A blue suitcase in which Elita packed her nicest clothes, not because she was planning to die, but because she would be flying away from here. Floating high above everyone’s heads.
Can you see me, dear readers?
I can see you.
Thea is absolutely certain now. Elita was going to run away, on the very night when she died. She’d packed her suitcase, left a cryptic letter explaining why. So where did the case go? It’s definitely not mentioned in the police investigation.
She uses her phone to take some shots of the room, the wardrobe and the space under the bed.
Another thought occurs to her: Was Elita really intending to leave alone? Just her and the child she was carrying? Or was the father involved? Was he waiting somewhere with the case, waiting for a girl who never showed up?
A sound makes her jump; was it the creak of a floorboard?
Her heart misses a beat. She listens hard, but there is only silence. No doubt old houses are always moving, making all kinds of noises.
She edges onto the landing, shines her torch down the stairs. Nothing. She heads down to the ground floor. It’s just after eight; she needs to leave if she’s going to open the surgery in time.
Maybe she ought to take the medication with her, or at least photograph the bottles?
As she enters the bathroom she notices something on the floor in one corner, something she recognises. Empty green plastic packaging. She picks it up, turns it over.
EMERGENCY DRESSING.
She used dozens of these when she was out in the field. She always carried at least one, usually two, in her trouser pockets.
She takes a closer look at the washbasin and the floor. In spite of the dust, she thinks she can see several dark patches.
They could be anything. But they could also be blood.
Someone could have stood in here dressing an injury. Tried to staunch a bleed that was too serious for a plaster.
She glances around for towels, but the hooks next to the basin are empty. She steels herself and draws back the disgusting shower curtain. She can’t suppress a gasp.
Two dark towels lie screwed up in the bottom of the bath. In the middle of the wall, dried onto the white tiles, is a big, rust-coloured handprint.
59
Thea photographs the handprint, the towels and the empty packaging. She compares the print with her own hand; it’s much bigger. A man’s, presumably Lasse’s, unless a fourth person was here.
She returns to the kitchen.
Lasse Svart leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair. But what happens next? She sweeps the beam of the torch all around the room, looking for more bloodstains, but the wooden floor is too worn and dirty. She crouches down; there is a piece of dark material next to one of the table legs. It takes a few seconds before she realises what it is: a green beret. Someone has written 223 Rasmussen inside with a black felt tip. This must be Leo’s beret, the one with the cap badge that definitively tied him to the scene of the murder. So what is it doing here?
Thea tucks the beret into her pocket and continues to examine the floor. She soon makes another discovery; among the rag rugs there is a hatch. She glances at her watch; it really is time she left. It will take her a good half hour to walk back to the car, then it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the surgery. Plus she has to find Emee.
She can’t help it; she has to at least open the hatch and take a look.
The recessed bolt also acts as a handle. She gets hold of it and pulls as hard as she can, but the hatch refuses to move. She goes back to the porch and fetches the crowbar; she also steps outside for a few gulps of fresh air, and looks around for Emee.
The yard is silent. Maybe too silent. The birds have stopped singing again, just as they did a little while ago. She suddenly feels uneasy. She clutches the crowbar, peers into the gloom beneath the trees.
‘Emee! Emee!’
Nothing. She can’t wait any longer. Either she leaves now, or she goes back inside and forces the hatch.
She chooses the latter option, and the hatch gives up the fight surprisingly quickly, releasing a gust of that familiar cellar smell. Thea puts down the crowbar, shivers, and directs the beam of the torch down the hole.
A narrow wooden staircase leads to a large cellar directly below the kitchen. A shelf obscures her view; the only way to see what’s behind it is to go down there. She hesitates. It’s getting late; is she really going to investigate a pitch-dark cellar? If she doesn’t, she might miss something important. She hasn’t come all the way out here to leave without following every possible lead.
Slowly she begins to make her way down the steps. The smell is nauseating, making her breathe in short gasps.
When she reaches the bottom, she stops and takes in her surroundings. The shelf is packed with old-fashioned glass jars; the contents are cloudy, but the labels are still legible. Apples, pears, plums, even eggs. Bottles of elderflower cordial.
Cautiously she edges around the shelf. Pipes, a rusty boiler, a huge pile of wood. She’s about to turn and go back to the stairs when she hears something. A faint scraping, followed by the creak of a floorboard. She looks up, sees a flash of light. There’s someone up there.
Rapid footsteps, a different kind of creak, and she realises what’s happening. She makes a run for the stairs, but trips and falls head first. Her torch bounces across the floor and goes out. She looks up and glimpses a pair of wellington boots before the hatch is slammed shut, and she is plunged into total darkness.
60
The crash of the hatch bounces off the cellar walls. Thea hears the rattle of the bolt, then footsteps crossing the kitchen floor, followed by the front door closing.
She is alone here. Alone and locked in a pitch-black cellar.
Her heart is racing. In her head she is five years old, or eight, or ten. It’s a different cellar, but it smells the same. Dampness, earth, fear.
She can already hear the faint sound of insects scuttling across the floor. The ones with hard bodies and vibrating wings.
She is almost paralysed with terror, but forces herself up onto all fours. Gropes around in the darkness, but fails to find the torch. Her hand brushes against something alive, and she snatches it back. Presses her back against the wall, wraps her arms around her knees.
She is alone. No one knows she is out here in the forest, no one except the person who’s locked her in, left her alone in the darkness. She could die here without anyone realising. Sooner or later the old house will collapse, like the stable and the barn. Bury her under a pile of rubble and dust, just as in her nightmare.
Her chest contracts, her breathing becomes shallower. Her vision flickers.
She has to calm down, stop hyperventilating before she faints. She is no longer a terrified little girl, she is a grown woman who has worked in war zones, seen people die, continued operating even though bombs were shaking the building she was in.
She fumbles in her pocket, takes out one of Emee’s poo bags. Breathes into it. The trick works. The flickering stops, her pulse slows.
She must try to think. The priority is to find her torch. She pushes the bag back into her pocket; her fingers touch something hard.
Her phone – Jesus, how stupid!
She brings the screen to life, clicks on the torch. There is enough light to find her proper torch and, maybe more importantly, to chase away the worst of the fear.
She checks the phone, but as she suspected there is no coverage down here. She climbs the steps and pushes at the hatch, but it’s rock solid. She searches the cellar, but can’t find anything that might help her to break out. Presumably the crowbar is still on the kitchen floor. Why the hell didn’t she bring it with her?