The relief is so great that Thea almost bursts into tears, but she manages to compose herself.
‘When can we take her home?’
‘It’s too early to say. Go home and get some sleep. Call in the morning and we’ll be able to give you more information.’
David calls when they’re in the car. It’s just after five; Hubert is driving, because Thea still feels shaky.
‘I just picked up your message – how is she?’
‘OK. She’s going to make it.’
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘Glycol poisoning.’
‘What? How the hell did she get hold of glycol?’
‘I don’t know. Do we have any in the house or at the castle?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
They end the call with exaggerated warmth, as if neither of them wants to acknowledge last night’s quarrel.
‘I have a question,’ she says to Hubert after a little while. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘Go on.’
‘Did you know Elita Svart?’
The silence is a fraction too long.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘We bumped into each other occasionally in the forest. Her father was one of our tenants.’
‘What was she like?’
Another silence.
‘Elita was . . . different.’
‘In what way?’
Hubert shrugs. ‘Hard to explain. She looked at life in her own particular way, if I can put it like that.’
‘Do you believe it was Leo who killed her?’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I was in England when Elita . . .’ He breaks off, as if the words won’t come out.
‘I’ve been to Svartgården,’ Thea says.
‘Why?’
‘Because I was curious, I guess. I’m trying to understand what happened.’
‘I thought it was all pretty clear?’
‘Yes, but there are a few anomalies.’
‘Like what?’
For a moment she considers telling him what she found at Arne’s house, and her suspicions, but she decides to hold back. There is another aspect of the mystery that he might be able to help with. Three pieces of the puzzle that don’t quite fit.
‘Elita’s family. They vanished without a trace, and your father had the house boarded up and the track destroyed the very next day.’
Hubert nods slowly.
‘My father and Lasse Svart had been at loggerheads for years. Lasse had been given notice to quit before Elita died. My father made sure they couldn’t come back.’
‘That’s a harsh way to treat a grieving family.’
Hubert shrugs. ‘As I said, my father was a hard man.’
His tone indicates that he’d like to drop the subject. Thea waits, hoping he’ll change his mind and go on, but the moment seems to have passed.
She gazes out of the window, then asks: ‘Are you invited to the preview dinner?’
‘Mm.’
‘Are you coming?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not very good with people. I prefer to keep myself to myself.’
Thea is disappointed. The dinner is David’s project, and it would have been nice to have someone there who was more like a friend of hers.
When they reach the castle, he gets out of the car and she moves across to the driver’s seat.
‘Thank you so much, Hubert. If you hadn’t helped me, Emee wouldn’t have . . .’
He waves a dismissive hand.
‘We Stanley Kunitz fans must stick together.’
He stops at the corner of the west wing and raises a hand in farewell before going inside.
Suddenly it’s as if something clicks in Thea’s mind. The sound of a piece of the puzzle falling into place.
72
Thea runs into the coach house, kicks off her boots and drops her jacket on the sofa. The poetry book is on her bedside table.
She picks it up, sits down at the desk, then finds Elita’s letter in the case file. She follows the text with her index finger until she finds the right section.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the other girls who died in the forest. Isabelle who drowned in the moat, and Eleonor who fell off her horse and broke her neck.
Soon it will be Elita’s turn.
Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.
Isn’t that lovely?
There’s something appealing about dying when you’re at your most beautiful, don’t you think?
She reads the awkward sentence once again.
Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.
Thea leafs through the poetry book, finds a page with the corner turned down. The poem is called ‘I Dreamed That I was Old’. She’s read it a few times; it’s sad. It’s about a man dreaming of his old age, thinking of everything he’s lost.
Almost at the bottom of the page she finds the lines she’s looking for.
And cozy women dead that by my side / Once lay.
The wording is almost identical. She picks up her phone, brings up the pictures she took at Svartgården. Works backwards from the bloody handprint and the empty dressing packet until she reaches Elita’s room. The space under the bed where Elita’s suitcase had been stored. The pile of books next to it. She enlarges the image, her fingers trembling with excitement.
There it is, third from the bottom. The same title as the book in front of her on the desk. Selected Poems by Stanley Kunitz.
Elita has read it too; she even tried to translate one of the poems into Swedish. Where did a sixteen-year-old girl get a book of poems written in English by an American?
We bumped into each other in the forest occasionally.
Elita was . . . different.
She leans back, presses her fingertips against her eyelids.
Elita must have got the book from Hubert. She even mentions his relatives in the same section – Isabelle and Eleonor. The dead girls.
She opens the book again, reads the inscription.
The strongest love is unrequited love.
Is he talking about Elita? Was Hubert in love with Elita? The thought is dizzying; it puts everything in a new light.
At that moment her phone rings. Unknown number. Thea rejects the call, but whoever is trying to contact her refuses to give up, and in the end she answers.
‘Hi, Jenny, it’s your father.’
‘I can’t talk now – I’m afraid it’s not convenient.’
Her head is all over the place, and she can’t cope with his mind games right now.
‘That’s a shame. I actually called to apologise.’ His voice is subdued, without the usual sarcastic undertone.
‘Really?’ She doesn’t know what to think.
‘Our last conversation didn’t end well, so I thought I’d offer an olive branch. If you’re interested.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘OK, so I asked around about Leo Rasmussen. A former colleague of mine has a nephew, Dejan, who was apparently Leo’s cellmate in Stålboda in the late Eighties. Dejan is a bright guy with a fantastic memory for detail. It was his first stint inside, so it’s not surprising that he remembers it.’
Thea picks up a pen.
‘According to Dejan, Leo kept himself to himself. Behaved impeccably, was always polite to the guards, worked out every day. Dejan said he didn’t exactly come across as a killer, whatever that means. In my humble opinion anyone can become a killer in the wrong circumstances.’ He breaks off to cough.
‘Did Leo talk about what he’d done?’ Thea asks.
‘No, apparently he preferred to avoid the topic. He didn’t boast about it, but nor did he insist he was innocent.’
A fresh bout of coughing; she can hear his chest rattling.