The Return of the Dancing Master (35 page)

“I shall die soon,” he said. “I think it has been a great blessing to live after Bach. I have my own way of measuring time, and I divide history into the age before Bach and the age after him. An author whose name I've forgotten has written poems about that. I am being granted the
enormous privilege of spending my last days to the accompaniment of his music.”

He adjusted his head on the pillows.

“Now the music has finished and we can talk. What was it you wanted?”

“My name is Stefan Lindman.”

“My daughter has already told me that,” Jacobi said, impatiently. “I remember your father. I drew up his will. That was what you wanted to discuss, but I don't know how you can expect me to remember the terms of an individual will. I must have drawn up at least a thousand during my forty-seven years as a practicing attorney.”

“It has to do with a donation to a foundation called Strong Sweden.”

“I might remember. But I might not.”

“It transpires that the foundation is part of a Nazi organization here in Sweden.”

Jacobi drummed his fingers on his quilt. “Nazism died with Hitler.”

“It appears that a lot of people in Sweden still support this organization. And the fact is that young people are joining it.”

Jacobi looked hard at him. “Some people collect stamps. Others collect matchbox labels. I regard it as not impossible that there are some people who collect obsolete political ideals. People have always wasted their lives doing pointless things. Nowadays people drop dead while staring at all those trivial and degrading television series that go on forever.”

“My father pledged money to this organization. You knew him. Was he a Nazi?”

“I knew your father as a proud and patriotic Swede. No more than that.”

“And my mother?”

“I didn't have much contact with her. Is she still alive?”

“No, she died some time ago.”

Jacobi cleared his throat. “Precisely why have you come here?”

“To ask if my father was a Nazi.”

“What makes you think I could answer that question?”

“There are not many people still alive who can. I don't know anybody else.”

“I've already given you my answer, but of course, I wonder why you have come to disturb me and ask me your question.”

“I discovered his name in a membership list. I didn't know he'd been a Nazi.”

“What sort of membership list?”

“I'm not sure, but it contained more than a thousand names. Many of them were already dead, but they were continuing to pay their subscriptions by leaving money for that purpose in their wills, or by way of their surviving relatives.”

“But the association or organization ... what did you say it was called? Strong Sweden?”

“It seems to be some sort of foundation that is a part of a bigger organization. What that is, I don't know.”

“Where did you find all this?”

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that for the time being.”

“But your father was a member?”

“Yes.”

Jacobi licked his lips. Lindman interpreted that as an attempt to smile.

“In the 1930s and '40s Sweden was teeming with Nazis. Not least in the legal profession. It wasn't only the great master Bach who came from Germany. In Sweden, ideals—be they literary, musical, or political—have always come from Germany. Until the period following World War II. Things changed then, and all the ideals started coming from the USA. However, just because Hitler led his country to a catastrophic defeat doesn't mean that ideas about an Aryan superman or hatred of Jews died out. They survived among the generation that had been indoctrinated when they were young. It's possible that your father was one of them, perhaps your mother also. No one can be certain that those ideals will not rise again, like the phoenix.”

Jacobi fell silent, short of breath after the effort he'd made. The door opened and in came Anna Jacobi. She gave her father a glass of water.

“Your time's up,” she said.

Lindman stood up.

“Have you received the answer you were looking for?” asked Jacobi.

“I'm trying to work it out,” Lindman said.

“My daughter said you were ill.”

“I've got cancer.”

“Terminal?”

Jacobi asked the question in an unexpectedly jocular tone, as if, despite everything, he could be happy that death wasn't the exclusive priority of old men who spent the last of their days listening to Bach.

“I hope not.”

“Of course. Still, death is the shadow we can never get away from. One day that shadow turns into a wild beast that we can no longer keep at bay.”

“I hope to be cured.”

“If not, I recommend Bach. The only medicine worth taking. It provides comfort, eases a bit of the pain, and gives a certain degree of courage.”

“I shall remember that. Thank you for your time.”

Jacobi didn't answer. He had closed his eyes. Lindman left the room.

“I think he's in pain,” his daughter said at the front door. “But he refuses to take painkillers. He says he can't listen to music if he's not thinking straight.”

“What illness is he suffering from?”

“Old age and despair. That's all.”

Lindman shook hands and said goodbye.

“I hope things turn out okay for you,” she said. “That you'll be cured.”

 

 

Lindman went back to his car. He had to duck from the wind. What do I do now? he wondered. I go see an old man close to death and try to find out why my father was a Nazi. I discover only that he was a proud and patriotic Swede. I can get in touch with my sisters and ask what they knew, or I can see how they react when I tell them. But then what? What can I do with the answers I get? He got into the car and looked across the street. A woman was struggling to steer a stroller into the wind. He watched her until she was out of sight. This is all that's left to me, he thought. An isolated moment in my car, parked in a street in a suburb south of Varberg. I'll never come back here, I'll soon have forgotten the name of the street and what the house looked like.

He took out his cell phone to call Elena. There was a message for him. Larsson had phoned. He called his number.

“Where are you?” he said.

It struck Lindman that in the age of the cell phone, this had become the standard greeting. You started by asking where people were.

“I'm in Varberg.”

“How are you?”

“Not too bad.”

“I just wanted to tell you about the latest developments. Have you got time?”

“I have all the time in the world.”

Larsson laughed. “Nobody has that. Anyway, we've made a little progress regarding the weapons used. In Molin's case there was a whole arsenal. Shotgun, tear gas canisters, God only knows what else. They must have been stolen from someplace. We've been chasing reported cases of weapons thefts, but we still don't know where they came from. But one thing we do know. It was a different gun that killed Andersson. The forensic boys have no doubt about that. It means we're now faced with something we weren't really expecting.”

“Two different murderers?”

“Exactly.”

“It could still be the same one even so.”

“It could. But we can't ignore the other possibility. And I can tell you something else as well. Somebody reported a burglary in Sater yesterday. The owner had been away for a week. When he got back home he found that he'd been burgled and a gun had been stolen. He reported it to the police, and we found out about it when we started making inquiries. It could have been the gun used to kill Andersson. It's the right caliber. But we have no tabs on the thief.”

“How was the break-in done? The way they do it always says something about the burglar.”

“A front door forced, neat and tidy. The same applies to the gun cabinet. Not an amateur, in other words.”

“Somebody getting himself a gun, with a specific job in mind?”

“That's more or less the way I see it.”

Lindman tried to envision the map.

“Am I right in thinking that Sater is in Dalarna?”

“The road from Avesta and Hedemora goes through Sater to Borlange and then up to Härjedalen.”

“Somebody drives up from the south, gets himself a gun on the way, then keeps on going until he comes to Andersson's house.”

“That's what could have happened. We don't have a motive, though. And the murder of Andersson really worries me if it transpires that we have a different murderer. We might well ask ourselves what on earth is going on. Is this the beginning of something that has some way to go yet before it's finished?”

“You think there could be more acts of violence in store?”

Larsson roared with laughter again.

“Acts of violence. Police officers do have a special way of expressing themselves. I sometimes think that's why the criminal is generally one
step ahead. He calls a spade a spade, but we have to find some roundabout way of describing it.”

“All right, but what you are expecting is more murders?”

“If we have two different weapons, there's an increased likelihood that we could have two different murderers. Are you driving or are you standing still, by the way?”

“I'm parked.”

“In that case I'll tell you a little more about the way we're thinking. The first thing, of course, is the dog. Who took it and then put it in Molin's pen? And why? We now know that it was taken from Andersson's house by car. We haven't a clue why.”

“It might be a macabre joke.”

“Could be. But the folks up here aren't all that inclined to partake in what you call macabre jokes. People are really upset and indignant. That's obvious when we knock on doors and talk to people. They really are eager to help.”

“It's very strange that nobody seems to have seen anything.”

“We've had a few vague reports, a car that somebody might have seen, that sort of thing. Nothing definite. Nothing to give us a clear lead.”

“What about Berggren?”

“Rundström took her to Ostersund. Spent a whole day questioning her. She stuck to the same story. The same disgusting opinions, but very clear on key matters. She has no idea who might have killed Molin. She'd only met Andersson once, very briefly, when she was visiting Molin and Andersson happened to stop by. We've even given her house the once-over to see if she had any weapons. Nothing. I think she'd tell us if she was frightened of somebody coming after her as well.”

There was a grating noise in the telephone. Lindman shouted “Hello” several times before Larsson's voice returned.

“I start to think that this is going to take time. I'm worried.”

“Have you found any link between Andersson and Molin?” Lindman asked.

“We're digging away. According to Andersson's widow, he only ever mentioned Molin as a neighbor, one of several. We have no reason to suspect that isn't true. That's about as far as we've got.”

“What about the diary?”

“What about it precisely?”

“His journey to Scotland. The person referred to as ‘M.' ”

“I can't see why we should give that priority.”

“I just wondered.”

Larsson sneezed comprehensively. Lindman held his cell phone at arm's length, as if the germs might fly through the ether and attack him.

“Sorry about that. The usual autumn cold. I always catch one about now.”

Lindman took a deep breath, then told him about his experiences in Kalmar and on Öland. He said nothing about the break-in, but he stressed Wetterstedt's Nazi views. When he'd finished there was so long a silence at the other end, he started to wonder if he'd been cut off.

“I'll suggest to Rundström that we should bring in the national criminal investigation department,” Larsson eventually said. “They have a section that specializes in terrorists and neo-Nazis. I can't believe that what we're up against here can be traced back to a few skinheads, but you never know.”

Lindman said he thought it was a sensible move, and then he finished up the call. He felt hungry. He drove into Varberg and found a restaurant. When he got back to the car he found it had been burgled. Instinctively he felt in his jacket pocket. His cell phone was still there. But the car radio had been stolen. And the central locking system was broken. He cursed as he climbed into the driving seat. He should report it to the police, but he knew the thief would not be caught and that the police would devote no more than a strictly rationed portion of time to the case. The police were overworked everywhere. He also knew that the excess on his insurance policy was such that he might just as well buy a new radio. There was the problem of the central locking system, but he had a friend who helped the police with car repairs on the side.

He started for Borås. He could feel the wind buffeting the car. The countryside looked gray and desolate. Autumn is setting in, winter is approaching, he thought. And November 19 was approaching too. If only time could be cut off, and he could advance to the day after the beginning of his treatment.

 

 

He had just driven into Borås when his phone rang. He wondered if he should answer. It was bound to be Elena. Then again, he couldn't keep her waiting any longer. One of these days she'd get fed up with the way he was forever running away, always putting his own needs before hers. He pulled onto the side and answered.