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

Property of Arne Backe, Tornaby.

The car had extra lamps on the front. It passed by slowly, as if the driver was looking for something. A short distance away the headlights were reflected in a parked car, which must be his. The driver braked, and now Arne recognised the vehicle; it was Lasse Svart’s old red pick-up.

What if Lasse stopped, got out of the car and started wandering around? What the fuck would Arne do then? He was soaking wet, shivering like a dog, and couldn’t lie here in the mud for much longer.

For a moment he was on the verge of bursting into tears. This was all Elita’s fault. She was the one who’d lured him here, toyed with his emotions and made him dance to her tune like a lovesick fool. Well, now she’d got what she deserved. His sorrow was mixed with anger now; he rubbed his eyes with his uninjured hand.

The brake lights went out. Lasse drove past the police car and continued along the track.

Arne used his anger to get to his feet. He had no intention of allowing himself to be dragged down into the mud. He wasn’t going to let the Svart family destroy his life.

He found the fallen tree. It was even harder to scramble onto it this time. His legs felt wobbly, and the ghetto blaster almost made him lose his balance right away.

He was about halfway across when he slipped, pitched forward, hit his head on the tree and dropped both the torch and the ghetto blaster. He heard the splash as the black water swallowed them up; he scrabbled wildly at the slippery surface to stop himself from following them. If he fell he would sink deep into the stinking mud, just like in his nightmare. The thought made his body begin to shake uncontrollably. His mouth was filled with the taste of iron.

Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake.

He heard the sharp crack of a branch breaking in the forest behind him. Was someone there? Someone who’d seen him, seen what he’d done? Someone who was following him . . .

Arne managed to get up on all fours. Crawled along the fallen tree with trembling arms and legs until he reached the other side. He staggered up the slope to the car, fumbling for his key. His hand was shaking so much he had difficulty unlocking the door.

He slumped down on the driver’s seat, pressed the button to lock the car and managed to pull off the heavy binoculars; the strap was cutting into his neck. The relief at having reached safety was so great that he was close to tears again.

After a while he looked up and saw his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Jesus. His face was streaked with dirt, his lips were swollen, a huge graze covered one cheek. When he raised his left hand to rub away the worst of the mud, he saw several rusty-red stains on the cuff of his shirt.

Blood.

Elita Svart’s blood.

The nausea overcame him again. He covered his mouth with his hand and just managed to get the door open before the contents of his stomach spurted out between his fingers. Now his mouth was filled with the taste of shame.

He really ought to switch on the police radio, call it in, get his colleagues over here and tell them what had happened. But if he did that, his life would be smashed to pieces. All those who’d fucked him around, called him Downhill Arne, would be proved right. Bertil and Ingrid wouldn’t be able to hold their heads up for the rest of their lives.

He had to get out of here, right now. Get as far away as possible from this terrible place. Cover his tracks.

The fact that the ghetto blaster had his name on it was unfortunate, but he didn’t think it would ever be found. The canal was several metres deep, and by now it must be buried in the mud, along with his police-issue torch.

The car started immediately. His right hand had turned into a swollen blob, but he managed to push the gear stick with his knuckles. He put his foot down.

But where the hell could he go? In six hours this car had to be at the station in Ljungslöv, spotlessly clean. It was also his job to make the coffee ready for morning briefing at eight o’clock, then sit at the back of the room, smartly dressed and with some kind of reasonable explanation for his injuries.

Elita’s body would be found, there would be a murder inquiry. A team from Helsingborg would move in. He had to think, had to work out what the fuck . . .

The animal appeared in the headlights right in front of the car; Arne’s heart almost stopped. For a second it felt as if time had done the same. He could see the animal hanging in the air. Slender legs, a powerful, dark body, like something from his nightmares.

Somehow he managed to swerve to the side. The right-hand wheels chewed up a considerable part of the ditch before he was able to get the Saab back on the track. He stared in the mirror, but the animal had disappeared into the forest.

It must have been ten seconds before Arne realised what he’d almost hit. Not an imaginary creature, but a black horse with no saddle, reins dangling. A black horse with a white sock on one hind leg. The same horse he’d seen just a few hours earlier in the paddock at Svartgården.

Suddenly a thought began to take shape in his head. It grew bigger and stronger the further he got from the marsh. Things he’d seen and heard during the day came together, and a crystal clear picture emerged of what he’d actually seen at the stone circle.

And he knew what had to be done. What he had to do.

44

Thea can’t find the phone at first, she fumbles around on the bedside table for a while before she manages