‘Oh?’
The little nudge is unnecessary. Dr Andersson is in full flow; all Thea needs to do is sit quietly and listen.
‘Yes indeed! Per plays the guitar and sings in his spare time – he travels all over the area. He’s good – I’ve heard some of his songs on the local radio. Per and the little count are childhood friends too, of course.’
Thea has heard the nickname before, but the doctor misinterprets her silence.
‘The little count – Hubert Gordon. I thought you knew each other. You’re neighbours up at Bokelund, after all.’
‘I have seen him, but only from a distance. He tends to stay in the west wing.’ Thea thinks back to the night of the storm.
‘Yes, Hubert is something of a loner. Most people feel sorry for him – a lodger in his own castle. I assume you know the story?’
Thea doesn’t even need to answer. The doctor turns onto a dirt track between green fields; several large buildings are visible over by the edge of the forest.
‘The old count, Rudolf Gordon, married late; he was almost fifty when Hubert arrived. Unfortunately the boy bore no resemblance to his father, either in his appearance or character. Rudolf sent him to the best boarding schools in England, determined that Hubert should carry on the family traditions, but poor Hubert was a dreamer, and had issues with his nerves, like his mother. Rudolf gradually came to realise that his son wasn’t cut out to run a large estate, with all that entails.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘In the early Nineties, when Rudolf’s health began to fail, he set up the Bokelund Foundation and transferred the castle and most of the grounds. He also gave several hundred acres of land to the Åkerlunda monastery. Rudolf was a Catholic – I believe there’s a small chapel in the castle?’
The doctor raises her eyebrows, making it clear that this is a question.
‘Maybe. In which case it must be in the west wing; I’ve never been in there.’
They arrive at Ängsgården, passing a row of well-kept stables and storage sheds.
‘Anyway,’ Dr Andersson says. ‘When Rudolf died in 1994, Hubert received only a small amount of money plus the right to use a number of rooms in one wing of the castle for the rest of his life. Oh, there’s Erik.’
She nods in the direction of the farmhouse where an elderly man is leaning on a stick at the top of the steps. He is wearing dark glasses, a scruffy moleskin jacket and trousers that don’t match.
‘He was the old count’s administrator for many years – one of the few people Rudolf trusted. He’s been the treasurer of the foundation ever since the start.’
Erik raises a hand in greeting as they get out of the car. ‘Welcome.’ His voice is rough. ‘Erik Nyberg.’ The dark glasses hide his eyes, yet Thea immediately has the feeling that he’s examining her very closely.
Erik is small and sinewy, and there is an innate dignity about him. He’s polite, but doesn’t say any more than he has to.
The house smells of cleaning fluid. The wellington boots and clogs by the kitchen door are in a dead straight line. Erik Nyberg seems to be the kind of man who gets things done – and done in the right way.
He sets out coffee and cake while the doctor chats to him. The kitchen is warm. On one wall there is a tapestry of a Bible quotation, while on the others small oil paintings depict English fox-hunting scenes with horses and dogs.
When they are seated at the table a red-and-white spaniel appears and shows a great interest in both Thea and Dr Andersson’s shoes and trouser legs. The dog is well-trained and obeys its master’s slightest gesture. Thea sees an opportunity to get Erik to open up.
‘I’ve got a dog too – a street dog I brought back from Syria.’
‘Oh?’ Erik sounds interested.
‘Her name is Emee. She looks a bit like a cross between a greyhound and a dingo.’ Margaux’s description; not very flattering, but fair. ‘My colleague and I found her in a ditch outside Idlib. She was badly emaciated, so we took turns to feed her with milk substitute whenever we were off duty. We hadn’t intended to keep her, but as soon as she’d recovered, she started to follow us wherever we went.’
Or Margaux, at any rate, she adds to herself.
‘What colour is she?’ Erik asks.
‘Grey – both her coat and her eyes. Like a ghost. Emee means ghost in the Yoruba language, which is spoken in Nigeria.’
She stops herself, leaves out the fact that she and Margaux first met in Nigeria. Sixteen years ago now . . . She pushes aside the thought.
‘A street dog, you say? And she looks like a ghost.’ Erik leans forward, full of curiosity. ‘How did you get her into Sweden?’
Thea describes the import procedure, doesn’t say that it was David who flew down and took care of all the practicalities while she lay in a hospital in Cyprus. Or that she remembers very little of the time immediately after the bombing.
The story clearly interests Erik. His initial reserve has gone, and he chats away as if they’ve known each other for a long time.
‘How did you get on the other night?’ he asks. ‘Any damage from the storm?’
Thea tells him about the lightning strike and the power outage.
‘We once talked about getting both lightning rods and a reserve generator,’ Erik says. ‘But the count decided it was too expensive. Rudolf didn’t like spending money. We have both here on the farm; it would be too risky to do without. Most of our operations are mechanised nowadays – feeding, mucking out, the machinery. You can never be too careful.’
‘So shall we start the examination, Thea?’ Dr Andersson opens her bag and hands Thea the blood pressure cuff.
Thea wraps it around Erik’s arm; he needs no encouragement to keep the conversation going.
‘Have you and David settled into the coach house?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘That’s good. I’m looking forward to seeing what David does with the castle. How’s his father, by the way? I haven’t bumped into Bertil for a long time.’
‘He has good days and bad days,’ Thea answers truthfully. She thinks about how upset he’d become during dinner, and feels a pang of guilt at having caused it by bringing up Elita Svart.
‘Growing old is no picnic,’ Erik mutters. ‘Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?’
Thea doesn’t reply. David’s father isn’t her patient, but she still prefers not to discuss other people’s medical conditions.
‘God knows we’ve had our differences over the years, Bertil and I,’ Erik continues. ‘But I’ve always respected him. Everyone around here respects Bertil Nordin. He was on the executive committee of the Centre Party, and chaired both the sports club and the local community council for many years. He was re-elected over and over again. People trusted him. They knew he’d keep his word, and always had the village’s best interests at heart. And he was discreet – that was why the count asked him to help set up the Bokelund Foundation.’
Erik suddenly stops talking. Thea has experienced this before: all at once a patient is overwhelmed by their own unexpected chattiness, and falls silent. She leaves him in peace while she completes her examination. He doesn’t flinch when she pricks his finger to measure his blood sugar.
‘Does he talk a lot of rubbish?’ Erik asks when she’s finished. She can’t read his eyes behind those dark glasses, but once again she feels sure that he is watching her closely. ‘Bertil,’ he adds when she doesn’t respond. ‘Does he say stupid things? I’ve heard that people with Alzheimer’s often do that.’