Rites of Spring

67

Arne’s house is a large white bungalow with a double garage. A robot mower is buzzing around the lawn. The BMW in which he picked up her and Bertil is parked on the drive, next to another that is almost identical.

She still isn’t sure whether this is a good idea. Calling in to see Arne at the station is one thing, but seeking him out at home is another. A lot more risky. On the other hand, she doesn’t think she can get much further without his help. After all, they’re family, and she’s here now.

She gets out of the car and rings the doorbell. A grey tabby cat appears from nowhere and starts rubbing around her legs. It slips inside as soon as Arne opens the door.

He’s in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Square reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

‘Thea, what a nice surprise,’ he says, sounding as if he means it. ‘Come on in – would you like a coffee?’

He steps aside to let her in. She hangs up her jacket; it occurs to her that she knows very little about Arne, except that he’s a police officer, was more or less brought up by Ingrid and Bertil, and used to be married to a woman from Thailand. Apparently, he’s a cat person too, which surprises her.

The house is clean and tidy. The oil paintings on the walls look as if they were bought on holiday overseas – paddy fields, sunsets, bamboo forests. Asian kitsch.

‘Nice artwork,’ she says as he shows her into the kitchen.

‘My wife’s. Ex-wife’s, I mean.’

He nods towards a photograph. He is about ten years younger, standing beside a small woman dressed in white, wearing a little too much make-up. She’s holding a bridal bouquet and smiling stiffly at the camera. Arne looks considerably more cheerful.

‘Sweden was too cold for her. Take a seat,’ he says, pointing to a kitchen chair before going over to a cupboard and getting out coffee cups. She sees him quickly hide a bottle of schnapps.

The kitchen smells of coffee and toast. There are several photographs on the walls, probably taken in Thailand. Arne and the woman again, often with a child – a boy aged about ten.

‘Sammy,’ Arne says when he sees her looking. ‘My stepson. We’re still in touch; I’m going to visit them in a couple of weeks. I try to get over there at least once a year.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Please.’

He passes her a cup and brings out half a sponge cake, which she assumed he baked himself.

‘It was your colleague who gave me your address.’

‘Which one? There are four of us at the station.’

‘A young woman.’

‘Jönsson. Of course, it’s Wednesday today.’ He shakes his head. ‘Ljungslöv used to have a real police station, fully staffed, and a patrol car that was out and about twenty-four/seven.’ He takes a sip of coffee as if to wash away the bitterness in his voice. ‘So to what do I owe the honour, Thea?’

‘I have some questions about Elita Svart. I know it’s all a bit sensitive, but Ingrid said you’d be able to help me.’

Arne raises his eyebrows. ‘No problem. What do you want to know?’

‘Were you involved in the investigation?’

He leans back on his chair, takes a moment to compose himself.

‘Yes and no. I was pretty new to the job back then; I’d only qualified a few months earlier. The district CID team took on the case, but because I was from Tornaby, I got to help out – drive them around, explain who was who in the village, keep an eye on cordoned-off areas and so on.’

‘Were you present at the interviews?’

‘No. I didn’t have enough experience, but of course I heard all about it afterwards. Lennartson, the chief of police back then, held daily briefings where everyone was brought up to date. It was a big thing, a local murder. The first and only one in all the years I’ve worked here.’

Arne is being much more helpful than Thea had expected. He’s nowhere near as cautious or reticent as everyone else she’s spoken to. She regrets not turning to him earlier, and tries to curb her enthusiasm.

‘Who interviewed Leo?’

‘Two colleagues from CID. One of them was called Bure, but I’ve forgotten the name of the other one. They were good, though.’ Arne looks amused, as if he’s trying to work out where she’s going with this.

‘And there was no doubt about Leo’s guilt? No suggestion that his confession might have been obtained under duress?’

Arne leans back even further, making the chair creak under his weight. He stares at her for a few seconds over the rim of his coffee cup, then breaks into a broad grin.

‘You must have read that book – False Confessions.’

‘I have – you’re familiar with it?’

‘Of course. The author actually came down here. He asked for and was given the whole case file, but when he wanted to speak to the detectives who’d interviewed Leo, that was a step too far. Lennartson asked me to explain as clearly as possible to the little hack that it would be best if he got the hell out of here.’

Arne laughs, as if the memory appeals to him.

‘Lennartson was a hard bastard, but the fact is that Bexell was on a fishing expedition. As I said, Bure and his colleague were good – very experienced. Old-school cops, admittedly, but they stuck to the rule book. More or less. Little Leo admitted everything. Told them exactly what he’d done to his stepsister and wept crocodile tears. There was also plenty of forensic evidence, so I can guarantee that Leo Rasmussen wasn’t unjustly convicted, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘You mean the cap badge and the hoof prints?’

‘Exactly.’ Arne nods, then frowns.

‘The children – David and the others – were interviewed together. Was that accepted practice?’

‘To be honest, I don’t remember. I think Lennartson interviewed them.’

He puts down his cup, digs out a tin of tobacco and tucks a plug beneath his upper lip. Pushes it into place with the tip of his tongue. The frown lines have deepened.

‘Lasse Svart changed his statement the day after Erik Nyberg found the cap badge,’ Thea says. ‘Why do you think he did that? Surely people like Lasse didn’t usually talk to the police?’

Arne shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. I guess he was suffering from a guilty conscience. Didn’t want to protect his daughter’s killer. That business of honour among thieves is often overstated, in my experience.’

‘And then he disappeared. Left Svartgården in a hurry and took Lola and Eva-Britt with him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Didn’t anyone look for him?’

‘Of course they did. Lasse was called as a witness at the trial and didn’t turn up, so we spent a while trying to find him, but then the judge decided his testimony wasn’t crucial. Leo had already admitted that the information Lasse had given was true. I think they might have gone to Finland; both Lasse and Eva-Britt had family there. The two of them were actually distantly related – typical gypsies.’

The word makes Thea lose most of the warmth she was feeling towards him.

‘You seem to know a hell of a lot about the case,’ he goes on. ‘Details that can’t have been in the book.’

She considers lying, but decides against it. ‘I’ve read the case file.’

‘Have you now.’ Arne’s eyes narrow a fraction. ‘And why, if I may ask? Why are you interested in a thirty-year-old murder case?’

‘Because it’s about David. Because I don’t think he’s ever really got over what happened. What he witnessed.’

She’s been expecting the question, and has had time to prepare her answer. Plus it’s true, or at least it was to begin with.

‘Did you know that Elita was pregnant?’ she asks in order to regain the initiative.

Arne remains silent for a few seconds too long.

‘What gives you that idea?’

‘I think the information was in the case file, but someone removed it. There’s a page missing from the autopsy report. Someone took it out and altered the page numbers.’

He is very still for a moment, then he bursts out laughing. His reaction surprises her.

‘So just because there’s one page missing from the records, you know for sure that Elita was pregnant and that someone was trying to hide it? Don’t you think those are big conclusions to draw from one missing piece of paper, Sherlock?’

‘Her medical records are also gone. They’re not in the county archive.’

‘Do forgive me. Two missing pieces of paper.’

Arne has a point, she reluctantly admits to herself. She’d really like to show him the case file, the shadows of the Tippex and the thin line across the page, but she doubts if that would be enough to convince him. Instead she presses on.

‘There’s something else that’s been bothering me. David and the other children talked about dancing to music they’d recorded, and Elita had cassette tapes in her desk – but there’s no mention of a tape player being found at the crime scene.’

Arne’s expression doesn’t change, but a slight twitch of his upper lip gives him away. He quickly rubs his fingers over his moustache as if to hide his reaction.

‘I don’t remember. It’s a very long time ago.’

A lie, she’s almost sure of it. Arne clears his throat, leans across the kitchen table and adopts a warm, fatherly tone.

‘This is what happened, Thea. Elita took the kids to the stone circle. She got them to dance and sing. Then Leo turned up on his horse and scared the shit out of them. He smashed Elita’s skull with a rock and left the body on the sacrificial stone, probably because she’d asked him to do it. I assume you’ve read her letter.’

She nods, is about to say that the letter could be interpreted in more than one way, but Arne hasn’t finished.

‘And as far as evidence goes, apart from the fact that David and his friends unanimously identified Leo, we know that he rode there on a horse from Svartgården. Lasse found it in the forest, muddy and exhausted, and the technicians matched its hoof prints with those at the scene. It was Leo who killed Elita – I have no doubt about that whatsoever.’

‘You’re not concerned about inconsistencies in the story? Items that weren’t found? The tape player, the masks . . .’

‘The masks?’

‘Yes, the children said they were wearing animal masks when they were dancing, but they’re not listed among the evidence either.’

Arne shrugs. ‘Maybe the forensic technicians didn’t think it was worth including them. Maybe the kids took them home, how the fuck should I know. What I do know, however, is that if you pick out individual details from a bigger picture and put them back together, you can make strange patterns. That’s how all conspiracy theories work.’

‘And what about the family disappearing without a trace the day after the funeral? Don’t you think that’s weird?’ Thea has the bit between her teeth now.

Arne sighs heavily.

‘Listen to me. Lasse Svart was a nasty piece of work who’d been in and out of prison for half his life. We were taking a closer look at all his “business affairs”, and he’d been given notice to quit Svartgården even before Leo killed Elita. It’s hardly surprising that he took off as soon as she was in the ground.’

‘Leaving everything behind? Clothes, medication . . .’

Arne leans back again. The chair makes its objections clear.

‘You are well-informed, aren’t you?’ He stares at her in silence. ‘Have you been out there? To Svartgården?’

She thinks about lying, but realises it’s too late.

‘Yes. I was there the other day.’

He slowly strokes his moustache. He doesn’t even look surprised.

‘A piece of good advice from Uncle Arne, Thea. Stop running around asking questions. David is like my kid brother. I care about him – about both of you. If you start digging, you never know what kind of shit you might find, if you understand me. Hang on.’

He leaves the room, and she hears him rummaging in a drawer before he returns with a thin black folder, which he places on the table in front of her.

‘Your identity details are protected.’

A statement, not a question. For a second he reminds Thea of Ingrid, his big sister.

‘So?’ Her turn to play it cool.

‘So I’m wondering why.’ He sits down. Closer this time – close enough for her to smell tobacco and schnapps on his breath. ‘Most people who have protected ID are either police officers, abused women, or criminals. Which of those categories do you fall into?’

‘None of them.’

‘No?’ He leans even closer. The smell of schnapps is stronger now.

Arne has clearly looked her up in the police database, but her protected ID has stopped him, effectively blocking anything that would lead to Jenny Boman. She tells him exactly what she told Dr Andersson. Her work for Doctors Without Borders, travelling to war zones, the risk of repercussions.

‘I thought you’d left? After that business in Syria? The hospital that was bombed?’

‘That’s right.’ Thea swears to herself. The whole village seems to know what she’s been through.

‘But you’ve still chosen to keep your ID protected?’

‘For the time being. Just to be on the safe side.’

Arne nods, seems to accept her explanation, which enables her to relax a little.

‘When did you start working for Doctors Without Borders?’

‘Two thousand and five.’

‘Right.’ He opens the folder, takes out a sheet of paper. Brings his glasses down from the top of his head.

Suddenly she realises where he’s going, and her blood turns to ice.

‘But you applied for ID protection in 1990. Fifteen years earlier. How old were you then? Nineteen?’

She nods slowly, trying to keep the mask in place.

Arne taps the piece of paper.

‘Why does a nineteen-year-old need a protected ID? That’s what this experienced old cop is wondering. What happened to her? Why does she need to become invisible? Impossible to find in any records.’

Her mind is whirling. She searches for an answer, an explanation that isn’t too close to the truth, but comes up with nothing.

Arne smiles sympathetically.

‘You know what, Thea? Maybe this is nothing to do with me. Rooting around in the past isn’t always a good idea – what do you think?’

The phone rings before she can respond, playing a shrill version of ‘Für Elise’ that makes it impossible to carry on talking.

‘Excuse me!’ Arne gets up, grabs the cordless phone and takes it into the hallway. ‘Hi, Sammy,’ she hears him say. ‘Good to hear from you! No, no, you’re not disturbing me.’

He walks into another room, talking a little too loudly.

Should she take the opportunity to get out of here? Their conversation is definitely over. Arne has warned her against asking any more questions about Elita Svart, hinted that if she does, he’ll be only too happy to dig into Thea’s past.

She stands up and goes into the hallway. Arne must be at the far end of the house; she can hear him laughing.

Curiosity takes over and she pushes open the door on her left. It leads to a large parlour with dark wooden furniture. It’s cool and smells faintly of dust. Presumably it’s not a room Arne uses much.

She closes the door. Past the bathroom there is a little corridor and a step, then the living room with an enormous flatscreen TV on one wall, surrounded by a home cinema system. Four big leather armchairs – three look untouched, but there is a small towel on the fourth, as if to protect the leather from wear and tear.

There is plenty more tech on the shelves and walls – a hi-fi system, the expensive brand David has always wanted. Older items like a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a cine film projector. It’s like a journey through time from the late Seventies to the present day.

A scratched little box catches her attention. It says POLAROID on the side. She opens it and finds a Polaroid camera – not one of the new models that became popular a couple of years ago, but an old one.

There was no camera in Elita’s room, and nor was it mentioned in the case file. She picks it up and turns it over. PROPERTY OF ARNE BACKE, TORNABY is etched on the back.

How long has he had it?

There’s an instruction booklet in the case. She takes it out; it was printed in 1984.

She can see something else in the case, something that makes her heart beat faster. Three photographs.

The first two show a young Arne in his police uniform, tall and gangly with a downy moustache. In one his eyes are closed, in the other he’s smiling too broadly in a way that borders on unpleasant.

She’s seen the third picture before – many times by this stage. Four children in animal masks standing around Elita Svart, holding the ribbons attached to her wrists. The note is written in Elita’s rounded handwriting.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Arne is standing in the doorway with the phone in his hand. Thea was so absorbed in the camera that she didn’t hear him coming.

‘Who gave you this?’ she says, holding up the photo.

He doesn’t answer, he merely stares at her, his expression grim. His lip is twitching, but this time he doesn’t try to hide it.

He is blocking the route to the hallway and the front door. Thea looks for another way out, but she is trapped. She holds her breath, feels every muscle in her body tense.

Arne takes a step forward, clenches his fists. Unclenches them and moves to one side.

‘I’d like you to leave now, Thea. Put those things down and get out of my house.’