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

things she wanted to take with her as she floated high above Tornaby, never to return.

Can you see me, dear readers?

I can see you.

She flicks through the passport. It was issued in March 1986, only a month or so before Elita was killed. In the picture she looks happy. Expectant. As if she is waiting to take off. Instead she was beaten to death and left on a cold block of stone. With a child in her belly that no one must find out about.

Because no secret is greater than mine.

Thea gets to her feet, takes a few photos with her phone: the figures, the masks, Elita’s suitcase.

More pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place, but the overall picture is still not clear.

The most logical conclusion is that Hubert must have been there that night, even though he claims to have been in England, and neither the children nor Arne mentioned him. Maybe he was hiding, watching everything from a distance, just like Arne. Waiting to see what would happen.

Why did Hubert take the masks and the suitcase, remove clear proof that Elita wasn’t planning to die, as the police investigation assumed, but to run away? Leave Tornaby, possibly with the one she loved.

The strongest love is unrequited love.

As I said, the Gordons are terrible people.

Could a broken heart be reason enough for Hubert to commit murder?

A distant sound interrupts her train of thought, a door opening and closing somewhere in the building, followed by faint footsteps.

Thea tiptoes over to the door and puts her ear against it. The footsteps are coming closer. Someone is on their way up the stairs.

It must be Hubert. What will happen if he comes in? Catches her here, at the heart of a secret he’s kept for over thirty years?

She has no intention of staying around to find out. Quickly she lifts the record player off the table. The album sleeve behind it falls on the floor – Stravinsky.

The table is heavy, it scrapes along the concrete as she drags it to the right spot. Whoever is outside must be able to hear the noise. She scrambles up and stretches her arms. There’s a half-metre gap. She’s going to have to jump.

Another sound, a bolt being drawn back, a key turning in a lock.

Thea takes a deep breath, bends her knees and pushes off with all her strength. Her fingers grip the edge of the hatch. For a second she thinks she won’t be able to hold on, but then she manages to swing her body and press one foot against the ceiling, enabling her to crawl back into the loft.

Just as she draws her legs in, she hears the chapel door open.

80

Thea runs through the loft, keeping the beam of the torch on her phone in front of her. As soon as Hubert sees that the lights are on and that the table is beneath the hatch, he will know that someone has been there – but not who. Not yet, anyway.

She scrambles back down the ladder into the bridal suite. Jan-Olof is still snoring on the bed. Thea slips on her shoes, puts her phone in her bag and hurries into the bathroom. Her hair is standing on end, her hands and face are streaked with dirt, and the front of her dress is dusty from hauling herself back up into the loft.

She dampens a towel and rubs off the worst of it. Touches up her make-up and tidies her hair. She’s heading for the door when someone grabs her shoulder.

For a second she’s convinced that Hubert has somehow followed her, but it’s Jan-Olof. He stares at her. His eyes are bloodshot, his face puffy.

‘I know what you’re up to,’ he mutters. The alcohol fumes are so strong that she almost has to narrow her eyes.

‘You’re working for him, aren’t you? For Leo. You gave it away the other day. You know him – go on, admit it!’ He pushes his face closer to hers, his expression unpleasant to say the least.

‘I . . .’

Thea searches for a good answer. Jan-Olof seems to have lost his grip on reality. He pokes her in the chest with one finger, shoves her backwards until she bumps into the wall.

She’s getting scared now. The band is still playing downstairs, and she doubts if anyone would hear her if she screamed.

‘Tell Leo . . .’ he hisses. ‘Tell . . .’

His eyes dart from side to side, and suddenly fill with tears. His arms drop to his sides.

‘Tell him I’m sorry. Can you do that? Tell him Jan-Olof is sorry. Tell him I should have told the truth. Can you do that?’

The pleading tone takes her by surprise. He sounds like a little boy.

‘Of course.’ Thea edges towards the door, half-expecting his mood to change again, but Jan-Olof remains where he is, head down, arms dangling. He looks like a great big abandoned child.

She pushes down the door handle and slips out.

*

When she reaches the ground floor the music has stopped and the guests are moving into the hallway. She sees Per and goes over to him.

‘Thea – there you are. What’s this?’

He reaches out, touches her cheek and then her hair. Holds up a dust bunny between his thumb and forefinger.

She thinks fast.

‘I’ve been helping David bring up some more wine from the cellar.’

He nods, seems to accept her explanation.

All around them people are putting on their outdoor clothes and going out onto the wide area at the top of the stone steps. Per offers Thea her coat. She doesn’t ask what’s going on, but simply pretends she’s fully up to speed as they follow the other guests. When she sees David talking to Little Stefan and the other man who built the bonfire, she no longer needs to wonder. Little Stefan hands a burning torch to David.

A group of around twenty people, presumably from the village, have gathered on the far side of the courtyard.

The waiting staff circulate with glasses of champagne on silver trays. Thea