The Return of the Dancing Master (17 page)

From a military family, Lindman had noted. His father was a cavalry officer based in Kalmar, his mother a housewife. So to start with, Molin does not stray far from the family tradition. He tries a career as an army officer, but then changes course.

Lindman put down his pad and filled his wineglass. The man crawling around in the rocks not far from Hollywood had now been captured by
the men on horseback. They were about to hang him. The man with the rope around his neck seemed strangely unconcerned about his fate. The colors were still very pale.

If the circumstances surrounding Molin's death had been a film, Lindman thought, it would now be necessary for something to happen. Otherwise the audience would become bored. Even police officers can become bored. But that doesn't mean they give up the search for an explanation and a murderer.

He reached for his pad again. As he did so the man in the film was getting away via highly improbable circumstances. Lindman tried to develop a few plausible theories. The first, the most obvious one, was that Molin had been the victim of a madman. Where he'd come from and why he'd been equipped with a tent and some tear gas was impossible to explain, of course. The madman scenario was bad, but it had to be formulated even so.

The second theory had to do with an unknown connection between the murder and something that lay concealed in Molin's past. As Veronica Molin had pointed out, her father didn't possess a fortune. Money could hardly be the reason for his death, even if his daughter had made it sound as if it were the only conceivable motive for murdering anybody. But police officers acquire enemies, Lindman thought. Nowadays it was not uncommon for police officers to receive death threats, for bombs to be placed under prosecutors' cars. Somebody bent on revenge could wait for as long as it took to get back at someone. This meant that patient searches through the archives would be essential.

There was a third possibility. Something connected with Berggren. Did the uniform in her wardrobe have anything to do with Molin? Or did Berggren have something in her past linked with Hitler's Germany?

Lindman did some math. According to Björn Wigren, Berggren and Molin were about the same age. Berggren could have been born a year or so later, around 1924 or 1925. So she would have been fifteen when war broke out, and twenty-one when it ended. Lindman shook his head. That didn't fit. But Berggren has a father, and perhaps also an elder brother. He made more notes. Elsa Berggren lives alone, has an income from an unknown source, is on her guard. He made another note: Molin and Berggren. According to her own account she had known Molin since his first marriage. When she said that, he'd had a strong feeling that she wasn't telling the truth.

That was as far as he could get. He put down the pad. He would talk to Larsson the following day. That would mean he'd have to drive back
to Ostersund. Once he'd done that, he could return to Boras. As he was getting ready for bed he wondered if he should ask Elena whether there was any chance of her being able to take a week off work and fly south with him. But he wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle that. The choice between having her company and being alone would be a hard one to make.

He went to the bathroom, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue. The lump was not visible, but it was there. He studied his face and thought that he looked pale. Then in his mind's eye he put on the uniform he'd seen in Berggren's wardrobe. Tried to remember the ranks they'd had in the SS—Rottenfuhrer Lindman, Unterscharfuhrer Lindman.

He took off the invisible peaked cap and washed his face. By the time he left the bathroom the Western had almost finished. The man who had escaped the lynching party was sitting with a big-breasted woman in a log cabin. Lindman reached for the remote control and turned off the TV.

He called Elena's number. She answered almost immediately.

“I'm leaving here tomorrow. I might even be back home by tomorrow evening.”

“Don't drive too fast, will you?”

“That's all, really. I'm worn out. We can talk when I get home.”

“How's it going?”

“How's what going?”

“You, your health.”

He said he didn't have the strength to discuss how he was feeling, and Elena understood.

He drank another glass of wine before settling down in bed. I have one more visit to make, he thought as he was falling asleep. I have one more person to see before I talk to Larsson, and then I can put all of this behind me.

 

 

He woke up before dawn with excruciating pain in one of his cheeks. He was also running a temperature. He lay still in the darkness and tried to wish away the pain by sheer willpower. But it didn't work. When he got out of bed, he felt another stab in his cheek. He found a tube of painkillers and dissolved two in a glass of water. He wondered if he'd been lying awkwardly during the night. But he knew that the pain was coming from the inside. The doctor had warned him. He might suddenly
find himself in pain. He emptied the glass and lay down again, hoping the pain would go away. But things got no better. 7 A.M. passed but he was in too much pain to go down for breakfast.

After another hour, he couldn't stand it any longer. He looked up the telephone number for the hospital in Borås and had a stroke of luck. His doctor answered as soon as he was put through. He described the pain he was in. She said she would write him a prescription and call it into the pharmacist in Sveg. If that didn't ease the pain, he was to call her again. Lindman went back to bed. The doctor had said she would call Sveg immediately. He decided to try to put up with the pain for another hour. Then he would drive to the pharmacy. He lay still in bed. All he could think about was the pain. At 9 A.M. he got up, dressed, and went downstairs. The receptionist wished him a good morning. He smiled and left his key on the desk.

He got his pills and took the first dose immediately. Then he went back to the hotel. The girl handed him his key.

“Are you unwell?” she said.

“Yes, I'm in a bit of pain,” he said. “But it'll pass.”

“You haven't had any breakfast. Would you like something in your room?”

“Just coffee, please. And some extra pillows.”

He waited until she arrived with a tray and two more pillows.

“Give me a call if there's anything you need.”

“You were upset last night,” he said. “I hope you feel better now.”

She didn't seem surprised. “I noticed you in the doorway,” she said. “It was just a momentary weakness. Nothing more.”

When she was gone, Lindman lay down on the bed and wondered what a “momentary weakness” entailed. It occurred to him that he didn't know her name. He took another pill.

After a while the pain began to ease. He looked to see what it said on the box. Doleron. There was a red warning triangle on the package. He noticed he was feeling drowsy, but he also thought that there was no greater happiness in life than the ebbing away of acute pain.

He stayed in bed for the rest of the day. The pain came and went. He dozed off and again dreamed of the pack of wild dogs. It was late afternoon before it became clear that the pain was going away rather than just becoming more bearable. Although he hadn't eaten anything all day, he wasn't hungry. Shortly after 4 P.M. his cell phone rang. It was Johansson.

“How did it go?” Lindman said.

“How did what go?”

“The poker game in Funasdalen.”

Johansson laughed. “I won 19 kronor. After four hours. I thought you were going to get in touch with me?”

“I'm not feeling so well today.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just a bit of pain. But I talked to Elsa Berggren.”

“Did she have anything interesting to say?”

“Not really. She claimed she'd known Molin for a long time.”

“Did she have any idea why he was murdered?”

“She found it incomprehensible.”

“I thought as much. Will you be coming by tomorrow? I forgot to ask how long you were staying.”

“I'm leaving tomorrow. But I can stop by even so.”

“About nine would be convenient.”

He turned off his phone. The pain had more or less gone now.

He dressed and went down to the lobby. He left his key on the desk and opened the hotel door. The snow had melted. He went for a walk through the little town. Went into Agardh's and bought some disposable razors.

Last night he'd made up his mind to visit Abraham Andersson. He wasn't sure he felt up to it. It was dark. He wondered if he would be able to find the house. But Andersson had said there was a sign to Dunkarret. He went back to the hotel and got into his car. I'll go for it, he thought. Tomorrow morning I'll visit Johansson. Then I'll drive to Ostersund and talk to Larsson. I can be back in Boras by nightfall.

Before leaving Sveg he stopped at a gas station and filled his tank. When he went to pay he noticed a display with pocket flashlights next to the counter. He bought one and put it in the glove compartment.

He set off in the direction of Linsell, waiting all the time to see if the pains were coming back. For now, at least, they were leaving him in peace. As he drove, he kept looking out for signs of animals by the side of the road. He slowed down as he passed the turnoff to Molin's house. For a moment he wondered if he should go there, but decided it would be inappropriate. He pressed ahead, wondering what his daughter and her brother planned to do with the property. Who would buy a house in which someone had been so savagely murdered? The repercussions of that killing would haunt the region for a long time to come.

He passed Dravagen, kept going towards Glote until he saw the sign for Dunkarret 2. The road was bumpy and narrow. After about a kilometer it divided into two. Lindman kept to the left as the other road
appeared to be more or less unused. About another kilometer and he was there. Andersson had put up a sign of his own with the name Dunkarr. The house lights were on. Lindman turned off the engine and got out of the car. A dog started barking. Lindman walked up a slope. The house was quite high up, surrounded by darkness. He wondered what drove people to live in such isolated places. What could a person find in all this darkness, apart from a hiding place? He could see the dog now. It was running back and forth along a line stretched between a tree and the house wall. There was a doghouse by the tree. It was a Norwegian elkhound, the same breed as Molin's. Lindman wondered who had buried the dead dog. The police? He walked up the steps to the front door and knocked hard. The dog started barking again. After a while he knocked again harder. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it and shouted into the house. Perhaps Andersson was one of those people who go to bed early? He looked at his watch. 8:15. Too early. He stepped into the hall and shouted again.

Suddenly he was on his guard. He didn't know why. He had the feeling that all was not as it should be. He went into the kitchen. There was an empty coffee cup on the table, and next to it a program for the Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra. He shouted again, but there was no answer. He went from the kitchen into the living room. There was a music stand next to the television, and a violin on a sofa. He frowned. Then he went upstairs and looked everywhere, but found no one. Something was definitely wrong.

Lindman went back outside and shouted yet again. The dog continued barking, running back and forth on its line. He walked towards it. The dog stopped barking and started wagging its tail. He stroked it cautiously. Not much of a guard dog, he thought. Then he went back to the car and collected the flashlight. He shone it around, feeling all the time that something was very amiss. Andersson's car was parked beside a toolshed. Lindman checked and found it was unlocked. He looked inside and saw the keys in the ignition. The dog barked again; then all was silent. There was a rustling of wind through the trees in the darkness. He pricked up his ears, then shouted again. The dog answered him with a bark. Lindman went back to the house. He felt the burners on the stove. They were cold. A telephone rang. Lindman gave a start. The telephone was on a table in the living room. He picked up the receiver. Somebody was trying to send a fax. He pressed the start button and put down the receiver. It was a handwritten note from somebody named Katarina saying, “The Monteverdi sheet music has come.”

Lindman went back outside. Now he was certain that something was wrong.

The dog, he thought. It knows. He went back to the house and took a leash hanging from the wall.

The dog jerked at the line when he approached, then stood quite still while he attached the leash to its collar and released it from the line. Immediately it began dragging him towards the forest behind the house. Lindman turned on his flashlight. The dog was heading for a path into the pine trees. Lindman tried to hold it back. I shouldn't be doing this, he thought, not if there's a madman loose in the forest.

The dog turned off the path. Lindman followed, restraining it as much as he could. It was rough ground, and he kept stumbling in the undergrowth. The dog forged ahead.

Then it stopped, raised one of its front paws, and sniffed the air. He shone his flashlight among the trees. The dog put down its paw. Lindman pulled at the leash. It resisted, but the leash was long enough for Lindman to tie it around a tree trunk.

The dog was staring intently at some rocks just visible through a dense clump of pine trees. Lindman went towards the trees and walked around them. He made out a path leading to the rocks.

He stopped. At first he wasn't sure what he'd seen. Something white, shining. Then, to his horror, he realized that it was Andersson. He was naked, tied to a tree. His chest was covered in blood. His eyes were open and staring straight at Lindman. But the gaze was as lifeless as Abraham Andersson himself.