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

The room is approximately twice the size of the surgery. It smells of dust and old artefacts. The stands and cabinets she saw through the window contain everything from embroidered cloths and traditional hand tools to Stone Age axes and fossils. Handwritten signs indicate the theme of each area: HANDICRAFTS, HARVEST, THE HISTORY OF TORNABY.

On one of the walls she finds what she’s looking for: LOCAL CUSTOMS. A dozen black-and-white photos, taken around the beginning of the twentieth century, grouped in threes. One group is labelled THE CEREMONY OF THE SPRING SACRIFICE.

The pictures take Thea’s breath away. The similarity with the Polaroid photo is striking. The same arrangement: a young woman in the centre with antlers in her hands, long silk ribbons attached to her wrists. Four children beside her, wearing grotesque animal masks. Hare, fox, owl, deer.

The next group is BURNING THE GREEN MAN, and shows a Walpurgis Night bonfire. In the first one the fire must just have been lit; the figure at the top is clearly visible, tied to the same kind of T-shaped frame that she saw down on the common. The head and arms are easily distinguished, while the rest of the body is a shapeless mass of leaves and branches. In the last picture the flames have begun to lick at the Green Man; the heat has caused the leaves to shrivel, and you can almost see right through him. In front of the blazing fire stands the young woman and her masked helpers.

Thea shudders. Just as with the Polaroid, there is something deeply unpleasant about this image. Beneath the photograph there is a typewritten caption:

During Walpurgis Night the veil between life and death is at its thinnest. Things are on the move, nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forest.

She photographs the pictures and the caption on her phone and returns to the surgery.

Back at her desk she repeats the Google search she carried out earlier. She doesn’t really know why, or what she’s hoping to find. Once again the old newspaper articles are listed, but this time she scrolls down the page. As expected the hits become less and less relevant, but a couple of times she sees references to a book with the title False Confessions.

She checks it out with an online bookseller. It’s written by a journalist called Kurt Bexell, published in 2004, and as the title suggests it looks at why certain people confess to crimes they haven’t committed. According to the blurb, the book contains both notorious international cases and several Swedish examples, including the murder of Elita Svart in 1986.

So Bexell doubted Leo’s guilt – but why? And who did he think murdered Elita? With each new piece of the puzzle Thea’s fascination grows; the idea that there are other theories beside the official line is riveting.

She is still wondering about David’s role in all of this. Was he questioned? What did he and his friends actually see?

You must never tell anyone. Never, never, never . . .

She clicks on the link and orders the book.

When she’s finished she remains where she is, staring into space. As far as she is aware, she has exhausted the internet when it comes to facts about the murder of Elita Svart, but of course there are other possibilities. One of them is right in front of her on the desk.

She opens up the practice laptop and logs into the patient database. Types Elita’s name in the box, then hesitates. Technically it’s illegal for her to run a search on someone who isn’t her patient; on the other hand, the risk of being caught is negligible. Who would check out her search history?

After a few seconds she clicks on enter. All that comes up is a single line: Elita’s name and ID number, followed by deceased 30-04-1986.

She looks for a link that will take her further, but all that appears is a fact box informing her that patient records before a certain date have not been digitalised, but that hard copies can still be found in the regional archive in Lund. She jots Elita’s ID number down on a Post-it note. She’s so absorbed in what she’s doing that she doesn’t hear the footsteps in the corridor.

Someone clears their throat in the doorway, and Thea looks up in surprise. A man is standing there with a blood-soaked cloth wrapped around one hand.

‘Excuse me,’ he says in English. ‘Are you a doctor?’

Thea quickly closes the laptop and gets to her feet.

‘I am – come on in!’

The man looks relieved. He is a few years older than her, tall and muscular with an angular face and short hair, thinning on top. He’s wearing an army jacket, jeans and sturdy boots.

She sits him down and begins to unwind the cloth. Blood is flowing freely from a large gash in the lower half of his palm.

‘I cut myself. Stupid.’ He attempts a smile.

‘Lie down,’ she says, raising his hand as high as possible in an attempt to reduce the bleeding. She washes the wound; it’s deep, almost to the bone, but fortunately it doesn’t look as if any tendons have been damaged.

‘It happened not long ago. I was going to drive to A & E in Helsingborg, but then I remembered there was a surgery in the village.’ His English is good, but Thea thinks there’s a faint accent. His face is ashen now, his lips white. She has to stop the bleeding so that she can suture the wound, but can’t find anything to use as a tourniquet. She resorts to an old trick.

‘Lift your arm a little higher.’

The man does as she asks. She wraps the blood pressure cuff around his wrist and pumps it up until the blood stops.

‘Keep still – I’ll give you some local anaesthetic before I start stitching.’

He nods, then obediently lies there motionless while she numbs the area, inserts six stitches, then dresses the wound.

‘There you go. Stay where you