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

table in front of her.

‘Your identity details are protected.’

A statement, not a question. For a second he reminds Thea of Ingrid, his big sister.

‘So?’ Her turn to play it cool.

‘So I’m wondering why.’ He sits down. Closer this time – close enough for her to smell tobacco and schnapps on his breath. ‘Most people who have protected ID are either police officers, abused women, or criminals. Which of those categories do you fall into?’

‘None of them.’

‘No?’ He leans even closer. The smell of schnapps is stronger now.

Arne has clearly looked her up in the police database, but her protected ID has stopped him, effectively blocking anything that would lead to Jenny Boman. She tells him exactly what she told Dr Andersson. Her work for Doctors Without Borders, travelling to war zones, the risk of repercussions.

‘I thought you’d left? After that business in Syria? The hospital that was bombed?’

‘That’s right.’ Thea swears to herself. The whole village seems to know what she’s been through.

‘But you’ve still chosen to keep your ID protected?’

‘For the time being. Just to be on the safe side.’

Arne nods, seems to accept her explanation, which enables her to relax a little.

‘When did you start working for Doctors Without Borders?’

‘Two thousand and five.’

‘Right.’ He opens the folder, takes out a sheet of paper. Brings his glasses down from the top of his head.

Suddenly she realises where he’s going, and her blood turns to ice.

‘But you applied for ID protection in 1990. Fifteen years earlier. How old were you then? Nineteen?’

She nods slowly, trying to keep the mask in place.

Arne taps the piece of paper.

‘Why does a nineteen-year-old need a protected ID? That’s what this experienced old cop is wondering. What happened to her? Why does she need to become invisible? Impossible to find in any records.’

Her mind is whirling. She searches for an answer, an explanation that isn’t too close to the truth, but comes up with nothing.

Arne smiles sympathetically.

‘You know what, Thea? Maybe this is nothing to do with me. Rooting around in the past isn’t always a good idea – what do you think?’

The phone rings before she can respond, playing a shrill version of ‘Für Elise’ that makes it impossible to carry on talking.

‘Excuse me!’ Arne gets up, grabs the cordless phone and takes it into the hallway. ‘Hi, Sammy,’ she hears him say. ‘Good to hear from you! No, no, you’re not disturbing me.’

He walks into another room, talking a little too loudly.

Should she take the opportunity to get out of here? Their conversation is definitely over. Arne has warned her against asking any more questions about Elita Svart, hinted that if she does, he’ll be only too happy to dig into Thea’s past.

She stands up and goes into the hallway. Arne must be at the far end of the house; she can hear him laughing.

Curiosity takes over and she pushes open the door on her left. It leads to a large parlour with dark wooden furniture. It’s cool and smells faintly of dust. Presumably it’s not a room Arne uses much.

She closes the door. Past the bathroom there is a little corridor and a step, then the living room with an enormous flatscreen TV on one wall, surrounded by a home cinema system. Four big leather armchairs – three look untouched, but there is a small towel on the fourth, as if to protect the leather from wear and tear.

There is plenty more tech on the shelves and walls – a hi-fi system, the expensive brand David has always wanted. Older items like a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a cine film projector. It’s like a journey through time from the late Seventies to the present day.

A scratched little box catches her attention. It says POLAROID on the side. She opens it and finds a Polaroid camera – not one of the new models that became popular a couple of years ago, but an old one.

There was no camera in Elita’s room, and nor was it mentioned in the case file. She picks it up and turns it over. PROPERTY OF ARNE BACKE, TORNABY is etched on the back.

How long has he had it?

There’s an instruction booklet in the case. She takes it out; it was printed in 1984.

She can see something else in the case, something that makes her heart beat faster. Three photographs.

The first two show a young Arne in his police uniform, tall and gangly with a downy moustache. In one his eyes are closed, in the other he’s smiling too broadly in a way that borders on unpleasant.

She’s seen the third picture before – many times by this stage. Four children in animal masks standing around Elita Svart, holding the ribbons attached to her wrists. The note is written in Elita’s rounded handwriting.

To Arne, Walpurgis Night 1986. Come to the stone circle at midnight. The spring sacrifice.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Arne is standing in the doorway with the phone in his hand. Thea was so absorbed in the camera that she didn’t hear him coming.

‘Who gave you this?’ she says, holding up the photo.

He doesn’t answer, he merely stares at her, his expression grim. His lip is twitching, but this time he doesn’t try to hide it.

He is blocking the route to the hallway and the front door. Thea looks for another way out, but she is trapped. She holds her breath, feels every muscle in her body tense.

Arne takes a step forward, clenches his fists. Unclenches them and moves to one side.

‘I’d like you to leave now, Thea. Put those things down and get out of my house.’

68

‘I’m getting closer and closer, Margaux. Closer to the truth about Elita. At the same time I’m finding it harder and harder to shake off the feeling of an approaching disaster.’

Thea stops in the pub car park and opens the car door to get some fresh air. The adrenaline rush is subsiding and she feels sick.

Clearly Arne knew Elita well enough to lend her an expensive camera.