The Return of the Dancing Master (23 page)

As they were about to leave the hotel, Larsson turned to the girl at the reception desk and asked if she'd seen his bill from last night's dinner. It was only when he'd gotten into bed that he'd realized he would need it for his expense report. She said she hadn't seen it.

“Didn't I leave it on the table?” Larsson said.

“You crumpled it up and put it in the ashtray,” Lindman said.

Larsson shrugged. They decided to walk to Berggren's house. There wasn't a breath of wind, and the clouds had melted away. It was still dark as they walked to the bridge that would take them over the river to Ulvkalla. Larsson pointed to the white-painted district courthouse.

“There was a nasty incident here a few years ago that wasn't widely reported. A violent assault. Two of those found guilty boasted of being neo-Nazis. I can't remember what they said their organization was called.
‘Keep Sweden Swedish,' something like that. Maybe it doesn't exist any longer?”

“Nowadays they call themselves ‘WAR,'” Lindman said.

“What does that stand for?”

“White Aryan Resistance.”

Larsson grimaced. “Very nasty stuff. I suppose we thought we'd buried Nazism once and for all, but apparently it's alive and kicking, even if most of 'em are shaven-headed urchins running wild in the streets.”

They crossed over the bridge.

“There used to be trains here when I was little,” Larsson said. “The National Railway. You could get from Ostersund to Orsa via Sveg. You transferred there. Or was it Mora? I did that trip with Grandma when I was little. Nowadays the train only runs in the summer. The Italian singer Mom saw in the People's Park came here on that train. No planes or limousines in those days. She was at the station to wave goodbye to him. She even has a picture of it. Blurred and wobbly. Taken with a box camera. She guards it like the crown jewels. She must have been madly in love with him.”

They had reached Berggren's house.

“Have you warned her that we were coming?” Lindman said.

“I thought we'd give her a surprise.”

They went through the gate. Larsson rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, as if she'd been expecting them.

“Giuseppe Larsson, Ostersund CID. I think you've already met Stefan. We have quite a few questions to ask you. It has to do with the investigation into the death of Herbert Molin. You knew him, I believe?”

“We” indeed, Lindman thought. I don't intend to ask any questions. He looked at Larsson, who winked at him as they stepped into the hall.

“I suppose this must be important, since you've come so early in the morning?”

“It certainly is,” Larsson said. “Where can we sit down? This is going to take quite a while.”

Lindman noticed that Larsson was much more brusque than he'd expected. He wondered what his own approach would have been if he'd been the one asking the questions. They went into the living room. Berggren didn't ask them if they'd like coffee. Larsson proved to be a man who didn't beat around the bush.

“You have a Nazi uniform in one of your closets,” he said, as an opening gambit.

Berggren stiffened. Then she looked at Lindman. Her eyes were cold. Lindman could see that she immediately suspected him, without being able to understand how he'd managed to get into her bedroom.

“I don't know if it's against the law to possess a Nazi uniform,” Larsson said. “I am pretty sure it's illegal to appear in public wearing it. Can you get it for us?”

“How do you know that I have a uniform in my closet?”

“That's a question I have no intention of answering, but you must understand that it's relevant to two current murder investigations.”

She looked at them in astonishment. It seemed to Lindman that her surprised expression was genuine. He could see that she knew nothing about the murder at Glöte. He was surprised by this. Almost two days had passed, but still she knew nothing about it. She can't have been watching television, he thought. Or listening to the radio. Such people do exist, I suppose, although there aren't many of them.

“Who else has been killed—besides Herbert Molin?”

“Abraham Andersson. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Yes, he lived not far from Herbert. What has happened?”

“All I can tell you so far is that he's been murdered.”

She stood up and left the room.

“No harm in being direct,” Larsson said softly. “But she obviously didn't know that Andersson was dead.”

“The news was released a while ago, surely?”

“I don't think she's making it up.”

She came back with the uniform and cap. She put them down on the sofa. Larsson leaned forward to examine them.

“Who do they belong to?”

“Me.”

“But I hardly think you were the one who wore them?”

“I don't think I need answer that question. Not merely because it's idiotic.”

“Not just at the moment, but we could take you to Ostersund for a quite different kind of questioning. It's up to you.”

She thought for a while before answering. “It belonged to my father. Karl-Evert Berggren. He's been dead for many years now.”

“So he fought in World War II, in the German army, is that right?”

“He was a member of the volunteer corps known as the Swedish Company. He was awarded two medals for bravery. I can show them to you if you wish.”

Larsson shook his head. “That's not necessary. I take it you know that Molin used to be a Nazi in his youth, and was a volunteer in the Waffen-SS during the war?”

She sat up straight, but she didn't ask how they knew that. “Not ‘used to be.' Herbert was just as convinced a National Socialist the day he died as he was as a young man. He and my father fought side by side. Even if my father was much older than Herbert, they remained good friends all their lives.”

“And you?”

“I don't think I need to answer that question. There is no law that requires one to declare one's political persuasion.”

“If that persuasion, as you call it, involves an association with a group that can be linked with violence and a crime known as racial agitation, it is a question that can be justified.”

“I am not a member of any organization,” she said, obviously angered. “What would it be? That band of idiots who run around the streets with shaven heads and desecrate the Hitler salute?”

“Let me rephrase the question. Were you of the same political views as Herbert Molin?”

Her reply came with no hesitation. “Of course. I grew up in a family well aware of race. My father was one of the founders of the National Socialist Workers' Party in 1933. Sven-Olof Lindholm, our leader, often came to visit us. My father was a doctor and an officer in the territorial army. We lived in Stockholm in those days. I still remember my mother taking me with her on demonstrations in support of the National Socialist women's organizations. I have been giving the Hitler salute since I was ten. My parents could see what was happening. Jews flocking into the country, degeneration, moral decay. And the threat of Communism. Nothing has changed. Now Sweden is being undermined by indiscriminate immigration. The very thought of mosques being built on Swedish soil makes me sick. Sweden is a society that is rotting away. And nobody is doing anything about it.”

Her outburst had set her trembling. Lindman was sickened, and wondered where all this hatred could have come from.

“What you have just said was not exactly uplifting,” Larsson said.

“I stand by every single word. Sweden is a social concept that barely exists any longer. One has to feel nothing but loathing for the people who have allowed this to come to pass.”

“So Molin's moving up here was no coincidence?”

“Of course not. In times like this when everything is falling apart, those of us who maintain the old ideals have a responsibility to help one another.”

“So there is an organization, despite what you said?”

“No. But we know who our real friends are.”

“You keep it all secret, though?”

She snorted with disgust as she answered. “Being faithful to the land of our fathers seems to be a criminal offense nowadays. If we are to be left in peace, we have to keep quiet about our views.”

“Nevertheless, somebody tracked down your friend and killed him, isn't that so?”

“What has that got to do with his patriotic views?”

“You said it yourself. You are forced to hide away and conceal your idiotic ideals.”

“There must have been some other reason for Herbert's death.”

“What, for instance?”

“I didn't know him well enough to know.”

“But you must have wondered?”

“Of course, but I find it impossible to understand.”

“These last few months. Did anything unexpected happen? Did he behave differently in any way?”

“He was just the same as he always was. I used to visit him once every week.”

“He didn't mention anything that was worrying him?”

“No, nothing.”

Larsson paused. It seemed to Lindman that Berggren was telling the truth.

“What happened to Abraham Andersson?” she said.

“He was shot. It seems to have been an execution. Did he belong to your organization—which isn't an organization, of course?”

“No. Herbert used to talk to him occasionally, but they never discussed politics. Herbert was very cautious. He had very few real friends.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed Abraham Andersson?”

“I didn't know the man.”

“Can you tell me who was closest to Molin?”

“I suppose that must have been me. And his children. His daughter at least. His relationship with his son had been broken off.”

“By the father or by the son?”

“I don't know.”

“Anybody else? Have you ever heard of anybody by the name of Wetterstedt, from Kalmar?”

She hesitated before answering. Larsson and Lindman exchanged glances. She had been surprised to hear the name Wetterstedt.

“He sometimes referred to a person by that name. Herbert was born and grew up in Kalmar. Wetterstedt was related to a former minister of justice, I believe, the one who was murdered some years ago. He may have been a portrait painter, but I'm not sure.”

Larsson had taken out his notebook and written down what she said. “Is that all?”

“Yes. But Herbert was not a man to say anything more than the bare essentials. People have their integrity, don't you agree?”

Larsson looked up at Lindman.

Then he said, “I have one more question. Did you and Molin do an occasional twirl when you visited him?”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I wondered if you used to dance together?”

For the third time she looked startled. “We did, as a matter of fact.”

“Tango?”

“Not only that. But often, yes. We also did some of the old-fashioned dances, ones that are dying out. The ones that require some technique and a certain elegance. How do they dance nowadays? Like monkeys?”

“I suppose you know that Molin had a sort of doll that he used to dance with?”

“He was a passionate dancer. Very skilled. He practised a lot. When he was young, I believe he dreamed of becoming a professional dancer, but instead he did his duty and answered the call to arms.”

Lindman was struck by her high-flown language. It was as if she were trying to make time go backwards, to the 1930s and 1940s.

“May I take it that there were not many people who knew that Molin was a dancer?”

“He did not have many friends. How many times do I need to tell you that?”

“How far back do you remember his interest in dancing going?”

“I think it was aroused during the war. Perhaps shortly before.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He once said so.”

“What did he say?”

“What I've just told you. Nothing more. The war was harrowing, but he did have leave occasionally. The German armed forces took good care of their troops. They were granted leave whenever possible, and everything was paid for them.”

“Did he often talk about the war?”

“No. But my father did. They once had a week's leave at the same time. They went to Berlin together. My father told me that Herbert wanted to go out dancing every evening. I believe that Herbert went to Berlin to go dancing whenever he was allowed to leave the front.”

“Do you have anything to say to us that you think could be of assistance in apprehending his murderer?”

“No, I do not, but I want you to find the guilty person, even if they will not receive any punishment worthy of the name. In Sweden the powers that be protect the criminal, not the victim. Naturally, it will emerge that Herbert remained faithful to his old ideals and he will be condemned, despite the fact that he is dead.”

“That will be all for the time being. But you will be called for further talks.”

“Am I suspected of some crime?”

“No.”

“Will you kindly tell me how you knew about my father's uniform?”

“Some other time,” Larsson said, getting up. “I have to say that your opinions verge on the unacceptable.”

“Sweden is already beyond redemption,” she said. “When I was young one often came across police officers who were politically aware and who shared our beliefs. That is now a thing of the past.”