Thea locks the door of the coach house. She’s put the old paint tin in her room, and tucked the Polaroid photograph in her inside pocket. Has the tin really been inside the Gallows Oak since the spring of 1986? It’s like a mysterious greeting from the past. Who was the beautiful young woman? Who were her four masked attendants? Why were they dressed like that?
Come to the stone circle at midnight. The spring sacrifice.
She thinks back to the question the TV interviewer asked, the topic David was so keen to avoid. The girl who died in the forest in the Eighties. Hadn’t the interviewer referred to her as the spring sacrifice?
*
Dr Andersson drives past the old stables and heads for the castle. David’s car is still parked by the east wing, along with several other vehicles belonging to various trades.
‘How’s it going? Will the restaurant be ready in time?’ the doctor asks as they pass by.
‘I think so. David’s working around the clock.’
‘Ingrid’s told me a little bit about what’s going on. The foundation has put a lot of money into the renovation.’
Thea suspects this statement is in fact a question, but she refrains from commenting. Dr Andersson continues along the avenue, then turns right onto the main road. The name is misleading; it’s actually a strip of bumpy tarmac with no line down the centre, meandering between oilseed rape fields and clumps of trees.
‘So, Thea, as you already know this job is something of a special arrangement. It’s funded by the Bokelund Foundation and a number of private sponsors, such as our local car dealer.’ The doctor pats the steering wheel with something that could be affection. ‘It’s just a part-time post, and we’ll make home visits as well as holding a surgery in the community centre. It’s all pretty straightforward – cleaning wounds, giving flu jabs, peering into people’s ears and throats, pulling splinters out of fingers and so on.’
She slows down to let an approaching tractor pass by. Sounds her horn and waves cheerily at the driver. ‘Little Stefan. He’s worked at the castle for many years. Needless to say, the life of a GP is nowhere near as eventful as life with Doctors Without Borders. The idea behind this arrangement is for the residents of Tornaby to have access to their own doctor, someone who’s part of the community. A bit like the way things used to be, if you know what I mean. The surgery must be open on Monday and Tuesday mornings. People are used to that. Otherwise you can plan your schedule to suit you, and make sure you post it on the homepage on the Friday of the previous week at the latest. Freedom with responsibility, so to speak.’
Thea nods. Her mother-in-law has already explained all this, but as long as the doctor is talking, she’s not asking intrusive questions.
‘As I’m sure Ingrid’s told you, the Bokelund Foundation exists to promote the good of the community. And this is a wonderful job – the best I’ve ever had, in fact.’
There is a faint hint of sorrow in Dr Andersson’s words, a suggestion that there may be more to this story. But not right now.
The road straightens out, a central line appears along with speed bumps and road signs, plus an electronic board wishing drivers a pleasant day as long as they stay below forty kilometres an hour.
‘I’m sure you know the village well by now – you must have been here lots of times.’
Thea nods, even though it isn’t true. Prior to the past week, she had only visited Tornaby once before, and now they usually drive straight through the village. David has never wanted to come here. Thea hasn’t asked why, because she didn’t want any reciprocal questions about the area where she grew up. However, following the interview and his weird behaviour this morning, she can’t help wondering if there’s a particular reason why they’ve stayed away. Something to do with a dead girl.
She thinks about the Polaroid in her pocket. Maybe the talkative doctor can tell her what it’s about? But first they have to get to know each other better.
*
In the eastern part of the village the houses date from the 1950s. Gradually the landscape changes – leafy gardens, tall flagpoles, white picket fences. The year of construction is painted on several façades, always from the early twentieth century. One of the largest houses belongs to Thea’s in-laws.
Tornaby boasts the almost obligatory pizzeria, a combined ice-cream and fast-food kiosk, plus an ironmonger’s that is fighting for survival against the big DIY chains. The fire station resembles a Lego model with its red door and little turrets. The post office is long gone, but there is still a small Konsum supermarket, plus a branch of Sparbanken, where her father-in-law was once the manager.
The church is located on a patch of higher ground, surrounded by tall poplars. It is built of depressing grey sandstone blocks, and has several side naves plus an enormous tower, which makes it look far too large in comparison to the rest of the village.
‘The oldest stone church in Skåne,’ Dr Andersson informs Thea as they pass by. ‘The crypt and one wall were built back in the 1000s, but this area was an important religious hub long before Christianity made its mark. Tornaby is named after the hawthorn – hagtorn – which was a sacred tree in pre-Christian religions.’
Thea murmurs something in an effort to sound interested.
The red-brick community centre is diagonally opposite the church. David was educated here until the age of twelve, when the school moved to the uninspiring concrete box down by the sports ground. That’s more or less all Thea knows about his childhood, apart from the fact that he used to hang out with Nettan and Sebastian, who are now his business partners.
She thinks of the photograph again, the children in the masks, the young woman. Walpurgis Night 1986, that’s thirty-three years ago. David was twelve, Thea
