The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  That was the end of the conversation.

  Lindman ran his tongue over his teeth. The lump was there.

  They ordered coffee. She asked if he’d mind if she smoked. He said that it was fine and she lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings towards the ceiling. Then she looked at him.

  “Why did you come here, really?” she said.

  Lindman gave her part of the truth. “I’m on sick leave. I had nothing else to do.”

  “The policeman I spoke to in Östersund said you were helping with the investigation.”

  “One gets upset when a colleague is murdered, naturally. But my visit here is of no significance. I’ve just spoken to a few people, that’s all.”

  “Who?”

  “Mainly the police officer you’ll be meeting in Östersund tomorrow. Giuseppe Larsson. And Abraham Andersson.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Your father’s nearest neighbour, even if he does live quite a long way away.”

  “Had he anything interesting to say?”

  “No. But if anybody was going to notice something, it would have been him. You can talk to him, if you like.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette, crushing the butt as if it were an insect.

  “Your father changed his name,” Lindman said. “From Mattson-Herzén to Molin. That was a few years before you were born. At about the same time he asked to be discharged from the army and moved to Stockholm. When you were two, there was another move, to Alingsås. You can hardly be expected to remember anything about the time in Stockholm. A two-year-old doesn’t have a conscious memory. But there’s one thing I wonder about. What did he do in Stockholm?”

  “He had a music shop.” She could see that he was surprised. “As you say, I don’t recall anything about it. But I heard later. He tried running a shop and opened one in Solna. It went well in the early years. He opened a second one in Sollentuna. But things went rapidly downhill from there. My first memories are from Alingsås. We lived outside the town in an old house that never got sufficiently warm in the winter.” She paused and lit another cigarette. “I wonder why you want to know all this.”

  “Your father is dead. That means that all questions are important.”

  “Are you suggesting that somebody killed him because he once owned a music shop?”

  Lindman didn’t answer and moved instead to the next question.

  “Why did he change his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would anybody want to change their name from Herzén to Molin?”

  “I simply don’t know.”

  Lindman suddenly had the feeling that he ought to be careful. He wasn’t sure where the feeling came from, but it was certainly there. He was asking questions and she was answering, but at the same time something quite different was going on. Veronica Molin was finding out how much he knew about her father.

  He picked up the coffee pot and asked if she would like a refill. She said no.

  “When we worked together I had the impression that your father was worried. In fact, that he was scared. What of, I’ve no idea, but I can remember his fear still, though it’s more than ten years since he retired.”

  She frowned. “What should he have been scared of?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’m asking you.”

  She shook her head. “My father wasn’t the frightened type. On the contrary, he was brave.”

  “In what way?”

  “He was never afraid of doing things. Never afraid of refusing to do things.”

  Her mobile phone rang. She apologised, and answered. The conversation took place in a foreign language. Lindman wasn’t sure if it was Spanish or French. When it was over she beckoned the girl from reception and asked for her bill.

  “Did you go out to see the house?” Lindman said.

  She looked at him for a while before answering. “I have a good memory of my father. We were never close, but I’ve lived long enough to know what sort of a relationship some children can have with their parents. I don’t want to spoil the image of my father by seeing the place where he was killed.”

  Lindman understood. Or at least, he thought he did.

  “Your father must have been very fond of dancing,” he said.

  “Why on earth should he have been?”

  Her surprise seemed genuine.

  “Somebody said so,” Lindman said.

  The girl from reception came with two bills. Lindman tried to take them both, but she insisted on taking hers.

  “I prefer to pay my own way.”

  The girl went to get some change.

  “What exactly does a computer consultant do?” Lindman said.

  She smiled but didn’t reply.

  They went their separate ways in reception. Her room was on the ground floor.

  “How are you going to get to Östersund?” he said.

  “Sveg is only a little place,” she said, “but I managed to hire a car even so. Thanks for your company.”

  He watched her walk away. Her clothes, her shoes, everything about her, looked expensive. Their conversation had restored some of his lost energy. The question was: what should he do with it? He didn’t suppose there was much in the way of night life in Sveg.

  He decided to go for a walk. What Björn Wigren had told him made him think. There was a connection between Berggren and Molin that he wanted to know more about. The curtain had been moved. He was certain of it.

  He fetched his jacket and left the hotel. It was chillier than the previous night.

  He took the same road as he’d taken earlier in the day. Stopped on the bridge. Listened to the water flowing beneath him. He met a man walking his dog. It was like meeting a ship with no lights far out on a black sea. When he reached the house, he stood in the shadows, away from the glow of the street lights. There was a car on the drive now, but it was too dark to see what make it was. There was a light on upstairs, behind drawn curtains. He stood motionless. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. But he stood there nevertheless.

  The man approaching moved very quietly. He’d been watching Lindman for some time before deciding that he’d seen enough. He came diagonally from behind, keeping all the time in the shadows. Johansson had no idea who the man was. He looked in good condition. He eyed him warily.

  “Hello,” he said. “I was wondering what you’re doing here.”

  Lindman was startled. The man had moved so quietly, he’d had no idea there was anybody there.

  “Who are you, asking me these questions?”

  “Erik Johansson. I’m a police officer. I am asking myself just what you are doing here.”

  “I’m looking at a house,” said Lindman. “I’m in a public place, I’m sober, I’m not creating a disturbance, I’m not even having a pee. Is it forbidden to stand looking at a pretty house?”

  “Not at all. But the lady who lives there was made nervous and telephoned. When people get nervous, I’m the one they contact. I thought I’d find out who you were. People are not used to strangers standing in the street staring at them. Not at night, in any case.”

  Lindman took out his wallet and produced his police ID. He’d moved a couple of metres so that he was in the glow from the street light. Johansson grinned.

  “So it’s you,” he said, as if he’d known Lindman of old but only just remembered.

  “Stefan Lindman.”

  Johansson scratched his forehead. Lindman noticed that he was only wearing a thin vest under his jacket.

  “Both of us being police officers doesn’t improve matters. Larsson told me you were here. But I couldn’t know it was you outside Elsa’s house.”

  “It was Elsa who bought Molin’s house for him,” Lindman said. “No doubt you knew that?”

  “I didn’t know that at all.”

  “I found that out from an estate agent in Krokom. I thought Larsson might have mentioned that.”

  “All he said was that you were here on a visit and that you used to work
with Molin. He certainly didn’t say anything about you spying on Elsa.”

  “I’m not spying,” Lindman said. “I went out for a walk. I don’t know why I stopped.”

  He realised that it was an idiotic answer. He’d been standing there for ages.

  “We’d better move on,” Johansson said. “Otherwise Elsa will start wondering.”

  Johansson’s car was parked in a nearby side street. It wasn’t a blue and white police car, but a Toyota with a dog grille in front of the luggage space.

  “So you went out for a walk,” Johansson said, again. “And just happened to land up outside Elsa’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  Johansson looked worried.

  “It’s probably best if we don’t say anything about this to Larsson,” he said. “He’d no doubt be a bit worried if we did. I don’t think they’re all that thrilled in Östersund to have you spying on people.”

  “I’m not spying.”

  “No, you said that. But it’s a bit odd that you should be standing here at Elsa’s house. Even if she was the one who bought Molin’s cottage for him.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She’s always lived here. Nice and friendly. Takes an interest in children.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She runs dancing classes in the Community Centre. Or used to. The children learned how to dance. I don’t know if she still does it.”

  Lindman nodded, but didn’t ask any questions.

  “Are you staying at the hotel? I can give you a lift.”

  “I’d rather walk,” Lindman said. “But thanks for the offer. I haven’t noticed a police station in Sveg.”

  “We’re in the Community Centre.”

  “Can I call in tomorrow morning? Just to see how things are here. And to have a chat.”

  “Of course.”

  Johansson opened his car door.

  “I’d better give Elsa a ring and tell her everything’s OK.”

  He got into the car, said goodbye and closed the door. Lindman waited until the car was out of sight before walking away.

  He stopped on the bridge for the fourth time. The link, he thought. It’s not just that Berggren and Molin knew each other. There’s more to it than that. But what? He started walking slowly, waiting for his thoughts to fall into a pattern. Molin had used Berggren to find a house for him. They already knew each other. Maybe Molin had moved to Härjedalen to be close to her?

  At the end of the bridge he paused again. Another thought had struck him. He ought to have considered it earlier. Berggren had noticed him in the street, despite the fact that he’d avoided the light of the street lamps. That could only mean that she was keeping watch over the street. That she either expected or feared that somebody would come. He was certain of it. She couldn’t possibly have seen him by chance.

  He set off again, more quickly now. It seemed to him that the interest Berggren and Molin shared in dance could not have been a coincidence.

  The reception was closed by the time he got back to the hotel. As he walked up the stairs, he wondered if Veronica Molin was asleep. Assuming she was still called Molin.

  He unlocked his door and switched on the light. On the floor, pushed under the door, was a message. He picked it up and read it. “Phone Giuseppe Larsson in Östersund. Urgent.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was Larsson himself who answered.

  “I couldn’t find your mobile number,” he said. “I must have left it at the office. I phoned the hotel, but they said you were out.”

  Lindman wondered if Johansson had phoned Larsson after all, to tell him about their meeting outside Berggren’s house.

  “I went for a walk. There’s not much else to do here.”

  Larsson chuckled. “I think they show films sometimes at the Community Centre.”

  “I need to keep moving.”

  Lindman could hear that Larsson was talking to somebody. The volume of the television set behind him was turned down.

  “I thought I’d entertain you with something we heard from Umeå today. A paper signed by Dr Hollander. You might well ask why he didn’t mention it in the first preliminary report he sent us, but these pathologists have their own way of doing things. Have you got a moment?”

  “I have all the time in the world.”

  “He says he’s found three old entry wounds.”

  “What does he mean by that?”

  “That Molin had been shot at some time. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Not just one bullet. Three. And Dr Hollander takes the liberty of deviating from strict protocol. He considers that Molin was fantastically lucky to have survived. He actually used that word, ‘fantastic good fortune’. Two of the bullets hit him in the chest just beneath his heart, and the third in his left arm. On the basis of the scars and other things I don’t understand, Hollander concludes that Molin received these wounds when he was a young man. He can’t tell whether all three bullets came at the same time, but it seems likely.”

  Larsson started sneezing. Lindman waited.

  “Red wine always does that to me,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t resist the temptation tonight. I’m being punished for it.”

  “There was nothing about bullet wounds in the files, was there?”

  “No. But I phoned Borås and spoke to a friendly man who laughed nearly all the time.”

  “Inspector Olausson.”

  “That’s the one. I didn’t mention that you were here, I simply asked if he knew that Molin had been shot. He didn’t. Which enables us to draw a simple conclusion.”

  “That it happened before he joined the police?”

  “Even earlier than that. When the old regional council offices were reformed, the police took over their archives and personnel details. It would have been documented when the police force was nationalised and Molin became an employee of His Majesty the King.”

  “So it must have happened while he was in the army.”

  “That’s more or less the conclusion I’d come to. But it takes time to get at military archives. What we should be asking ourselves even now is what might have happened if it turns out that he wasn’t wounded while he was a soldier.”

  Larsson paused.

  “Does this change the picture?”

  “It changes everything in the picture. Or rather, we don’t have a picture any more. I don’t think we’re going to find out who did this for quite a long time. My experience tells me that it’s going to take a long time, because we’re going to have to dig deep. What does your experience tell you?”

  “That you might be right.”

  Larsson started sneezing again.

  “I thought you’d want to know this,” Larsson said when he came back on the phone. “Incidentally, I shall be meeting Molin’s daughter tomorrow.”

  “She’s staying here in the hotel.”

  “I thought you might meet her. What’s she like?”

  “Reserved. But she’s a very good-looking woman.”

  “I have something to look forward to, then. Have you spoken to her?”

  “We had dinner together. She told me something I didn’t know, about those missing years in the mid-’50s. She says Molin owned a couple of music shops in the Stockholm area, but he went bankrupt.”

  “I suppose there’s no reason why she should lie about that?”

  “Hardly. But you’ll meet her tomorrow anyway.”

  “I’ll certainly ask her about the bullet wounds. Have you decided how long you’re going to stay?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow as well. Then I’m off. But I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  Lindman put the phone down and slumped onto the bed. He felt tired. Without even taking off his shoes, he stretched out and fell asleep.

  He woke up with a start and checked his watch. 4.45. He’d been dreaming. Somebody was chasing him. Then he was surrounded by a pack of dogs that were tearing at his clothes and bitin
g him all over his body. His father was there somewhere, and Elena. He went to the bathroom and rinsed his face in cold water. It wasn’t difficult to interpret the dream. The illness I have, the cells multiplying out of control, they are like a pack of wild dogs careering around inside me. He undressed and burrowed into the bedclothes, but didn’t manage to get back to sleep.

  It was always in the early morning, before dawn, that he felt most defenceless. He was 37, a police officer trying to lead a decent life. Nothing remarkable, a life that was never more than ordinary. There again, what was ordinary? He was rapidly approaching middle age and didn’t have any children. Now he was having to fight an illness that might overcome him. In which case the end of his life wouldn’t even be ordinary. It would mean that he would never be able to demonstrate his true worth.

  He got up at 6 a.m. They wouldn’t start serving breakfast for another half-hour. He took some clean clothes from his suitcase. Thought that he ought to shave, but didn’t bother. By 6.30 he was in reception. The dining room door was ajar. When he peeped in he was surprised to see that the girl from reception was sitting on a chair, drying her eyes with a napkin. Hastily, he withdrew. She’d obviously been crying. He went back up the stairs and waited. The doors were opened. The girl was smiling.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  As he ate his breakfast, he wondered why she’d been crying, but it was none of his business. We all have our private miseries, he thought. Our packs of dogs to do battle with.

  By the time he’d finished, he’d made up his mind. He would go back to Molin’s house. Not because he thought he might find anything new, but to go again in his mind through what he now knew. Or didn’t know. Then he’d leave everything to sort itself out. He wouldn’t stay in Sveg waiting for a funeral that he didn’t want to go to anyway. Just now, this was the last thing he wanted to submit himself to. He’d go back to Borås, repack his bag and hope to find a cheap package holiday to Mallorca. I need a plan, he thought. If I don’t have a plan, I won’t be able to cope with what’s in store for me.

  He left the hotel at 7.15. There’d been no sign of Molin’s daughter. The girl in reception smiled as she always did when he handed in his room key. Something must have happened, but it wasn’t likely that she’d been told she had cancer.