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

Svartgården. He’d paused for a minute just inside the porch, wiped the sweat from his forehead, adjusted his uniform and attempted to regain at least some of his dignity.

The truck he’d heard was now parked between his own and Lasse’s. The same white pick-up he’d seen outside the bank. Erik Nyberg, this time accompanied by his pretty-boy son.

Erik and Lasse seemed to be involved in an angry discussion. Erik held out a piece of paper, but Lasse knocked his hand aside. Arne realised what was going on: Erik was serving notice.

‘Go to hell, Nyberg!’ Lasse roared. ‘Both you and the count can kiss my fucking arse!’ With that he jumped into his own pick-up, started the engine and shot away, gravel spraying up around his wheels.

Slowly Arne went over to the Nybergs. Noticed in passing that there was a dead fawn in the back of their truck.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Erik looked him up and down. Raised an eyebrow, presumably at his muddy shoes and trousers and his grubby shirt.

‘Are you here in an official capacity, Arne?’

Arne didn’t bother answering. He couldn’t stand Nyberg or his son. Per was only a couple of years younger than him. Sang and played the guitar, had an earring in one ear.

‘It’s good that you’re here,’ Erik went on. ‘You can be a witness to the fact that we’ve given Lasse notice to quit, even if he refuses to sign.’ He folded up the paper he’d tried to give Lasse and tucked it away in his inside pocket, then turned his back on Arne to show that their conversation was over.

Arne ambled over to his car. Opened the door, got in and pretended to busy himself with the police radio. After a minute or so he realised that no one was looking at him. He’d just decided to leave when the front door opened and Elita emerged.

His heart began to beat faster. Maybe the day could be saved after all. But Elita ignored him, walked straight past his car.

Eva-Britt had come out too, and Erik Nyberg went over to her. He dug out the notice to quit again, and Eva-Britt reluctantly took it.

Arne turned his attention to Elita. She and Per Nyberg had moved a short distance away and were talking to each other. A little too close together, a little too intimate. Elita reached out, touched Per’s arm, and Arne saw her slip something into his hand, a little white square that he recognised only too well.

A Polaroid photograph. A photo of her, taken with his camera. A private photo, and she’d given it to Per fucking Nyberg.

Another person came out onto the steps: Leo in his uniform. He put on his beret and pulled it down over his forehead. Then he caught sight of Elita and Per. His confident, relaxed expression gave way to something else.

Arne knew exactly what it was. The same thing he was feeling.

Disappointment, jealousy.

Rage.

24

‘You could never understand why I liked doing jigsaw puzzles, Margaux. The satisfaction of creating order. The faint click when a piece fits, forming a clear pattern where before there was chaos.

‘Yes, I admit it – I’m fully committed to the puzzle that is Elita Svart, and I won’t give up until I have the whole picture.

‘Why? you wonder yet again. What is it that draws me to this story?

‘I’ll tell you: Elita Svart reminds me of someone I know. Or rather – someone I used to know.’

There are already patients waiting in the corridor outside the surgery. Dr Andersson and Thea work their way through them, and once again Thea is struck by the fact that almost all of them already seem to know about her. They ask questions about David and the castle, and several have already booked tables in the restaurant even though the official opening is still a month away. Many also know that she and David are living in the old coach house, they know where she used to work – they even know the name of her dog. When Thea discreetly questions one of her most talkative patients, it turns out that the information comes from the Facebook group both Per and Dr Andersson have mentioned.

Just before midday, the doctor takes a phone call.

‘I have to pop out,’ she says. ‘I won’t be gone for more than an hour. Is it OK if I leave you here on your own, then we can have lunch when I get back? You could log into the records system, see if there’s anything you’re still unsure about.’

‘No problem.’ Thea has nothing against being alone for a while with her thoughts.

‘Great – see you later.’

The doctor’s rapid footsteps fade away along the corridor, then the outside door slams shut.

Thea realises that she still has the packet of cigarettes in her pocket, and decides to nip outside for a sneaky smoke.

There is a large garden behind the community centre. A set of goalposts, some broken swings and a strip of asphalt with the remains of hopscotch grids suggest that it was once a playground. This must have been where David and his friends hung out. She narrows her eyes, tries to visualise the faces from Kirsten’s scrapbook: David, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof. Four nerdy twelve-year-olds who suddenly attracted the attention of Elita Svart – someone who was older, cooler, and beautiful. Thea can easily understand why their heads were turned.

She takes a deep drag, thinks of her own school playground.

Fucking gyppo!

She shakes off the memory, finishes her cigarette as quickly as she can.

On the way back inside she peers through one of the windows overlooking the garden. She sees display stands and glass cabinets, walls filled with photographs. This must be the Folk Museum. Didn’t Dr Andersson say something about Elita being inspired by photographs of the rite of spring she’d seen there?

Once inside, Thea follows the signs until she is standing in front of the right door. It’s locked. She tries the surgery key; it must be some kind of master, because