Rites of Spring

31

Thea shouts for Emee as soon as Arne’s car is out of sight. She walks around the little garden surrounding the coach house, but there is no sign of the dog. It’s almost eight o’clock, and Dr Andersson will be here to pick Thea up at any minute.

What if something has happened to Emee? What if she’s found her way out of the forest, run out onto a road, been hit by a car? The thought makes it difficult to breathe.

‘Emee! Emee!’ She blows the dog whistle, but to no avail.

She hears a car approaching and hopes it’s David rather than the doctor, but in fact it’s neither of them. A green Land Rover, one of the older models, pulls up outside the coach house. The sunlight is reflected on the windscreen, and she can’t see the driver until he gets out: a short man aged about fifty, in a scruffy oilskin coat, a flat cap and leather gloves. She recognises him from the night of the storm.

‘Hubert Gordon,’ he says without offering his hand. ‘We’re neighbours.’

Thea notes that he has a slight speech impediment, and seems keen to avoid eye contact.

‘Thea Lind.’

Hubert has already turned his back on her. He goes around the car, opens the boot. Emee jumps out, skips happily around Hubert’s legs then runs to Thea. She is soaking wet, her coat is dirty and full of mud. Thea lets out a long breath.

‘I found her over by the western meadow.’ Hubert points diagonally across the moat. ‘Between the forest and the main road, just by the deer enclosure.’

‘Goodness, she’d gone a long way – I let her off the lead by the bridge.’

‘It might be best if you don’t allow your dog to run loose in the future.’ His tone is brusque, verging on unfriendly. He turns away to get into the car.

‘Thanks for your help,’ Thea says. ‘I really appreciate it. Emee isn’t actually my dog. She belongs to a friend of mine who’s ill . . .’

The words unexpectedly stick in her throat. She coughs, but it comes out like a sob, which is annoying.

Hubert stops, turns back to face her again. His expression softens a little. His eyes are brown, sorrowful. For a few seconds Thea experiences that same mutual understanding she felt on the night of the storm. Hubert seems to feel the same, because although neither of them says anything, the silence between them is not uncomfortable.

The mood is broken by the sound of Dr Andersson’s car approaching.

‘I hope your friend gets better soon,’ Hubert says. He gives her a wry smile of farewell that could be interpreted as friendly.

Thea takes Emee indoors, fills up her food and water bowls, then changes out of her muddy boots and trousers. When she gets into the car Dr Andersson glances at the clock, but doesn’t comment on Thea’s lateness.

‘So you’ve met Hubert?’

‘Yes, my dog had run away. He found her over by the deer enclosure.’

‘Oh. As I said, Hubert is a little . . . different. He can seem . . . unfriendly.’

Dr Andersson tries to winkle out more details about their conversation, but Thea has nothing to tell. She sinks down in her seat and tries to gather her thoughts. What the hell has happened over the past few hours? What was Bertil doing out there in the forest all on his own? And why did Ingrid send Arne instead of jumping in the car herself?

Arne had asked her if Bertil had been rambling, and the other day Erik Nyberg had wondered the same thing, but why? It must have something to do with Elita Svart, but what?

You must never tell anyone. Never, never, never . . .

What was it that mustn’t be told?

They have a gap in consultations after lunch, and Thea nips over to the Konsum mini-market to buy cigarettes, although obviously she doesn’t share this with Dr Andersson. The morning’s sunshine has given way to a fine drizzle.

When she’s made her purchase she pauses outside the shop, looking towards the church. She suddenly remembers what Little Stefan said: that the Svart family disappeared the day after Elita’s funeral. Is Elita buried here, opposite Thea’s workplace? She crosses the street. The churchyard gate squeaks as she opens it. The air smells of box and wet shingle. She passes a number of tall monuments from the late nineteenth century. Dark metal, chains, gold lettering. Combined with the large building itself and the tall poplars, they create an impression of gloom.

She can hear organ music coming from inside the church. She tries the door; it’s unlocked. After a brief hesitation, she goes inside. The space overwhelms her: the Gothic arches, the tall stained-glass windows, the organ music winding its way around the pillars. Frescoes and statues everywhere: faces, figures, some Biblical, some not. The ceiling is so high that she has to tip back her head to see all the way up.

One of the figures right at the top is a man’s face, covered in leaves and with a gaping mouth. She is so preoccupied with staring at it that she bumps into a table and knocks a pile of hymn books onto the floor.

The music stops immediately and footsteps descend the steps from the lectern.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone here.’

The voice belongs to a woman in her late twenties. She has fair hair tied back in a ponytail, a stud in one nostril, round Harry Potter glasses, dungarees and a fleece top with the emblem of the Swedish Church.

‘I’m the one who should be apologising,’ Thea says, picking up the books. ‘Do you work here?’

The woman nods. ‘I’m a member of the churchyard administrative committee. My husband Simon is the cantor; we moved here two years ago. I sneak in occasionally to play the organ – it’s hard to resist for someone who enjoys music as a hobby. My name is Tanya, by the way.’

‘Thea Lind – I moved here quite recently.’

The woman doesn’t seem to know who she is, which is a welcome change. Her accent suggests that she’s from western Sweden.

Thea’s eyes are drawn to the ceiling once more, to the face up there. Tanya follows her gaze.

‘I see you’ve discovered our Green Man. There are examples in various churches, including Lund Cathedral. I’m sure you’re aware of the local Walpurgis Night tradition? The figure by the front door of the house, and the effigy placed on top of the bonfire?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about that.’

‘Wait until you see it for real. Where I come from, we make little straw men for 13 January – tjugonde Knut – and put them outside one another’s houses, but the Green Man is more exciting.’ She stops, as if realising that she’s taken over the conversation. ‘Sorry – is there something I can help you with?’

‘Yes, I’m looking for a grave.’

‘Have you checked our homepage? Almost all the graves are listed.’

Thea shakes her head. She feels stupid, walking into the church and expecting someone to know exactly where one grave is among the hundreds out there.

‘I have a pretty good memory, so maybe I can help you anyway. Is it a new or an old grave?’

‘Somewhere in between – 1986.’

‘OK – most graves from the Eighties are over on the eastern side. What’s the name?’

‘Elita Svart.’

Tanya smiles. ‘Aha – number 407. The mystery grave.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That’s what Simon and I call it, but maybe you can solve the mystery. The grave is tended by the church council. A couple of years ago they considered reclaiming it, because there were no relatives, but then an envelope arrived in the post. It contained a bundle of cash and an anonymous typewritten letter saying that the money was for the care of grave 407.’

‘What happened next?’

Tanya shrugs. ‘The members of the church council didn’t quite know what to do, but in the end they decided to go along with the wishes of the letter writer and retain the grave. Simon and I were curious; we did a little research and heard the story of the poor girl who was murdered by her stepbrother. We thought the idea of a secret benefactor was quite exciting, so we decided to keep an eye on the grave. We’ve never seen anyone there, but on more than one occasion I’ve found a memorial candle burning by the headstone, so someone must visit.’

The headstone is simple, a small black rectangle sunk into the grass.

ELITA SVART 12.02.1970–30.04.1986

LOVED. MISSED.

In front of the stone lies a white rose.

Thea carefully picks up the flower, turning it this way and that as if she were a detective examining a piece of evidence. It is almost fresh, the petals are damp from the drizzle.

Someone must have been here very recently. Someone who still remembers Elita Svart, in spite of the fact that most people seem to want to forget her.

But who?