The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  “Let’s back up a bit,” Larsson said. “Switch the lights off.”

  It had stopped snowing. There wasn’t a sound. Larsson and Lindman crouched as they ran from the car. They had each taken one side of the road. Both had drawn their guns. They were peering into the darkness, listening intently. Lindman wasn’t sure how long they waited, but eventually they heard the sound of a car approaching. The headlights drew nearer in the darkness and the police car came to a halt. Larsson had switched on his torch. It was Rundström on the other side of the blue Golf, and another officer Lindman thought was called Lennart Backman. It occurred to him that there had once been a footballer he admired whose name was Lennart Backman. Who did he used to play for? Was it Hammarby or AIK?

  “Have you seen anything?” Rundström shouted.

  His voice echoed through the forest.

  “The car seems to be empty,” Larsson said. “We waited for you to get here before moving in to examine it.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Lindman.”

  “You and I will approach the car,” Rundström said. “You others stay where you are.”

  Lindman held his pistol at the ready, simultaneously shining his torch for Larsson. He and Rundström closed in on the Golf from each side.

  “There’s nothing here,” Larsson cried. “Move the cars to give us more light.”

  Lindman moved the car up and directed the headlights at the Golf.

  Wallén had not been mistaken. The Golf was riddled with bullet holes. There were three in the windscreen, the front left-hand tyre had been punctured and there were holes in the bonnet as well.

  “The shots seem to have come from straight in front,” Rundström said, “possibly slightly to one side.”

  They shone their torches into the car.

  Larsson pointed. “That could be blood.”

  The driver’s door was open wide. They shone their torches on the ground, but could see no trace of blood on the road or on the wet ground on the verge. Larsson pointed his torch into the trees.

  “I’ve no idea what’s going on,” he said. “No idea at all.”

  They formed a chain, shining their torches into trees and bushes. There was no sign of anybody, nor of any tracks. They continued into the trees for about a hundred metres before Larsson gave the order to turn back. There was a distant sound of sirens approaching from the east.

  “The dogs are on their way,” Rundström said, when they were on the asphalt again.

  The keys were still in the ignition. Larsson opened the boot. There were some tins of food and a sleeping bag. They exchanged looks.

  “A dark blue sleeping bag,” Rundström said. “Labelled ‘Alpin’.”

  He searched the bank of numbers in his mobile telephone, then called one of them.

  “Inspector Rundström,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you. Didn’t you say there was a sleeping bag in your chalet? What colour was it?”

  He nodded. Dark blue. It fitted.

  “What brand was it?” He listened. “Can you remember if you had any tins of ‘Bullen’s Party Sausages’ in your pantry?”

  Frostengren’s reply seemed to be comprehensive.

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” Rundström said. “Many thanks for your help.”

  “So, now we know,” he said. “Even though he was half asleep Frostengren could remember that his sleeping bag wasn’t labelled ‘Alpin’. That needn’t be significant, of course. Hereira presumably had some stuff of his own. But the sausages were his.”

  Everybody realised what that meant. Hereira had broken through the cordon round the mountain.

  The police car came racing up, switched off its siren and pulled up. One of the forensic team Lindman had met before got out. Rundström explained briefly what had happened.

  “It’ll be light in an hour or two,” Larsson said. “We must get the traffic boys here. Even if we are in the back of beyond there’ll presumably be some traffic on this road.”

  The forensic officer had some police tape with him and Lindman helped to cordon off the Golf. They positioned the cars so that their headlights lit up not only the Golf in the ditch, but also the road and the edge of the trees. Larsson and Rundström stood back to let the forensic specialist get on with his work. They beckoned Lindman to join them.

  “What do we do now?” Larsson said. “None of us understands what’s happened, if we’re honest.”

  “Facts are facts,” Rundström said, impatiently. “The man we’ve been hunting in the mountains has broken through our cordon. He steals a car. Then somebody has a surprise in store for him, steps into the road and takes a few pot shots at him. Shoots to kill, because he’s aiming at the windscreen. I think we can take it for granted that Hereira didn’t get out of the car and shoot at it himself. The man must have been incredibly lucky, unless he’s lying wounded or dead somewhere out there in the forest, of course. There could have been blood even if we didn’t see any. Has it been snowing, by the way? We had a few millimetres up in Funäsdalen.”

  “We had some wet snow for about an hour. That’s all.”

  “The dog handler will be here any minute,” Rundström said. “He’s in his own car and, needless to say, he’s had a puncture. But my sense is that Hereira has survived. The stain on the car seat doesn’t suggest a serious wound. Assuming it is blood, of course.” He went over to the forensic officer and asked him. “It could be blood,” he said, when he came back, “but it could also be chocolate.”

  “Have we got a time scale?” Larsson said. A question apparently directed mainly at himself.

  “It was precisely 4.03 when you phoned me,” Rundström said.

  “So this drama must have taken place between 3.30 and 3.45.”

  The penny dropped for all of them at the same time. “The cars,” Larsson said, slowly. “Two passed through our roadblock shortly before Wallén phoned to tell us about the shooting.”

  All three realised what that meant. The man who did the shooting could have passed through the cordon already. Larsson looked at Lindman.

  “Can you remember? The last two cars to pass through?”

  “The first was a woman in a green Saab. Erik knew her.” Larsson agreed.

  “Then there was another car after that woman had gone. Driving rather fast. What was it? A Ford?”

  “A red Ford Escort,” Lindman said.

  “A young man in a fur hat. Driving back south after visiting some relatives in Hede. The time would fit. First he shoots up this car, and then he passes through our checkpoint.”

  “Did you check his driving licence?”

  Larsson shook his head grimly.

  “Registration number?”

  Larsson phoned Johansson and explained what had happened. He waited, then put his mobile back in his pocket.

  “ABB 303,” he said. “Erik’s not absolutely certain about the numbers. His notebook got wet and the pages are stuck together. This business is being handled very badly.”

  “Let’s put a marker on that car straightaway,” Rundström said. “Red Ford Escort. ABB 303, or something similar. We want the owner now, no delays. We can give Erik a telling-off later.”

  “Let’s try to get it clear what’s happened,” Larsson said. “There are loads of questions that need answering. Just so we don’t overlook something crucial. How could anybody know that Hereira would be coming past in a dark blue Golf at this very spot and at this time? Who stands in the middle of the road and tries to kill him?”

  Rundström and Larsson got out their mobiles again. Lindman did the same, but had no idea who to phone. A car drew up with the dog handler, two other officers and Dolly the Alsatian. The dog found a scent immediately. The officers headed into the forest.

  Rundström exploded in anger when he’d finished his call. “The bloody computer’s down. We can’t trace the car,” he said. “Why does everything always have to get buggered up?”

  “Did it crash or is it a software glitch?”
r />   Larsson was talking to somebody in Östersund and to Rundström at the same time.

  “They’re putting new data in. They claim it’ll be up and running within an hour.”

  The forensic officer went past. He’d been to his car to exchange his shoes for rubber boots.

  “Have you found anything?” Larsson said.

  “All sorts of things, but I’ll give you a shout if I think it’s important.”

  It was still dark at 6 a.m. The police officers and the dog returned from the forest.

  “She lost the scent,” the dog handler said. “She’s tired as well. You can’t push her beyond her limits. We’ll have to get some more dogs here.”

  Rundström was talking non-stop on the telephone. Larsson had unfolded the map again.

  “He hasn’t got much to choose from. He’ll come to two gravel roads. The rest is nothing but trees. He’ll have to choose one of these two roads.”

  Larsson folded the map carelessly and tossed it into the car. Rundström was berating somebody for not “understanding how serious this is”. Larsson took Lindman with him to the other side of the road.

  “You think clearly,” Larsson said. “And you are lucky enough not to be responsible for all this. Even so, you can help us by telling us what conclusions you think we ought to reach.”

  “You’ve already asked the most important question,” Lindman said. “How could anybody know that Hereira was going to come down this very road tonight?”

  Larsson stared at him for a long while before replying. They were standing in the light from one of the police cars’ headlights.

  “Can there be more than one answer?” Larsson asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “So whoever did the shooting must have been in contact with Hereira?”

  “It’s the only possibility I can see. Either directly with Hereira, or with a third party who was a link between the two of them.”

  “And then he stakes out this road, intending to kill him.”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation. Unless there’s a leak from the police. Somebody passing on information about where we were setting up roadblocks, and why.”

  “That doesn’t sound plausible.”

  It occurred to Lindman that the previous evening he’d had the feeling that he was being followed. That somebody was keeping him under observation. But he didn’t say anything.

  “One thing’s certain in any case,” Larsson said. “We’ve got to find Hereira. And we’ve got to identify the man driving that red Ford. Did you see his face?”

  “It was pretty much hidden by his fur hat.”

  “Erik can’t remember what he looked like either. Nor how he spoke. If it was a dialect. But it’s far from clear that Erik would have noticed anyway. Remember, he sicked up that sleeping tablet. I don’t think he’s 100 per cent clear in the head tonight.”

  Lindman suddenly felt dizzy. It came out of nowhere. He was forced to grab hold of Larsson so as not to fall.

  “Are you ill?”

  “I don’t know. Everything started spinning round.”

  “You’d better go back to Sveg. I’ll get somebody to drive you. Erik is obviously not the only one who’s not on form tonight.”

  Lindman could see that Larsson was genuinely concerned.

  “Are you going to faint?”

  Lindman shook his head. He didn’t want to tell him the truth, which was that he felt as if he could keel over at any moment.

  Larsson drove him back to Sveg himself. They didn’t speak during the journey. Dawn was breaking. The snow had gone away, but the clouds were still thick overhead. Lindman had noted absent-mindedly that sunrise was about 7.45. Larsson pulled up outside the hotel.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Same as you. A sleepless night. I’ll feel better when I’ve had a bit of sleep.”

  “Don’t you think it would be best if you went back to Borås?”

  “Not yet. I’ll stay as arranged. Until Wednesday. Besides, I’m interested to know if that registration number has been linked to an owner yet.”

  Larsson phoned Rundström.

  “The computers are still down. Don’t they have any paperwork? Don’t they have any back-up?”

  Lindman opened the car door and eased himself out. Fear was churning around in his insides. Why don’t I say anything? he thought. Why don’t I tell Larsson that I’m so frightened that I can’t stop shaking?

  “Go and get some rest. I’ll be in touch.”

  Larsson drove away. The girl in reception was sitting at her computer.

  “You’re up early,” she said with a smile.

  “Or late,” he said.

  He took his key, went up to his room, sat on the edge of the bed and phoned Elena. She was already at school. He told her what had happened, that he’d been up all night, and that he felt dizzy. She asked when he was coming home, but he raised his voice, couldn’t conceal his irritation, and simply said that he needed to sleep. Then he’d make up his mind.

  It was 1.30 when he woke up. He lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He’d dreamt about his father again.

  They were paddling in a two-man canoe. There was a waterfall somewhere ahead. He’d tried to tell his father that they must turn back before the current became so strong that they’d be forced over the edge, but his father didn’t answer. When Stefan turned round, he found that it wasn’t his father sitting behind him, but the solicitor Jacobi. He was stark naked, his chest covered in reeds. Then the dream had dissolved.

  He got out of bed. He didn’t feel dizzy any more. He felt hungry. Even so, his curiosity got the better of him. He tried Larsson’s number. Engaged. He showered and tried again. Still engaged. He dressed and discovered that he had no clean underwear left. Phoned again. Now Larsson answered, with a bellowing “Yes?”

  “It’s Lindman.”

  “Oh. I thought it was a reporter from Östersund. He’s been chasing me all morning. Erik thinks Wallén must have tipped him off about the shooting. If so, he’s in for a good rollicking. The Chief of Police is kicking up a stink as well. He’s wondering what on earth is going on. Aren’t we all?”

  “How’s it going?”

  “We’ve established the registration number. ABB 003. Erik was out by one digit.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “A man called Anders Harner. His address is a P.O. box in Albufeira in southern Portugal. One of the officers in Hede knew exactly where that is. He’s been there on holiday. But we’ve got more problems: Anders Harner is 77, and the man in that car was certainly not an old man. None of us has eyesight that bad.”

  “Perhaps it was his son? Or some other relative?”

  “Or the car had been stolen. We’re chasing that one up. It’s perfectly obvious that nothing to do with this investigation is straightforward.”

  “Why not say that the crimes are well planned? Any trace of Hereira?”

  “We’ve had three dogs out, and the helicopter from Sundsvall finally turned up. But we’ve drawn a blank. No sign at all. Which is quite remarkable. How are you, by the way? Have you had some sleep?”

  “I don’t feel dizzy any more.”

  “I had a bad conscience. I don’t know how many regulations I’ve broken by roping you into this business, but more important than that is that I shouldn’t have forgotten that you’re ill.”

  “I wanted to join in.”

  “The forensic lad reckons it could well have been Erik’s gun that was used last night. It’s a possibility, at least.”

  Lindman went to the dining room. He felt better after a meal, but he was still tired when he went back to his room. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like a face. Jacobi’s face, he thought. I wonder if he’s still alive.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it. It was Veronica Molin.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ve come to apologise. I reacted too strongly last night.”r />
  “It was my fault. I was stupid.”

  He wanted to ask her in, but there was dirty laundry lying around. Besides, it smelt stuffy.

  “The room hasn’t been cleaned,” he said.

  She smiled. “Mine has.” She looked at her watch. “I’m due to meet my brother at Östersund airport exactly four hours from now. There’s time for us to talk.”

  He took his jacket and followed her down the stairs. He was just behind her and had to force himself not to reach out and touch her.

  Her computer was switched off.

  “I’ve spoken to Giuseppe Larsson,” she said. “I had to winkle out of him what happened last night. I gathered from what he said that you might be in the hotel.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “About the shooting. And that you haven’t yet caught the man you’re after.”

  “The question is, how many men are the police after? Is it one or two? Maybe even three.”

  “Why aren’t I being kept informed about what’s happening?”

  “The police like to work in peace, without being harassed by reporters. And relatives. Especially when they don’t know what’s actually happened. And especially when they don’t know why something has happened.”

  “I still don’t believe that my father died because he used to be a Nazi. Because of something he might have done when he was a German soldier. The war ended more than 50 years ago. I think his death is somehow connected with that woman in Scotland, whose name I remember as Monica.”

  Lindman decided on the spur of the moment to tell her about the discovery he’d made in Wetterstedt’s flat in Kalmar. He didn’t know why. Perhaps to establish the fact that they had a secret to share and that both their fathers had been Nazis. He told her without saying how he’d made the discovery, without saying that he’d broken into the flat and found out by accident. He told her about the network, and the foundation called Strong Sweden. About all the dead as well as the living who made contributions to the organisation.

  “I still don’t know enough,” he said in conclusion. “Perhaps that organisation is just a small part of something much bigger? I’m not so naïve that I think there might be a world-wide Nazi conspiracy, but it’s clear that Nazi ideas are alive and well. When all this is over I’ll talk to my boss in Borås. There must be grounds for the security services to look into this in earnest.”