Rites of Spring

22

Dr Andersson picks her up just before eight. Thea couldn’t get back to sleep; she cannot shake off the tale of Elita Svart and her fate.

Did Elita persuade her stepbrother to kill her? Did she really have that kind of power over him? And why would a pretty sixteen-year-old with her whole life in front of her want to die on a cold stone?

The whole thing reminds her of a jigsaw puzzle. She already has a picture of what it will look like in the end; the challenge is to put together the pieces. Although of course this story is something very different from a five-thousand-piece Ravensburger.

‘I thought we’d call on Erik Nyberg,’ the doctor says when they’ve turned onto the main road. ‘He’s diabetic and is having problems with the sight in one eye. He still refuses to slow down, so I drop by occasionally, check his levels and make sure he’s taking his medication properly. Erik is the biggest farmer in the area, but these days it’s his son Per who runs Ängsgården.’

Per Nyberg, the smiling man with the tractor. Thea thinks back to last night’s incident, which she has absolutely no intention of sharing with Dr Andersson.

Out here in the country we help each other. We keep each other’s secrets.

‘Oh yes, I think David’s mentioned him,’ she lies. ‘Something to do with the castle, maybe?’

The question is innocent and so vague that it could be referring to almost anything. Dr Andersson doesn’t need any more encouragement.

‘That’s right, the Nybergs take care of the estate – they mow the grass, cut the hedges, clear the snow when necessary. They’ve done it ever since the foundation took over Bokelund. Per’s a good boy. Well, I say boy – Erik’s seventy-five, so Per must be in his fifties. He’s a bit of a local celebrity.’

‘Oh?’

The little nudge is unnecessary. Dr Andersson is in full flow; all Thea needs to do is sit quietly and listen.

‘Yes indeed! Per plays the guitar and sings in his spare time – he travels all over the area. He’s good – I’ve heard some of his songs on the local radio. Per and the little count are childhood friends too, of course.’

Thea has heard the nickname before, but the doctor misinterprets her silence.

‘The little count – Hubert Gordon. I thought you knew each other. You’re neighbours up at Bokelund, after all.’

‘I have seen him, but only from a distance. He tends to stay in the west wing.’ Thea thinks back to the night of the storm.

‘Yes, Hubert is something of a loner. Most people feel sorry for him – a lodger in his own castle. I assume you know the story?’

Thea doesn’t even need to answer. The doctor turns onto a dirt track between green fields; several large buildings are visible over by the edge of the forest.

‘The old count, Rudolf Gordon, married late; he was almost fifty when Hubert arrived. Unfortunately the boy bore no resemblance to his father, either in his appearance or character. Rudolf sent him to the best boarding schools in England, determined that Hubert should carry on the family traditions, but poor Hubert was a dreamer, and had issues with his nerves, like his mother. Rudolf gradually came to realise that his son wasn’t cut out to run a large estate, with all that entails.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘In the early Nineties, when Rudolf’s health began to fail, he set up the Bokelund Foundation and transferred the castle and most of the grounds. He also gave several hundred acres of land to the Åkerlunda monastery. Rudolf was a Catholic – I believe there’s a small chapel in the castle?’

The doctor raises her eyebrows, making it clear that this is a question.

‘Maybe. In which case it must be in the west wing; I’ve never been in there.’

They arrive at Ängsgården, passing a row of well-kept stables and storage sheds.

‘Anyway,’ Dr Andersson says. ‘When Rudolf died in 1994, Hubert received only a small amount of money plus the right to use a number of rooms in one wing of the castle for the rest of his life. Oh, there’s Erik.’

She nods in the direction of the farmhouse where an elderly man is leaning on a stick at the top of the steps. He is wearing dark glasses, a scruffy moleskin jacket and trousers that don’t match.

‘He was the old count’s administrator for many years – one of the few people Rudolf trusted. He’s been the treasurer of the foundation ever since the start.’

Erik raises a hand in greeting as they get out of the car. ‘Welcome.’ His voice is rough. ‘Erik Nyberg.’ The dark glasses hide his eyes, yet Thea immediately has the feeling that he’s examining her very closely.

Erik is small and sinewy, and there is an innate dignity about him. He’s polite, but doesn’t say any more than he has to.

The house smells of cleaning fluid. The wellington boots and clogs by the kitchen door are in a dead straight line. Erik Nyberg seems to be the kind of man who gets things done – and done in the right way.

He sets out coffee and cake while the doctor chats to him. The kitchen is warm. On one wall there is a tapestry of a Bible quotation, while on the others small oil paintings depict English fox-hunting scenes with horses and dogs.

When they are seated at the table a red-and-white spaniel appears and shows a great interest in both Thea and Dr Andersson’s shoes and trouser legs. The dog is well-trained and obeys its master’s slightest gesture. Thea sees an opportunity to get Erik to open up.

‘I’ve got a dog too – a street dog I brought back from Syria.’

‘Oh?’ Erik sounds interested.

‘Her name is Emee. She looks a bit like a cross between a greyhound and a dingo.’ Margaux’s description; not very flattering, but fair. ‘My colleague and I found her in a ditch outside Idlib. She was badly emaciated, so we took turns to feed her with milk substitute whenever we were off duty. We hadn’t intended to keep her, but as soon as she’d recovered, she started to follow us wherever we went.’

Or Margaux, at any rate, she adds to herself.

‘What colour is she?’ Erik asks.

‘Grey – both her coat and her eyes. Like a ghost. Emee means ghost in the Yoruba language, which is spoken in Nigeria.’

She stops herself, leaves out the fact that she and Margaux first met in Nigeria. Sixteen years ago now . . . She pushes aside the thought.

‘A street dog, you say? And she looks like a ghost.’ Erik leans forward, full of curiosity. ‘How did you get her into Sweden?’

Thea describes the import procedure, doesn’t say that it was David who flew down and took care of all the practicalities while she lay in a hospital in Cyprus. Or that she remembers very little of the time immediately after the bombing.

The story clearly interests Erik. His initial reserve has gone, and he chats away as if they’ve known each other for a long time.

‘How did you get on the other night?’ he asks. ‘Any damage from the storm?’

Thea tells him about the lightning strike and the power outage.

‘We once talked about getting both lightning rods and a reserve generator,’ Erik says. ‘But the count decided it was too expensive. Rudolf didn’t like spending money. We have both here on the farm; it would be too risky to do without. Most of our operations are mechanised nowadays – feeding, mucking out, the machinery. You can never be too careful.’

‘So shall we start the examination, Thea?’ Dr Andersson opens her bag and hands Thea the blood pressure cuff.

Thea wraps it around Erik’s arm; he needs no encouragement to keep the conversation going.

‘Have you and David settled into the coach house?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s good. I’m looking forward to seeing what David does with the castle. How’s his father, by the way? I haven’t bumped into Bertil for a long time.’

‘He has good days and bad days,’ Thea answers truthfully. She thinks about how upset he’d become during dinner, and feels a pang of guilt at having caused it by bringing up Elita Svart.

‘Growing old is no picnic,’ Erik mutters. ‘Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?’

Thea doesn’t reply. David’s father isn’t her patient, but she still prefers not to discuss other people’s medical conditions.

‘God knows we’ve had our differences over the years, Bertil and I,’ Erik continues. ‘But I’ve always respected him. Everyone around here respects Bertil Nordin. He was on the executive committee of the Centre Party, and chaired both the sports club and the local community council for many years. He was re-elected over and over again. People trusted him. They knew he’d keep his word, and always had the village’s best interests at heart. And he was discreet – that was why the count asked him to help set up the Bokelund Foundation.’

Erik suddenly stops talking. Thea has experienced this before: all at once a patient is overwhelmed by their own unexpected chattiness, and falls silent. She leaves him in peace while she completes her examination. He doesn’t flinch when she pricks his finger to measure his blood sugar.

‘Does he talk a lot of rubbish?’ Erik asks when she’s finished. She can’t read his eyes behind those dark glasses, but once again she feels sure that he is watching her closely. ‘Bertil,’ he adds when she doesn’t respond. ‘Does he say stupid things? I’ve heard that people with Alzheimer’s often do that.’

Before Thea can say anything, the kitchen door opens and Per walks in, followed by an older man with a bushy red beard, wearing a baseball cap.

‘I saw the car and realised we had visitors. You must be our new doctor.’

Per smiles and holds out his hand, as though this is their first meeting. ‘Per Nyberg. This old fox is my father,’ he adds, patting Erik on the shoulder.

‘Thea Lind.’

The whole thing makes her feel kind of ridiculous, but as Per has started it, she has to play along.

‘David Nordin’s wife,’ Erik informs his son.

‘I knew that. I read about you on Facebook.’

Per holds onto her hand for a second too long, squeezes it gently before letting go. As before, she is struck by how soft his skin is. She glances at his left hand; no wedding ring, no telltale trace of one. Around his wrist he wears several braided leather bracelets, which briefly remind her of her father.

‘This is Little Stefan,’ Per says, gesturing towards his companion. He works for us. He’s in the middle of cutting the hedges up at the castle, so you’re bound to come across him again before long.’

Thea nods to the other man, who gives her a little wave.

‘So how’s it going with the restaurant?’ Per asks. ‘Dad and I are looking forward to the dinner.’

‘They’ve had a power outage,’ Erik says. ‘After the storm the other night.’

‘Oh dear. If you need help with anything, you only have to ask. David has my number.’ Per winks conspiratorially at Thea. ‘And Dad knows everything there is to know about the castle and its secrets. Where all the bodies are buried, so to speak.’

He fires off another smile which is definitely flirtatious.

‘Thanks – good to know,’ Thea says.

In spite of Erik’s dark glasses, she thinks the old man is glaring angrily at his son.