The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  The second theory had to do with an unknown connection between the murder and something that lay concealed in Molin’s past. As Veronica Molin had pointed out, her father didn’t possess a fortune. Money could hardly be the reason for his death, even if his daughter had made it sound as if it were the only conceivable motive for murdering anybody. But police officers acquire enemies, Lindman thought. Nowadays it was not uncommon for police officers to receive death threats, for bombs to be placed under prosecutors’ cars. Somebody bent on revenge could wait for as long as it took to get their own back. This meant that patient searches through the archives would be essential.

  There was a third possibility. Something connected with Berggren. Had the uniform in her wardrobe anything to do with Molin? Or had Berggren something in her past linked with Hitler’s Germany?

  According to Björn Wigren, Berggren and Molin were about the same age. Berggren could have been born a year or so later, around 1924 or 1925. So she would have been 15 when war broke out, and 21 when it ended. Lindman shook his head. That didn’t fit. But Berggren has a father, and perhaps also an elder brother. He made more notes. Berggren lives alone, has an income from an unknown source, is on her guard. He made another note: Molin and Berggren. According to her own account she had known Molin since his first marriage. When she said that, he’d had a strong feeling that she wasn’t telling the truth.

  That was as far as he could get. He put down the pad. He’d talk to Larsson the following day. That would mean he’d have to drive back to Östersund. Once he’d done that, he could return to Borås. As he was getting ready for bed he wondered if he should ask Elena whether there was any chance of her being able to take a week off work and fly south with him. But he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to cope with that. The choice between having her company and being alone would be a hard one to make.

  He went to the bathroom, opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. The lump was not visible, but it was there. He studied his face and thought that he looked pale. Then in his mind’s eye he put on the uniform he’d seen in Berggren’s wardrobe. Tried to remember the ranks they’d had in the SS – Rottenführer Lindman, Unterscharführer Lindman.

  He took off the invisible peaked cap and washed his face. By the time he left the bathroom the Western had almost finished. The man who had escaped the lynching party was sitting with a big-breasted woman in a log cabin. Lindman reached for the remote control and switched off.

  He dialled Elena’s number. She answered almost immediately.

  “I’m leaving here tomorrow. I might even be back home by tomorrow evening.”

  “Don’t drive too fast, will you?”

  “That’s all, really. I’m tired out. We can talk when I get home.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “How’s what going?”

  “You, your health.”

  He said he didn’t have the strength to discuss how he was feeling, and Elena understood.

  He drank another glass of wine before settling down in bed. I’ve one more visit to make, he thought as he was falling asleep. I have one more person to see before I talk to Larsson, and then I can put all of this behind me.

  He woke up before dawn with excruciating pains in one of his cheeks. He was also running a temperature. He lay still in the darkness and tried to wish away the pain by sheer will power. But it didn’t work. When he got out of bed, he felt another stab in his cheek. He found a tube of headache tablets and dissolved two in a glass of water. He wondered if he’d been lying awkwardly during the night. But he knew that the pain was coming from the inside. The doctor had warned him. He might suddenly find himself in pain. He emptied the glass and lay down again, hoping the pain would go away. But things got no better. Seven a.m. passed but he was in too much pain to go down for breakfast.

  After another hour, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He looked up the telephone number for the hospital in Borås, and had a stroke of luck. His doctor answered as soon as he was put through. He described the pain he was in. She said she would write him out a prescription and phone it to the chemist in Sveg. If that didn’t ease the pain, he was to phone her again. Lindman went back to bed. The doctor had said she would ring Sveg straightaway. He decided to try to put up with the pain for another hour. Then he would drive to the chemist’s. He lay still in bed. All he could think about was the pain. At 9 a.m. he got up, dressed and went downstairs. The girl in reception wished him a good morning. He smiled and left his key on the desk.

  He collected his tablets and took the first dose immediately. Then he went back to the hotel. The girl handed him his key.

  “Are you unwell?” she said.

  “Yes, I’m in a bit of pain,” he said. “But it’ll pass.”

  “You haven’t had any breakfast. Would you like something in your room?”

  “Just coffee, please. And some extra pillows.”

  He waited until she arrived with a tray and two more pillows.

  “Give me a call if there’s anything you need.”

  “You were upset last night,” he said. “I hope you feel better now.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. “I noticed you in the doorway,” she said. “It was just a momentary weakness. Nothing more.”

  When she was gone, Lindman lay down on the bed and wondered what a “momentary weakness” entailed. It occurred to him that he didn’t know her name. He took another tablet.

  After a while the pain began to ease. He looked to see what it said on the box. “Doleron”. There was a red warning triangle on the packet. He noticed he was feeling drowsy, but he also thought that there is no greater happiness in life than the ebbing away of acute pain.

  He stayed in bed for the rest of the day. The pains came and went. He dozed off and again dreamed of the pack of wild dogs. It was late afternoon before it became clear that the pain was going away rather than just becoming more bearable. Although he hadn’t eaten anything all day, he wasn’t hungry. Shortly after 4 p.m. his mobile rang. It was Johansson.

  “How did it go?” Lindman said.

  “How did what go?”

  “The poker game in Funäsdalen.”

  Johansson laughed. “I won 19 kronor. After four hours. I thought you were going to get in touch with me?”

  “I’m not so well today.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Just a bit of pain. But I talked to Elsa Berggren.”

  “Did she have anything interesting to say?”

  “Not really. She claimed she’d known Molin for a long time.”

  “Had she any idea about why he was murdered?”

  “She found it incomprehensible.”

  “I thought as much. Will you be calling in tomorrow? I forgot to ask how long you were staying.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow. But I can call in even so.”

  “About 9 a.m. would be convenient.”

  He switched off his phone. The pain had more or less gone now.

  He dressed and went down to reception. He left his key on the desk and opened the hotel door. The snow had melted. He went for a walk through the little town. Went into Agardh’s Hardware and bought some disposable razors.

  Last night he’d made up his mind to visit Abraham Andersson. He wasn’t sure he felt up to it. It was dark. He wondered if he’d be able to find the house. But Andersson had said there was a sign to Dunkärret. He went back to the hotel and got into his car. I’ll go for it, he thought. Tomorrow morning I’ll call on Johansson. Then I’ll drive to Östersund and talk to Larsson. I can be back in Borås by nightfall.

  Before leaving Sveg he stopped at a petrol station and filled his tank. When he went to pay he noticed a stand with pocket torches next to the counter. He bought one and put it in the glove compartment.

  He set off in the direction of Linsell, waiting all the time to see if the pains were coming back. For now at least they were leaving him in peace. As he drove, he kept a lookout for signs of animals by the side of the road. He slow
ed down as he passed the turn-off to Molin’s house. For a moment he wondered if he ought to go there, but decided it would be inappropriate. He pressed ahead, wondering what Molin’s daughter and her brother planned to do with the property. Who would buy a house in which someone had been so savagely murdered? The repercussions of that killing would haunt the region for a long time to come.

  He passed Dravagen, kept going towards Glöte until he saw the sign, “Dunkärret 2”. The road was bumpy and narrow. After about a kilometre it divided into two. Lindman kept to the left as the other road appeared to be more or less unused. About another kilometre and he was there. Andersson had put up a sign of his own with the name “Dunkärr”. The house lights were on. Lindman switched off the engine and got out of the car. A dog started barking. Lindman walked up a slope. The house was quite high up, surrounded by darkness. He wondered what drove people to live in such isolated places. What could a person find in all this darkness, apart from a hiding place? He could see the dog now. It was running back and forth along a line stretched between a tree and the house wall. There was a kennel by the tree. It was a Norwegian elkhound, the same breed as Molin’s. Lindman wondered who had buried the dead dog. The police? He walked up the steps to the front door and knocked hard. The dog started barking again. After a while he knocked again harder. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it and shouted into the house. Perhaps Andersson was one of those people who go to bed early? He looked at his watch. 8.15. Too early. He stepped into the hall and shouted again.

  Suddenly he was on his guard. He didn’t know why. He had the feeling that all was not as it should be. He went into the kitchen. There was an empty coffee cup on the table, and next to it a programme for the Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra. He shouted again, but there was no answer. He went from the kitchen into the living room. There was a music stand next to the television, and a violin on a sofa. He frowned. Then he went upstairs and looked everywhere, but found no-one. Something was definitely wrong.

  Lindman went back outside and shouted yet again. The dog continued barking, running back and forth on its line. He walked towards it. The dog stopped barking and started wagging its tail. He stroked it cautiously. Not much of a guard dog, he thought. Then he went back to the car and collected the torch. He shone it around, feeling all the time that something was very much amiss. Andersson’s car was parked beside an outhouse. Lindman checked and found it was unlocked. He looked inside and saw the keys in the ignition. The dog barked again, then all was silent. There was a rustling of wind through the trees in the darkness. He pricked up his ears, then shouted again. The dog answered him with a bark. Lindman went back to the house. He felt the rings on the cooker. They were cold. A telephone rang. Lindman gave a start. The telephone was on a table in the living room. He picked up the receiver. Somebody was trying to send a fax. He pressed the start button and put down the receiver. It was a handwritten note from somebody called Katarina saying, “The Monteverdi sheet music has come.”

  Lindman went back outside. Now he was certain that something was wrong.

  The dog, he thought. It knows. He went back to the house and took a lead hanging from the wall.

  The dog jerked at the line when he approached, then stood quite still while he attached the lead to its collar and released it from the line. Immediately it began dragging him towards the forest behind the house. Lindman switched on his torch. The dog was heading for a path into the pine trees. Lindman tried to hold it back. I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought, not if there’s a madman loose in the forest.

  The dog turned off the path. Lindman followed, restraining it as much as he could. It was rough ground, and he kept stumbling in the undergrowth. The dog forged ahead.

  Then it stopped, raised one of its front paws and sniffed the air. He shone his torch among the trees. The dog put down its paw. Lindman pulled at the lead. It resisted, but the lead was long enough for Lindman to tie it round a tree trunk.

  The dog was staring intently at some rocks just visible through a dense clump of pine trees. Lindman went towards the trees and walked round them. He made out a path leading to the rocks.

  He stopped. At first he wasn’t sure what he’d seen. Something white, shining. Then, to his horror, he realised that it was Andersson. He was naked, tied to a tree. His chest was covered in blood. His eyes were open and staring straight at Lindman. But the gaze was as lifeless as Abraham Andersson himself.

  PART II

  The man from Buenos Aires / October–November 1999

  CHAPTER 12

  When Aron Silberstein woke up he didn’t know who he was. There was a belt of fog between dream and reality that he must find his way through to discover if he really was Aron Silberstein, or if at that moment he was Fernando Hereira. In his dreams his two names often switched. Every time he woke up, he experienced a moment of great confusion. This morning was no exception, when he opened his eyes and saw light seeping through the canvas. He slid his arm out of his sleeping bag and looked at his watch. It was 9.03. He listened. All quiet. The night before he’d turned off the main road after passing through a town called Falköping. Then he’d driven through a little hamlet with a name something like Gudhem and found a cart track leading into the forest, and there he’d been able to pitch his tent.

  And that was where he had just woken up, feeling that he had to force his way out of his dreams. It was raining, a thin drizzle with occasional drops pecking against the canvas. He put his arm back into his sleeping bag to keep warm. Every morning he was overcome by the same yearning for warmth. Sweden was a cold country in the autumn. He’d learnt that during his long stay.

  Soon it would all be over. He would drive to Malmö. He’d return his rented car, get rid of the tent and spend a night in a hotel. Early the next day he would make his way to Copenhagen and in the afternoon board a plane that would take him home to Buenos Aires by way of Frankfurt and São Paulo.

  He settled down in the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to get up yet. His mouth was dry and he had a headache. I overdid it last night, he thought. I drank too much, more than I needed to, in order to get to sleep.

  He was tempted to open his rucksack and take out one of the bottles inside it, but he couldn’t risk being stopped by the police. Before leaving Argentina he’d been to the Swedish Embassy in Buenos Aires to find out about the traffic laws in Sweden. He had discovered that there was zero tolerance when it came to alcohol. That had surprised him as he’d read in a newspaper article some time ago that Swedes were heavy drinkers and were often drunk in public. He resisted the temptation to drink spirits this morning. At least he wouldn’t smell of alcohol if the police were to stop him.

  Light trickled in through the canvas. He thought about the dream he’d had during the night. In it he was Aron Silberstein again. He was a child and his father Lukas was still with him. His father was a dancing master and he received his pupils at home in their Berlin flat. It was during that last horrific year – he knew because in the dream his father had shaved off his moustache. He’d done that a couple of months before the catastrophe. They were sitting in the only room that didn’t have broken windows. Just the two of them, Aron and his father: the rest of the family had disappeared. And they waited. They said nothing, just waited, nothing else. Even now after 54 years it seemed to him that his childhood was one long, drawn-out wait. Waiting and terror. All the awful things that happened outside in the streets, when the sirens sounded and they scurried down into the shelter, had never affected him. What would come to dominate his life was the waiting.

  He crawled out of his sleeping bag. Took out an aspirin and the water bottle. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. He put the pill in his mouth and washed it down. Then he crawled out of the tent for a pee. The ground was cold and wet under his bare feet. One more day and I’ll be away from all this, he thought. All this cold, the long nights. He crawled back into the tent, down into the sleeping bag and pulled it up to his chin. The temptation
to take a swig from one of the bottles of spirits was there all the time, but he would wait. Now that he’d come as far as this he was determined not to take any unnecessary risks.

  The rain grew heavier. Everything went as it was destined to go, he told himself. I waited for more than 50 years for that moment to come. I’d almost, but only almost, given up the hope of finding the explanation for what had ruined my life, and how to avenge it. Then the unexpected happened. By some totally incredible coincidence somebody turned up and was able to supply the piece of the jigsaw that enabled me to discover what had happened. A chance meeting that ought to have been inconceivable.

  He decided that as soon as he got back to Buenos Aires he would go to the cemetery where Höllner was buried and put a flower on his grave. But for him he would never have been able to carry out his mission. There was some kind of mysterious, possibly even divine justice that enabled him to meet Höllner before he died, and find out the answers to the questions he’d been asking for so long. Discovering what happened that day when he was only a child had put him in a state of shock. Never before had he drunk as much as he did for some time after that meeting. But then, when Höllner died, he’d forced himself to sober up and reduce his drinking so that he could go to work again and devise a plan.

  And now it was all over.

  As the rain pattered on the canvas, he ran through what had happened. First, the meeting with Höllner, whom he’d met by pure chance in La Cãbana. That was two years ago. Even then Höllner was showing signs of the stomach cancer that would soon kill him. It was Filip Monteiro, the old waiter with the glass eye, who had asked him if he would consider sharing a table one night when the restaurant was very full. He’d been seated at a table with Höllner.