She tucks her phone into her bra, then turns around, slides her legs over the edge and lowers herself slowly until her arms are fully extended. Ronny would be proud if he could see her now.
She takes a deep breath, lets go.
The drop is longer than she’d thought. Her bare feet hit the cold floor with such force that she tumbles over. She lies there for a few seconds to catch her breath, then gets up.
She glances at the dark rectangle above her and suddenly regrets the whole thing. How on earth is she going to get back up there?
Her phone has survived the fall, but reception is poor. She switches the torch on again.
The chapel doesn’t look like a chapel at all. No pews, no altar. The only source of light is a faint strip beneath the door.
The silhouettes are indeed statues of saints, set out in the middle of the room in some kind of formation. She makes her way to the door; as expected it’s locked, bolted from the outside, so whatever is in here, Hubert doesn’t want it on display.
She finds a bank of switches, tries the top one.
Two spotlights come on, illuminating the centre of the room. Thea inhales sharply.
Five figures, almost in a row.
The one in the middle is on a plinth so that it’s taller than the others. Silk ribbons run from this central figure to the other four, whose faces are covered by animal masks.
A hare, a fox, an owl and a deer.
79
Thea is finding it hard to breathe. It’s as if she can hear her heartbeat bouncing off the stone walls. Hubert has removed all the religious trappings and staged his own version of the spring sacrifice.
She moves closer to the figures. On a table beside them is a record player with a black LP on the turntable, and propped up against one speaker is something she recognises only too well.
A Polaroid, virtually identical to the ones she found inside the Gallows Oak and at Arne’s house.
Walpurgis Night 1986. To Hubert. Come to the stone circle at midnight. The spring sacrifice.
Hubert was also invited to the stone circle.
She picks up the photograph, compares the animal masks with the ones on the saints. They’re the same. So how did they end up here, inside the Gordon family’s private chapel?
She walks around the back of the tableau. There is something on the floor behind the figure representing Elita.
A blue suitcase.
Her heart begins to race. She sits down and opens the case. It contains two pairs of shoes, and neatly folded items of clothing. Two dresses, two pairs of jeans, a blouse, several tops, a passport. Right at the bottom is a soft toy, a little rabbit.
There is something very moving about it all. Elita Svart’s most treasured possessions, the things she wanted to take with her as she floated high above Tornaby, never to return.
Can you see me, dear readers?
I can see you.
She flicks through the passport. It was issued in March 1986, only a month or so before Elita was killed. In the picture she looks happy. Expectant. As if she is waiting to take off. Instead she was beaten to death and left on a cold block of stone. With a child in her belly that no one must find out about.
Because no secret is greater than mine.
Thea gets to her feet, takes a few photos with her phone: the figures, the masks, Elita’s suitcase.
More pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place, but the overall picture is still not clear.
The most logical conclusion is that Hubert must have been there that night, even though he claims to have been in England, and neither the children nor Arne mentioned him. Maybe he was hiding, watching everything from a distance, just like Arne. Waiting to see what would happen.
Why did Hubert take the masks and the suitcase, remove clear proof that Elita wasn’t planning to die, as the police investigation assumed, but to run away? Leave Tornaby, possibly with the one she loved.
The strongest love is unrequited love.
As I said, the Gordons are terrible people.
Could a broken heart be reason enough for Hubert to commit murder?
A distant sound interrupts her train of thought, a door opening and closing somewhere in the building, followed by faint footsteps.
Thea tiptoes over to the door and puts her ear against it. The footsteps are coming closer. Someone is on their way up the stairs.
It must be Hubert. What will happen if he comes in? Catches her here, at the heart of a secret he’s kept for over thirty years?
She has no intention of staying around to find out. Quickly she lifts the record player off the table. The album sleeve behind it falls on the floor – Stravinsky.
The table is heavy, it scrapes along the concrete as she drags it to the right spot. Whoever is outside must be able to hear the noise. She scrambles up and stretches her arms. There’s a half-metre gap. She’s going to have to jump.
Another sound, a bolt being drawn back, a key turning in a lock.
Thea takes a deep breath, bends her knees and pushes off with all her strength. Her fingers grip the edge of the hatch. For a second she thinks she won’t be able to hold on, but then she manages to swing her body and press one foot against the ceiling, enabling her to crawl back into the loft.
Just as she draws her legs in, she hears the chapel door open.
80
Thea runs through the loft, keeping the beam of the torch on her phone in front of her. As soon as Hubert sees that the lights are on and that the table is beneath the hatch, he will know that someone has been there – but not who. Not yet, anyway.
She scrambles back down the ladder into the bridal suite. Jan-Olof is still snoring on the bed. Thea slips on her shoes, puts her phone in her bag and hurries into the bathroom. Her hair is standing on end, her hands and face are streaked with dirt, and the front of her dress is dusty from hauling herself back up into the loft.
She dampens a towel and rubs off the worst of it. Touches up her make-up and tidies her hair. She’s heading for the door when someone grabs her shoulder.
For a second she’s convinced that Hubert has somehow followed her, but it’s Jan-Olof. He stares at her. His eyes are bloodshot, his face puffy.
‘I know what you’re up to,’ he mutters. The alcohol fumes are so strong that she almost has to narrow her eyes.
‘You’re working for him, aren’t you? For Leo. You gave it away the other day. You know him – go on, admit it!’ He pushes his face closer to hers, his expression unpleasant to say the least.
‘I . . .’
Thea searches for a good answer. Jan-Olof seems to have lost his grip on reality. He pokes her in the chest with one finger, shoves her backwards until she bumps into the wall.
She’s getting scared now. The band is still playing downstairs, and she doubts if anyone would hear her if she screamed.
‘Tell Leo . . .’ he hisses. ‘Tell . . .’
His eyes dart from side to side, and suddenly fill with tears. His arms drop to his sides.
‘Tell him I’m sorry. Can you do that? Tell him Jan-Olof is sorry. Tell him I should have told the truth. Can you do that?’
The pleading tone takes her by surprise. He sounds like a little boy.
‘Of course.’ Thea edges towards the door, half-expecting his mood to change again, but Jan-Olof remains where he is, head down, arms dangling. He looks like a great big abandoned child.
She pushes down the door handle and slips out.
When she reaches the ground floor the music has stopped and the guests are moving into the hallway. She sees Per and goes over to him.