Arne nodded in a way that he hoped was cool. Lasse took out a tin of tobacco, tucked a substantial plug beneath his top lip, then wiped his hand on his trousers.
‘You’ve come at a really good time,’ he went on. ‘My usual driver was arrested for drink driving last week. I’ve got a new moonshine distiller and thirsty customers all the way up to Nedanås. No one will suspect a police car. You’ll be well paid, of course – much better than when you used to drive for me in the past.’
He patted Arne on the shoulder. Arne made an effort not to flinch; Lasse had big, powerful hands that bore the marks of many years working with a hammer and tongs.
‘I need to send several containers to Ljungslöv today. I was going to take them myself, but a farmer in Reftinge called a while ago. He wants to sink a new well, and he’s offering double pay.’ Lasse leaned closer, lowered his voice and gripped the shoulder he’d just patted. ‘Walpurgis Night is a perfect opportunity to go water divining. There are many forces on the move tonight, let me tell you. Nature is hungry and the Green Man will ride through the forests, so you be careful, little Arne.’
As usual Arne couldn’t tell whether Lasse was teasing him. All that nature hocus-pocus sounded like a joke, as if Lasse were trying to scare him, just like he’d done with those kids earlier on. At the same time, Lasse’s expression was deadly serious. He kept his hand on Arne’s shoulder, eyes boring into his.
A screech from the marsh made Arne jump – presumably some kind of bird. What else would it have been? He managed to stop himself from shuddering.
‘Anyway. The containers are in there. You can take them right away.’ Lasse released his grip on Arne’s shoulder and pointed to a small shed, half-hidden among the undergrowth beyond the paddock.
Arne took a deep breath, tucked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on his heels.
‘I don’t do that kind of thing anymore, Lasse.’
Lasse drew back. Frowned and looked Arne up and down.
‘No? So you’ve turned over a new leaf?’
Arne shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m a police officer now, I have to consider my actions.’
‘I see . . .’
Lasse was still staring at him. There was something hypnotic about his gaze, something that threatened to melt the last remnants of Arne’s self-confidence. Arne cleared his throat, tried not to look away.
‘The thing is, Lasse, I really can’t . . .’ His voice wobbled. Shit! He cleared his throat again. He was Arne Backe, Officer Arne Backe.
‘I can’t,’ he said, his voice steadier now. He pushed his hips forward, tucked his thumbs further under his belt.
‘I understand,’ Lasse said, spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘You’ve got a new job now. You don’t have time to help your old friends.’
Arne nodded, hugely relieved.
‘Not even old friends who were there for you in the past.’
The relief was replaced by a lump of ice in Arne’s belly.
‘Old friends who actually helped you to get this fancy job, with a car and a uniform. Who swore to the police that there was no way Arne Backe had been looking through little girls’ windows, because he’d been helping out here when that perverted little Peeping Tom was creeping around Tornaby. It would be a shame if the truth came out now. All it needs is a phone call to the chief of police in Ljungslöv – Lennartson, isn’t it? I believe he’s a close friend of your brother-in-law?’
Arne felt the air go out of him, felt his shirt gape at the collar and his belt slip down over his hips.
‘OK, so this is what we’re going to do,’ Lasse continued, grasping Arne by the shoulder again – harder this time. ‘You back that smart police car up to the shed and you load twenty five-litre containers into the boot. Actually . . .’ Lasse squeezed until Arne grimaced with the pain. ‘Take twenty-one. You can keep the last one. After all, we’re old friends.’
12
‘You’d have liked Kerstin Miller, I’m sure of it. She’s the kind of person who has a glow about her. A good soul.
‘I can hear you snorting, saying that surely I’ve experienced enough misery to realise that anyone is capable of doing bad things. That genuine goodness doesn’t exist. I’d like to believe that you’re wrong.’
The kitchen in the hunting lodge is warm and cosy. There are bunches of dried herbs hanging on the walls, a wood-burning stove crackles in one corner, and a big fluffy cat is stretched out on the stone floor in front of the fire.
Kerstin Miller has a subtle sense of humour that immediately appeals to Thea. She offers rhubarb tea, chatting away as if they already know each other.
‘You really didn’t need to drive all the way out here for my sake. I’m already better. I’m intending to be back at school in a couple of days; the supply teacher is having a few problems.’
‘You need to stay home for the rest of the week,’ Dr Andersson insists.
‘It’s nothing, just a bit of a temperature. Alvedon will sort it out. We’ve got so much to do before the summer. I don’t want the children to suffer because I’ve got a cold.’ Kerstin turns to Thea. ‘So tell me – how are you settling in at the coach house? Are you coping with the lingo? You can always ask me if there’s something you don’t understand – we northerners must stick together!’
Kerstin comes from somewhere in the north, and speaks a charming mixture of ‘standard’ Swedish and the Skåne dialect.
‘I’ve picked up a few words,’ Thea assures her.
‘There you go – you’ll be speaking fluent Skåne in no time.’ Kerstin’s smile is inviting. ‘Will you get everything done in time for Walpurgis Night?’
‘Absolutely. David’s working flat out, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. There will be a lot of people at the dinner.’
‘Yes – both Jeanette and Sebastian have been in touch and said they’re coming. I think it’s wonderful that they’re going into business with David after all these years. They were such good friends when they were children. Hard-working. Conscientious. Let me show you something.’
Kerstin gets up and goes into the room next door. Thea hears the sound of drawers opening.
‘Here they are in their first year.’
Kerstin places a scrapbook on the table and turns to a faded colour photograph. Tornaby School 1981, Year 1 is written neatly beside it.
There are only fifteen children in the class. Some of them are shyly looking down or away, others are more interested in the camera or the photographer. Kerstin is at the far side. She’s about twenty-five years old with long, dark blonde hair. Her face is young, full of energy.
‘There he is.’
David is in the back row; he’s easily recognisable. His mother Ingrid probably knitted the sweater he’s wearing.
‘And there’s Jeanette.’
Kerstin points to a girl with an Asian appearance in the front row. She’s wearing dungarees and a blue hair band, and she’s beaming at the camera. Thea can see the gap between her slightly too large front teeth.
Jeanette’s ethnicity comes as a surprise. Thea has never met her, and somehow she’s always imagined her with blonde hair and freckles, as if all children who grew up in the country automatically looked like Pippi Longstocking. Ridiculous, of course.
‘Jeanette was usually top of the class, except in Maths.’ Kerstin moves her finger to a third child, a shy-looking boy with cropped hair and glasses that are much too big for his face. ‘Sebastian was the mathematician. His parents moved here from Poland when he was a baby. He was a wonderful boy, quiet but kind. And as I said, very gifted when it came to Maths.’
‘And David?’