The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  They’d started walking towards the mountain at 1 p.m. All approach roads were being watched. The dogs kept losing the scent, then finding it again. They started out heading due north, then branched off along a ridge heading west before turning north again. They were on a sort of plateau when Larsson called off the operation, after consulting Rundström. They’d set off in line, then spread out as they walked along the ridge. It had been easy going to start with, not too steep. Even so, Lindman soon noticed that he was out of condition, but he didn’t want to give up, certainly not be the first to do so.

  But there was something else about this walk up the mountain. At first it was just a vague, imprecise feeling, but eventually it turned into a memory and became steadily clearer. He’d been up this mountain before. It happened when he was seven or eight, but he’d repressed it.

  It was late summer, a couple of weeks before school started again. His mother was away – her sister, who lived in Kristianstad, had been unexpectedly widowed and his mother had gone there to help her. One day his father announced that they were going to pack the car and go on holiday. They would head north, live in a tent, and do it on the cheap. Lindman had only a vague recollection of the car journey. He’d been squashed in the back seat with one of his sisters and all the luggage that for some reason his father had not secured on the roof. He was also fighting against car sickness. His father didn’t deem it necessary to stop just because one of the children was going to be sick. He couldn’t remember if he and his sisters survived without vomiting: that part of his recollection had gone for ever.

  Lindman was the last in line. Thirty metres in front of him was Johansson, who occasionally answered calls on his walkie-talkie. The memory unfolded with every step he took.

  If he was eight then, it was 29 years ago. 1970, August 1970. On their way up to the mountains they’d spent a cramped night in the tent, and Stefan had to clamber over the rest of the family to go outside for a pee. The next day they’d come to a place that Lindman seemed to remember was Vemdalsskalet. They’d pitched their tent behind an old wooden cabin not far away from the mountain hotel.

  He was surprised that he’d been able to lose the memory of that holiday. So he’d been here before, in these very parts. Why had he chosen not to remember? What had happened?

  There was a woman somewhere in that memory. She’d appeared just after they’d pitched the tent. His father had seen her on the other side of the road, and had gone to greet her. Stefan and his sisters watched as their father shook hands with the woman and started talking, out of earshot. Stefan remembered asking his sisters if they knew who she was, but they’d hissed at him to be quiet. That was a part of his recollection that raised a smile. His youth was marked by his sisters always telling him to be quiet, never listening to what he said, looking at him with a degree of contempt that indicated he would never be included in their games or their circle of friends, that he was too small, too stupid.

  His father came back to join them, the woman as well. She was older than he was, with stripes of grey in her hair; and she was wearing the black and white uniform of a waitress. She reminded him of somebody, he now thought. And then the penny dropped: Elsa Berggren. Even if it wasn’t her. He could remember a smile, but also something off-putting, a ruthless streak. They’d stood next to the tent, and she hadn’t been surprised by their arrival. Stefan remembered being rather worried – worried that his father would never go back to Kinna, and that his mother would stay in Kristianstad. The rest of the meeting with the unknown woman now fell into place. His father told them that her name was Vera, that she was from Germany, and then she’d shaken hands with them all in turn, first his sisters and then him.

  Lindman stopped. Johansson was over to his left, and cursed as he tripped. The helicopter came clattering in at a low altitude and started circling over the valley below. He started walking again. There’s another door to open yet, he thought. They’d walked on the mountain all those years ago as well. No really long treks, always within easy distance from the hotel.

  An unusually hot August evening in the mountains. He couldn’t see where his sisters were, but Vera and his father were in deckchairs next to the wooden cabin. They were laughing. Stefan didn’t like what he saw, and went away, to the back of the cabin. There was a door there, and he opened it. He’d no idea if it was allowed, but now he was inside Vera’s house. Two cramped rooms and a low ceiling. Some photographs standing on a bureau. He strained his eyes to conjure up those pictures. A wedding photo. Vera and her husband wearing a uniform.

  He recalled it now, as clear as day. The man in an army uniform, Vera dressed in white, smiling, a garland of flowers in her hair, or maybe it was a bridal crown. Next to the wedding photograph was another picture in a frame. A picture of Hitler. At that moment the door opened. Vera was there, with his father. She said something in German, or possibly Swedish with a German accent, he couldn’t remember. But she’d been angry, he remembered that all right. His father had led him away and boxed his ears.

  That was it. The memory ended as the box on the ears landed. He had no recollection of the drive back to Kinna. Nothing about being squashed in the back seat, of feeling car sick. Nothing at all. A picture of Hitler, a box on the ears, nothing else.

  Lindman shook his head. Thirty years ago his father had taken the children and visited a German woman who worked at a hotel in the mountains. Just under the surface, as on a photograph behind another photograph, was the whole of the Hitler era. It was as Wetterstedt had said: nothing had completely gone away, it had simply taken on new forms, new means of expression, but the dream of white supremacy was still alive. His father went to see a woman called Vera, and boxed his son’s ears when he saw something he shouldn’t have seen. Was there anything else? He searched his memory, but his father had never made any reference to it. After the box on the ears there was nothing more.

  The helicopter circled round once more then flew off. Lindman let his gaze wander over the mountain, but all he actually saw were two photographs standing in a room with a low ceiling.

  Soon after that the mist came down and they turned back. They came to the chalet at about 6 p.m. The helicopter dropped two of the dog handlers, then disappeared in the direction of Östersund. The pilot had brought with him baskets containing sandwiches and coffee. Rundström seemed to be forever talking into his walkie-talkie when he wasn’t on the telephone. Lindman kept to the periphery. Larsson listened to a report from one of the forensic officers who had searched the chalet, and made notes. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and came over to Lindman.

  “Well, we’ve found out a few things at least,” he said.

  He balanced his cup on a stone and flicked through his notebook.

  “The owner is a Kurt Frostengren and lives in Stockholm. He usually comes here in the summer, over Christmas and New Year, and a week in March for some skiing. The house is empty for the rest of the year. Apparently he inherited it from a relative. Someone has broken in and set up his HQ here, then gone away. He knows Berggren has seen his face. He must be aware of the possibility that we might have put two and two together and realised that he read the back of my bill in the restaurant. There is a cold-blooded side to the man that we mustn’t underestimate. He knows we’ll go looking for him. Especially after he attacked you and Berggren.”

  “Where’s he heading for?”

  Larsson thought before replying. “I’d formulate the question differently. Why is he still here?”

  “There’s something still to do.”

  “The question is: what?”

  “He wants to know who murdered Andersson. We’ve already talked about that.”

  Larsson shook his head. “Not only that. He wants more than that. He intends killing whoever murdered Andersson.” There was no other explanation. But he had one more question for Lindman.

  “Why is it so important for him?”

  “If we knew that, we’d know what this whole business is about.”
/>   They stood gazing into the mist.

  “He’s hiding,” Larsson said. “He’s clever, our man from Buenos Aires.”

  Lindman looked at him in surprise. “How do you know he’s from Buenos Aires?”

  Larsson took a piece of paper out of his pocket. A torn piece of newspaper, the crossword from Aftonbladet. Something like a doodle was in the margin, crossed out but originally written quite firmly.

  “541,” Larsson said. “54 is Argentina. And 1 is Buenos Aires. The paper is dated June 12, when Frostengren was here. He saved newspapers for making fires. The numbers have been written by somebody else. It must be Fernando Hereira. The newspaper in the car is Spanish, not from Argentina, but the language is the same. It can’t be easy to find newspapers from Argentina in Sweden, but it’s comparatively easy to find Spanish ones.”

  “Is there a full telephone number in Argentina?”

  “No.”

  Lindman thought for a moment.

  “So, he’s been sitting up here in the mountains, and made a phone call to Argentina. Can’t the call be traced?”

  “We’re doing that now. Frostengren’s phone has its own line and you can dial direct. If Hereira had used a mobile, we could have traced that without difficulty.”

  Larsson bent down to pick up his coffee.

  “I keep forgetting that we’re looking for not one but perhaps two cold-blooded murderers,” he said. “We’re beginning to get an idea of who Hereira might be and how he goes about things, but what about the other one? The one who killed Andersson, who’s he?”

  The question remained unanswered in the mist. Larsson left Lindman and went to talk to Rundström and the remaining dog handler. Lindman looked at the Alsatian. It was exhausted. It lay with its neck pressed against the damp earth. Lindman wondered if a police dog could feel disappointment.

  Half an hour later Larsson and Lindman returned to Sveg. Rundström would stay in Funäsdalen with the dog handler and three other officers. They drove in silence through the forest. This time Larsson did the driving. Lindman could see that he was very tired. A few kilometres short of Sveg he pulled onto the verge and stopped.

  “I can’t work it out,” Larsson said. “Who killed Andersson? It’s as if we’re only scratching the surface. We have no idea what this is about. A man from Argentina disappears up a mountain when he ought to be getting away from here as fast as possible. He doesn’t flee up the mountain, he withdraws there, and then comes back again.”

  “There’s another possibility that we haven’t considered,” Lindman said. “The man we are calling Fernando Hereira might know something we don’t.”

  Larsson shook his head. “In that case he wouldn’t have put on a hood and asked Berggren those questions.”

  Then they looked at each other.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Larsson said.

  “Possibly,” Lindman said. “That Hereira knows, or thinks he knows, that it was Berggren who killed Andersson. And he wants to make her confess.”

  Larsson drummed his fingers on the wheel.

  “Perhaps Berggren isn’t telling the truth. She says the man who forced his way into her house asked her who had killed Andersson. He might well have said, ‘I know it was you who killed Andersson.’” Larsson restarted the engine. “We’ll go on keeping watch on the mountain,” he said. “And we’ll get tough with Berggren.”

  They continued to Sveg. The countryside vanished beyond the headlight beams. As they were driving into the hotel courtyard, Larsson’s mobile rang.

  “It was Rundström,” he said when the call was over. “The car was rented in Östersund on November 5. By Fernando Hereira, an Argentinian citizen.”

  They got out of the car.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Larsson said. “Hereira used his driving licence for an identity document. It could be a forgery, of course, but, for simplicity’s sake, let’s assume it’s genuine. We could be closer to him now than ever we were on the mountain.”

  Lindman was exhausted. Larsson left his case with reception.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Are you staying?”

  “I’ll stay one more day.”

  Larsson put his hand on Lindman’s shoulder. “I must admit it’s a long time since I’ve had somebody to talk to like you. But tell me, honestly: if you’d been in my shoes, what would you have done differently?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Larsson burst out laughing. “You’re too kind,” he said. “I can stand the odd punch. Can you?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but dashed out to his car. Lindman wondered about the question as he collected his key. It was a new girl in reception. He went up to his room and lay down on the bed. He thought he ought to phone Elena, but first he needed to get some rest.

  When he woke he knew he’d been dreaming. A chaotic dream, but all he could remember was the fear. He looked at his watch: 9.15. He’d better hurry if he were going to get some dinner. Besides, he had an appointment with Veronica Molin.

  She was waiting for him in the dining room.

  “I knocked on your door,” she said. “When you didn’t answer, I assumed you were asleep.”

  “It was a strenuous night and a long day. Have you eaten?”

  “I have to eat at regular times. Especially when the food is like it is here.”

  The waitress was also new. She seemed hesitant. Lindman had the impression that Veronica Molin must have complained about something. He ordered a beef steak. Veronica Molin was drinking water. He wanted wine. She watched him with a smile.

  “I’ve never met a policeman before. Not as close up as this, at least.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “I think everybody’s a bit frightened of policemen, deep down.”

  She paused and lit a cigarette.

  “My brother’s on his way here from the Caribbean,” she said. “He works on a cruise ship. Maybe I said that already? He’s a steward. When he’s not at sea he lives in Florida. I’ve only visited him once, when I was in Miami to clinch a business deal. It took us less than an hour to start quarrelling. I can’t remember what about.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “On Tuesday, eleven o’clock. Are you thinking of coming?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lindman’s meal arrived.

  “How can you stay as long as this?” he said. “I had the impression that it was difficult for you to get here at all. Now you’re staying for ever.”

  “Until Wednesday. No longer. Then I’m leaving.”

  “Where to?”

  “First London, then Madrid.”

  “I’m only a simple policeman, but I’m curious about what you do.”

  “I’m what the English call a ‘deal-maker’. Or ‘broker’. I bring interested parties together and help them to produce a contract. So that a business deal can take place.”

  “Dare I ask how much you earn from that kind of work?”

  “Presumably a lot more than you.”

  “Everybody does.”

  She turned up a wine glass and slid it towards him.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Lindman filled her glass. He drank her health. She seemed to be looking at him in a different way now, not as warily as before.

  “I went to see Elsa Berggren today,” she said. “I realised too late that it was not a good time. She told me what had happened last night. And about you. Have you caught him?”

  “Not yet, no. Besides, it’s not me who’s hunting him. I’m not part of the investigation team.”

  “But the police think that the man who attacked you is the person who murdered my father.”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to get Giuseppe Larsson on the telephone. I do have a right to know what’s happening, after all. Who is this man?”

  “We think he’s called Fernando Hereira. And that he’s from Argentina.”

  “I hardly think my father knew anybody from
Argentina. What is the motive supposed to be?”

  “Something that happened during the war.”

  She lit another cigarette. Lindman looked at her hands and wished he could hold them.

  “So the police don’t believe my theory? About the woman from Scotland?”

  “Nothing is excluded. We follow up every lead. That’s one of the basic rules.”

  “I shouldn’t smoke while you’re eating.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve already got cancer.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Did I hear you right?”

  “It was a joke. I’m fully fit.”

  What he really wanted to do was to leave the table. Go up to his room and phone Elena. But there was something else driving him now.

  “A strange sort of joke.”

  “I suppose I wanted to see how you reacted.”

  She put her head on one side and looked hard at him.

  “Are you making a pass at me?”

  He emptied his glass.

  “Don’t all men do that? You must be aware that you are very attractive.”

  She shook her head but she didn’t say anything and moved her glass away when Lindman tried to give her more. He filled his own glass.

  “What did you and Elsa Berggren talk about?”

  “She was tired. What I was most interested in was to meet the woman who knew my father and had helped him to buy the house where he died. She had known my mother, but we didn’t have much to say to each other.”

  “I’ve wondered about their relationship. Apart from the Nazi link.”

  “She said she was sorry my father was dead. I didn’t stay long. I didn’t like her.”

  Lindman ordered coffee and a brandy, and asked for the bill.

  “Where do you think this Hereira is now?”

  “Perhaps he’s up in the mountains. He’s still in the district, I am sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I think he wants to know who killed Andersson.”

  “I can’t work out what connection that man had with my father.”

  “Nor can we. It will become clear sooner or later, though. We’ll catch up with both the murderers, and we’ll find out what their motives were.”