“I hope so.”
Lindman swallowed the brandy in one gulp, and sipped at his coffee. When he’d signed his bill, they went out to reception.
“Will you let me offer you another brandy?” she said. “In my room. But don’t expect anything else.”
“I long since stopped expecting anything.”
“That doesn’t sound quite true.”
They walked down the corridor. She unlocked her door. Lindman was standing as close to her as possible without actually touching her. On her desk was a laptop computer with a glittering screen.
“I have the whole of my life in this,” she said. “I can still keep working while I’m waiting for the funeral.”
She poured some brandy for him from a bottle on the table. She didn’t take any herself, but kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed. Lindman could feel that he was getting tight. He wanted to touch her now, undress her. His train of thought was interrupted when his mobile rang in his jacket pocket. It was bound to be Elena. He didn’t answer.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” he said.
“Don’t you have a family?”
He shook his head.
“Not even a girlfriend?”
“It didn’t work.”
He put his glass down and reached out his hand. She stared at it for a long time before taking it.
“You can sleep here,” she said. “But please expect no more than me lying beside you.”
“I’ve already said I don’t expect anything.”
She shuffled along the edge of the bed until she was sitting close to him.
“It’s a long time since I met anybody who expects as much as you do.”
She stood up. “Don’t underestimate my ability to see through people. Do whatever you like,” she said. “Go back to your room and come back later. To sleep, nothing more.”
When Lindman had finished showering and wrapped himself in the biggest towel, the telephone rang again. It was Elena.
“Why haven’t you phoned?”
“I have been asleep. I don’t feel well.”
“Come back home. I’m waiting for you.”
“Just a few more days. I really must sleep now. If we go on talking I’ll be awake all night.”
“I miss you.”
“And I miss you.”
I lied, he thought. And a little while ago I denied Elena’s existence. The worst of it is that just at the moment, I couldn’t care less.
CHAPTER 27
When Lindman woke up the next morning Veronica Molin had already left. There was a message on the computer screen: “I’ve gone out. Make sure you’ve left by the time I get back. I like men who don’t snore. You are one.”
Lindman left the room wrapped in a bath towel. On the stairs to the upper floor he passed a chambermaid. She smiled and bade him good morning. When he came to his room he crept into bed. I was drunk, he thought. I spoke to Elena, but I can’t remember what I said, only that it wasn’t true. He sat up and reached for his mobile. There was a message. Elena had called. He felt a shooting pain in his stomach. He lay down again and pulled the bedclothes over his head. Just as he used to do as a child, to make himself invisible. He wondered if Larsson did the same? And Veronica Molin? She’d been in bed when he returned to her room last night, but firmly rejected all advances – she just tapped him on the arm and told him it was time to go to sleep. He was feeling extremely passionate, but had enough sense to leave her in peace.
He had never lied to Elena before. Now he had, and he still wasn’t sure how much he cared. He decided to stay in bed until 9 a.m. Then he would phone her. Meanwhile he would lie with the bedclothes over his head and pretend he didn’t exist.
Nine o’clock arrived. She answered at once.
“I was asleep,” he said. “I can’t have heard the phone. I slept really soundly last night. For the first time for ages.”
“Something scared me. It was something I’d dreamt. I don’t know what.”
“Everything’s OK here, but I’m worried. The days are racing past. It’ll soon be the 19th.”
“It’ll all be fine.”
“I’ve got cancer, Elena. If you’ve got cancer, there’s always a chance that you might die.”
“That’s not what the doctor said.”
“She can’t know for sure. Nobody can.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Very soon. I’m going to Molin’s funeral on Tuesday. I expect to be leaving for home on Wednesday. I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive.”
“Are you going to phone me tonight?”
“You’ll hear from me.”
The conversation had made him sweaty. He didn’t like discovering how easy it was to tell lies. He got out of bed. Staying between the sheets would do nothing to dispel his remorse. He dressed and went downstairs to the dining room. The usual girl was back in reception. He felt calmer.
“We’re going to change the television set in your room today,” she said. “When would be a suitable time?”
“Any time, no problem. Is Inspector Larsson around?”
“I don’t think he was in his room at all last night. His key’s still here. Have you arrested anybody yet?”
“No.”
He set off for the dining room, but turned back.
“Fröken Molin? Is she in?”
“I arrived at 6 a.m. and passed her on her way out.”
There was something else he ought to ask her, but Lindman couldn’t remember what it was. His hangover was making him feel sick. He drank a glass of milk then sat down with a cup of coffee. His mobile rang. It was Larsson.
“Awake?”
“Just about. I’m having coffee. What about you?”
“I slept for a couple of hours in Erik’s office.”
“Has something happened?”
“There’s always something happening. But it’s still misty in Funäsdalen. Everything’s at a standstill, according to Rundström. As soon as the mist lifts today they’ll set out with the dog again. What are you doing at the moment? Apart from drinking coffee?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I’ll call on you. I think you ought to come with me on a house visit.”
Ten minutes later Larsson came bounding into the dining room, unshaven, hollow-eyed, but full of energy. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He had a plastic bag in his hand, and put it on the table.
“Do you remember the name Hanna Tunberg?” he said.
Lindman thought, then shook his head.
“She was the one who found Molin. His cleaning lady, who turned up once a fortnight.”
“I remember now. From the file I read in your office.”
Larsson frowned. “It seems ages since it was my office,” he said. “Though it’s not so long really.”
He shook his head as if he’d just made a great discovery about life and the passage of time.
“I remember there was something to do with her husband,” Lindman said.
“He had a nasty shock when he found Molin’s body at the edge of the trees. We had several detailed talks with her, though. It turned out that she hardly knew Molin at all, even though she was his cleaner. He never left her on her own, she claimed. He kept a constant watch over her. And he would never allow her to clean the guest room. Where the doll was. She thought he was unpleasant, arrogant. But he paid well.”
Larsson put his cup down.
“She phoned this morning and said that she’d calmed down now and been thinking. She thought she had something else she could tell us. I’m on my way there now. I thought you might like to come with me.”
“By all means.”
Larsson opened the plastic bag and produced a photograph behind glass in a frame. It was of a woman in her sixties.
“Do you know who this is?”
“No.”
“Katrin Andersson. Andersson’s wife.”
“Why have you brought that with you?”
“Because Han
na Tunberg asked me to. She wanted to see what Abraham’s wife looked like. I don’t know why. But I sent one of the boys out to Dunkärret this morning to fetch the photograph.”
Larsson finished his coffee and stood up.
“Hanna lives in Ytterberg,” he said. “It’s not far.”
The house was old and well looked after. It was beautifully situated with views of the wooded hills. A dog started barking when they parked. A woman was standing next to a rusty old tractor, waiting for them.
“Hanna Tunberg,” Larsson said. “She was wearing the same clothes the last time I saw her. She’s one of the old school.”
“Who are they?”
“People who put their best clothes on when they have an appointment with the police. What’s the betting that she’s been doing some baking?”
He smiled and got out of the car.
Larsson introduced Hanna Tunberg to Lindman. He found it hard to say how old she was. Sixty, perhaps, or maybe only just over 50.
“I’ve made some coffee. My husband’s gone out.”
“Not because we were coming, I hope,” Larsson said.
“He’s a bit odd. He’s not over-fond of the police. Even though he’s an honest man.”
“I’m sure he is,” Larsson said. “Shall we go in?”
The house smelt of tobacco, dog and lingon berries. The living-room walls were decorated with elk antlers, tapestries and some paintings with woodland motifs. Hanna Tunberg moved some knitting out of the way, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and started coughing. There was a rattling noise in her lungs. Lindman noticed that the tips of her fingers were yellow. She had fetched the coffee and filled the cups. There was a plate of buns on the table.
“Now we can talk at our leisure,” Larsson said. “You said you’d been thinking. And that there was something you wanted to tell me.”
“I don’t know if it’s important or not, of course.”
“Nobody ever knows that beforehand. But we’re all ears.”
“It’s to do with that woman who used to visit herr Molin.”
“You mean fröken Berggren?”
“She was sometimes there when I went to do the cleaning. She always left as soon as she clapped eyes on me. I thought she was odd.”
“How exactly?”
“Impolite. I have no time for people who give themselves airs. Herr Molin was the same.”
“Was there something particular she did to make you think she was impolite?”
“It was just a feeling I had. That she was looking down on me.”
“Because you were a cleaner?”
“Yes.”
Larsson smiled. “Very nice buns,” he said. “We’re listening.”
Hanna Tunberg was still smoking and didn’t seem to notice that she was spilling ash on her skirt.
“It was last spring,” she said. “Towards the end of April. I went to the house to do the cleaning, but he wasn’t there. I thought it was odd, because we’d agreed on the time.”
Larsson raised his hand to interrupt her.
“Did you always do that? Did you always fix a time in advance when you were going to arrive?”
“Always. He wanted to know. Anyway, he wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to do. I was quite certain that I hadn’t got the wrong day or the wrong time, though. I always wrote it down.”
“What happened next, then?”
“I waited. But he didn’t come. I stood on a sledge so that I could see in through the window. I thought he might be ill, you see. The house was empty. Then I thought about Abraham Andersson. I knew they were in touch with each other.”
Larsson raised his hand again.
“How did you know that?”
“Herr Molin told me once. I don’t know anybody around here apart from Elsa,” he said. “And Abraham.”
“What happened?”
“I thought maybe I should drive to Abraham’s place. I knew where he lived. My husband mended a bow for him once. He’s a jack of all trades, my husband. Anyway, I went there and knocked on the door. There was a long pause before Abraham answered.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. All the smoke was making Lindman feel ill.
“It was in the afternoon,” she said. “It must have been about three. And he wasn’t dressed yet.”
“Was he naked?” Larsson said.
“I said he wasn’t dressed. Not that he was naked. I’d have said if he had been. Do you want me to tell you what happened, or are you going to interrupt all the time?”
“I’ll take another bun and keep quiet,” Larsson said. “Carry on.”
“He was wearing trousers, but no shirt. And barefoot. I asked him if he knew where herr Molin was. He said he didn’t. Then he shut the door. He didn’t want to let me in. And I knew why, of course.”
“He wasn’t alone?”
“Exactly.”
“How did you know? Did you see anybody?”
“Not then. But I realised even so. I went back to the car. I’d parked some way short of the drive. I was just about to leave when I noticed a car standing behind the garage. It wasn’t Abraham’s.”
“How did you know that?”
“I don’t know. I just get the feeling sometimes. Doesn’t it happen to you too?”
“What did you do next?”
“I was going to start the engine and drive away when I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw somebody coming out of the house. It was a woman. When she realised that I was still there she went back inside.”
Larsson picked up the plastic bag with the photograph of Katrin Andersson. He handed it over. She spilled ash on it.
“No,” she said. “That wasn’t her. I was quite a long way away, and it’s not easy to remember somebody you’ve seen in the rear-view mirror. But I’m sure it wasn’t her.”
“Who do you think it was, then?”
She hesitated. Larsson repeated his question.
“Who do you think it was?”
“Fröken Berggren. But I can’t be sure.”
“Why not?”
“It all happened so quickly.”
“But you had seen her before, hadn’t you? And even so you couldn’t identify her for sure.”
“I’m telling you the truth. It happened so quickly. I only saw her for a few seconds. She came out, saw the car and went back inside.”
“So she didn’t want anybody to see her?”
Hanna Tunberg looked at him in surprise.
“Is that so strange? If she’d come out of a house where there was a half-naked man who wasn’t her husband?”
“The memory works like a camera,” Larsson said. “You see something and the image is stored inside your head. You don’t need to see a thing for long in order to remember it clearly.”
“Some photographs are blurred, though, aren’t they?”
“Why are you only telling us this now?”
“I didn’t remember until today. My memory’s not very good. I thought it might be important. If it was Elsa Berggren. I mean, she had contact with both Herbert and Abraham. Anyway, if it wasn’t her, it was certainly not his wife.”
“You’re not sure that it was Elsa Berggren, but you are sure that it wasn’t Katrin Andersson?”
“Yes.”
Hanna Tunberg started coughing again, that rattling, scraping cough. She stubbed out her cigarette in irritation. Then she gasped for breath, stood halfway up and slumped forward over the table. The coffee pot fell over. Larsson stood up as she fell. He turned her over, onto her back.
“She’s not breathing,” he said. “Phone for an ambulance.”
Larsson started giving her the kiss of life as Lindman took out his mobile.
Looking back, he would remember the events as if in slow motion. Larsson trying to breathe some life back into the woman lying on the floor, and the thin wisp of smoke rising up to the ceiling from the ashtray.
It took the ambulance half an hour to get there. Larsson had given
up by then. Hanna Tunberg was dead. He went to the kitchen and rinsed his mouth. Lindman had seen a lot of dead people – after road accidents, suicides, murders: but only now did he grasp how close death actually is. One moment she’d had a cigarette in her hand and answered “yes” to a question, the next she was dead.
Larsson went out to meet the ambulance.
“It was all over in a second,” he said to the man who examined Hanna Tunberg to make sure she was dead.
“We’re not really supposed to put dead bodies in an ambulance, but we can’t very well leave her here.”
“Two police officers are witnesses to the fact that she died a natural death. I’ll make sure that goes into the report.”
The ambulance left. Larsson looked at Lindman and shook his head.
“It’s hard to believe that it can be all over so quickly. Mind you, it’s the best kind of death you can possibly wish for.”
“As long as it doesn’t come too soon.”
They went outside. The dog barked. It had started raining.
“What did she say? That her husband had gone out?”
Lindman looked round. There was no sign of a car. The garage doors were open. Nothing inside.
“He seems to have gone for a drive.”
“We’d better wait. Let’s go in.”
They sat without speaking. The dog barked again. Then it, too, fell silent.
“What do you do when you have to inform a relative that somebody’s died?” Larsson said.
“I’ve never had to do that. I’ve been present, but it was always somebody else who had to do the talking.”
“There was only one occasion when I thought seriously about resigning from the force,” Larsson said. “Two sisters, aged four and five, had been playing by a pond. Seven years ago. Their father had left them on their own for a few minutes. We never managed to find out what actually happened, but they both drowned. I was the one who had to go and tell their mother about it, taking a priest with me. Their father had broken down. He’d gone out with the children so their mother was left in peace to prepare for the five-year-old’s party. That drove me close to giving up. It hadn’t happened before, and it hasn’t happened since.”
The Return of the Dancing Master Page 32