The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  “You think there could be more acts of violence in store?”

  Larsson roared with laughter again.

  “Acts of violence. Police officers do have a special way of expressing themselves. I sometimes think that’s why the criminal is generally one step ahead. He calls a spade a spade, but we have to find some roundabout way of describing it.”

  “All right, but what you are expecting is more murders?”

  “If we have two different weapons, there’s an increased likelihood that we could have two different murderers. Are you driving or are you standing still, by the way?”

  “I’m parked.”

  “In that case, I’ll tell you a bit more about the way we’re thinking. The first thing, of course, is the dog. Who took it and then put it in Molin’s pen? And why? We now know that it was taken from Andersson’s house by car. We haven’t a clue why.”

  “It might be a macabre joke.”

  “Could be. But the folks up here aren’t all that inclined to go in for what you call macabre jokes. People are most upset and indignant. That’s obvious when we knock on doors and talk to people. They really are keen to help.”

  “It’s very strange that nobody seems to have seen anything.”

  “We’ve had a few vague reports, a car that somebody might have seen, that sort of thing. Nothing definite. Nothing to give us a clear lead.”

  “What about Berggren?”

  “Rundström took her to Östersund. Spent a whole day questioning her. She stuck to the same story. The same disgusting opinions, but very clear on key matters. She’s no idea who might have killed Molin. She’d only met Andersson once, very briefly, when she was visiting Molin and Andersson happened to call in. We’ve even given her house the once-over to see if she had any weapons. Nothing. I think she’d tell us if she was frightened of somebody coming after her as well.”

  There was a grating noise in the telephone. Lindman shouted “Hello” several times before Larsson’s voice returned.

  “I’m starting to think that this is going to take time. I’m worried.”

  “Have you found any link between Andersson and Molin?” Lindman said.

  “We’re ferreting away. According to Andersson’s widow, he only ever mentioned Molin as a neighbour, one of several. We’ve no reason to suspect that isn’t true. That’s about as far as we’ve got.”

  “What about the diary?”

  “What about it precisely?”

  “His journey to Scotland. The person referred to as ‘M.’.”

  “I can’t see why we should give that priority.”

  “I just wondered.”

  Larsson sneezed comprehensively. Lindman held his mobile at arm’s length, as if the germs might fly through the ether and attack him.

  “Sorry about that. The usual autumn cold. I always catch one about now.”

  Lindman took a deep breath, then told him about his experiences in Kalmar and on Öland. He said nothing about the break-in; but he stressed Wetterstedt’s Nazi views. When he’d finished there was so long a silence at the other end, he started to wonder if he’d been cut off.

  “I’ll suggest to Rundström that we should bring in the national CID,” Larsson said, eventually. “They have a section that specialises in terrorists and neo-Nazis. I can’t believe that what we’re up against here can be traced back to a few skinheads, but you never know.”

  Lindman said he thought it was a sensible move, and then he wound up the call. He felt hungry. He drove into Varberg and found a restaurant. When he got back to the car he found it had been burgled. Instinctively he felt in his jacket pocket. His mobile was still there. But the car radio had been stolen. And the central locking system was broken. He cursed as he climbed into the driving seat. He ought to report it to the police, but he knew the thief would not be caught and that the police would devote no more than a strictly rationed portion of time to the case. The police were overworked everywhere. He also knew that the excess on his insurance policy was such that he might just as well buy a new radio. There was the problem of the central locking, but he had a friend who helped the police with car repairs on the side.

  He set off for Borås. He could feel the wind buffeting the car. The countryside looked grey and desolate. Autumn is setting in, winter is approaching, he thought. And November 19 was approaching too. If only time could be cut off, and he could advance to the day after the beginning of his treatment.

  He had just driven into Borås when his phone rang. He wondered if he ought to answer. It was bound to be Elena. There again, he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. One of these days she’d get fed up with the way he was forever running away, always putting his own needs before hers. He pulled in to the side and answered.

  It was Veronica Molin.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Where are you?”

  “In Borås. You’re not disturbing me.”

  “Have you got time?”

  “I have time. Where are you?”

  “In Sveg.”

  “Waiting for the funeral?”

  Her reply seemed hesitant. “Not only that. I got your number from Inspector Larsson. The policeman who claims to be investigating the murder of my father.”

  She’d made no attempt to conceal her contempt. That angered him.

  “Larsson is one of the best police officers I’ve ever come across.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come here.”

  Her response had been swift and definite.

  “Why?”

  “I think I know what happened, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking to me. You should phone Larsson. I’ve got nothing to do with the investigation.”

  “Just at the moment you are the only person I know who can possibly help me. I’ll pay for your flight here, and all the rest of your costs. But I want you to come. As soon as possible.”

  “Are you saying you know who killed your father?”

  “I think so.”

  “And Andersson?”

  “That has to have been somebody else. But there’s another reason why I want you to come. I’m frightened.”

  “Why are you frightened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that on the phone either. I want you to come here. I’ll be in touch again in a couple of hours.”

  The phone went dead. Lindman drove home and went back to his flat. He still hadn’t phoned Elena. He thought over what Veronica Molin had said. Why didn’t she want to talk to Larsson? And what could she possibly be frightened of?

  He waited in his flat. Two hours later, the phone rang again.

  CHAPTER 23

  Lindman landed at Östersund airport at 10.25 a.m. the following day. When Veronica Molin phoned him the second time he’d been determined to say no. He was not going to come back to Härjedalen and there was nothing he could do to help her. He was also going to inform her tersely and clearly that it was her obligation to talk to the local police, if not to Giuseppe Larsson then to someone else, Rundström perhaps.

  When the call came, however, nothing went according to plan. She came straight to the point, asking him if he wanted to go or not. He said yes. Then when he’d started asking his various questions, she’d been evasive and said she didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone. She’d rung off after they’d agreed to meet in Sveg the following day. He’d asked her to book a room for him, preferably Number 3 as before.

  He went to the window and looked out at the street. He wondered what was making him act the way he did. The fear digging at him, the illness he was trying to keep at bay? Or was it Elena that he couldn’t cope with? He didn’t know. The day he heard he had cancer, everything had been put out of joint. On top of everything else he was all the time thinking about his father. It’s not Molin’s past that I’m tracking down, he told himself. It’s my own past, the truth about something I didn’t
know until I broke into Wetterstedt’s flat in Kalmar.

  He’d called Landvetter airport, checked flight times and booked a ticket. Then he’d phoned Elena, who was subdued and non-committal. He went to her flat at 7.15 and stayed until next morning when he’d been forced to go home, throw some clothes into a bag and then drive the 40 kilometres to Landvetter. They had made love during the night, but it was as if he hadn’t really been there. Perhaps she had not noticed, she hadn’t said anything. Nor had she asked why he had suddenly to go back to Härjedalen. When they said goodbye in her hall, he could feel her trying to envelop him in her love. He’d tried to suppress his worries, but as he drove back to Allégatan through the deserted streets he didn’t feel that he’d succeeded. Something was happening inside him, like a cloud of mist creeping up on him and threatening to choke him. He was in a panic, afraid that he was losing Elena, forcing her to desert him for her own sake.

  When he walked down the aeroplane steps at Frösön he felt the fierce cold. The ground was white with frost. He rented a car – Veronica Molin would pay for it. He had intended going straight to Sveg, but changed his mind when he drove onto the bridge from Frösön to Östersund. It was unacceptable not to tell Larsson that he’d come back. What reason should he give? Veronica Molin had contacted him confidentially, but he didn’t want to keep it from Larsson. He had enough problems already.

  He parked outside the National Rural Agency, but stayed in the car. What should he say to Larsson? He couldn’t tell him the whole truth. On the other hand, he didn’t want to tell a complete lie even if he had become quite good at it lately. He could come out with a half-truth. Say that he couldn’t cope with being in Borås, that he preferred to be somewhere else until the radiation therapy actually started. Someone with his illness had the right to be restless and to change his mind.

  He went to reception and asked for Larsson. The girl recognised him from his earlier visit, smiled, and said that Larsson was in a meeting but it would be over soon. Lindman took a seat and thumbed through the local paper. The murder investigation was front-page news. Rundström had held a press conference the previous day. It was largely concerned with the weapon, and there was a new appeal for witnesses. No reference to what the police already knew. Nothing about certain makes of car or individuals moving around in the area. The article implied that the police were marking time, and had nothing to go on. Larsson appeared in reception at 11.30 a.m. He was unshaven and looked tired and worried.

  “I ought to say that I’m surprised to see you, but nothing surprises me at the moment.” He looked more resigned than Lindman had seen him before. They went to his office, and he closed the door behind them. Lindman said what he’d made up his mind to say, that he’d come back because he couldn’t settle in Borås. Larsson eyed him sternly.

  “Do you go ten-pin bowling?” Larsson said.

  “Do I go bowling?”

  “I do, when I feel restless. I sometimes find it difficult to cope too. Don’t underestimate bowling. It’s best to play with a few friends. The skittles you knock over can either be your enemies, or problems you can’t solve and which are getting you down.”

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “Take it as a friendly suggestion. Nothing more.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I saw you reading the local rag. We’ve just had a meeting of the investigative team. Wheels are turning, routines are being followed, everybody’s ferreting away for all they’re worth. Nevertheless, what Rundström told the reporter is true: we’re getting nowhere.”

  “Are there two murderers?”

  “Presumably. That’s what the evidence suggests.”

  “That needn’t mean that the crimes have different motives.”

  Larsson agreed. “That’s what we thought. And then there is the business of the dog. I don’t think it’s a macabre joke: I think it’s a conscious effort to tell us something.”

  “What, for example?”

  “I don’t know. The fact that we realise that somebody is trying to tell us something has created a sort of constructive chaos. We’re forced to accept that there aren’t any simple answers – not that we ever thought there were.”

  Someone laughed outside in the corridor. Then it was quiet again.

  “There was a sort of fury about it all,” Larsson said. “About both murders. In Molin’s case an insane fury. Somebody drags him round in a bloodstained tango, lashes him to death and leaves him in the forest. There was anger behind the death of Andersson as well. More controlled. No dead dogs. No bloodstained dance. But an ice-cold execution. I wonder if these two crimes, displaying such different temperaments, can possibly have been hatched in the same brain. Molin’s murder was meticulously planned. Not least your discovery of the campsite makes that clear. But Andersson’s is different. So far I can’t quite work out how.”

  It was obvious that Larsson wanted to know Lindman’s opinion.

  “If the murders are linked, and if it’s the same murderer, I suppose we have to assume that something happened subsequently that made it necessary for him to kill Andersson.”

  “I agree. My colleagues don’t. Or it could be that I haven’t been able to express myself clearly enough. Anyway, I still think the most likely explanation is two different murderers.”

  “It’s strange that nobody’s reported anything. The whole community must be as alert as they are fearful.”

  “I’ve been playing this game for many years, but I can’t ever remember knocking on so many doors and making so many appeals without hearing so much as a squeak in response. Generally speaking, there’s always somebody peering out from behind their curtains and noticing something different from the usual village routine.”

  “Not hearing anything is also significant, of course. You’re dealing with people who know exactly what they’re doing. Even when a plan goes wrong they can still find a way out very fast, in cold blood.”

  “You’re saying ‘them’.”

  “I’m wavering between one murderer and some kind of plot involving more than one.”

  There was a knock on the door. A young man in a leather jacket and with highlights in his dark hair marched in before Larsson had time to respond. He nodded to Lindman and put a bundle of papers down on the desk.

  “The latest from the house-to-house operation.”

  “Well?”

  “A mixed-up old crone from Glöte claims the murderer lives in Visby.”

  “Why?”

  “Mostly because the Swedish Lottery has its HQ there. She reckons the Swedish nation is being attacked by mad gamblers. Half the population is running around and killing off the other half to make it easier for them to submit their lottery coupons. That’s your lot.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “He’s new,” Larsson said. “New, confident, and dyes his hair. He’s a recruit of the type that goes out of his way to stress that he’s young and the rest of us are ancient. He’ll be OK when he grows up.”

  He stood up.

  “I like talking to you,” he said. “You listen, and you ask the questions I need to hear. I’d like to carry on a bit longer, but I have an appointment with the forensic boys that can’t wait.”

  Larsson went with him as far as reception.

  “How long are you thinking of staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The same hotel in Sveg?”

  “Is there another one?”

  “A good question. I don’t know. There should be a B & B, I suppose.”

  Lindman remembered a question he’d almost let slip. “Have they released Molin’s body for burial yet?”

  “I can find out, if you like. I’ll be in touch.”

  Driving to Sveg, he remembered what Larsson had said about ten-pin bowling. He stopped just north of Överberg and got out. It was dead calm and chilly. The ground under his feet was hard. I’m giving way to self-pity, he thought. I’m locking myself up in gloom and doom, and it’s not do
ing me a bit of good. I’m usually a cheerful type, not at all like the man I seem to be at present. Larsson is quite right when he goes on about bowling. I don’t need ever to aim a single bowl at a row of skittles, but I have to take seriously what he’s trying to tell me. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m going to overcome this illness, but at the same time I’m doing my best to play the rôle of a man on death row, beyond hope.

  By the time he got to Sveg, he was wishing he’d never come. He had to resist the urge to drive past the hotel, return to Östersund and fly back to Borås and Elena as quickly as possible. He parked and went into the hotel. The girl in reception seemed pleased to see him.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be able to drag yourself away,” she chuckled.

  Lindman laughed. It sounded far too shrill and loud. Even my laughter is telling lies, he thought.

  “I’ve given you your old room,” the girl said. “Number 3. There’s a message for you from fröken Molin.”

  “Is she in?”

  “No. She said she’d be back around 4 p.m.”

  He went up to his room. It was as if he’d never left. He went into the bathroom, opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue. Nobody dies of tongue cancer, he thought. It will turn out all right. I’ll take my course of radiation therapy, and I’ll be right as rain. Everything will be as right as rain. There’ll come a time when I look back on this period of my life as a mere interlude, a sort of nightmare, nothing more.

  He consulted his address book and found the telephone number of his sister in Helsinki. He listened to her recorded message, and left one of his own, with his mobile phone number. He didn’t have in his book the number of his other sister, who was married and lived in France, and he couldn’t be bothered to chase it up. Nor was he sure he would be able to spell her name correctly.

  He looked at the bed. If I lie down I’ll die, he thought. He took off his shirt, moved a table out of the way and started doing press-ups. He felt like giving up when he got as far as 25, but he forced himself to go on to 40. He sat on the floor and took his pulse. 170. Far too high. He decided he’d have to start exercising. Every day, regardless of the weather, regardless of how he felt. He rummaged through his bag. He’d forgotten his trainers. He put on his shirt and jacket and went out. He found his way to the one sports shop in Sveg. There was a very limited selection of trainers, but he found a pair that fitted him. Then he went to the pizzeria for a meal. He could hear a radio in the background. He pricked up his ears when he heard Larsson’s voice. He was making another appeal, asking the public to get in touch with the police if they had noticed anything unusual, or had any information, etc., etc. They really are in a mess, Lindman thought. He wondered if the murders would ever be solved.