The Return of the Dancing Master (41 page)

It was late summer, a couple of weeks before school started again. His mother was
away
—
her
sister, who lived in Kristianstad, had been unexpectedly widowed and his mother had gone there to help her. One day his father announced that they
were going to pack the car and go on vacation. They would head north, live in a tent, and do it cheaply. Lindman only had a vague recollection of the car journey. He had been squashed in the backseat with one of his sisters and all the luggage that for some reason his father had not secured on the roof. He was also fighting against car sickness. His father didn't deem it necessary to stop just because one of the children was going to be sick. He couldn't remember if he and his sisters survived without vomiting: that part of his recollection had gone forever.

Lindman was the last in line. Thirty meters in front of him was Johansson, who occasionally answered calls on his walkie-talkie. The memory unfolded with every step he took.

If he were eight then, it was twenty-nine years ago. 1970, August 1970. On their way up to the mountains they had spent a cramped night in the tent, and Stefan had to clamber over the rest of the family to go outside and pee. The next day they had come to a place that Lindman seemed to remember was Vemdalsskalet. They had pitched their tent behind an old
wooden
cabin not far away from the mountain hotel.

He was surprised that he'd been able to lose the memory of that holiday. So he had been here before, in these very parts. Why had he chosen not to remember? What had happened?

There was a
woman somewhere
in that memory. She had
appeared just
after they had pitched the tent. His father had seen her on the other side of the road, and had gone to greet her. Stefan and his sisters watched as their father shook hands
with
the woman and started talking, out of earshot. Stefan remembered asking his sisters if they
knew who
she was, but they had hissed at him to be quiet. That was
a part
of his recollection that raised a smile. His youth was marked by his sisters
always
telling him to be quiet, never listening to
what
he said, looking at him
with
a degree of contempt that indicated he would never be included in
their
games or their circle of friends, that he was too small, too stupid.

His father came back to join them; so did the woman. She was older than he was, with stripes of gray in her hair, and she was wearing the black-and-white uniform of a waitress. She reminded him of somebody, he
now
thought. And then the penny dropped: Elsa Berggren. Even if it wasn't her. He could remember a smile, but also something off-putting, a ruthless streak. They had stood next to the tent, and she hadn't been surprised by their arrival. Stefan remembered being rather
worried
—
worried
that his father would never go back to Kinna, and that his mother would stay in Kristianstad. The rest of the meeting with the unknown
woman now
fell into place. His father told them that her
name was Vera, that she was from Germany, and then she'd shaken hands with them all in turn, first his sisters and then him.

Lindman stopped. Johansson was over to his left, and cursed as he tripped. The helicopter came rattling in at a low altitude and started circling over the valley below. He started walking again. There's still another door to open, he thought. They had walked on the mountain all those years ago as well. No really long treks, always within easy distance from the hotel.

An unusually hot August evening in the mountains. He couldn't see where his sisters were, but Vera and his father were in deck chairs next to the wooden
cabin. They were laughing. Stefan didn't like
what
he saw and went away to the back of the cabin. There was a door there, and he opened it. He had no idea if it was allowed, but now he was inside Vera's house.
Two
cramped rooms and a low ceiling. Some photographs standing on a bureau. He strained his eyes to conjure up those pictures. A wedding photo. Vera and her husband wearing a uniform.

He recalled it now, as clear as day. The man in an army uniform,
Vera
dressed in white, smiling, a garland
of flowers
in her hair, or maybe it was a bridal headpiece. Next to the wedding photograph was
another picture
in a frame. A picture of Hitler. At that moment the door opened. Vera was there, with his
father. She said something in German, or possibly Swedish with a German accent, he couldn't remember. But she had been angry, he remembered that all right. His father had led him away and boxed his ears.

That was it. The memory ended as the blow landed. He had no recollection of the drive back to Kinna. Nothing about being squashed in the backseat, or feeling car sick. Nothing at all. A picture of Hitler, a box on the ears, nothing else.

 

 

Lindman shook his head. Thirty years ago his father had taken the children and visited a German woman who worked at a hotel in the mountains. Just under the surface, as on a photograph behind another photograph, was the whole of the Hitler era. It was just as Wetterstedt had said: nothing had completely gone away, it had simply taken on new forms, new means of expression, but the dream of white supremacy was still alive. His father went to see a woman called Vera, and punished his son when he saw something he shouldn't have seen. Was there anything else? He searched his memory, but his father had never made any reference to it. After the beating there was nothing more.

The helicopter circled around once more, then flew off. Lindman let his gaze wander over the mountain, but all he actually saw were two photographs standing in a room with a low ceiling.

Soon after that the mist came down and they turned back. They came to the chalet at about 6 P.M. The helicopter dropped off two of the dog handlers, then disappeared in the direction of Östersund. The pilot had brought with him baskets containing sandwiches and coffee. Rundström always seemed to be talking into his walkie-talkie when he wasn't on the phone. Lindman kept to the periphery. Larsson listened to a report from one of the forensic officers who had searched the
chalet, and made notes. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and came over to Lindman.

“Well, we've found out a few things at least,” he said.

He balanced his cup on a stone and thumbed through his notebook.

“The owner is a Kurt Frostengren and lives in Stockholm. He usually comes here in the summer, over Christmas and New Year, and a week in March for some skiing. The house is empty for the rest of the year. Apparently he inherited it from a relative. Someone has broken in and set up his headquarters here, then gone away. He knows Berggren has seen his face. He must be aware of the possibility that we might have put two and two together and realized that he read the back of my bill in the restaurant. There is a cold-blooded side to the man that we mustn't underestimate. He knows we'll go looking for him. Especially after he attacked you and Berggren.”

“Where's he headed?”

Larsson thought before replying. “I'd formulate the question differently. Why is he still here?”

“There's something he still has to do.”

“The question is: what?”

“He wants to know who murdered Andersson. We've already talked about that.”

Larsson shook his head. “Not only that. He wants more than that. He intends to kill whoever murdered Andersson.” There was no other explanation. But he had one more question for Lindman.

“Why is it so important for him?”

“If we knew that, we'd know what this whole business is about.”

They stood gazing into the mist.

“He's hiding,” Larsson said. “He's clever, our man from Buenos Aires.”

Lindman looked at him in surprise. “How do you know he's from Buenos Aires?”

Larsson took a piece of paper out of his pocket. A torn piece of newspaper, the crossword from Aftonbladet. Something like a doodle was in the margin, crossed out but originally written quite firmly.

“541,” Larsson said. “54 is Argentina. And 1 is Buenos Aires. The paper is dated June 12, when Frostengren was here. He saved newspapers for starting fires. The numbers have been written by somebody else. It must be Fernando Hereira. The newspaper in the car is Spanish, not from Argentina, but the language is the same. It can't be easy to find newspapers from Argentina in Sweden, but it's comparatively easy to find Spanish ones.”

“Is there a full telephone number for the number in Argentina?”

“No.”

Lindman thought for a moment.

“So he's been sitting up here in the mountains, and made a phone call to Argentina. Can't the call be traced?”

“We're doing that now. Frostengren's phone has its own line and you can dial direct. If Hereira had used a cell phone, we could have traced that without difficulty.”

Larsson bent down to pick up his coffee.

“I keep forgetting that we're looking for not one but perhaps two cold-blooded murderers,” he said. “We're beginning to get an idea of who Hereira might be and how he goes about things, but what about the other one? The one who killed Andersson, who's he?”

The question remained unanswered in the mist. Larsson left Lindman and went to talk to Rundström and the remaining dog handler. Lindman looked at the Alsatian. It was exhausted. It lay with its neck pressed against the damp earth. Lindman wondered if a police dog could feel disappointment.

Half an hour later Larsson and Lindman returned to Sveg. Rundström would stay in Funasdalen with the dog handler and three other officers. They drove in silence through the forest. This time Larsson did the driving. Lindman could see that he was very tired. A few kilometers short of Sveg he pulled onto the shoulder and stopped.

“I can't work it out,” Larsson said “Who killed Andersson? It's like we're only scratching the surface. We have no idea what this is about. A man from Argentina disappears up a mountain when he should be getting away from here as fast as possible. He doesn't flee up the mountain, he withdraws there, and then comes back again.”

“There's another possibility that we haven't considered,” Lindman said. “The man we are calling Fernando Hereira might know something we don't.”

Larsson shook his head. “In that case he wouldn't have put on a hood and asked Berggren those questions.”

Then they looked at each other.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Larsson said.

“Possibly,” Lindman said. “That Hereira knows, or thinks he knows, that it was Berggren who killed Andersson. And he wants to make her confess.”

Larsson drummed his fingers on the wheel.

“Perhaps Berggren isn't telling the truth. She says the man who forced
his way into her house asked her who had killed Andersson. He might well have said, ‘I know it was you who killed Andersson.' ” Larsson restarted the engine. “We'll continue keeping watch on the mountain,” he said. “And we'll get tough with Berggren.”

They continued to Sveg. The countryside vanished beyond the beams of the headlights. As they were driving into the hotel courtyard, Larsson's cell phone rang.

“It was Rundström,” he said when the call was over. “The car was rented in Ostersund on November 5. By Fernando Hereira, an Argentinean citizen.”

They got out of the car.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” Larsson said. “Hereira used his driver's license for an ID. It could be a forgery, of course, but, for simplicity's sake, let's assume it's genuine. We could be closer to him now than we ever were on the mountain.” Lindman was exhausted. Larsson left his suitcase with the reception desk.

“I'll be in touch,” he said. “Are you staying?”

“I'll stay one more day.”

Larsson put his hand on Lindman's shoulder. “I must admit it's been a long time since I've had somebody to talk to like you. But tell me, honestly: if you had been in my shoes, what would you have done differently?”

“Not a thing.”

Larsson burst out laughing. “You're too kind,” he said. “I can handle the occasional hit. Can you?”

He didn't wait for an answer, but rushed out to his car. Lindman wondered about the question as he got his key. It was a new girl at the reception desk. He went up to his room and lay down on the bed. He thought he should call Elena, but first he needed to get some rest.

 

 

When he woke he knew he'd been dreaming. A chaotic dream, but all he could remember was the fear. He looked at his watch: 9:15. He'd better hurry if he were going to get some dinner. Besides, he had an appointment with Veronica Molin.

She was waiting for him in the dining room.

“I knocked on your door,” she said. “When you didn't answer, I assumed you were asleep.”

“It was a strenuous night and a long day. Have you eaten?”

“I have to eat at regular times. Especially when the food is like it is here.”

The waitress was also new. She seemed hesitant. Lindman had the impression that Veronica Molin must have complained about something. He ordered a steak. Veronica Molin was drinking water. He wanted wine. She watched him with a smile.

“I've never met a policeman before. Not as close up as this, at least.”

“What's it like?”

“I think everybody's a little frightened of policemen, deep down.” She paused and lit a cigarette.

“My brother's on his way here from the Caribbean,” she said. “He works on a cruise ship. Maybe I said that already? He's a steward. When he's not at sea he lives in Florida. I've only visited him once, when I was in Miami to close a business deal. It took us less than an hour to start arguing. I can't remember what about.”