The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  At 4 a.m. Larsson and Lindman had been alone in the kitchen.

  “Rundström will be here as soon as it gets light,” Larsson said. “Plus three dog handlers. We’ll bring them in by helicopter, that’s the easiest way. But he’s bound to wonder what you’re doing here. I need to have a good explanation to give him.”

  “Not you,” Lindman said. “I need a good explanation myself.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Lindman thought for a while before answering. “Maybe it was that I wanted to know if he’d remembered anything,” he said, eventually. “Concerning Molin.”

  “And you stumbled upon a murder? Rundström will understand that, but he’s going to think it odd even so.”

  “I’m getting out of here very soon,” Lindman said.

  “OK. But not before we’ve talked through what happened here.”

  Then one of Larsson’s colleagues had appeared and reported that the Helsingborg police had informed Andersson’s wife. Larsson went off to talk to somebody, possibly fru Andersson, on one of the many mobile phones that seemed to be ringing constantly. Lindman wondered how it had been possible to conduct a criminal investigation in the days before mobile phones, and then he wondered about what mechanisms come into play when a murder investigation gets under way. There are set routines that have to be followed, procedures where everybody knows exactly what to do. But beyond the routines, what happens then?

  Lindman thought he could see what was going on inside Larsson’s mind, and he was having similar thoughts himself. Or at least, trying to have. He was handicapped by the image that kept recurring in his mind’s eye. Andersson tied to a tree trunk with a rope. The enormous entry wound. A blast or more than one blast from a shotgun at close quarters.

  Andersson had been executed. An execution squad had appeared in the darkness, held a court-martial, carried out the sentence, and then disappeared as discreetly as it had arrived. This is no straightforward little murder either, Lindman thought several times as the night progressed. But if it isn’t, what is it? There has to have been a link between Molin and Andersson. They form the base of a triangle. At its missing tip is somebody who turns up under cover of night, not once but twice, and kills two old men who, on the face of it, have nothing in common.

  At that point all the doors slammed shut. This is the heart of the investigation, he thought. There is some invisible connection between the two men, a link that is so fundamental that somebody kills both of them. This is what Larsson is thinking about while he’s going through the routines and waiting for the dawn that never seems to come. He’s trying to see what is hidden under the stones.

  Lindman stayed close to Larsson throughout the night. He followed him when they hurried back and forth between the scene of the crime and the house they’d made their headquarters. He’d been surprised by how lightly Larsson seemed to be approaching his work. Despite the horrific image of a man messily shot and tied to a tree, he heard Larsson’s cheerful laughter several times. There wasn’t a trace of callousness or cynicism about him, just that liberating laughter that helped him to endure all the horror.

  Morning came at last, and a helicopter sank down onto the patch of grass behind the house. Out jumped Rundström and three dog handlers with Alsatians tugging eagerly at their leads. The helicopter took off again at once and was soon out of sight.

  In the morning light, all the activities that had gone so slowly during the hours of darkness changed character. The officers who had been working non-stop since they arrived on site were tired and their faces as grey as the sky, but now their tempo increased. After giving Rundström a brief summary, Larsson and the dog handlers gathered round a map of the area and divided the search between the three of them. Then they left for the place where the body was now being released from the tree.

  The first dog found Lindman’s mobile straightaway. Somebody had stepped on it during the night and the battery wasn’t functioning. Lindman put it into his pocket and the thought struck him: who would inherit it if he didn’t survive the cancer?

  After an hour or so of silent and steady work, Rundström summoned all the police officers to the house to go through the case so far. By then two more cars had arrived from Östersund with more equipment for the forensic team. Then the helicopter had returned and collected Andersson’s body. Later it would be taken by car from Östersund to the coroner’s office in Umeå.

  Before the meeting started, Rundström had gone over to where Lindman was sitting in his car and asked him to join in. As yet he hadn’t enquired how Lindman had been the one to discover Andersson’s body.

  The officers huddled in the sizeable kitchen. They were tired and cold. Larsson was leaning against a wall, pulling hairs out of one of his nostrils. Lindman thought he looked older than his 43 years. His cheeks were sunken, his eyelids heavy. He sometimes gave the impression of not being with it, but Lindman thought it was more likely that his mind was working overtime. His concentration was directed inwards. Lindman supposed that Larsson was looking for the answer to the question every investigation leader asks himself over and over: what is it that we can’t see?

  Rundström opened the meeting by talking about roadblocks. They had been set up on all the major access roads. Before the police had arrived in Särna, there had been a report of a car driving at high speed, south towards Idre. This was an important sighting. Rundström asked Johansson to talk to colleagues in Dalarna.

  Then he turned to Lindman. “I don’t know if all present know who you are,” he said. “We have a colleague from Borås here, who used to work with Herbert Molin. I think it will be best if you explain the circumstances in which you came to discover Abraham Andersson’s body.”

  Lindman described what had happened when he’d driven to Dunkärret from Sveg. Rundström asked him a few questions. What he wanted to know was the timing of various points. Lindman had been experienced enough and had the presence of mind to check his watch both when he arrived at the house and when he discovered the body. The meeting was short. The forensic team were keen to get back to work as the weather forecast threatened sleet later in the day. Lindman went outside with Larsson.

  “There’s something that doesn’t fit,” Larsson said. “You have suggested that the reason for Molin’s death may well be found in his past. That sounded reasonable to me. But where do we stand now? Andersson has never been a police officer. He and Molin didn’t know each other until they happened to settle in the same remote spot. That sinks your theory, I’d have thought.”

  “It must be looked into, though, surely? Molin and Andersson may have had something in common that we don’t yet know about.”

  Larsson shook his head. “Of course we shall look into it. But I don’t buy it even so.” He burst out laughing. “Police officers shouldn’t believe anything, I know. But we do. From the very first moment we arrive at the scene of a crime we start forming possible conclusions. We make nets without knowing how big the mesh should be. Or what fish we are hoping to catch, not even what kind of water we’re going to put them in. The sea or a mountain lake? A river or a tarn?”

  Lindman had some difficulty in following Larsson’s imagery, but it sounded convincing.

  One of the dog handlers emerged from the forest. Lindman could see from the state of the dog that it had really been stretching itself.

  “Nothing,” said the handler. “And besides. I think Stamp’s ill.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He brought up his food. He’s probably caught a virus.”

  Lindman turned to look at Andersson’s Norwegian elkhound: it was standing motionless on its line, staring at the place where the voices of the forensic officers could be heard.

  “What’s going on here in the forest?” Larsson said. “I don’t like it. It reminds me of a shadow moving in the dusk. You don’t know if its real or imagined.”

  “What kind of a shadow?”

  “The kind we’re not used to up here. Molin was
the victim of a well-planned attack. Andersson was executed. I don’t get it.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Johansson. “We can forget about the car at Särna. It was a man in a hurry to get his wife to the maternity hospital.”

  Larsson muttered something inaudible in reply. Johansson went back to the house.

  “What do you think?” Larsson said. “What’s really happened?”

  “I’d use the same word you did. An execution. Why take a man into the forest, tie him to a tree and then shoot him?”

  “If it happened in that order. But of course, that’s what I’ve been wondering,” Larsson said. “Why go to that trouble? There’s also a similarity with the murder of Molin. Why go to the trouble of planting those bloodstained tango steps on the floor?” He provided the answer himself. “A message. But to whom? We’ve talked about this before. The murderer sends a greeting. To us or to somebody else? And why does he do it? Or why do they do it? We don’t know if there’s more than one murderer.” Larsson looked up at the overcast sky. “And are we dealing with a madman? And is this the last? Or will there be more?”

  They went back to the house. Rundström was on the phone. The forensic unit had started searching Andersson’s house. Rundström put the phone down and pointed at Lindman.

  “We should have a word,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”

  They went to the back of the house. The clouds scuttling across the sky were getting darker.

  “How long are you thinking of staying?” Rundström said.

  “I had intended leaving today. Now I suppose it will have to be tomorrow.”

  Rundström looked at him quizzically. “I have a feeling there’s something you haven’t told me. Am I right?”

  Lindman shook his head.

  “There wasn’t anything between you and Molin that you ought to tell us about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Rundström kicked at a stone.

  “It’s probably best for you to let us look after the investigation now. Best you keep out of it.”

  “I haven’t the least intention of getting involved in your work.”

  Lindman could feel himself getting annoyed. Rundström wrapped his words in a sort of casual friendliness. Lindman was irritated because he didn’t speak plainly.

  “Let’s leave it at that, then,” Rundström said. “It’s good that you found him, of course. So that he didn’t need to be tied up there until someone else found him.”

  Rundström walked off. Lindman noticed Larsson standing in a window, watching him. Lindman beckoned to him.

  “You’re leaving, then?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get in touch with you later today.”

  “Call me at the hotel. My mobile’s not working.”

  Lindman drove off. After a very few kilometres he felt sleepy. He turned onto a forestry track, switched off the engine and reclined the seat.

  When he woke, he was enclosed by silent, white walls. It had started snowing while he was asleep, and the car windows were already covered. He sat and held his breath. Could this be what death is like? A white room with pale light filtering through the walls? He readjusted his seat and felt stiff all over. He’d had a dream, he knew that, but he couldn’t remember what it had been about. Something to do with Andersson’s dog, perhaps? Hadn’t it started to chew one of its own legs? He shuddered at the thought. Whatever it was he’d dreamt, he’d rather forget about it. He looked at his watch: 11.15. He’d been asleep for more than two hours. He opened the door and got out for a pee. The ground was white, but it had stopped snowing already. There was no movement in the trees. No wind. Nothing, he thought. If I stood still I’d soon turn into a tree.

  He drove back to the main road. He’d return to Sveg, have something to eat, then wait for Larsson to phone. Nothing more. He’d tell Larsson about his visit to Berggren. About the Nazi uniform in her wardrobe. He hadn’t had an opportunity to do so during the night, and he wasn’t going to leave until he’d passed on everything that might help Larsson in his investigation.

  He came to the turning to Molin’s house. He had no intention of stopping. Even so, he stamped so hard on the brakes that he skidded on the slippery surface. Why did he stop? One last visit, he thought. One final, short visit, that’s all. He drove up to the house and got out. There were animal tracks on the white ground. A hare, he thought. He searched his memory to recall the pattern of those bloodstained footprints. He reproduced them on the white ground. Tried to picture Molin and his doll. A man and a doll dancing the tango in the snow. At the edge of the forest an Argentinian orchestra is playing. What instruments make up an Argentinian tango orchestra? Guitar and violin? Bass? Accordion, perhaps? He didn’t know. It wasn’t important. Molin had been dancing with death without knowing it. Or maybe he did know that death was there in the forest, waiting for him? He kept an eye on movements in the shadows even when I knew him, or at least thought I knew him. An elderly policeman who had never particularly distinguished himself. Even so he made time to talk to me, a raw young constable who knew nothing about what it was like having a drunk throw up all over you, or a drunken woman spitting at you, or a raving psychopath trying to kill you.

  Lindman looked hard at the house. It seemed different, now that the ground was white. He turned his attention to the shed. He’d been in there the first time, but then he’d been more interested in the house. He opened the door. It was one room with a concrete floor. He switched on the light. There was a stack of firewood along one wall. On the opposite wall was a bench, shelves full of tools and a metal locker. Lindman opened it, thinking that there might be a police uniform inside, but there was only a set of dirty overalls and a pair of rubber boots. He closed the locker and looked round the room again. What does it have to say? he asked himself. The stack of firewood tells us that Molin knew how to build the perfect wood stack, but not much else. He turned his attention to the shelves of tools. What did they have to say for themselves? Nothing unexpected.

  Lindman recalled that when he was a child his father had a tool shed in Kinna. It looked just like this one. Molin had everything he needed for minor repairs to the house and his car. There was nothing that didn’t fit the pattern, no tool that suggested an unexpected story. He resumed his tour of the shed.

  In one corner was a pair of skis with poles. Lindman took one of the skis to the doorway. The binding was worn. So, Molin had used them. Maybe he’d skied over the lake when it was covered in ice and the weather was good? Because he enjoyed it? Or because he needed the exercise? Or to go fishing through the ice? He put the ski back. What was this? Something unexpected. Another pair of skis, shorter, possibly ladies’ skis. Now he could envisage two people gliding over the frozen lake, in glitteringly clear winter weather. Molin and Berggren. What did they talk about when they were out skiing? Or perhaps you didn’t talk when you were skiing? Lindman didn’t know because he hadn’t skied since he was a child. He continued his search. In another corner was a broken sledge, some coils of steel wire and some roof tiles.

  Something caught his eye. He looked more closely. It took him almost a minute to realise what it was. The tiles were lying haphazardly. Here was something that didn’t fit into the pattern. Molin solved jigsaw puzzles, he stacked firewood with a feeling for symmetry and order. The same applied to the tools. They were all neatly arranged. But not the tiles. They weren’t orderly in the same way as the rest. He bent down and removed them, one by one.

  Underneath was a sheet of metal sunk into the concrete floor. A lid, locked. Lindman stood up and fetched a crowbar from among the tools. He forced it into the crack between the floor and the edge of the lid, and used all his strength to lever it open. It gave way suddenly, and Lindman fell over, banging his head against the wall. His hand was bloodstained when he rubbed his head. There was a box of rags under the tool shelves. He wiped his forehead and held a rag pressed against his head until the bleeding stopped.

  Then he looked into the
hole in the floor. There was a package inside. When he lifted it, he could see it was something wrapped in an old, black raincoat. Molin was very close to him now. He had hidden something under the floor that he didn’t want anyone else to see. Lindman put the package on the bench, apologising silently to Molin, then moved the tools out of the way. The package was tied with thick string. Lindman untied the knots and removed the raincoat.

  There were three objects: a black notebook, some letters tied with red ribbon, and an envelope.

  He started by opening the envelope. It contained three photographs. He was not surprised by what he saw. He’d known, ever since that visit to Berggren’s. Deep down, he’d known, and here was the confirmation. There were three black and white photographs. The first was of four young men with their arms round one another’s shoulders. They were looking straight at the camera. One of the four was Herbert Molin, at that time August Mattson-Herzén. The background was unclear, but it could have been a house wall. The second photograph was of Molin alone. It was taken in a studio, the name of which was at the bottom of the picture.

  The third photograph was also of Molin as a young man. Here he was standing beside a motorcycle and sidecar. He was holding a rifle. He was smiling at the camera. Lindman laid the photographs side by side. They also had this in common: Molin’s clothes. His uniform. It was the same as the one in Berggren’s wardrobe.

  CHAPTER 14

  There was a story about Scotland.

  It was in the middle of the diary, slotted like an unexpected parenthesis into the account Molin had written of his life. In May 1972, Molin has a fortnight’s holiday. He takes a ferry from Göteborg to Immingham on the east coast of England. He takes a train to Glasgow and arrives late in the afternoon of May 11. He books into Smith’s Hotel, which, according to his description of it, is “close to some museums and a university”, but he doesn’t visit the museums. The next day he rents a car and continues his journey northwards. His diary says that he passes through Kinross, Dunkeld and Spean Bridge. He drives for a long way that day, as far as Drumnadrochit on the western shore of Loch Ness, where he stays the night. He doesn’t look for the monster, however.