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

discovers that it isn’t locked. However, it has swollen, so opening it is a struggle.

The musty smell of an old house fills her nostrils. It’s pitch dark inside; all she can make out is a pile of shoes on the floor, and a few items of outdoor clothing on hooks underneath the hat shelf.

She puts down the crowbar, switches on her torch and cautiously moves forward. The smell gets worse; it reminds her of the cellar back home. Dampness, earth, old wood and something indescribable. She shudders.

The house isn’t very big. There’s a closed door to her right, the bathroom straight ahead, next to the stairs. She can just see the kitchen on the left.

She opens the closed door. A double bed, neatly made. A bedside table, a chest of drawers, a mirror. Two wardrobes.

On the bedside table there is a book, its covers warped by the damp, plus a faded photograph in a metal frame. Thea picks up the photograph, which shows a girl and a boy on a bench. The boy is looking into the distance, while the girl gazes admiringly at him. Someone has written on the white strip at the bottom: Leo ten years old, Elita six years old. Thea feels her excitement rising. This is the photo Elita mentioned in her letter, so this must have been Eva-Britt’s bedroom.

It’s a strange feeling, holding the picture in her hand – as if the years have been erased and she’s stepped straight into Elita’s world.

She sweeps the beam of the torch across the walls. The paper is yellowed and has fallen off in places, lying in a heap by the skirting board. Above the bed hangs a watercolour in the naïve style: various forest creatures dancing in a glade. It reminds Thea of the ceiling paintings in the main dining room at Bokelund.

She opens one of the wardrobes. It’s full of clothes. So is the other – and the chest of drawers.

Why would you leave your home without packing some clothes?

She heads for the bathroom. Washbasin, toilet, bath, mouldy shower curtain. The bathroom cabinet is open, and the contents have been dumped in the washbasin.

Creams, ointments, toothbrushes, plasters, bottles of pills.

She looks at the labels. The first contains tranquillisers for Lola Svart, prescribed only two days after Elita’s death. Flunitrazepam. Strong, but not surprising in the case of someone who was already fragile and had lost a child.

The other bottle was prescribed for Eva-Britt Rasmussen in February 1986 and contains Levaxin, a hormone tablet given to patients with thyroid problems. It’s more than half-full. It might be possible to explain why Lola left her tranquillisers behind, but medication for thyroid deficiency is usually prescribed for life. And yet Eva-Britt didn’t take it with her.

The impression of a hasty departure is reinforced when Thea enters the kitchen. The smell in here is more acrid than in the rest of the house. There are glasses and plates on the table; judging by the mould, they’d been used. One of the chairs has been knocked over.

On the cooker Thea sees a greasy frying pan, and a saucepan with something black and unidentifiable in the bottom. She opens a cupboard; it’s full of empty packets, mouse droppings, dead mealworm beetles and various other insects that have eaten themselves to death on a selection of dry goods.

The next cupboard has an array of bottles and jars, with both solid and liquid contents. She reads the labels: castoreum, digitalis, valerian. This must be Lola and Eva-Britt’s natural medicine cabinet.

There is a white plastic container on top of the fridge; it’s the same as the ones she saw in the ruins of the shed a little while ago. It’s half-full of a clear liquid.

Thea shines her torch on the table. Three people sat here eating. Two of them had lost a child, the third person’s child was accused of murder. How do you deal with a situation like that? What do you talk about over dinner?

She directs the beam at the overturned chair. Someone seems to have leaped to their feet. She thinks it was Lasse, maybe because the chair was at the head of the table.

She shudders again, not just because of the smell this time. Svartgården is a deeply unpleasant place, but she can’t leave. Not yet.

The steep stairs are covered in a thick layer of dust; they creak beneath her feet. There are two bedrooms, one at each end, with a landing and a toilet in between. She begins with the room on the left, which contains a double bed, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. The furniture and sloping ceiling make it feel cramped. This must have been Lasse and Lola’s room. The bed is unmade. A movement among the sheets makes Thea jump, and she almost drops the torch.

Shit!

A mouse, who was obviously just as scared as she was.

She waits until her pulse slows before looking in the first wardrobe. Men’s shirts, covered in damp patches. She can’t help touching one of them. Lasse Svart’s shirts have hung here for over thirty years, and yet it’s as if they still hold a small part of him, make him appear more clearly to her. He somehow resembles her own father, even though she actually has no idea what Lasse looked like.

The other wardrobe is full of women’s clothes. A blue silk blouse catches her eye. Everything else is cheap and ordinary, but the blouse is different. Thea takes it out, shakes off the dust and hooks the hanger over the door. The fabric has aged well, keeping its sheen. This must have been Lola’s best blouse, the one she wore on special occasions, the one that made her feel really good about herself. So why is it still here? Just like her medication, Lola didn’t take it with her.

Thea checks under the bed and sees two suitcases.

She straightens up. Something made Lasse and the two women jump up from the table in the middle of dinner. Get into their