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

start that improved Arne’s already excellent mood.

‘So how are things today?’ he said in his most authoritative voice. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and bounced on his heels, as he’d seen older colleagues do.

‘Fine,’ the drones chorused.

‘Excellent. Is the manager in?’

‘He’s in a meeting,’ the nearest drone informed Arne, who gave him the stern officer-of-the-law expression he’d practised in front of the mirror.

‘But I think they’ve just finished,’ the drone added hastily, pressing a button to unlock the door and let Arne through.

He knew exactly where he was going; he’d visited his brother-in-law many times. Bertil’s office was on the first floor, with three large windows overlooking the main street. Should he sprint up the stairs, showing off his lithe agility, or should he plod up with a heavy, important tread? He opted for the latter; he could feel the drones’ eyes on him all the way to the top.

The office door was open. Bertil, the count and Erik Nyberg were in the corridor, clearly in the process of finishing off. Arne slowed down even more.

‘That’s all agreed then,’ he heard Bertil say. ‘It’s 30 April, so you’ll have to give notice today if you don’t want to wait another month.’

‘Erik, can you sort that out?’ The count’s voice was a nasal drawl, typical upper-class Skåne.

‘I’ll go over there this afternoon.’

‘It might be best if you take someone with you,’ Bertil suggested. ‘I don’t think Lasse Svart is going to react very well.’

The name made Arne prick up his ears.

‘I know how to deal with Lasse,’ Erik said tersely, ‘but I’ll take Per. The boy needs to learn how to handle things.’

‘I hear he’s not going to the school of music,’ Bertil said.

‘No.’ Erik exchanged a glance with the count. ‘We didn’t think it was a good idea. It’s best if he stays at home and learns a proper trade.’

‘Time we made a move,’ the count said. ‘Thank you for your help, Bertil.’

The three men shook hands and turned towards the staircase; only now did they become aware of Arne’s presence. The count looked at him. Rudolf Gordon was almost seventy, tall and thin with sharp features and sunken eyes. Erik Nyberg was a head shorter and Arne envied him his hard, weather-beaten appearance, which was somehow emphasised by the fact that Erik always wore a scruffy moleskin jacket.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said as they passed by, doing his best to maintain his stern expression. Much to his satisfaction, he got a couple of nods in response.

‘Arne.’ Bertil sounded surprised rather than concerned. Arne straightened his shoulders, bounced on his heels again. Bertil was fifteen years older, and had been like a big brother ever since Arne turned ten. They were actually the same height, but for the first time in his life Arne didn’t feel as if he had to look up to meet Bertil’s gaze.

‘How nice to get a visit from the police. Come on in.’ Bertil stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Take a seat.’

Arne sank down in one of the leather armchairs in the corner. His gun holster caught on his hip, and he adjusted it. There was a large cigar box in the middle of the table, and three stubs in the ashtray. Bertil opened a cupboard and took out a crystal decanter and two brandy balloon glasses.

‘I’m sure you’ve got time for a little drink and a smoke? Not a word to Ingrid!’

Arne opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in his throat and he had to make do with a brief nod.

‘What was all that about?’ he asked when his cigar was lit and he’d taken a sip of Cognac. ‘The count and Erik Nyberg. Did I hear Lasse Svart’s name?’

Bertil blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling as he considered his reply.

‘To be honest, it’s confidential . . .’ He broke off, removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue, then leaned forward. ‘The count’s had an offer for the land around Svartgården. The army want to extend their firing range. They’re prepared to pay a tidy sum for a run-down farm and several acres of waterlogged marshland.’

Arne felt his chest expand. He and Bertil were equals now, confidants in a way they’d never been before.

‘Bloody hell! Lasse Svart, out on his arse!’ Arne grinned, then immediately realised what the long-term implications were. ‘But where will the family go?’ he added so quickly that the cigar smoke went down the wrong way, resulting in a coughing fit.

Bertil shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s Lasse’s problem, but I’d be surprised if anyone around here was prepared to take him on as a tenant, given his reputation. It would be best for everyone if Lasse took his women and all the rest of his crap and disappeared.’

Arne tried to look unconcerned. The role of confidant was no longer quite so appealing.

He knew why. Who was responsible.

Elita Svart.

6

‘I’ve found something in the forest, Margaux. A piece of a puzzle from a different story. Someone’s else’s story.’

Thea takes Emee down into the staff dining room in the castle. Lights some candles, then dries herself and the dog with an old blanket. It’s just after five. The residue of the panic attacks still lingers in her body, making its presence felt from time to time like tiny, almost imperceptible vibrations in her hands.

David is wandering back and forth between the rooms. She can hear him on the phone, but he ends the call as he walks in.

‘Oh, you found the dog – good! I’m sorry I didn’t help you look – it’s chaos here. The freezers and fridges are off; I must try and get hold of a generator later today if the power’s going to be out for a while.’

He pulls out a chair and sits down opposite her. His expression changes. He looks concerned.

‘Are you OK? Have you recovered?’

Thea nods.

‘Can I do anything for you?’

‘I’m fine, David. I’m more worried about you. We haven’t discussed the interview. What the hell