Elita’s Room, someone had written in attractive, ornate lettering at eye level.
So this was her room. This was where she had lived her life.
Elita Svart. The spring sacrifice.
Little Stefan reached for the handle; his heartbeat seemed to be reverberating throughout the house. He was on the point of doing something forbidden, stepping into a world to which he was not permitted access. An uninvited guest, an intruder.
Then he saw another message on the door. Small, distorted words that almost blended in with the artwork, but became clearer as his eyes grew used to the darkness.
Nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forests.
At the same time he spotted something else. Hidden among the leaves there was a large, terrifying male face.
The realisation was sudden, and chilled his blood. He didn’t know where it had come from or why, but the sensation was so strong that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something had happened in this house. Something evil that had made Lasse Svart and his women leap to their feet in the middle of their supper, run out to their cars and drive away in the night. Something connected to a dead sixteen-year-old girl on a cold stone, and a ghostly rider galloping through the forest.
Little Stefan let go of the door handle and took the stairs in three strides. Hurtled out through the porch, down the steps and into his truck.
He started the engine and set off with a screech of tyres. He didn’t even glance in the rear-view mirror until he was absolutely certain that Svartgården had disappeared, deep among the trees.
1
‘Hi, Margaux, it’s Thea. Sorry I haven’t called you for a while – there’s been a lot to do with the move, but now David and I have arrived in Skåne. Our new life can begin. A new, happier story than the old one. At least that’s what both of us are hoping for.’
The drone begins by taking a close-up of the main entrance and the impressive stone steps, then it slowly pulls out until the whole castle can be seen: a large central section with two wings, which from above makes the building look like an elongated H.
The white, freshly cleaned façade, the green copper roof, the coach house and the stables a short distance away to the right, beyond the east wing. The moat beyond the west wing. Then the voiceover.
‘Bokelund Castle is situated approximately four kilometres from the small community of Tornaby in the district of Ljungslöv in north-western Skåne, not far from the southern point of Söderåsen National Park. The castle is one of the oldest in Skåne, dating all the way back to the fourteenth century. The current main building, in the style of the French Renaissance, was constructed around 1880, but remains of the original castle can still be found down in the cellar, where one of the dungeons still exists.’
A slight exaggeration. No one actually knows what the little vaulted room down in the cellar was used for, but Thea has to admit that David was right when he said that a dungeon sounded better than a larder.
The camera zooms a little further out, revealing the mossy green moat. The avenue linking the castle to the main road in the south. The narrow stone bridge leading across to the forest in the north. The marsh, just visible to the east.
‘Bokelund Castle lies on an island surrounded by a moat, created in the seventeenth century by diverting water from the nearby Tornaby marsh, which is one of Skåne’s largest wetlands. It is also a Natura-2000 area, supporting a wide range of flora and fauna.’
Switch to a shot of deer with the light behind them, ferns, moss, a dragonfly dancing over a tranquil pool, a skein of geese crossing a blue sky.
Back to the drone. A new angle, this time a variation on the opening image, finishing at the top of the stone steps where she and David are now standing.
‘Since 1996 the castle has been owned and run by the Bokelund Foundation, which was started by Count Rudolf Gordon, the last private owner. The foundation is unique; its aim is to benefit the Tornaby area and its residents. Among other things, it funds a bus service and a local medical practice, and also awards grants. The castle has recently been restored to its former glory.’
End.
‘What do you think?’ David looks both eager and nervous at the same time. ‘They’ll add the interview we’re about to do.’
‘Great,’ Thea says, and immediately regrets her choice of word when she sees his expression. ‘Professional,’ she adds. ‘Extremely professional.’
David looks happier. He closes his laptop and places it on the stone balustrade.
‘The producer just sent it to me.’ He points to the short man in the baseball cap who’s standing a short distance away, talking to the cameraman and the sound guy. ‘There’s a bit of tweaking to do, plus the music track, but they’ll put that on after the interview. I think it’s going to be fantastic – as long as the weather holds out.’
He glances anxiously at the sky. It’s warm for the second half of April, and the spring sun is shining, but a band of grey has begun to grow on the horizon.
‘This has to be perfect,’ he mutters, probably as much to himself as to Thea.
She places a hand on his arm. ‘It will be. Don’t worry.’
David nods, forces a wry smile. He’s wearing spotless chef’s whites. His beard, peppered with grey, has been neatly trimmed along his jaw line, and his blond hair is neatly slicked back.
A woman with a make-up kit attached to her belt comes up to them.
‘Hi – can I just powder your forehead?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
The make-up artist is around thirty, a good fifteen years younger than both Thea and David. She’s also very attractive. Not so long ago David would already have switched on the charm, given her the confident, wolfish grin that’s so difficult to resist. But David is not his usual self. From time to time he nibbles, apparently unconsciously, at one thumbnail; the flesh around it is red, and the make-up artist has to work hard to disguise the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
She turns to Thea.
‘Are you appearing on screen?’
‘No,’ David answers for her. ‘My wife is a little shy.’ He winks at Thea as if to reassure her that everything is OK, that there will be no more arguments; he respects the fact that she doesn’t want to appear on TV. Thea knows it isn’t true.
‘David, can I have a word?’ the producer calls out.
Thea moves over to the wall. She would really like to slink down the stairs, sneak off home to the coach house, stay as far away from the camera as possible, but the TV feature is a big deal for the castle. At the very least she has to stay around and look interested.
‘How’s it going?’ says a voice behind her.
‘Fine.’ Thea tries to hide her surprise. In spite of her height, David’s mother has an unfailing ability to materialise unexpectedly. Ingrid is tall – taller than Thea. Straight back, broad shoulders, no hint of the stooping posture that often creeps in after retirement. Her steel-grey hair is cut short, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.
‘The weather looks promising – that’s good.’
Thea nods in agreement.
‘What time is Dr Andersson arriving tomorrow?’ A quick change of subject. That’s how Ingrid operates.
‘Nine o’clock,’ Thea replies, even though she’s absolutely certain that Ingrid knows exactly what her timetable is.
‘And she’s going to take you around the area. Show you the surgery, explain how everything works.’