Rites of Spring

11 Walpurgis Night 1986

Father is lethal, everyone knows that. Especially when he’s been drinking. I’ve seen him hit both Eva-Britt and Lola. Leo too. Poor Leo . . .

Once Father knocked down a horse dealer who was trying to cheat him. He kicked him until he was barely moving. Eva-Britt managed to distract Father so that Leo and I could get the poor man into his car. Father chased after him and threw a rock straight through the rear windscreen.

One day Lasse is going to kill someone, Eva-Britt whispered to me. Maybe she’s right.

Arne followed the muddy little track from the house down to the paddock and parked the police car as close to the fence as possible.

Lasse was standing in the middle of the paddock with a long whip in one hand, while Elita was riding bareback. The horse was called Bill, a muscular stallion that belonged to some rich guy in Kristianstad. He was as black as coal, apart from a white sock on one hind leg, and he was almost broken in.

Arne placed his foot on the lowest bar and leaned nonchalantly on the fence. Elita had inherited her mother’s eyes, but instead of Lola’s fragility there was a feistiness about her. There wasn’t a man around who didn’t know who Elita Svart was, who didn’t drool over her. Anyone who thought differently had to be gay, a eunuch, or a fucking liar.

Lasse cracked the whip and Elita urged the horse on, digging the heels of her boots into his sides. Her long dark hair streamed out behind her, and her breasts bounced gently beneath the tight sweater.

‘Well done, Elita! Now gallop!’

Elita continued to drive the stallion. His hooves thundered on the ground, echoing Arne’s heartbeat. Bill snorted, foaming at the mouth.

Just as horse and rider passed by, Elita turned her head and winked at Arne, who almost forgot to breathe.

When they’d finished, Lasse sent Elita back to the stable with Bill, then came over to the car.

‘Well, if it isn’t Constable Arne Backe. Nice car – is it yours?’

‘Yes!’ Arne didn’t know why he’d lied. His self-confidence suddenly dissipated.

He always used to admire Lasse Svart. Lasse did exactly what he wanted; he never let anyone mess him around. Plus he had the kind of good looks that women like – dark hair, brown eyes, and a white scar running down his cheek.

‘You’ve managed to grow a moustache as well,’ Lasse went on. ‘And you’ve got yourself a gun. Just like Magnum PI. Things seem to be going well for my old sidekick.’

Arne nodded in a way that he hoped was cool. Lasse took out a tin of tobacco, tucked a substantial plug beneath his top lip, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

‘You’ve come at a really good time,’ he went on. ‘My usual driver was arrested for drink driving last week. I’ve got a new moonshine distiller and thirsty customers all the way up to Nedanås. No one will suspect a police car. You’ll be well paid, of course – much better than when you used to drive for me in the past.’

He patted Arne on the shoulder. Arne made an effort not to flinch; Lasse had big, powerful hands that bore the marks of many years working with a hammer and tongs.

‘I need to send several containers to Ljungslöv today. I was going to take them myself, but a farmer in Reftinge called a while ago. He wants to sink a new well, and he’s offering double pay.’ Lasse leaned closer, lowered his voice and gripped the shoulder he’d just patted. ‘Walpurgis Night is a perfect opportunity to go water divining. There are many forces on the move tonight, let me tell you. Nature is hungry and the Green Man will ride through the forests, so you be careful, little Arne.’

As usual Arne couldn’t tell whether Lasse was teasing him. All that nature hocus-pocus sounded like a joke, as if Lasse were trying to scare him, just like he’d done with those kids earlier on. At the same time, Lasse’s expression was deadly serious. He kept his hand on Arne’s shoulder, eyes boring into his.

A screech from the marsh made Arne jump – presumably some kind of bird. What else would it have been? He managed to stop himself from shuddering.

‘Anyway. The containers are in there. You can take them right away.’ Lasse released his grip on Arne’s shoulder and pointed to a small shed, half-hidden among the undergrowth beyond the paddock.

Arne took a deep breath, tucked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on his heels.

‘I don’t do that kind of thing anymore, Lasse.’

Lasse drew back. Frowned and looked Arne up and down.

‘No? So you’ve turned over a new leaf?’

Arne shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m a police officer now, I have to consider my actions.’

‘I see . . .’

Lasse was still staring at him. There was something hypnotic about his gaze, something that threatened to melt the last remnants of Arne’s self-confidence. Arne cleared his throat, tried not to look away.

‘The thing is, Lasse, I really can’t . . .’ His voice wobbled. Shit! He cleared his throat again. He was Arne Backe, Officer Arne Backe.

‘I can’t,’ he said, his voice steadier now. He pushed his hips forward, tucked his thumbs further under his belt.

‘I understand,’ Lasse said, spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘You’ve got a new job now. You don’t have time to help your old friends.’

Arne nodded, hugely relieved.

‘Not even old friends who were there for you in the past.’

The relief was replaced by a lump of ice in Arne’s belly.

‘Old friends who actually helped you to get this fancy job, with a car and a uniform. Who swore to the police that there was no way Arne Backe had been looking through little girls’ windows, because he’d been helping out here when that perverted little Peeping Tom was creeping around Tornaby. It would be a shame if the truth came out now. All it needs is a phone call to the chief of police in Ljungslöv – Lennartson, isn’t it? I believe he’s a close friend of your brother-in-law?’

Arne felt the air go out of him, felt his shirt gape at the collar and his belt slip down over his hips.

‘OK, so this is what we’re going to do,’ Lasse continued, grasping Arne by the shoulder again – harder this time. ‘You back that smart police car up to the shed and you load twenty five-litre containers into the boot. Actually . . .’ Lasse squeezed until Arne grimaced with the pain. ‘Take twenty-one. You can keep the last one. After all, we’re old friends.’