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

him either. Lasse gave him a hard time, but I always thought Leo was a nice kid. Certainly not someone who was capable of killing his own sister. On the other hand, I’ve lived long enough to learn that you never know what goes on in other people’s heads. And like I said, Svartgården was a dreadful place.’

He shakes his head slowly, as if an unpleasant memory has just surfaced.

‘So what happened to the family?’

Little Stefan takes a deep breath.

‘They all took off, the day after the funeral. Disappeared without a trace as soon as the girl was in the ground.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes. I was the one who found out. I went over there to read the water meter; both cars were gone and the house was empty. It was kind of creepy, to be honest.’ He hunches his shoulders a little. ‘Although with hindsight, I suppose it wasn’t that strange. Lasse had already been given notice to quit, and then Elita died, so . . .’

He looks at his watch, straightens up.

‘Thanks for the coffee – I must get on. Per wants the hedges finished today. The clippings need a few days to dry out so that they’ll burn better on the bonfire.’

Thea can see that he’s just realised how much he’s said. He’s regretting it now, as Erik Nyberg did the other day. However, she’s not ready to let him go yet.

‘What happened to Svartgården after the family vanished?’ she asks as he gets to his feet.

Little Stefan hesitates, checks his watch again. Then he glances over his shoulder as if he’s worried that someone is eavesdropping. He leans forward and lowers his voice.

‘Erik Nyberg told me to board up the whole place that same day – windows, doors, the whole lot. Old Gren and I did it in a few hours, worked as if the devil himself was at our heels. As if there was something inside that house that absolutely mustn’t be allowed to escape.’ He shakes his head again. ‘The following day the track was ploughed up. The count sold the whole lot to the military and they extended the fence around the firing range.’

He breathes out through his nose as if he’s accomplished a difficult task, then he nods to Thea and heads for the door.

‘Thanks again. I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

‘Is it still there?’ she asks his back.

‘What?’

‘Svartgården. Is it still standing?’

He shrugs. Or maybe he’s trying to suppress a shudder.

‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been anywhere near since the spring of 1986. Ask Erik Nyberg – he’s bound to know.’

*

When Little Stefan has returned to his hedges, Thea puts Emee on the lead and goes over to the castle to say hello to David. From a distance she can hear him arguing with one of the builders. Money, of course, and the schedule. She’s heard several similar conversations over the phone during the past few weeks, but this one is more agitated, more aggressive. She hears a shout, gravel spurting up around feet.

‘Fucking idiot!’

Thea rounds the corner of the east wing to see the builder lying on the ground. David is bending over him; he’s grabbed the man’s jacket with one hand, while the other is raised in a fist.

‘David!’ she shouts.

He turns, his eyes black, his lips a thin line.

Emee starts barking, hurls herself in David’s direction, baring her teeth and snapping at thin air. Thea has to grasp the lead in both hands and dig her heels into the ground to hold her back.

David blinks a couple of times, becomes his normal self again. He lets go of the builder’s collar and straightens up. Emee stops barking but continues to growl, hackles raised. She doesn’t take her eyes off David.

‘Sorry,’ David mutters. Thea’s not sure who he’s apologising to. He turns on his heel, disappears through the kitchen entrance and slams the door behind him.

The builder scrambles to his feet.

‘I do apologise,’ Thea says. ‘David’s under a lot of stress. There’s so much . . .’

The man nods, brushing the dirt off his jacket.

‘He’s bloody lucky he’s Bertil Nordin’s boy,’ he mutters as he lumbers towards his van.

26

Walpurgis Night 1986

‘Love is hard, Elita.’ That’s what my grandmother used to say. The hardest thing in life.

I only met her a few times. Lola didn’t like going there. Grandma was always nice to me, but I understood that she hadn’t been that way with Lola. The few times they were together, there was something strange about Lola’s expression, as if she both adored and hated her mother.

Sometimes Lola gets the same look on her face when Lasse is around, but only when he has his back to her. The other day I saw her tuck a knife into her pocket.

Love and hatred are very close to each other, Grandma said.

I understand exactly what she meant.

Arne drove fast through the forest, ploughing through muddy puddles, ignoring the branches and undergrowth scraping against the wing mirrors and paintwork.

Elita had used him, just as her father had done. Treated him as a lackey, pretended to be his friend, toyed with his emotions. She’d borrowed his camera so that she could take a picture for her fucking boyfriend. She hadn’t even had the wit to hand it over secretly; instead she’d done it right in the middle of the yard where everyone could see them. Elita and that fucking mother-in-law’s dream Per Nyberg. The very thought made him feel sick.

Arne slammed on the brakes, leaped out of the car and grabbed the camera in its case. He didn’t want it anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of what it had been used for. He swung it back and forth by the strap a couple of times, intending to throw it as far as possible into the bog, deep into the mud where no one would ever find it, but the catch came undone and the camera fell to the ground.

‘Shitshitshit!’ He kicked at the camera, then saw that something else had fallen out. Another white rectangle, another photograph.

He picked