Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (life books to read .txt) 📗

raises both eyebrows this time. ‘What did Bertil say?’

Thea wonders whether she ought to keep Bertil’s words to herself; on the other hand, she has to give Erik something if she wants more answers.

‘He said “poor girl”.’

‘Poor girl. Was that all?’

‘Mm.’

Erik holds her gaze for a few seconds.

‘Why did you board up Svartgården and destroy the track?’ she asks.

He scratches the tip of his nose. Seems to be giving his response careful consideration.

‘The count told me to do it.’

‘And you didn’t think it was strange? What if the family came back? What if they’d just gone off to do something?’

She’s been thinking about this ever since she spoke to Little Stefan.

Erik spreads his arms wide.

‘I worked for Rudolf Gordon for over thirty years. We respected each other, respected the importance of discretion. It was the count’s farm, his land, and what he wanted done with the place was his business. Plus Lasse had already been given notice to quit.’ Erik moves a step closer. ‘Is that really all Bertil said?’

‘He just kept repeating “poor girl, poor girl”. Nothing else.’

Erik is about to say something when the doctor calls them. They head back to the kitchen.

‘I believe the land was sold to the army?’ Thea says.

Erik nods.

‘Did they demolish the farm?’

Erik stops with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘Why do you want to know what Bertil said?’

She can feel his eyes through the dark glasses; she is determined not to look away. ‘Did they demolish the farm?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

He opens the kitchen door.

‘There you are!’ Dr Andersson says cheerfully. ‘I’ve fixed the monitor; it just needed new batteries. Didn’t you try that yourself, Erik?’

He shrugs apologetically. ‘I did, but I must have had some spent batteries in the drawer. It’s not easy, getting old and absent-minded.’

Thea is watching him closely. There are two things she’s absolutely certain of when it comes to Erik Nyberg.

One: he’s anything but absent-minded.

Two: there’s something he’s not telling her about Svartgården.

*

She drops Sigbritt Andersson at her 1970s house. Once again the doctor wishes her well, draws out the leave-taking for as long as possible, but at last Thea manages to escape. The practice car is hers now, and she loves the freedom of being able to go wherever she wants, whenever she wants.

David’s car is outside the east wing when she drives past, and back at the coach house Emee is delighted to see her, behaving just as she normally does. Thea checks her grey coat carefully, searching for any trace of blood around her mouth. Nothing, which makes her feel a little less worried. She puts Emee on the lead and walks over to the castle.

David is on the phone outside the kitchen door, but ends the call as soon as he sees her.

‘Hi, darling, everything OK?’ He kisses her cheek. ‘I’ve just been talking to my new sous chef – he starts on Monday. And everything’s ready for the welcome dinner on Saturday for Nettan and Sebastian.’

‘Great!’

He takes her hand, squeezes it.

‘Thank you for rescuing Dad this morning. Mum called and told me what had happened.’

‘I tried to contact you, but you didn’t answer. Where were you?’

‘At Kastrup. There were problems with the coverage in Denmark. I must have had ten missed calls when I got back.’

‘Kastrup?’

‘I told you yesterday – I was picking Nettan up from her flight.’

She shakes her head. ‘No, you didn’t. You said you had an early meeting.’

‘. . . with Nettan at Kastrup. That’s what I said.’

His expression is perfectly innocent, as it always is when he’s lying.

33

Walpurgis Night 1986

I hate Tornaby. Hate the people who live there. The people who stare at me and call me horrible names. Who tell their kids to keep away from the likes of Elita Svart.

Gyppo, tart, trash.

To them I’m just a nymph in a muddy pool. A tempting morsel that will drag them down into the shit. They haven’t realised who I can become when my wings have dried and I am ready to fly.

Arne dreamed that he was running through the forest. He was twelve or thirteen, seven or eight, yet at the same time he was grown up in that weird way things are in dreams.

The darkness was pressing against him from all directions, twigs and branches tearing at his face, lashing him with a whining sound that reminded him of a riding crop. He didn’t know why he was running, at least not at first. He just knew he was terrified.

Behind him he could hear the dull thud of horse’s hooves drumming against the soft ground. The air was thick and hard to breathe, his heart was pounding in his chest.

The hoof beats came closer and closer, the horse snorting with every step as if it were eager to catch him up.

He was running blind, the darkness was impenetrable now. He tripped over a branch and fell so slowly that he had time to think that his landing would be painful.

He crashed down heavily, yet at the same time the ground was soft, sinking beneath him. There were creatures all around him, creeping and crawling, animals with slimy bodies and shiny backs, with scales and blue transparent wings. They were trying to get into his mouth, his nose, his ears.

His arms flailing wildly, he tried to find something to hold onto so that he could pull himself up, but his legs were heavy, dragging his body down until only his head was protruding above the mud.

Horse and rider broke through the greenery, and the horse was Bill yet at the same time something else, something ancient that might not even be a horse.

And the rider . . . The body was covered in leaves, tendrils writhing like snakes. The arms were branches, the fingers plaited bramble, the face hard circles of bark beneath a crown of antlers.

Arne closed his eyes, felt the rush of wind as the Green Man and his steed leaped over him. The smell of stagnant water, rotting wood and dead leaves,