The Return of the Dancing Master

by Henning Mankell

  “I’m not talking about the young men with shaven heads. I’m talking about the ones who dream in blood, plan genocide, see the world as a feudal empire ruled by white men.”

  “Magnus Holmström’s like that.”

  “Has he been arrested?”

  “Not yet.”

  Silence. The bottle clinked.

  “Was it her who asked him to come?”

  Who did he mean, Lindman wondered. Then he realised that there was only one possibility. Elsa Berggren.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But there must have been a motive, surely?”

  Be careful now, Lindman thought. Don’t say too much. Not too little either, make sure you get it right. But what is right? He wants to know if he’s to blame. Which he is, of course. When he killed Molin, it was like turning over a stone: the woodlice scattered in all directions. Now they want to get back under the stone, they want somebody to put it back where it was before all this trouble started in the forest.

  There were still a lot of things he didn’t understand. He had the feeling that a link was missing, some thread holding everything together that he hadn’t found yet. Nor had Larsson, nobody had.

  He thought about Molin’s house, burning down in the forest. That seemed a question it wasn’t too dangerous to ask.

  “Was it you who set fire to Molin’s house?”

  “I assumed the police would go there, but perhaps not you. I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed to be a possibility. I was right. You stayed in the hotel.”

  “Why me? Why not one of the other officers?”

  The man didn’t answer. Lindman wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. He waited. All the time he was searching for a chance to get away, to get out of this room where he was tied to a chair. To do that he must first establish where he was.

  The bottle clinked again. Then the man stood up. Lindman listened. He couldn’t feel any vibrations in the floor. Everything was still. Had the man left the room? Lindman strained all his senses. The man didn’t seem to be there. Then a clock started striking. Lindman knew where he was. In Berggren’s house, it was her clock.

  The blindfold was suddenly ripped off. It happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to react. He was in Berggren’s living room, on the very chair he’d sat on when he first went there. The man was behind him. Lindman slowly turned his head.

  Fernando Hereira was very pale. Unshaven and with dark shadows under his eyes. His hair was grey and unkempt. He was thin. His clothes, dark trousers and a blue jacket, were dirty. The jacket was torn near the collar. He was wearing trainers. So this was the man who’d lived in a tent by the lake, killed Molin so brutally, then dragged him round in a bloodstained tango. It was also the man who had attacked him twice, the first time almost strangling him, the second time only an hour or so ago, by hitting him hard on the back of the head.

  The clock had struck the half-hour, 5.30 a.m. Lindman had been unconscious for longer than he’d thought. On the table in front of the man was a bottle of brandy. No glass. The man took a swig, then turned to face Lindman.

  “What punishment will I get?”

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s up to the court.”

  Hereira shook his head sadly. “Nobody will understand. Is there a death penalty in your country?”

  “No.”

  Hereira took another swig from the bottle. He fumbled as he put it down on the table. He’s drunk, Lindman thought. He’s losing control of his movements.

  “There’s somebody I want to talk to,” Hereira said. “I want to explain to Molin’s daughter why I killed her father. Stuckford told me in a letter that Molin had a daughter. Perhaps he had other children as well? Anyway, I want to talk to the daughter. Veronica. She must be here.”

  “Molin will be buried today.”

  Hereira gave a start. “Today?”

  “His son, too, has arrived. The funeral’s at 11.00.”

  Hereira stared at his hands. “I can only cope with talking to her,” he said after a while. “Then she can explain it to whoever she likes. I want to tell her why I did it.”

  Lindman had been given the opportunity he’d been hoping for.

  “Veronica didn’t know her father was a Nazi. She’s very upset now that she does know. I think she’ll understand, if you tell her what you’ve told me.”

  “Everything I’ve said is true.” Hereira took another drink from the bottle. “The question is, will you allow me the time I need? If I let you go and ask you to contact the girl on my behalf, will I have the time I need before you arrest me?”

  “How do I know that you won’t treat Veronica as you treated her father?”

  “You can’t know that. But why should I? She didn’t kill my father.”

  “You attacked me.”

  “It was necessary. I regret it, of course. I’ll let you go. I’ll stay here. It’s nearly 6 a.m. You talk to the girl, tell her where I am. Once she’s left me, you and the rest of the police can come and collect me. I know I’ll never return home. I’ll die here, in prison.”

  Hereira was lost in thought. Was he telling the truth? Lindman knew that it wasn’t something he could take for granted.

  “Needless to say, I won’t let Veronica come to you on her own,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve already shown that you do not hesitate to use violence.”

  “I want to see her on her own. I will not lay a finger on her.”

  Hereira slammed his fist down on the table. Lindman could feel his misgivings rising.

  “What if I don’t go along with what you are asking?”

  Hereira looked hard at him before answering. “I’m a peaceful man, though it’s true that I’ve used violence on others. I don’t know what I’d do. I might kill you, I might not.”

  “I can give you the time you need,” Lindman said, “and you can talk to her on the telephone.”

  He could see the positive glint in Hereira’s eye. He was tired, but far from resigned.

  “I’m already committing myself to more than I should,” Lindman said. “I’ll guarantee you the time you need, and you can talk to her on the telephone. I’m sure you realise that as a police officer, I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “You don’t really have a choice.”

  Hereira hesitated. Then he stood up and cut the tape tying Lindman to the chair.

  “We have to trust each other. There’s no other possibility.”

  Lindman felt dizzy as he walked to the door. His legs were stiff, and the back of his neck was extremely sore.

  “I’ll wait for her to phone,” Hereira said. “I’ll probably talk to her for about an hour. Then you can tell your colleagues where I am.”

  Lindman crossed the bridge. Before leaving the house he’d made a note of Berggren’s telephone number. He paused at the place where a police diver would start looking for a shotgun on the riverbed an hour or two from now. He was exhausted, but he tried to think clearly. Hereira had committed murder, but there was something appealing about him, something genuine, when he’d tried to convince Lindman that he wanted to talk to Molin’s daughter, try to make her understand, hope that she would forgive him. He wondered again if Veronica and her brother had spent the night in Östersund. If so, he’d have to ring round all the hotels to find her.

  It was 6.30 when he got back to the hotel. He knocked on her door. She opened it so quickly that he almost recoiled. She was already dressed. Her computer was shimmering in the background.

  “I have to talk to you. I know it’s early. I thought you might have stayed in Östersund for the night, because of the snow.”

  “My brother never showed up.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d changed his mind. He phoned. He didn’t want to go to the funeral. I got back here late last night. What is so urgent?”

/>   Lindman started back to reception. She followed him. They sat down and without more ado he told her what had happened during the night and about her father’s murderer, Fernando Hereira, who was waiting in Berggren’s house for her to phone him, and possibly even forgive him.

  “He wanted to meet you,” Lindman said. “I didn’t agree to that, of course.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said after a while. “I wouldn’t have agreed to go there, though. Of course not. Does anybody else know about this?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Not even your colleagues?”

  “Nobody. He speaks English.”

  She looked hard at him. “I’ll talk to him, but I want to be alone when I phone him. When the call is over, I’ll knock on your door.”

  Lindman gave her the paper with the telephone number. Then he went to his room. As he opened his door it struck him that she might already have phoned Hereira. He looked at his watch. In 20 minutes he would contact Larsson and tell him where he could find Hereira.

  He went to the bathroom, but found that there was no toilet paper left. He went back to reception. He saw her through the window. Veronica Molin, out in the street. In a hurry.

  He stopped short. Tried to work it out. Thoughts were racing around his head. There was no doubt that Veronica Molin was on her way to Hereira. He ought to have foreseen that. Something in direct contrast to what he’d previously thought. It’s something to do with her computer, he thought. Something she’d said. Maybe something I’d thought without really understanding the implications. His alarm was growing apace. He turned to the girl who was on her way to the dining room.

  “Fröken Molin’s key,” he said. “I must have it.”

  She stared at him in bewilderment. “She’s just gone out.”

  “That’s why I need her key.”

  “I can’t give it to you.”

  Lindman slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m a police officer,” he roared. “Give me the key.”

  She took the key from beneath the desk. He grabbed it, raced along the corridor and opened her door. The computer was on. The screen was glowing. He stared at it in horror.

  Everything fell into place. Now he could see how it all hung together. Most of all he could see how catastrophically wrong he’d been.

  CHAPTER 34

  It was 7.05 a.m. and still dark. Lindman ran. Several times he slipped and almost fell in the snow. He ought to have recognised long ago what was now obvious, absolutely clear and simple. He’d been too lazy. Or his worries over what lay in store for him at the hospital had been too great. I ought to have caught on when Veronica Molin phoned and asked me to come back, he thought. Why wasn’t I suspicious? I’m only now asking all the questions that cried out to be asked even then.

  He came to the bridge. Still not light. No sign of Larsson or a diver. How long was it taking for Molin’s house to burn down? He took out his mobile and tried Larsson’s number. The same female voice asking him to try again later. He very nearly threw the telephone after the shotgun, to the bottom of the river.

  Then he saw somebody coming towards him over the bridge. He could see from the light of the street lamps who it was. During his early days in Sveg he’d had coffee with the man in his kitchen. He tried to remember his name. The man who’d never travelled further afield than Hede. Then he got it: Björn Wigren. The man recognised Lindman.

  “Are you still here?” he said, in surprise. “I thought you’d gone home. I do know one thing, though: Elsa hasn’t committed murder.”

  Lindman wondered how Wigren knew she’d been arrested and taken to Östersund. But that didn’t matter for the moment. Perhaps Wigren could be of some use.

  “Let’s talk about Elsa Berggren later,” he said. “Just now I need your help.”

  Lindman searched through his pockets for paper and pencil, but found nothing.

  “Have you anything to write with?”

  “No. I can go home and fetch something if it’s important. What’s happening?”

  His curiosity is something awful, Lindman thought, looking round. They were only just onto the bridge.

  “Come over here,” he said.

  They went to where the bridge joined the road. There was a drift of virgin snow there. Lindman squatted down and wrote in the snow with his finger.

  ELSA’S HOUSE. VERONICA. DANGEROUS. STEFAN.

  He stood up. “Can you see what I’ve written?”

  Wigren read it aloud. “What does it mean?”

  “It means you should stand here and wait until some police officers and a diver turn up. One of the officers will probably be Larsson. Or it might be a man called Rundström. Erik Johansson could well be there as well, and you know him. In any case, show them this message. Is that clear?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Nothing that affects you for the moment, but it’s very important for the police. Wait until they get here.”

  Lindman was trying hard to sound authoritative. “Stay here,” he repeated. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes. But I’m curious, of course. Is it to do with Elsa?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. The important thing right now is that this message is crucial. You’ll be doing the police a great service if you make sure they see it.”

  “I’ll stay here. I was only going out for a morning stroll.”

  Lindman left Wigren and ran over the bridge, trying to call the police emergency number at the same time. Same voice. He swore, and put the telephone back in his pocket. He couldn’t wait any longer. He turned left and stopped when he came to Elsa Berggren’s house. Tried to keep calm. There’s only one thing to do, he told himself. I have to be as convincing as possible. I must give the impression that I don’t know anything. Veronica Molin must carry on believing that I’m still the idiot she’s had every reason to think I am so far.

  He thought about the night when she’d let him sleep by her side. No doubt she’d got up while he was asleep and searched his room. That was why she’d let him sleep in her bed. Not even then had the penny dropped. He’d been vain and conceited, and he’d also betrayed Elena. Veronica had made the most of his weakness. Not that he could blame her.

  He went through the gate. Everything was very still. A faint band of light had appeared in the sky over the hills to the east. He rang the bell. Fernando Hereira peeped out from behind the curtain covering the glass part of the front door. Lindman was relieved to see that nothing had happened to him yet. When he’d gone to Veronica’s room he was still worried in case anything would happen to her, but as soon as he saw what was on her computer screen, everything changed. From that moment it was Hereira he was worried for. It made no difference that what was taking place now was a meeting between a woman and the man who had murdered her father. Hereira had the right, as everybody else did, to have their actions tried in a court of law.

  Hereira opened the door. His eyes were unusually bright. “You’ve come too soon,” he said, brusquely.

  “I can wait.”

  The door to the living room was ajar. Lindman couldn’t see her. He wondered if he ought to tell Hereira the truth straightaway, but decided to wait. She might be standing behind the door, listening. He knew now that Veronica was capable of anything at all. He must draw out this meeting for as long as possible, so that Larsson and the rest had time to get here.

  He nodded towards the lavatory. “I’ll join you in a moment,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “As I hoped it would,” Hereira said. His voice sounded tired. “She’s listening. And it seems as if she understands. I don’t know if she’ll forgive me, though.”

  He went back into the living room, somewhat unsteadily. Lindman locked himself in the lavatory. The worst was still to come – looking Veronica in the eye and convincing her that he knew no more now than he had known half an hour ago. On the other hand, why should she suspect that he’d suddenly understood what he’d failed to understand before? He tried Larsson’s number.
When he heard the voice yet again he nearly panicked. He flushed the lavatory and emerged into the hall. He went to the front door and coughed loudly as he turned the key to unlock it. Then he went to the living room.

  Veronica was in the chair he’d been tied to. She looked at him. He gave her a smile.

  ‘I can wait outside,” he said in English. “If you haven’t finished, that is.”

  ‘I’d like you to stay,” she said.

  Hereira had nothing against that either.

  As if by chance Lindman sat on the chair nearest to the front door. It also gave him a clear view of the windows behind the other two. Veronica was still looking hard at him. It was obvious to Lindman now that she had always tried to see right through him whenever they were together. He returned her gaze, repeating over and over to himself: I know nothing, I know nothing.

  The bottle was still on the table. Lindman could see that Hereira had drunk half of it, but he’d pushed it to one side and screwed on the cap. He started speaking. About the man called Höllner in a Buenos Aires restaurant, who, purely by chance, had been able to tell him who had killed his father. Hereira gave a detailed account of the meeting, explaining when and where he’d met Höllner, and how they had eventually realised that Höllner was almost a messenger sent by some divine power to provide the information he’d been looking for. Lindman approved: the more Hereira spun out his story, the better. Lindman needed Larsson to be here, he wouldn’t be able to cope with the situation on his own.

  Then he gave a start.

  Neither Hereira nor Veronica seemed to have noticed anything. A face had fleetingly appeared in the window behind Veronica. Wigren. Lindman could see him from the corner of his eye. There was no limit to the man’s curiosity. So he’d left the bridge, he hadn’t been able to control his inquisitiveness.

  The face appeared again. It was obvious to Lindman that Wigren hadn’t realised he’d been spotted. What can the man see? Lindman wondered. Three people in a room, engrossed in a serious, not heated conversation. He might be able to see the bottle of brandy from the window, but what is there about this situation that could possibly be “dangerous”? Nothing. No doubt he wonders who the man is, and it’s possible that he didn’t see Veronica when she came to visit Elsa Berggren. He must think the policeman from the south of Sweden that he bumped into on his morning stroll is mad. He must also wonder why they are in Elsa Berggren’s house when she’s somewhere else. And how did they get in?