Rites of Spring

59

Thea photographs the handprint, the towels and the empty packaging. She compares the print with her own hand; it’s much bigger. A man’s, presumably Lasse’s, unless a fourth person was here.

She returns to the kitchen.

Lasse Svart leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair. But what happens next? She sweeps the beam of the torch all around the room, looking for more bloodstains, but the wooden floor is too worn and dirty. She crouches down; there is a piece of dark material next to one of the table legs. It takes a few seconds before she realises what it is: a green beret. Someone has written 223 Rasmussen inside with a black felt tip. This must be Leo’s beret, the one with the cap badge that definitively tied him to the scene of the murder. So what is it doing here?

Thea tucks the beret into her pocket and continues to examine the floor. She soon makes another discovery; among the rag rugs there is a hatch. She glances at her watch; it really is time she left. It will take her a good half hour to walk back to the car, then it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the surgery. Plus she has to find Emee.

She can’t help it; she has to at least open the hatch and take a look.

The recessed bolt also acts as a handle. She gets hold of it and pulls as hard as she can, but the hatch refuses to move. She goes back to the porch and fetches the crowbar; she also steps outside for a few gulps of fresh air, and looks around for Emee.

The yard is silent. Maybe too silent. The birds have stopped singing again, just as they did a little while ago. She suddenly feels uneasy. She clutches the crowbar, peers into the gloom beneath the trees.

‘Emee! Emee!’

Nothing. She can’t wait any longer. Either she leaves now, or she goes back inside and forces the hatch.

She chooses the latter option, and the hatch gives up the fight surprisingly quickly, releasing a gust of that familiar cellar smell. Thea puts down the crowbar, shivers, and directs the beam of the torch down the hole.

A narrow wooden staircase leads to a large cellar directly below the kitchen. A shelf obscures her view; the only way to see what’s behind it is to go down there. She hesitates. It’s getting late; is she really going to investigate a pitch-dark cellar? If she doesn’t, she might miss something important. She hasn’t come all the way out here to leave without following every possible lead.

Slowly she begins to make her way down the steps. The smell is nauseating, making her breathe in short gasps.

When she reaches the bottom, she stops and takes in her surroundings. The shelf is packed with old-fashioned glass jars; the contents are cloudy, but the labels are still legible. Apples, pears, plums, even eggs. Bottles of elderflower cordial.

Cautiously she edges around the shelf. Pipes, a rusty boiler, a huge pile of wood. She’s about to turn and go back to the stairs when she hears something. A faint scraping, followed by the creak of a floorboard. She looks up, sees a flash of light. There’s someone up there.

Rapid footsteps, a different kind of creak, and she realises what’s happening. She makes a run for the stairs, but trips and falls head first. Her torch bounces across the floor and goes out. She looks up and glimpses a pair of wellington boots before the hatch is slammed shut, and she is plunged into total darkness.