The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  He still had a lot of hours to fill in. He went into a supermarket, found himself a woollen hat big enough for it to be pulled down over his face, then joined the longest of the check-out queues, where the girl seemed to be the one most under pressure. He gave her exactly the right amount, and was sure as he left the store that nobody would remember what he looked like nor how he was dressed. When he got back to the car he used a knife he’d taken from Frostengren’s chalet to make holes in the hat for him to see through.

  By 8 p.m. there was not much traffic. He drove over the bridge and parked where his car was invisible from the road. Then he went on waiting. To pass the time, he re-upholstered in his head the sofa that Don Batista wanted to give his daughter as a wedding present.

  He set off at midnight. He took with him a small axe that he had taken from the chalet. He waited until a heavy lorry had gone past, then he hurried over the road and along the path down by the river.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lindman stormed out of Elena’s home in a fury at 2 a.m. Even before he reached the street his rage had subsided, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back, for all that he really wanted to. He got into his car and drove into town, but he avoided Allégatan: he didn’t want to go home, not yet at least. He pulled up at the Gustav Adolf church and switched off the engine. The place was deserted and dark.

  What had actually happened? Elena had been pleased to see him. They’d sat in the kitchen and shared a bottle of wine. He’d told her about his journey and the sudden pains he’d had in Sveg. He’d told her the bare minimum about Molin and Andersson and Wetterstedt: Elena wanted to know what he’d been doing. She was very concerned about him, and her eyes betrayed her worry. They’d sat up for a long time, but she shook her head when he asked if she was tired. No, she wanted to hear everything about what he’d been up to while he was away. We shouldn’t always insist on sleeping, she said, not when there were more important things to do. Even so, after a while they’d started clearing away before going to bed. After washing the glasses, she’d asked him in passing if he couldn’t have phoned her a bit more often, despite everything. Hadn’t he realised how worried she’d been?

  “You know I don’t like telephones. We’ve been through that lots of times.”

  “There’s nothing to stop you ringing, saying hello and hanging up.”

  “Now you’re annoying me. You’re pressurising me.”

  “All I’m asking is why you don’t phone me more often.”

  He grabbed his jacket and stormed out. He regretted it by the time he was dashing downstairs. He knew he shouldn’t drive. If he’d been caught in a police check, he’d have been drunk in charge. I’m running away, he thought. All the time I’m running away from November 19. I go wandering around the forests in Härjedalen, I break into a flat in Kalmar and now I drive when I’ve been drinking. My illness is dictating my actions, or rather my fear, and it’s so strong that I can’t even be with the person I’m closest to in the whole world, a woman who is totally honest and showing that she loves me.

  He took out his mobile and dialled her number.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know that. Are you coming back?”

  “No. I’ll sleep at home.”

  He didn’t know why he’d said that. She didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “We’ll see,” she said wearily, and hung up.

  He switched off his mobile and remained sitting there in the darkness. Then he left the car and walked back to Allégatan. He wondered if this is what death looked like, a solitary figure walking through the night.

  He slept badly and got up at 6 a.m. No doubt Elena would be awake already. He ought to phone her, but he didn’t feel up to it. He forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, then went to fetch his car. There was a squally wind blowing, and he felt the cold. He drove south out of Borås. When he came to Kinna he left the main road and drove into the town itself. He stopped outside the house where he’d grown up. He knew that the man who lived there now was a potter who had made his studio in what used to be his father’s garage and workshop. The house looked deserted in the early morning light. The branches of the tree where Lindman and his sisters used to have a swing were swaying in the strong wind. He suddenly thought that he could see his father come out of the door and walk towards him, but instead of his usual suit and grey overcoat he was wearing the uniform that hung in Berggren’s wardrobe.

  Lindman drove back to the main road and didn’t stop again until he came to Varberg. He had a coffee at the café opposite the railway station, and borrowed their phone book to look up Anna Jacobi’s number. The address was in a suburb to the south of the town. Perhaps he ought to phone first, but then Anna Jacobi or whoever answered might say that the old man didn’t want to or wasn’t well enough to be visited. He eventually found the place, after several wrong turnings.

  The house looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century, and stood out from the other houses which were all modern. He opened the gate and walked down the long gravel path to the front door, which was under a veranda roof. He hesitated before ringing the bell. What am I doing? he thought. What do I expect Jacobi to tell me? He was my father’s friend. Superficially, at least. What my father really thought about Jews I can only imagine, and fear the worst. Nevertheless, he was one of the small group of well-to-do people who lived in Kinna in those days. That must have been the most important thing as far as my father was concerned, keeping the peace in that little group. I’ll never know what he really thought about Jacobi.

  He decided to take the Strong Sweden Foundation as his starting point, which was the reason why his father had made a pledge in his will. He’d asked about it once before. Now he was coming to ask again, and if necessary he would say it had to do with Molin’s death. I’ve already been in Olausson’s office and lied through my teeth to him. I can hardly make matters any worse. He rang the doorbell.

  After the second ring, the door was opened by a woman in her forties. She looked at him from behind a pair of strong spectacles that magnified her pupils. He introduced himself and explained what he wanted.

  “My father doesn’t receive visitors,” she said. “He’s old and ill and wants to be left in peace.”

  Lindman could hear the sound of classical music from inside the house.

  “My father listens to Bach every morning. In case you’re wondering. Today he asked for the third Brandenburg Concerto. He says it’s the only thing that keeps him going. Bach’s music.”

  “I have something important to ask him about.”

  “My father stopped dealing with anything remotely connected with work a long time ago.”

  “This is personal. He once drew up a will for my father. I spoke to your father about it in connection with my father’s estate. Now the matter of a pledge in the will has come up again, in connection with a difficult legal case. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t have great significance for me personally as well.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve no doubt that what you want to ask is important, but the answer has to be no even so.”

  “I promise not to stay for more than a couple of minutes.”

  “The answer is still no. I’m sorry.”

  She took a step back, preparing to close the door.

  “Your father is old, and he’ll soon be dead. I’m young, but I might die soon as well. I have cancer. It would make it easier for me to die if I’d been able to ask my questions.”

  Anna Jacobi stared at him from behind her thick glasses. She was using a very strong perfume that irritated Lindman’s nose.

  “I assume that people don’t tell lies about fatal diseases.”

  “If you like I can give you the telephone number of my doctor in Borås.”

  “I’ll ask my father. If he says no, I shall have to ask you to
leave.”

  Lindman agreed and she shut the door. He could still hear the music. He waited. He was beginning to think she’d closed the door for good when she came back.

  “Fifteen minutes, no more,” she said. “I’ll be timing you.”

  She ushered him into the house. The music was still there, but the volume had been turned down. She opened the door of a large room with bare walls, and a hospital bed in the middle.

  “Speak into his left ear,” she said. “He can’t hear anything in his right one.”

  She closed the door behind him. Lindman suspected he’d heard a trace of weariness or irritation in her voice when she referred to her father’s deafness. He went up to the bed. The man in it was thin and hollow-cheeked. In a way he reminded Lindman of Emil Wetterstedt. Another skeletal figure, waiting to die.

  Jacobi turned his head to look at him. He gestured to a chair at the side of the bed.

  “The music is nearly finished,” he said. “Please excuse me, but I regard it as a serious crime to interrupt the music of Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  Lindman sat on the chair and waited. Jacobi had turned up the volume with a remote control, and the music echoed round the room. The old man lay listening, with his eyes closed. When the music stopped he pressed the remote control with trembling fingers, and put it on his stomach.

  “I shall die soon,” he said. “I think it has been a great blessing to live after Bach. I have my own way of measuring time, and I divide history into the age before Bach and the age after him. An author whose name I’ve forgotten has written poems about that. I am being granted the enormous privilege of spending my last days to the accompaniment of his music.”

  He adjusted his head on the pillows.

  “Now the music has finished and we can talk. What was it you wanted?”

  “My name is Stefan Lindman.”

  “My daughter has already told me that,” Jacobi said, impatiently. “I remember your father. I drew up his will. That was what you wanted to discuss, but I don’t know how you can expect me to remember the terms of an individual will. I must have drawn up at least a thousand during my 47 years as a practising solicitor.”

  “It was to do with a donation to a foundation called Strong Sweden.”

  “I might remember. But I might not.”

  “It transpires that the foundation is part of a Nazi organisation here in Sweden.”

  Jacobi drummed with his fingers on his quilt. “Nazism died with Hitler.”

  “It appears that a lot of people in Sweden still support this organisation. And the fact is that young people are joining it.”

  Jacobi looked hard at him. “Some people collect stamps. Others collect matchbox labels. I regard it as not impossible that there are some people who collect obsolete political ideals. People have always wasted their lives doing pointless things. Nowadays people drop dead while gaping at all those trivial and degrading television series that go on for ever.”

  “My father pledged money to this organisation. You knew him. Was he a Nazi?”

  “I knew your father as a proud and patriotic Swede. No more than that.”

  “And my mother?”

  “I didn’t have much contact with her. Is she still alive?”

  “No, she died some time ago.”

  Jacobi cleared his throat. “Precisely why have you come here?”

  “To ask if my father was a Nazi.”

  “What makes you think I could answer that question?”

  “There are not many people still alive who can. I don’t know anybody else.”

  “I’ve already given you my answer, but of course, I wonder why you have come to disturb me and ask me your question.”

  “I discovered his name in a membership list. I didn’t know he’d been a Nazi.”

  “What sort of membership list?”

  “I’m not sure, but it contained more than a thousand names. Many of them were already dead, but they were continuing to pay their subscriptions by leaving money for that purpose in their wills, or by way of their surviving relatives.”

  “But the association or organisation … what did you say it was called? Strong Sweden?”

  “It seems to be some sort of foundation that is a part of a bigger organisation. What that is, I don’t know.”

  “Where did you find all this?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that for the time being.”

  “But your father was a member?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacobi licked his lips. Lindman interpreted that as an attempt to smile.

  “In the 1930s and ’40s Sweden was teeming with Nazis. Not least in the legal profession. It wasn’t only the great master Bach who came from Germany. In Sweden, ideals – be they literary, musical or political – have always come from Germany. Until the period following the Second World War. Things changed then, and all the ideals started coming from the USA. However, just because Hitler led his country to a catastrophic defeat doesn’t mean that ideas about an Aryan superman or hatred of Jews died out. They survived among the generation that had been indoctrinated when they were young. It’s possible that your father was one of them, perhaps your mother also. No-one can be certain that those ideals will not rise again, like a phoenix.”

  Jacobi fell silent, short of breath after the effort he’d made. The door opened and in came Anna Jacobi. She gave her father a glass of water.

  “Your time’s up,” she said.

  Lindman stood up.

  “Have you received the answer you were looking for?” asked Jacobi.

  “I’m trying to work it out,” Lindman said.

  “My daughter said you were ill.”

  “I’ve got cancer.”

  “Terminal?”

  Jacobi asked the question in an unexpectedly jocular tone, as if, despite everything, he could be happy that death wasn’t the exclusive priority of old men who spent the last of their days listening to Bach.

  “I hope not.”

  “Of course. Still, death is the shadow we can never get away from. One day that shadow turns into a wild beast that we can no longer keep at bay.”

  “I hope to be cured.”

  “If not, I recommend Bach. The only medicine worth taking. It provides comfort, eases a bit of the pain and gives a certain degree of courage.”

  “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time.”

  Jacobi didn’t answer. He had closed his eyes. Lindman left the room.

  “I think he’s in pain,” his daughter said, at the front door. “But he refuses to take painkillers. He says he can’t listen to music if he’s not thinking straight.”

  “What illness is he suffering from?”

  “Old age and despair. That’s all.”

  Lindman shook hands and said goodbye.

  “I hope things turn out OK for you,” she said. “That you’ll be cured.”

  Lindman went back to his car. He had to duck into the wind. What do I do now? he wondered. I go to see an old man close to death and try to find out why my father was a Nazi. I discover only that he was a proud and patriotic Swede. I can get in touch with my sisters and ask what they knew, or I can see how they react when I tell them. But then what? What can I do with the answers I get? He got into the car and looked across the street. A woman was struggling to steer a pram into the wind. He watched her until she was out of sight. This is all that’s left to me, he thought. An isolated moment in my car, parked in a street in a suburb south of Varberg. I’ll never come back here, I’ll soon have forgotten the name of the street and what the house looked like.

  He took out his mobile to phone Elena. There was a message for him. Larsson had rung. He called his number.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  It struck Lindman that in the age of the mobile telephone, this had become the standard greeting. You started by asking where people were.

  “I’m in Varberg.”

  “How are you?”

  “Not too bad.”


  “I just wanted to tell you about the latest developments. Have you got time?”

  “I have all the time in the world.”

  Larsson laughed. “Nobody has that. Anyway, we’ve made a bit of progress regarding the weapons used. In Molin’s case there was a whole arsenal. Shotgun, tear gas canisters, God only knows what else. They must have been pinched from somewhere or other. We’ve been chasing up reported cases of weapons thefts, but we still don’t know where they came from. But one thing we do know. It was a different gun that killed Andersson. The forensic boys have no doubt about that. It means we’re now faced with something we weren’t really expecting.”

  “Two different murderers?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It could still be the same one even so.”

  “It could. But we can’t ignore the other possibility. And I can tell you something else as well. Somebody reported a burglary in Säter yesterday. The owner had been away for a week. When he got back home he found that he’d been burgled and a gun had been stolen. He reported it to the police, and we found out about it when we started making enquiries. It could have been the gun used to kill Andersson. It’s the right calibre. But we have no tabs on the thief.”

  “How was the break-in done? The way they do it always says something about the burglar.”

  “A front door forced, neat and tidy. The same applies to the gun cupboard. Not an amateur, in other words.”

  “Somebody getting himself a gun, with a specific job in mind?”

  “That’s more or less the way I see it.”

  Lindman tried to envisage the map.

  “Am I right in thinking that Säter is in Dalarna?”

  “The road from Avesta and Hedemora goes through Säter to Borlänge and then up to Härjedalen.”

  “Somebody drives up from the south, gets himself a gun on the way, then keeps on going until he comes to Andersson’s house.”

  “That’s what could have happened. We don’t have a motive, though. And the murder of Andersson really worries me if it transpires that we have a different murderer. We might well ask ourselves what on earth’s going on. Is this the beginning of something that’s got some way to go yet before it’s finished?”