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

‘How is Bertil today?’ Thea manages to ask.

‘Good. He wanted to come, but he was a little tired.’ Ingrid points to the TV team. ‘I think they’re starting.’

David has taken up his position on the steps, exactly where the drone footage ended. The interviewer is a young man with dazzling white teeth and a close-fitting suit. He looks a little too ambitious to be doing this kind of lightweight reporting. Judging by his body language and the irritated glances he keeps giving the producer, he is of the same opinion.

The first question sounds as if it belongs in a sports programme.

‘David Nordin – how does it feel to return home after more than twenty successful years as a chef and restaurant owner in Stockholm?’

Thea already knows the answer. She and David have been rehearsing this interview for almost a week, but she is still a little nervous, for some reason.

‘Fantastic, of course. Bokelund Castle is a wonderful environment for a restaurant. I’m so happy to be able to promote my local area and the traditional cuisine of Skåne. It’s a natural step for me, and one I’ve longed to take for many years.’

David ends with a smile that radiates self-confidence. Apparently. This part of the narrative is vitally important. He is the local boy made good, triumphantly returning home to attract tourists and summer visitors. Not a disgraced restaurateur who has been forced to quietly close his businesses and scuttle south with his tail between his legs.

‘So you and two of your childhood friends are behind this project?’

Thea breathes out. The interviewer is sticking to the agreed questions. David also seems relieved.

‘That’s correct – Jeanette Hellman and Sebastian Malinowski. Sebastian is one of the founders of the IT company Conexus, and Jeanette has had a long and successful career in finance. We all grew up in Tornaby, and we see the restaurant as an opportunity to give something back to our beloved local area.’

Goodness me. Who wrote that reply for him? It wasn’t you, was it, ma chère?

Margaux’s voice comes from nowhere. Thea gives a start, quells the impulse to look around. She knows that Margaux can’t possibly be here. Although she’s right, of course. ‘Beloved local area’ is way too much.

‘An amazing opportunity,’ David continues, answering a question that Thea has missed. ‘We’re so grateful to the Bokelund Foundation for modernising the castle and investing in the restaurant. Paving the way, so to speak . . .’ He laughs.

Thea glances at her mother-in-law, who is entirely focused on the interview. No mention of the fact that she is the chair of the foundation, or that Ingrid is behind most things that happen around here, including this interview.

David is comfortable now. His voice is less tense, his smiles more spontaneous. Thea relaxes a fraction.

Next question.

‘Is the castle haunted?’

Margaux comes into her head again – her image this time. That chopped-off fringe, those brown eyes, that slightly crooked front tooth she always presses her tongue against just before she smiles.

‘Absolutely. We have two ghosts, in fact. In the middle of the eighteenth century a young woman drowned when she fell through the ice into the moat. According to the legend, she was on her way from the castle to a secret tryst with the huntsman’s son. In the late nineteenth century another young woman came off her horse during a fox hunt in the forest and broke her neck. It’s said that sometimes you can hear the two of them galloping through the trees at night. If you believe in ghost stories, that is.’

The interviewer nods with interest.

‘But there’s a real-life story too, isn’t there? A third girl who died. I’m thinking of the spring sacrifice.’

David’s smile stiffens. Thea sees Ingrid straighten her shoulders.

‘Yes, it was a tragedy. Maybe we shouldn’t . . .’ David looks at Thea, then at the producer.

‘Cut!’ The producer takes the interviewer to one side, and a fractious discussion ensues.

David chews on his thumbnail, his brow once again shining with perspiration. Thea goes over to him, takes his other hand. It is hot and sweaty.

‘What was that all about?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I just lost the thread.’

The make-up artist reappears and powders his forehead. The producer and the interviewer are still arguing.

‘But why? The true-crime angle is much more interesting. The viewers love that kind of thing, I don’t get why we . . .’

The producer interrupts, says something that makes the interviewer turn on his heel and stomp down the steps.

David squeezes Thea’s hand. Ingrid goes over to have a quiet word with the producer, who beckons the cameraman and says: ‘We’ll take it from the top. I’ll ask the questions this time, stick to what we agreed. OK?’

David nods stiffly. Thea lets go of his hand and quickly moves out of shot.

‘Let’s go.’

The producer asks the same introductory question as before, and David immediately trips over his words. They try again and again, but his concentration is gone. His responses sound mechanical and automatic, and there is no trace of his warmth and charm.

Thea sees the producer glance at his watch, then at the sky, where the band of grey is getting closer and closer.

‘We’ll take a short break. Have a drink of water, David.’

The producer and Ingrid confer once more. David sips at a bottle of water. The make-up artist continues to fight a losing battle with his shiny forehead.

‘It’s all going wrong,’ he mutters. ‘Before we’ve even started.’

Thea takes his hand again. ‘You can do this. Just try to relax.’

‘It’s no good, we’ll have to rethink. Come up with something else.’ He squeezes her hand, looks pleadingly at her, raising his eyebrows to make sure she understands what he means. ‘I can’t do this without you, Thea. Please . . .’

She swallows, tries to assess the risks.

Ingrid interrupts her train of thought.

‘So, Thea – Peter, the producer, and I have decided it would be good if you were involved in the interview. The supportive wife, the area’s new GP and so on.’

Thea can feel everyone’s eyes on her.