The house isn’t very big. There’s a closed door to her right, the bathroom straight ahead, next to the stairs. She can just see the kitchen on the left.
She opens the closed door. A double bed, neatly made. A bedside table, a chest of drawers, a mirror. Two wardrobes.
On the bedside table there is a book, its covers warped by the damp, plus a faded photograph in a metal frame. Thea picks up the photograph, which shows a girl and a boy on a bench. The boy is looking into the distance, while the girl gazes admiringly at him. Someone has written on the white strip at the bottom: Leo ten years old, Elita six years old. Thea feels her excitement rising. This is the photo Elita mentioned in her letter, so this must have been Eva-Britt’s bedroom.
It’s a strange feeling, holding the picture in her hand – as if the years have been erased and she’s stepped straight into Elita’s world.
She sweeps the beam of the torch across the walls. The paper is yellowed and has fallen off in places, lying in a heap by the skirting board. Above the bed hangs a watercolour in the naïve style: various forest creatures dancing in a glade. It reminds Thea of the ceiling paintings in the main dining room at Bokelund.
She opens one of the wardrobes. It’s full of clothes. So is the other – and the chest of drawers.
Why would you leave your home without packing some clothes?
She heads for the bathroom. Washbasin, toilet, bath, mouldy shower curtain. The bathroom cabinet is open, and the contents have been dumped in the washbasin.
Creams, ointments, toothbrushes, plasters, bottles of pills.
She looks at the labels. The first contains tranquillisers for Lola Svart, prescribed only two days after Elita’s death. Flunitrazepam. Strong, but not surprising in the case of someone who was already fragile and had lost a child.
The other bottle was prescribed for Eva-Britt Rasmussen in February 1986 and contains Levaxin, a hormone tablet given to patients with thyroid problems. It’s more than half-full. It might be possible to explain why Lola left her tranquillisers behind, but medication for thyroid deficiency is usually prescribed for life. And yet Eva-Britt didn’t take it with her.
The impression of a hasty departure is reinforced when Thea enters the kitchen. The smell in here is more acrid than in the rest of the house. There are glasses and plates on the table; judging by the mould, they’d been used. One of the chairs has been knocked over.
On the cooker Thea sees a greasy frying pan, and a saucepan with something black and unidentifiable in the bottom. She opens a cupboard; it’s full of empty packets, mouse droppings, dead mealworm beetles and various other insects that have eaten themselves to death on a selection of dry goods.
The next cupboard has an array of bottles and jars, with both solid and liquid contents. She reads the labels: castoreum, digitalis, valerian. This must be Lola and Eva-Britt’s natural medicine cabinet.
There is a white plastic container on top of the fridge; it’s the same as the ones she saw in the ruins of the shed a little while ago. It’s half-full of a clear liquid.
Thea shines her torch on the table. Three people sat here eating. Two of them had lost a child, the third person’s child was accused of murder. How do you deal with a situation like that? What do you talk about over dinner?
She directs the beam at the overturned chair. Someone seems to have leaped to their feet. She thinks it was Lasse, maybe because the chair was at the head of the table.
She shudders again, not just because of the smell this time. Svartgården is a deeply unpleasant place, but she can’t leave. Not yet.
The steep stairs are covered in a thick layer of dust; they creak beneath her feet. There are two bedrooms, one at each end, with a landing and a toilet in between. She begins with the room on the left, which contains a double bed, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. The furniture and sloping ceiling make it feel cramped. This must have been Lasse and Lola’s room. The bed is unmade. A movement among the sheets makes Thea jump, and she almost drops the torch.
Shit!
A mouse, who was obviously just as scared as she was.
She waits until her pulse slows before looking in the first wardrobe. Men’s shirts, covered in damp patches. She can’t help touching one of them. Lasse Svart’s shirts have hung here for over thirty years, and yet it’s as if they still hold a small part of him, make him appear more clearly to her. He somehow resembles her own father, even though she actually has no idea what Lasse looked like.
The other wardrobe is full of women’s clothes. A blue silk blouse catches her eye. Everything else is cheap and ordinary, but the blouse is different. Thea takes it out, shakes off the dust and hooks the hanger over the door. The fabric has aged well, keeping its sheen. This must have been Lola’s best blouse, the one she wore on special occasions, the one that made her feel really good about herself. So why is it still here? Just like her medication, Lola didn’t take it with her.
Thea checks under the bed and sees two suitcases.
She straightens up. Something made Lasse and the two women jump up from the table in the middle of dinner. Get into their cars and disappear into the night without suitcases, clothes or medication.
But what?
She goes along the landing to the other bedroom. As she gets closer she realises the door is covered in a beautiful, hand-painted pattern of leaves.
She can just make out ELITA’S ROOM through the dust. And underneath, in smaller letters that almost blend in with the artwork:
Nature is hungry and the Green Man is riding through the forests.
She’s seen those words before, read them in Elita’s letter, but this time they feel more creepy, somehow.
She reaches for the door handle, hesitates. The feeling she had earlier is back, the feeling that she’s about to cross a line. Do something she shouldn’t do.
She pushes down the handle and slowly opens the door.
58
Thea pauses in the doorway, shining her torch around the room. She has a sense of unreality; Elita’s room is exactly the same as in the photographs in the case file. A single bed, an IKEA desk, an armchair, a lamp, a wardrobe.
She goes over to the desk, directs the beam at the place where the letter had lain.
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.
Thea opens the desk drawers. Pens, a biology textbook, a pile of cassette tapes. One of them is labelled TOP TRACKS, but she doesn’t think it’s Elita’s handwriting. Another says BRYAN ADAMS. She looks around for a tape player, but can’t see one.
In one of the drawers, beneath papers yellow with damp, she finds a Polaroid photograph of Elita sitting on her bed. Judging by the angle, she must have put the camera on the desk and used the automatic timer. Dampness has caused the surface to bubble, and the colours have faded; even though Elita is smiling, the image is unpleasant.
Thea slips it in her pocket and goes over to the wardrobe. Elita Svart has worn these clothes. She pictures the girl standing here trying things on in front of the mirror on the inside of the door. Listening to Top Tracks. Miming to Duran Duran, Wham!, Madonna. Dreaming of getting away from this place.
Half of the hangers are empty. Thea thinks back to Lola’s wardrobe; her best blouse was still there. The opposite is true of Elita’s clothes. The items that are left are old, faded, or too childish for a young woman.
She bends down and peers under the bed. A few pairs of worn-down shoes, a pile of books, an empty space.
She takes out the photograph again. The top of the pile of books is visible, and there is something blue and rectangular where the empty space is now. A suitcase.