The Return of the Dancing Master (10 page)

He hadn't seen a single person. When he got back to the hotel, he lay down on the bed for a while and watched the television with the
sound turned down. He could still hear the man next door snoring through the paper-thin wall.

It was 4:30 before he fell asleep. His head was a vacuum.

 

 

He was up again at 7 A.M. His head throbbed with tired thoughts. He sat at a table alone in the dining room, which was teeming with earlybird test drivers. The receptionist was playing the part of waitress again.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, and wondered if she believed him.

 

 

It was raining by the time he came to Östersund. He drove around the town until he discovered the gloomy building with a red sign for the “National Rural Agency.” He wondered what on earth an organization like that actually did. Was its function just to facilitate the abandonment of Swedish rural communities?

He found a parking place on a side street and stayed in the car. Still forty-five minutes to go before his meeting with Larsson. He reclined his seat and closed his eyes. I have death in my body, he thought. I have to take that seriously, but I can't get my head around it. You can't pin down death—not your own, at least. I can understand that Molin is dead. I've seen the traces of his death struggle. But my own death? I can't deal with imagining that. It's like the elk that ran across the road just before I came to Linsell. I'm still not sure that it really existed, or whether I just imagined it.

 

 

At 11 A.M. precisely, Lindman walked through the front door of the police station. To his surprise, the woman in reception looked very much like one of the receptionists in Boras. He wondered if the National Police Board had passed a motion requiring all police receptionists to look alike.

He explained who he was.

“Larsson told us to expect you,” she said, pointing to the nearest corridor. “His office is down there, the second room on the left.”

Lindman knocked on the door with DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LARSSON on it. The man who opened it was tall and very powerfully built. His reading glasses were pushed up over his forehead.

“You're punctual,” he said, almost hustling him into the room and closing the door behind them.

Lindman sat in the visitor's chair. He recognized the way the office was furnished from the police station in Borås. We don't just wear uniforms, he thought. Our offices are uniform as well.

Larsson sat an his desk and crossed his hands over his stomach. “Have you been up in this part of the world before?” he asked.

“Never. Uppsala once, when I was a child, but that's as far north as I've been before.”

“Uppsala is southern Sweden. Here in Ostersund you still have half of Sweden to go as you travel north. It used to be a very long way from here to Stockholm. Not anymore. Flights can take you wherever you like in Sweden in just a few hours. In the space of a few decades Sweden has turned from a big country into a little one.”

Lindman pointed to the large wall map.

“How big is your police district?”

“Big enough and more besides.”

“How many police officers are there in Harjedalen?”

Larsson thought for a moment. “Five, maybe six in Sveg, a couple in Hede. And there a few more here and there—in Funasdalen, for instance. Possibly fifteen in all, depending on how many are on duty at a given time.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened before Larsson could react. The man in the doorway was the polar opposite of Larsson, short and very thin.

“I thought Nisse should sit in on this,” Larsson said. “We are the ones in charge of the investigation.”

Lindman stood up to shake hands. The man who'd joined them was reserved and serious. He spoke very softly and Lindman had difficulty gathering that his surname was Rundström. Larsson seemed to be affected by his presence. He sat up straighter in his chair, and his smile disappeared. The mood had changed.

“We thought we ought to have a little talk,” Larsson said, cautiously. “About this and that.”

Rundström had not sat down, although there was a spare chair. He leaned against the door frame and avoided looking Lindman in the eye.

“We received a call this morning,” he said. “From a man who reported that a police officer from Boras was conducting an investigation in the region of Linsell. He was a bit upset, and wondered if the local police had handed the investigation over to outsiders.” Before
going on he paused to examine his hands. “He was quite upset,” Rundström repeated. “And it would be fair to say that we were upset as well.”

Lindman had broken out in a sweat. “I can think of two possibilities,” he said. “The man who phoned was either Abraham Andersson—he lives in a farmhouse called Dunkärret—or it was the owner of the shop in Linsell.”

“I expect it was Lundell,” Rundström said. “But we don't like police officers from faraway places coming here and poking their noses into our investigations.”

Lindman saw red. “I'm not conducting my own investigation,” he said. “I've already spoken to Larsson. I told him I'd worked with Molin for quite a few years. I'm on vacation, and so I came here. It doesn't seem all that strange that I would have visited the scene of the murder.”

“It creates confusion,” Rundström said, in his soft, barely audible voice.

“I bought the local paper,” Lindman said, no longer bothering to conceal his anger. “I told the man who I was and asked if Molin did his shopping there.”

Rundström produced a sheet of paper he'd been holding behind his back. “You asked quite a few more questions as well. Lundell read them to me over the phone.”

This is lunacy, Lindman thought. He looked at Larsson, but he was staring down at his stomach.

For the first time Rundström looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.

“Who killed my colleague.”

“That's what we want to know as well. Needless to say, we've given this investigation top priority. It's been a long time since we've set up such a broadly based investigative team as this one. We've had some pretty violent crimes up here over the years. We're not exactly unused to it.”

Lindman could see that Rundström was making no attempt to disguise the fact that he resented his presence, but he could also see that Larsson was upset by the approach Rundström had adopted. That gave him an escape route.

“It goes without saying that I'm not questioning the way you are working.”

“Have you any information you can give us that would be of use to the investigation?”

“No,” Lindman said. He didn't want to tell Rundström about the
tent site until he'd discussed it with Larsson. “I have no useful information to give you. I didn't know Molin well enough to be able to tell you anything about the life he led in BorÃ¥s, never mind here. No doubt there are others who would be better at that than I am. And in any case, I'll be leaving soon.”

Rundström nodded and opened the door. “Any news from UmeÃ¥ yet?”

“Nothing so far,” Larsson said.

Rundström smiled curtly at Lindman and was gone. Larsson stretched out an arm apologetically.

“Rundström can be a bit abrupt at times. But he means well.”

“He's within his rights to complain about my poking my nose in your business.”

Larsson leaned back in his chair and eyed him speculatively. “Is that what you're doing? Poking your nose in?”

“Only in the sense that sometimes you can't avoid stumbling over things.”

Larsson looked at his watch. “How long are you thinking of staying in Ostersund? Overnight?”

“I haven't decided anything.”

“Stay overnight, then. I'll be working here tonight as well. Come here sometime after seven. With a little luck, everything will be quiet here then. I have to be on call tonight, because so many officers are out sick. You can make yourself at home in my office.”

Larsson pointed to some files on a shelf behind him.

“You can look through the material we have. Then we can talk.”

“And Rundström?”

“He lives in Brunflo. You can bet your life he won't be here tonight. Nobody will ask any questions.”

Larsson rose from his chair. Lindman understood that the conversation was over.

“The old theater's been converted into an hotel. A good hotel. There's no question of their being full in October.”

Lindman buttoned up his jacket.

“UmeÃ¥?” he wondered.

“That's where we send our dead bodies.”

“I thought that was Uppsala or Stockholm.”

Larsson smiled. “You're in Ostersund now. UmeÃ¥'s a lot nearer.”

Larsson accompanied him as far as the reception area. Lindman noticed that he was limping. Larsson saw that he'd noticed.

“I slipped in the bathroom. Nothing serious.”

Larsson opened the front door and went out into the street with him. “There's winter in the air,” he said, looking up at the sky.

“Herbert Molin must have bought the house from somebody,” said Lindman. “Privately, or through a real estate agent.”

“We've looked into that, of course,” Larsson said. “Molin bought the house from an independent real estate agent. Not one of the big companies. A rural real estate agent. His name's Hans Marklund and he runs the business on his own.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Nothing yet. He's been on vacation in Spain. He's evidently got a second home down there. He's on my list for tomorrow.”

“He's back?”

“Yesterday.”

Larsson thought for a moment. “I can tell my colleagues that I'll take the responsibility for interviewing him. Which in turn means that there's nothing to prevent you from talking to him.”

“Hans Marklund?”

“He works from his house in Krokom. Take the road north. In Krokom itself, you'll see a sign saying ‘Rural Properties.' Ring the doorbell here at 7:15, and I'll come and let you in.”

Larsson went back inside. Rundström's attitude had annoyed Lindman, but at the same time it had given him renewed energy. And Larsson wanted to help him by letting him go through the material they had accumulated so far. In doing so, Larsson was putting himself at risk, even if there were no real impropriety in allowing a colleague from another force to take part in the investigation. Lindman found the hotel Larsson had suggested. He got a room under the eaves. He left his suitcase there and returned to his car. He phoned the hotel in Sveg and spoke to the receptionist.

“Nobody will take your room,” she assured him.

“I'll be back tomorrow.”

“You come when it suits you.”

Lindman found his way out of Ostersund. It was only twenty kilometers to Krokom, where he found the real estate agent's right away. It was a yellow-painted house with a large garden. A man was walking around the lawn vacuuming up dead leaves. He switched off the machine when he saw Lindman. The man was tanned and about Lindman's age. He looked fit and trim, and had a tattoo on one of his wrists.

“Are you looking for a house?” he said.

“Not exactly. Are you Hans Marklund?”

“That's me.”

Then he turned serious. “Are you from the tax authority?”

“No. Giuseppe Larsson told me I'd find you here.”

Marklund frowned. Then he remembered who that was. “The policeman. I've just gotten back from Spain. There are quite a lot of Giuseppes there. Or something like that. In Ostersund there's only one. Are you a police officer as well?”

Lindman hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I'm a police officer. You once sold a house to a man called Herbert Molin. As you know, he's dead now.”

“Come inside,” Marklund said. “They phoned me in Spain and told me he'd been murdered. I didn't expect to hear from them until tomorrow.”

“You will.”

One of the rooms on the ground floor had been turned into an office. There were maps on the walls, and colored photographs of houses up for sale. Lindman noticed that the prices were significantly lower than in Boras.

“I'm on my own at the moment,” Marklund said. “My wife and children are staying in Spain for another week. We've got a little house in Marbella. I inherited it from my parents. The kids have their fall break, or whatever it's called.”

Marklund made some coffee and they sat down at a table strewn with files.

“I had some problems with the tax people last year,” Marklund said apologetically. “That's why I asked. As the local authority is running short of money, I supposed they have to squeeze out every krona they can.”

“Eleven years ago or so, you sold the house near Linsell to Herbert Molin. I used to work with him in BorÃ¥s. He retired and moved up here. And now he's dead.”

“What happened?”

“He was murdered.”

“Why? By whom?”

“We don't know yet.”

Marklund shook his head.

“It sounds nasty. We like to think that we live in a pretty peaceful area up here—but maybe there aren't any of those anymore?”

“Maybe not. What can you tell me about that sale eleven years ago?”

Marklund disappeared into an adjoining room. He came back with a file in his hand. He soon found what he was looking for.

“March 18, 1988,” he said. “The deal was signed and sealed here in
this office. The seller was an old forester. The price was 198,000 kronor. No mortgage. The transaction was paid for by check.”