Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (hardest books to read txt) 📕

She froze. The torchlight was reflected in a bumper and a number plate, and she could see a half-open boot. She was looking at the back end of an old blue Ford. Eva-Britt’s car, its nose buried deep in the muddy canal.

‘Where are they?’ she gasped. ‘Where are Lola and Eva-Britt?’

Lasse pointed to the car again.

‘Down there with the Green Man. Where no one will miss them.’

‘What have you done, Lasse?’

Kerstin staggered backwards up the slope, slithering and sliding and landing on her bottom more than once, but keeping the beam of her torch on the Ford.

She didn’t let herself cry until she was in her car reversing away. The same tears as when she was a little girl. Tears of anger, of impotence.

When she was only a hundred metres away from the hunting lodge, she stopped. She applied the handbrake, switched off the engine and sat in silence with the rain hammering on the roof. She wondered how long it would take for someone of Lasse’s size to bleed to death. Ten minutes, maybe?

She checked her watch, closed her eyes and thought about her mother. She’d promised herself she would never be like that, never let anyone walk all over her as her mother had done. When twelve minutes had passed she started the car and slowly drove back to the lodge. Back to Bertil, to warmth and safety.

88

‘Lasse was dead when Bertil and I got down there.’ Kerstin’s voice is quiet, but the anger is clearly audible. ‘Lasse murdered Lola and Eva-Britt. Pushed their car off the road and into the canal. They didn’t have a chance in the muddy water. And as if that wasn’t enough, Bertil worked out that he must have got out of the pick-up and opened the boot of the Ford, retrieved the bag of money without making any attempt to rescue the women. Lasse got what he deserved . . .’

She falls silent. Thea wants to ask a question, but the thought slides away. She takes another sip of her tea.

‘What happened next?’ she manages to ask.

‘We didn’t dare contact the police. Bertil was afraid they’d realise what had gone on, that the count, Erik and he himself would be dragged in, and the whole sorry story would come to light. So he called Erik and together they sank Lasse’s pick-up next to the Ford. They made sure both vehicles ended up deep in the mud, where no one would find them.’

Thea thinks she knows the answer to her next question, but asks it anyway.

‘And the money?’

‘We agreed that it should go to Leo when he got out of jail. Anonymously, of course.’

Thea closes her eyes. Her mind is full of slow-moving thoughts.

‘What . . .?’ she begins, but can’t get any further. Her mouth refuses to co-operate, her chin keeps dropping. ‘What have you . . .?’

‘Sleeping tablets. I ground them up and put them in your tea. I’m very sorry, but we need time to think things through. Work out what to do. Close your eyes and everything will be fine, I promise.’

The darkness closes in around Thea, sweeping in from the sides and swallowing her vision before finding its way into her head.

89

She is dreaming again, a horrible dream about dead women buried deep in the mud. Trapped, unable to get out. Elita, Lola, Eva-Britt. The two Gordon girls.

Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.

Will she soon be lying next to them?

She is woken by loud voices. For a little while she lingers in the no-man’s-land between sleep and wakefulness as her head slowly clears. She is sitting on a wooden chair in what is presumably Kerstin’s pantry. Her arms and legs are secured to the chair with cable ties.

The voices are coming from the kitchen. There are three of them, and she recognises them all.

‘We have no choice, Kerstin,’ Ingrid says. ‘If she starts talking, you and Bertil will be in real trouble. You might even end up in jail. Is that what you want?’

‘Of course not, but isn’t it high time the truth came out? Bertil seemed to think so too.’

‘Bertil is no longer himself. You if anyone should realise that.’

‘Not so loud – what if she wakes up and hears us?’ The third voice belongs to Arne.

Someone switches on the radio. Music pours into the room, drowning out most of what is said. Thea tries to free herself, but the cable ties are immovable.

The conversation is becoming more heated, and she picks up the odd fragment through the music.

‘We have no choice,’ Ingrid repeats.

‘. . . absolutely out of the question,’ Kerstin counters. ‘Bertil wouldn’t have wanted . . .’

‘What do you know about what Bertil would have wanted? You were nothing more than a diversion!’

‘. . . for heaven’s sake, Ingrid . . . other solutions.’

‘There’s only one way . . .’

This is followed by a crash as a piece of furniture falls over, then a loud thud. Murmuring voices. After a few minutes the music is switched off and the pantry door opens. Arne is standing there with a knife in his hand.

‘Time for a little walk,’ he says.

He cuts the cable ties and leads her into the kitchen, where Ingrid is picking up a chair.

‘Where are Kerstin and Bertil?’ Thea asks.

‘They’re having a little rest,’ Ingrid answers, a fraction too quickly. Then she nods to Arne, jerks her head in the direction of the door.

‘Are you really sure about this?’ he asks her.

‘Yes. You know what her type is like. Devious, untrustworthy.’

‘What are you going to do to me?’ Thea tries to hide her fear, but without success.

No response. Arne grabs her arm and hustles her out of the door. It’s started raining.

‘Head for the jetty,’ he orders her.

She obeys, for a few metres at least. Then she stops dead.

‘Keep going!’

She remains where she is. Turns to face him.

‘No. If you want to kill me, then you’re going to have to do it yourself. I have no intention of helping you.’

Arne pulls a face. Reaches into his pocket and produces a pistol.