Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

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 anything 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