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

She tries to rewind, go over everything he told her. I can guarantee that Leo Rasmussen wasn’t unjustly convicted.

That was what he said, wasn’t it? Guarantee, not promise.

Had Arne actually been at the stone circle? Seen Leo come riding into the glade? Is that why he’s so sure Leo was the Green Man? Whatever the reason, it was strange and careless of him to keep that photo.

She gets out of the car and stretches. Takes several deep breaths to try and quell the nausea. She hears footsteps behind her and spins around.

‘Oh sorry – I didn’t mean to scare you.’ It’s the young woman she met in the church. ‘Hi – do you remember me? Tanya from the churchyard committee. I’m the one who was playing the organ.’

‘Absolutely – hi.’

‘I spotted your car as we pulled up. Simon and I usually eat here once a week. Tornaby doesn’t have much to offer. Anyway . . . I’ve got something to tell you. Simon was in the church yesterday morning; he’d forgotten some sheet music he needed, so he was there before six thirty. He saw the back view of someone over by the mystery grave.’

‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘He couldn’t tell. At first he didn’t realise which grave it was, so he didn’t give it much thought. When he came back out the penny dropped, but by then the person was gone. However, there was a beautiful fresh rose by the gravestone. Simon thinks it’s because it’s almost Walpurgis Night – the anniversary of Elita’s death. We’ll keep an eye out – sooner or later we should be able to find out who it is. Would you like to join us for lunch, by the way?’

Thea shakes her head. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not hungry.’

Tanya looks disappointed. ‘OK – I’ll be in touch if we see anything else. Are you coming along this afternoon?’ She notices Thea’s hesitation. ‘The information meeting with the mining company in the community centre. Everybody’s going – it should be pretty lively.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good – see you later then.’

Tanya walks away and a blond young man with his hair in a ponytail comes to meet her. He glances in Thea’s direction, nods and smiles.

*

Thea lets Emee spend a few minutes on the lawn in front of the pub before heading back to Tornaby to open the surgery. It’s quiet, with only a few patients. She’s still shaken by her visit to Arne, and has to force herself to tackle some admin.

As soon as she’s finished she takes out Elita’s case file. She reads the interviews with the children again, but none of them mentions Arne. As far as she can see, he doesn’t come up in the investigation at all, and yet she’s convinced he was there that night. Why else would he be so sure of Leo’s guilt?

Or could Arne have had something to do with Elita’s death? He was in his twenties when she died, a man with a job and a car, which could make him a possible father of the child she was expecting – but Thea can’t see the awkward young man in the photographs being with Elita Svart. Everything she’s heard about Arne from David and Dr Andersson suggests that he was a little odd. Would Elita really have fallen for him?

She turns to Elita’s letter, tries to read it with fresh eyes.

My name is Elita Svart. I am sixteen years old. I live deep in the forest outside Tornaby.

By the time you read this, I will already be dead.

She is still certain that the letter is not about death, but about change. Elita was on her way, ready to leave with her unborn child – but someone stopped her. Was it Arne?

She hears voices in the corridor, the outside door opening and closing. People arriving for the information meeting, presumably. She’s about to go and take a look when her phone rings. Unknown number.

‘Hi Jenny, it’s your father.’

The voice makes her inhale sharply. She locks the door, returns to her desk.

‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’

She doesn’t know what to say. The idea of her father calling her from prison to ask how she is seems so absurd that she’s having difficulty processing it. She’s kept away from him for so long, and now they’re making small talk on the phone.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask how I am? Isn’t politeness the glue that holds society together, in spite of everything? Isn’t that what proves we’re human and . . .’

‘How are you, Leif?’ She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose.

‘I’m dying of lung cancer, how the fuck do you think I am?’ His laughter is interrupted by a fit of coughing. ‘How’s the reprieve petition going? Have you looked up what to do?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet. What the fuck are you waiting for? Are you hoping I’ll die so that the problem will solve itself? In which case I can tell you that I’ve arranged an interview with a newspaper after the weekend. It’ll be a real sob story about a hardened criminal on his deathbed who regrets what he’s done. There might be a few lines about you too – my angry daughter who refuses to write my reprieve petition, when all I really want is for her to forgive me . . .’

‘Is it?’

‘What?’

‘Is that what you want? For me to forgive you? Is it important to you?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘So the answer to the question is no?’

There is silence for a few seconds; she can almost hear him thinking on the other end of the line.

‘Just do as I ask, Jenny.’

The call ends abruptly, and she sits there with the phone in her hand, anger pounding behind her eyes. She massages one temple, trying to ease the pressure. In the end she opens the drugs cabinet and takes two painkillers. There are other options – stronger, more effective. For a brief moment she considers