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

against her palms.

She’s been given another warning. Someone knows she hasn’t listened, that she’s carried on digging into the story of the spring sacrifice.

There’s a group of people chatting on a corner; she thinks they fall silent and stare after her as she passes by. The GPS flashes and she is reminded that Dr Andersson told her the digital driving log is somehow linked to the foundation. Can they trace her movements? Is that how someone knew she’d parked by the old entrance to Svartgården? Have they tracked her journey to see Ronny, and her father in prison?

The thought turns her blood to ice.

Who has access to the log? Dr Andersson? Erik Nyberg, the foundation’s treasurer? Her own mother-in-law?

*

As she approaches the castle she sees Per Nyberg’s pick-up in front of the main entrance, next to her in-laws’ car. Per and Erik are with Nettan, David and his parents.

She pulls up and goes over to them. Ingrid’s hand is tucked under Bertil’s arm. He looks bright, and is clearly having a good day.

‘Hi Thea – we were just talking about you,’ Per says.

‘Oh yes?’

‘David and Ingrid were telling us that you’d been through some tough times in Syria. That you’d lost a close friend.’

Thea tries not to glare at David. He’s got no right to bring that up, especially not in front of a group of people, as if her trauma were some kind of entertainment. She’s definitely not in the mood for this conversation, and she doesn’t like hearing that they were talking about her.

‘It must be nice to come to a quiet place like Tornaby – nothing ever happens here,’ Nettan pipes up, contradicting everything she said the other night.

Thea’s irritation spills over.

‘Really?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘What about ritual murder, a ghostly rider and a missing family?’

Per frowns, Nettan’s expression is hard to interpret, and both David and his mother look furious. Only Erik Nyberg and Bertil seem unconcerned.

At that moment they hear footsteps on the gravel and Hubert comes round the corner. He looks surprised, and seems to be considering whether to go back the way he came.

‘Hubert!’ Bertil calls out, a little too loudly. ‘It’s been a long time – how’s your father?’

Hubert comes over, greets everyone with a nod.

‘Rudolf’s been dead for many years – you know that,’ Ingrid says, tugging at her husband’s arm.

‘Of course I do,’ he says crossly. ‘I was the one who helped him with . . .’ He falls silent.

‘The foundation,’ Ingrid supplies. ‘You helped Rudolf to set up the Bokelund Foundation, for which we’re all very grateful, aren’t we?’

A collective murmur of agreement.

‘Except for Hubert,’ Thea points out.

The murmur stops abruptly, but she sees one corner of Hubert’s mouth turn up in a wry little smile directed at her.

*

‘What the fuck was that all about?’ David says as soon as they’re alone. ‘Ritual murder, the foundation, Hubert . . . Why the fuck did you say all that?’

‘Why are you running around telling people about Syria? And Margaux?’

‘I . . . I just want people to realise what you’ve been through.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Because I want to help you.’

‘By babbling on about what happened to me?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘You’ve helped me enough, David. I’m fine now, OK?’

‘You’re not though, are you? It’s barely been a year. The psychologist said . . .’

‘Fuck the psychologist. I don’t need any help – not in that way.’

She’s angry, furious, without really knowing why. David looks exhausted.

She takes a deep breath, makes an effort to soften her tone.

‘I’m eternally grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but I can’t be a victim all my life. I have to try to move on. Besides which, you’ve got other things to think about.’

He nods, manages a little smile.

He prefers you like that, Margaux whispers from nowhere. Broken, cowed . . .

Thea presses her lips together hard in order to shut her up.

66

‘This puzzle gives me no peace, Margaux. I have to find answers to my questions. For my own sake. Who killed Elita Svart? What happened to her family? And who’s watching me?’

The atmosphere is still a little strained at the breakfast table, but at least it’s better than yesterday.

David is making an effort not to check his phone every thirty seconds, and Thea is doing her best to show an interest in the preview dinner.

‘Two days to go until Walpurgis Night,’ she says. ‘How many of us will there be?’

‘About fifty.’

‘So many?’

‘Yes, I’ve got people coming from the restaurant industry, a few journalists, then others it’s useful to have on side – wedding and party planners, influencers and so on. It’s important that we get off to a good start.’

He’s attempting to sound relaxed, but he can’t fool Thea.

‘Fantastic,’ she says, trying to shut out the sound of her father’s voice.

One well-aimed Facebook post is all it would take.

She thinks about the conversation with Sebastian. Wonders whether to leave it, or whether it’s better to tackle the issue now.

‘Sebastian came to see me yesterday. He and Nettan are worried about the finances.’

David stiffens. ‘He’s spoken to you?’

‘Yes, but with the best of intentions,’ she adds unnecessarily.

David shakes his head, and Thea already regrets bringing up the subject.

‘Those two have no fucking clue about anything. Never have, never will.’

He knocks back the rest of his coffee and stands up.

‘Don’t worry, Thea. I’ve got everything under control. It’s going to be a fantastic evening, and afterwards nobody will be whining about money anymore.’

He manages a rigid smile, kisses her and heads out of the door.

*

Thea takes Emee for a walk. She looks for Hubert, but his car isn’t in its usual place, so she assumes he isn’t home.

She crosses the bridge to the forest. It’s rained overnight, everything is wet. The birds are singing for all they’re worth. From time to time the sun peeps out from between the clouds, and she should be full of the joys of spring, but there’s too much going on in her head. She has to forget about Elita Svart and about whoever is watching