Rites of Spring

58

Thea pauses in the doorway, shining her torch around the room. She has a sense of unreality; Elita’s room is exactly the same as in the photographs in the case file. A single bed, an IKEA desk, an armchair, a lamp, a wardrobe.

She goes over to the desk, directs the beam at the place where the letter had lain.

Thea opens the desk drawers. Pens, a biology textbook, a pile of cassette tapes. One of them is labelled TOP TRACKS, but she doesn’t think it’s Elita’s handwriting. Another says BRYAN ADAMS. She looks around for a tape player, but can’t see one.

In one of the drawers, beneath papers yellow with damp, she finds a Polaroid photograph of Elita sitting on her bed. Judging by the angle, she must have put the camera on the desk and used the automatic timer. Dampness has caused the surface to bubble, and the colours have faded; even though Elita is smiling, the image is unpleasant.

Thea slips it in her pocket and goes over to the wardrobe. Elita Svart has worn these clothes. She pictures the girl standing here trying things on in front of the mirror on the inside of the door. Listening to Top Tracks. Miming to Duran Duran, Wham!, Madonna. Dreaming of getting away from this place.

Half of the hangers are empty. Thea thinks back to Lola’s wardrobe; her best blouse was still there. The opposite is true of Elita’s clothes. The items that are left are old, faded, or too childish for a young woman.

She bends down and peers under the bed. A few pairs of worn-down shoes, a pile of books, an empty space.

She takes out the photograph again. The top of the pile of books is visible, and there is something blue and rectangular where the empty space is now. A suitcase.

A blue suitcase in which Elita packed her nicest clothes, not because she was planning to die, but because she would be flying away from here. Floating high above everyone’s heads.

Can you see me, dear readers?

I can see you.

Thea is absolutely certain now. Elita was going to run away, on the very night when she died. She’d packed her suitcase, left a cryptic letter explaining why. So where did the case go? It’s definitely not mentioned in the police investigation.

She uses her phone to take some shots of the room, the wardrobe and the space under the bed.

Another thought occurs to her: Was Elita really intending to leave alone? Just her and the child she was carrying? Or was the father involved? Was he waiting somewhere with the case, waiting for a girl who never showed up?

A sound makes her jump; was it the creak of a floorboard?

Her heart misses a beat. She listens hard, but there is only silence. No doubt old houses are always moving, making all kinds of noises.

She edges onto the landing, shines her torch down the stairs. Nothing. She heads down to the ground floor. It’s just after eight; she needs to leave if she’s going to open the surgery in time.

Maybe she ought to take the medication with her, or at least photograph the bottles?

As she enters the bathroom she notices something on the floor in one corner, something she recognises. Empty green plastic packaging. She picks it up, turns it over.

EMERGENCY DRESSING.

She used dozens of these when she was out in the field. She always carried at least one, usually two, in her trouser pockets.

She takes a closer look at the washbasin and the floor. In spite of the dust, she thinks she can see several dark patches.

They could be anything. But they could also be blood.

Someone could have stood in here dressing an injury. Tried to staunch a bleed that was too serious for a plaster.

She glances around for towels, but the hooks next to the basin are empty. She steels herself and draws back the disgusting shower curtain. She can’t suppress a gasp.

Two dark towels lie screwed up in the bottom of the bath. In the middle of the wall, dried onto the white tiles, is a big, rust-coloured handprint.