Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

Joona slowly packs the five yearbooks into his bag.

‘This is a reference library,’ the headmaster protests. ‘You can’t take our yearbooks...’

‘Tell me about the Rabbit Hole,’ Joona says, zipping his bag.

The headmaster’s gaze wavers in momentary surprise, and he sets his chin.

‘I have to agree with the international media. The Swedish police might want to try a little harder to find Teddy Johnson’s murderer. Just a little tip, seeing as you and your colleagues seem to be having trouble finding things to occupy your time.’

‘There’s a club here at this school,’ Joona says.

‘I’m not aware of it.’

‘Maybe it’s secret?’

‘Sadly I don’t believe that we have any dead poets’ societies,’ the headmaster says coolly.

‘So you don’t have any old-fashioned clubs or associations?’

‘I’ve allowed you to get insight into our activities, even if I find it hard to believe that you’ll find your killer here, but I won’t answer any questions about the private affairs of our students, or any groups they might or might not belong to.’

‘Have any members of staff worked here for more than thirty years?’

When the headmaster doesn’t answer, Joona walks around the desk and begins to search the computer himself. He opens a set of accounts and finds the employee payroll.

‘The stable master,’ the headmaster says weakly.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Emil... something.’

A group of students are smoking down by the stables. One girl is riding in a paddock, and several horses are grazing in a field behind the building. Students can board their horses at the school, fully serviced, while school is in session.

Just as Joona is walking into the stable his phone buzzes with a text message from Saga. She’s taking the next direct flight to Chicago to talk to the only known habitué of the Rabbit Hole.

Grace Lindstrom.

Now that Joona is near the stalls, the air is heavy with horse, leather and hay. The stable consists of twenty-six stalls and a heated saddle room.

A thin man in his sixties, wearing a green quilted jacket and wellington boots, is grooming a coffee-brown gelding.

‘Emil?’ Joona says.

The man stops and the horse snorts. Its ears twitch nervously at the unfamiliar voice.

‘He looks very good across the withers and loins,’ Joona says.

‘That he does,’ the man says without turning around.

With shaky hands, he puts the brush down.

Joona walks over to the gelding and pats him on the shoulder. The horse is sensitive and his skin reacts instantly, contracting beneath his hand.

‘Bit too twitchy, that’s all,’ Emil says, turning towards Joona.

‘Too eager, maybe.’

‘You should see him gallop, he runs like the wind.’

‘I was just talking to the headmaster, and he said you might be able to help me,’ Joona says, showing his police ID.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m in the middle of piecing together a complicated puzzle, and I could use some help with one of the pieces from someone who’s worked at the school for a long time.’

‘I started as a stable-boy thirty-five years ago,’ Emil replies warily.

‘Then you’d know about the Rabbit Hole,’ Joona says.

‘No,’ the man says abruptly, then looks towards the low window.

‘It’s where some sort of club meets,’ Joona says.

‘I need to get back to work,’ Emil says, grabbing a shovel.

‘I can see you know what I’m talking about.’

‘No.’

‘Who used to meet at the Rabbit Hole?’

‘How should I know? I was a stable-boy. I’m still only the stable master.’

‘But I’m sure you see things, have seen things. Haven’t you?’

‘I mind my own business,’ Emil replies, but he lets go of the shovel as if all the energy has gone out of him.

‘Tell me about the Rabbit Hole.’

‘I heard it mentioned in the first few years, but...’

‘Who met there?’

‘I have no idea,’ he whispers.

‘What did they do there?’ Joona persists.

‘Partied, smoked, drank... the usual.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because that’s how it looked.’

‘Did you attend the parties?’

‘Me?’ Emil asks with his chin wobbling. ‘You can just go to hell.’

The horse picks up on his nervousness and gets anxious, stamping and knocking the sides of the stall, making the bridle swing against the wall.

‘You looked up towards the pump-house the first time I mentioned the Rabbit Hole — is that where it is?’

‘It’s no longer there,’ Emil says, breathing out hard.

‘But that’s where it was?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show me.’

They go out together, up the gravel track, past the groundskeeper’s flat and over to the pump-house, where they leave the road and head off towards the edge of the forest.

Emil leads Joona to the foundations of an abandoned building covered by weeds and birch saplings. He stops hesitantly in front of a small hole in the ground, picks some strands of long grass and starts pulling them apart.

‘Is this the Rabbit Hole?’

‘Yes,’ Emil replies, blinking away tears.

Huge roots have disturbed some of the foundation, and Joona can see a narrow flight of stairs blocked by earth and stones between some thorny bushes.

‘What did this place used to be?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not welcome up here,’ Emil whispers.

‘Why did you stay at the school all these years?’

‘Where else would I get to be with such fine horses?’ the man says, then turns to walk back to the stables.

The overgrown foundation lies fifty metres behind the main residential block of the Haga boarding house.

Joona puts his bag down on the grass, takes out the oldest yearbook and leafs through the pictures again, looking more closely each time the Haga boarding house appears.

He stops at a winter picture of blond children with rosy cheeks having a snowball fight.

Behind them is a beautiful blue pavilion.

Standing precisely here.

The Rabbit Hole wasn’t an underground passageway. It wasn’t the cellar beneath an old, abandoned building.

Thirty years ago there was a beautiful building right here.

In the photograph the pavilion’s shutters are closed. Gold lettering above the doors spells out ‘ Bellando vincere ’ as a sort of motto.

Joona kicks the ground hard at the edge of the overgrown foundation, walks around, pulls up some of the weeds with their roots, leans over and picks up a piece of charred wood. He turns it over, and sees that it’s part of an arched window.

He returns to the main school building and marches straight in to see the headmaster again, closely followed by the secretary.

‘Ann-Marie,’ the headmaster says tiredly. ‘Can you explain visiting hours to the detective, and—’

‘If you lie to me again, I’ll arrest you, and drag you to Kronoberg Prison,’ Joona says to the headmaster.

‘I’m calling our lawyers,’ the man gasps, reaching for his phone.

Joona puts the blackened piece of wood on the desk. Soil and tiny crumbs of charcoal scatter across the polished desktop.

‘Tell me about the blue building that burned down.’

‘The Crusebjörn Pavilion,’ the headmaster says quietly.

‘What did the students call it?’

The headmaster lets go of the phone, runs his hand across his forehead and whispers something to himself.

‘What did you say?’ Joona asks sharply.

‘The Rabbit Hole.’

‘Presumably the school’s management committee was in charge of the maintenance of the pavilion?’ Joona says.

‘Yes,’ the headmaster admits.