughter, which confirms what Philippe told her.

  She takes Elita’s case file out of her bag and drops it in the waste-paper bin. She feels a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. It’s time to give up, accept that certain jigsaw puzzles just can’t be completed.

  Her phone rings; a withheld number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s your father.’

  Thea sighs. She is on the point of asking what he wants, but can’t face another argument about the importance of polite small talk.

  ‘Hi, Leif, how are you?’

  ‘Not bad, thank you for asking.’

  He sounds calmer than before. Less angry.

  ‘I haven’t written that letter yet,’ she says. ‘There’s been a lot going on here. The fact is . . .’ She suddenly realises something. ‘The fact is that David’s family know who I am. They’ve thrown me out.’

  There is a brief silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jenny. I hope you know it was nothing to do with me.’

  Presumably the subdued tone of his voice is because he’s just lost the hold he had over her.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘You mean, am I still going to write your petition?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I’m wondering what you’re going to do now, with your life.’

  The answer surprises her. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. David isn’t speaking to me, so I assume we’ll be getting a divorce. It’s probably for the best.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you love him?’

  The question is even more unexpected. ‘No. No, I don’t. Not in that way, anyhow.’

  ‘So why did you marry him?’

  ‘Because I owed it to him. He helped me after I lost someone I cared about very much.’

  ‘I understand – but you can’t build a relationship on obligation.’

  ‘No.’ She can’t think of any
thing else to say. It feels weird, taking marital advice from her father. The person who frightened her more than anyone else. The person she’s spent almost thirty years avoiding.

  ‘I hope things work out for you, Jenny. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about, but we can leave it until another time.’

  She shakes her head, even though he can’t see her. ‘No, now is fine. What is it?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She’s not sure how to handle this pleasant version of her father, but it fascinates her.

  ‘I looked through that case file. What a terrible story. A sixteen-year-old girl with her whole life ahead of her shouldn’t have to die like that. I can understand why it interests you – the similarities between you and her, me and her father . . .’

  He falls silent for a moment. Thea hears the sound of a lighter, the hiss of burning paper and tobacco.

  ‘The father, Lasse Svart, shopped his own stepson to the police. Did that seem strange to you?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘In my experience, there are only two reasons why you’d do that to your own family. Neither is acceptable, but there you go.’ He takes another drag. ‘Either it’s because you yourself are at risk of going down, or it’s because you have something to gain. It’s always about something big – a big risk or a big gain.’

  ‘And which do you think it was in Lasse Svart’s case?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but the little I’ve read about Lasse suggests that it’s the latter. Money. Or something else that was valuable to him.’

  Thea thinks. ‘He was about to lose his home. His forge and his means of making a living.’

  She hears him blow out smoke.

  ‘I’d say that’s a pretty good motive.’ He coughs, an unpleasant hacking cough that makes her hold the phone away from her ear. ‘One more thing. Do you have the case file to hand?’

  ‘I do.’ She fishes it out of the bin.

  ‘Look at the pictures on page fifty-six and fifty-seven. The hoof prints.’

  She finds the right pages and sees the casts of the hoof prints in the mud at the stone circle, then a cast of Bill’s hooves. The impressions are a ninety-five per cent match, according to a note added by the forensic technician.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now turn to page twenty-six.’

  She does as he says. Pictures from Svartgården: Elita’s room, Leo’s little cabin, Bill in his stall.

  ‘Look at the horse,’ her father says. ‘Look at Bill. Do you see?’

  Thea peers at the image. Bill appears to be sleeping. He’s raised one hind leg as some horses do when they sleep. The lower part of the leg is white, just as Arne described it.

  ‘Do you see?’ her father asks again.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The hoof. It’s unshod.’

  ‘And?’ She still doesn’t understand what he means.

  ‘That photograph was taken the day after the murder. Bill is unshod – perfectly normal for a young horse in the process of being broken in. But the prints in the mud were made by a shod horse.’

  Thea is stunned.

  ‘So three days later, when the forensic technicians turn up at Svartgården to take casts of Bill’s hooves, he’s suddenly shod and the impressions match. And at about the same time—’

  ‘Lasse Svart changes his statement and puts Leo in the frame,’ Thea says. ‘And the previous day Leo’s cap badge was found by the stone circle.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you understand what I’m getting at?’

  Thea nods to herself. Gathers up the pieces of the puzzle. Leo’s beret on the kitchen floor at Svartgården. The overturned chair. The empty dressing packet, the bloody handprint.

  ‘Lasse was paid to frame Leo.’

  ‘That’s my conclusion too. If you can work out who paid him, then I think you’re on the trail of a killer. But be careful, Jenny. Be very careful.’

  85

  ‘I think I know how it all fits together now, Margaux. What the spring sacrifice was really about. But in order to be completely sure I have to go there again. To the place where it all happened. And I have to talk to the person who has kept everyone’s secrets all these years.’

  B

  ertil opens the door after the second ring. The car isn’t there, so presumably Ingrid is at the castle, helping David to salvage whatever he can after the disastrous end to the dinner.

  ‘Thea – come in.’ He looks bright today, which makes things easier.

  ‘Thanks, but I was hoping you’d come out for a drive with me. I want to ask you a few questions. About Elita Svart.’

  He nods slowly. ‘I thought you might.’ He remains standing in the doorway for a little while. ‘Wait a minute – I just need to fetch a couple of things.’

  *

  The glade is completely still. Not a breath of wind, and the only sound is birdsong in the tall trees.

  It is almost nine o’clock, and dusk is beginning to fall. Bertil and Thea stand in silence side by side. He collected two torches and a walking stick from the garage, then showed her the route that would enable them to get as close to the stone circle as possible. He is very different this evening. His posture is more erect, the look in his eyes more present. Yet at the same time there is tension in his expression, as if what he is doing requires a huge effort.

  Thea switches on the torch he gave her. Directs the beam at the area in front of the sacrificial stone.

  ‘Elita and the children were standing roughly there,’ she says. ‘They’d built a fire on the ground. David and his friends probably came along the same path as the one we’ve just used. Arne’s ghetto blaster was on one of the stones, playing the recording of the drums.’

  Bertil says nothing. He merely leans heavily on his stick while listening to her account.

  Thea does her best to conjure images out of the darkness.

  ‘The children are wearing their animal masks, Elita is dressed as the spring sacrifice. Silk ribbons are tied around her wrists, and each child is holding the end of one ribbon. They are drunk on the atmosphere and the music. Elita begins to dance, the children follow her lead.’

  Thea closes her eyes; she can almost hear the drums. She turns towards the canal, shines her torch in among the trees.

  ‘Arne is over there somewhere. He’s been wandering around in the dark for a while and has lost his bearings. He has a pair of binoculars with him, and he is watching Elita.’

  Bertil nods, but still he doesn’t speak.

  Thea enters the circle, imagining that she is holding the end of a long silk ribbon, murmuring to herself as she feels Elita’s movements through the fabric.

  ‘The dance grows wilder, the drums beat faster and faster. Then suddenly they hear the sound of approaching hooves.’

  Thea’s heart is also beating faster. She can hear the hooves, feel the fear the children must have felt. By this stage they are almost in a trance. They are tired, frightened, intoxicated. The masks cover their faces.

  She realises that she has clasped her hands around the imaginary ribbon. The hooves come closer, and somewhere Arne falls out of his tree and knocks himself out.

  The Green Man comes crashing through the trees and into the circle. The horse snorts, rears up.

  Thea draws back her hands to protect herself. The children must have done the same, trapping Elita in the centre as the ribbons were pulled tight.

  Then the screams. David and his friends let go of the ribbons and run back to the path in a panic, heading for their bicycles and safety.

  Only Elita and the Green Man are left.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve worked it out,’ Bertil says. ‘What happened.’

  ‘Almost. I don’t think it was Bill the children saw. I think it was Nelson.’

  Bertil pulls a face, then nods.

  ‘Which means that Hubert was the Green Man.’

  Another nod. ‘The count did his best, but that boy has never been right,’ B
ertil says.

  Thea shakes her head. ‘So Leo came off Bill in the forest on the other side of the canal, just as he said in his early interviews. Bill ran away, down onto the road where Arne almost crashed into him.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Arne assumed it was Bill, and therefore Leo, that he’d seen at the stone circle. He drove to your place, told you the story, and made the children believe the same thing.’

  Bertil sighs. ‘Arne didn’t know any better. We were all shocked. No one knew what had actually happened. He only said what he thought was true.’

  ‘But Jan-Olof wasn’t quite so sure,’ Thea continues. ‘He’d seen someone bending over Elita, but that person wasn’t as tall as Leo, and didn’t have the same build. So when it was time for the children to be interviewed by the police, he hesitated. David stepped up and filled in the rest of the tale. He couldn’t resist playing the leading role.’

  Bertil’s expression is melancholy now.

  ‘But Lasse Svart knew that Bill hadn’t come home covered in mud, and therefore he couldn’t have floundered across the canal. Someone must have shown him the police photographs of the hoof prints, or he just came here to see for himself at some point. As soon as he saw the prints, he knew they weren’t Bill’s, and that there was only one other horse in the area that could have made them. A horse he’d shod himself. Nelson.’

  Thea pauses, expecting Bertil to protest, to say that she’s got it all wrong. But Bertil stands there in silence, looking as if he is trying very hard to stay sharp.

  ‘So Lasse went to the count, asking for compensation in return for his silence. He wanted to keep Svartgården, which was why the count rescinded the notice to quit. Not out of sympathy, but because he had no choice.’

  ‘Lasse wasn’t satisfied with that,’ Bertil says. ‘The bastard demanded cash too. Fifty thousand.’

  Thea can’t hide her surprise.