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

is a large white bungalow with a double garage. A robot mower is buzzing around the lawn. The BMW in which he picked up her and Bertil is parked on the drive, next to another that is almost identical.

She still isn’t sure whether this is a good idea. Calling in to see Arne at the station is one thing, but seeking him out at home is another. A lot more risky. On the other hand, she doesn’t think she can get much further without his help. After all, they’re family, and she’s here now.

She gets out of the car and rings the doorbell. A grey tabby cat appears from nowhere and starts rubbing around her legs. It slips inside as soon as Arne opens the door.

He’s in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Square reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

‘Thea, what a nice surprise,’ he says, sounding as if he means it. ‘Come on in – would you like a coffee?’

He steps aside to let her in. She hangs up her jacket; it occurs to her that she knows very little about Arne, except that he’s a police officer, was more or less brought up by Ingrid and Bertil, and used to be married to a woman from Thailand. Apparently, he’s a cat person too, which surprises her.

The house is clean and tidy. The oil paintings on the walls look as if they were bought on holiday overseas – paddy fields, sunsets, bamboo forests. Asian kitsch.

‘Nice artwork,’ she says as he shows her into the kitchen.

‘My wife’s. Ex-wife’s, I mean.’

He nods towards a photograph. He is about ten years younger, standing beside a small woman dressed in white, wearing a little too much make-up. She’s holding a bridal bouquet and smiling stiffly at the camera. Arne looks considerably more cheerful.

‘Sweden was too cold for her. Take a seat,’ he says, pointing to a kitchen chair before going over to a cupboard and getting out coffee cups. She sees him quickly hide a bottle of schnapps.

The kitchen smells of coffee and toast. There are several photographs on the walls, probably taken in Thailand. Arne and the woman again, often with a child – a boy aged about ten.

‘Sammy,’ Arne says when he sees her looking. ‘My stepson. We’re still in touch; I’m going to visit them in a couple of weeks. I try to get over there at least once a year.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Please.’

He passes her a cup and brings out half a sponge cake, which she assumed he baked himself.

‘It was your colleague who gave me your address.’

‘Which one? There are four of us at the station.’

‘A young woman.’

‘Jönsson. Of course, it’s Wednesday today.’ He shakes his head. ‘Ljungslöv used to have a real police station, fully staffed, and a patrol car that was out and about twenty-four/seven.’ He takes a sip of coffee as if to wash away the bitterness in his voice. ‘So to what do I owe the honour, Thea?’

‘I have some questions about Elita Svart. I know it’s all a bit sensitive, but Ingrid said you’d be able to help me.’

Arne raises his eyebrows. ‘No problem. What do you want to know?’

‘Were you involved in the investigation?’

He leans back on his chair, takes a moment to compose himself.

‘Yes and no. I was pretty new to the job back then; I’d only qualified a few months earlier. The district CID team took on the case, but because I was from Tornaby, I got to help out – drive them around, explain who was who in the village, keep an eye on cordoned-off areas and so on.’

‘Were you present at the interviews?’

‘No. I didn’t have enough experience, but of course I heard all about it afterwards. Lennartson, the chief of police back then, held daily briefings where everyone was brought up to date. It was a big thing, a local murder. The first and only one in all the years I’ve worked here.’

Arne is being much more helpful than Thea had expected. He’s nowhere near as cautious or reticent as everyone else she’s spoken to. She regrets not turning to him earlier, and tries to curb her enthusiasm.

‘Who interviewed Leo?’

‘Two colleagues from CID. One of them was called Bure, but I’ve forgotten the name of the other one. They were good, though.’ Arne looks amused, as if he’s trying to work out where she’s going with this.

‘And there was no doubt about Leo’s guilt? No suggestion that his confession might have been obtained under duress?’

Arne leans back even further, making the chair creak under his weight. He stares at her for a few seconds over the rim of his coffee cup, then breaks into a broad grin.

‘You must have read that book – False Confessions.’

‘I have – you’re familiar with it?’

‘Of course. The author actually came down here. He asked for and was given the whole case file, but when he wanted to speak to the detectives who’d interviewed Leo, that was a step too far. Lennartson asked me to explain as clearly as possible to the little hack that it would be best if he got the hell out of here.’

Arne laughs, as if the memory appeals to him.

‘Lennartson was a hard bastard, but the fact is that Bexell was on a fishing expedition. As I said, Bure and his colleague were good – very experienced. Old-school cops, admittedly, but they stuck to the rule book. More or less. Little Leo admitted everything. Told them exactly what he’d done to his stepsister and wept crocodile tears. There was also plenty of forensic evidence, so I can guarantee that Leo Rasmussen wasn’t unjustly convicted, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘You mean the cap badge and the hoof prints?’

‘Exactly.’ Arne nods, then frowns.

‘The children – David and the others – were interviewed together. Was that accepted practice?’

‘To be honest, I don’t remember. I think Lennartson interviewed them.’

He puts down his cup, digs out a tin of tobacco and tucks a plug beneath his upper lip. Pushes it into