The Return of the Dancing Master (42 page)

“When's the funeral?”

“On Tuesday, eleven o'clock. Are you thinking of coming?”

“I don't know.”

Lindman's meal arrived.

“How can you stay as long as this?” he said. “I had the impression that it was difficult for you to get here at all. Now you're staying forever.”

“Until Wednesday. No longer. Then I'm leaving.”

“Where to?”

“First London, then Madrid.”

“I'm only a simple policeman, but I'm curious about what you do.”

“I'm what the English call a dealmaker. Or ‘broker.' I bring interested parties together and help them produce a contract. So that a business deal can take place.”

“Do I even dare ask how much you earn from that kind of work?”

“Presumably a lot more than you.”

“Everybody does.”

She turned up a wineglass and slid it towards him.

“I've changed my mind.”

Lindman filled her glass. He drank to her health. She seemed to be looking at him in a different way now, not as warily as before.

“I went to see Elsa Berggren today,” she said. “I realized too late that it was not a good time. She told me what happened last night. And about you. Have you caught him?”

“Not yet, no. Besides, it's not me who's hunting him. I'm not part of the investigation team.”

“But the police think that the man who attacked you is the person who murdered my father.”

“Yes.”

“I tried to get Giuseppe Larsson on the telephone. I do have a right to know what's happening, after all. Who is this man?”

“We think he's called Fernando Hereira. And that he's from Argentina.”

“I hardly think my father knew anybody from Argentina. What is the motive supposed to be?”

“Something that happened during the war.”

She lit another cigarette. Lindman looked at her hands and wished he could hold them.

“So the police don't believe my theory? About the woman from Scotland?”

“Nothing is excluded. We follow up every lead. That's one of the basic rules.”

“I shouldn't smoke while you're eating.”

“It doesn't matter. I've already got cancer.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“It was a joke. I'm totally fine.”

What he really wanted to do was leave the table. Go up to his room and call Elena. But there was something else driving him now.

“A strange sort of joke.”

“I suppose I wanted to see how you reacted.”

She put her head to one side and looked hard at him.

“Are you making a pass at me?”

He emptied his glass.

“Don't all men do that? You must be aware that you are very attractive.”

She shook her head but didn't say anything, and moved her glass away when Lindman tried to give her more. He filled his own glass.

“What did you and Elsa Berggren talk about?”

“She was tired. What I was most interested in was meeting the woman who knew my father and had helped him to buy the house where he died. She had known my mother, but we didn't have much to say to each other.”

“I've wondered about their relationship. Apart from the Nazi link.”

“She said she was sorry my father was dead. I didn't stay long. I didn't like her.”

Lindman ordered coffee and a brandy, and asked for the bill.

“Where do you think this Hereira is now?”

“Perhaps he's up in the mountains. He's still in the area, I am sure of it.”

“Why?”

“I think he wants to know who killed Andersson.”

“I can't work out what connection that man had with my father.”

“Nor can we. It will become clear sooner or later, though. We'll catch up with both the murderers, and we'll find out what their motives were.”

“I hope so.”

Lindman swallowed the brandy in one gulp, and sipped at his coffee. After he signed his bill, they went out to the lobby.

“Will you let me offer you another brandy?” she said. “In my room. But don't expect anything else.”

“I stopped expecting anything long ago.”

“That doesn't sound quite true.”

They walked down the corridor. She unlocked her door. Lindman was standing as close to her as possible without actually touching her. On her desk was a laptop computer with a glittering screen.

“I have my entire life on this,” she said. “I can still keep working while I'm waiting for the funeral.”

She poured some brandy for him from a bottle on the table. She didn't take any herself, but kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed. Lindman could feel that he was getting drunk. He wanted to touch her now, undress her. His train of thought was interrupted when his cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. It was bound to be Elena. He didn't answer.

“Nothing that can't wait,” he said.

“Don't you have a family?”

He shook his head.

“Not even a girlfriend?”

“It didn't work.”

He put his glass down and put out his hand. She stared at it for a long time before taking it.

“You can sleep here,” she said. “But please expect no more than me lying beside you.”

“I've already said I don't expect anything.”

She shuffled along the edge of the bed until she was sitting close to him.

“It's been a long time since I met anybody who expects as much as you do.”

She stood up. “Don't underestimate my ability to see through people.
Do whatever you like,” she said. “Go back to your room and come back later. To sleep, nothing more.”

 

 

When Lindman had finished showering and wrapped himself in the biggest towel he could find, his phone rang again. It was Elena.

“Why haven't you called?”

“I have been asleep. I don't feel well.”

“Come back home. I'm waiting for you.”

“Just a few more days. I really must sleep now. If we go on talking I'll be awake all night.”

“I miss you.”

“And I miss you.”

I lied, he thought. And a little while ago I denied Elena's existence. The worst of it is that just at this moment, I couldn't care less.

W
hen Lindman woke up the next morning Veronica Molin had already left. There was a message on the computer screen: “I've gone out. Make sure you've left by the time I get back. I like men who don't snore. You are one.”

Lindman left the room wrapped in a bath towel. On the stairs to the upper floor he passed a chambermaid. She smiled and bade him good morning. When he came to his room he crept into bed. I was drunk, he thought. I spoke to Elena, but I can't remember what I said, only that it wasn't true. He sat up and reached for his cell phone. There was a message. Elena had called. He felt a shooting pain in his stomach. He lay down again and pulled the sheets over his head. Just as he used to do as a child, to make himself invisible. He wondered if Larsson did the same? And Veronica Molin? She'd been in bed when he returned to her room last night, but firmly rejected all advances—she just tapped him on the arm and told him it was time to go to sleep. He was feeling extremely passionate, but had enough sense to leave her in peace.

He had never lied to Elena before. Now he had, and he still wasn't sure how much he cared. He decided to stay in bed until 9 A.M. Then he would call her. Meanwhile, he would lie with the bedclothes over his head and pretend he didn't exist.

Nine o'clock arrived. She answered at once.

“I was asleep,” he said. “I can't have heard the phone. I slept really soundly last night. For the first time in ages.”

“Something scared me. It was something I dreamed. I don't know what.”

“Everything's okay here, but I'm worried. The days are racing past. It'll soon be the 19th.”

“It'll all be fine.”

“I've got cancer, Elena. If you've got cancer, there's always a chance that you might die.”

“That's not what the doctor said.”

“She can't know for sure. Nobody can.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Very soon. I'm going to Molin's funeral on Tuesday. I expect to be leaving for home on Wednesday. I'll let you know when I'll arrive.”

“Are you going to call me tonight?”

“You'll hear from me.”

The conversation had made him sweaty. He didn't like discovering how easy it was to tell lies. He got out of bed. Staying between the sheets would do nothing to dispel his remorse. He dressed and went downstairs to the dining room. The usual girl was back at the reception desk. He felt calmer.

“We're going to change the television set in your room today,” she said. “When would be a suitable time?”

“Any time, no problem. Is Inspector Larsson around?”

“I don't think he was in his room at all last night. His key's still here. Have you arrested anybody yet?”

“No.”

He set off for the dining room, but turned back.

“Ms. Molin? Is she in?”

“I arrived at 6 A.M. and passed her on her way out.”

There was something else he should ask her, but Lindman couldn't remember what it was. His hangover was making him feel sick. He drank a glass of milk then sat down with a cup of coffee. His cell phone rang. It was Larsson.

“Awake?”

“Just about. I'm having coffee. What about you?”

“I slept for a couple of hours in Erik's office.”

“Did something happen?”

“There's always something happening. But it's still misty in Funäsdalen. Everything's at a standstill, according to Rundstrom. As soon as the mist lifts today they'll go out with the dog again. What are you doing at the moment? Apart from drinking coffee?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I'll come see you. I think you should come with me on a house visit.”

Ten minutes later Larsson came bounding into the dining room, unshaven, hollow-eyed, but full of energy. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He had a plastic bag in his hand, and put it on the table.

“Do you remember the name Hanna Tunberg?” he said.

Lindman thought, then shook his head.

“She was the one who found Molin. His cleaning lady who came every two weeks.”

“I remember now. From the file I read in your office.”

Larsson frowned. “It seems like a long time since it was my office,” he said. “It's only been two weeks, though.”

He shook his head as if he'd just made a great discovery about life and the passage of time.

“I remember there was something about her husband,” Lindman said.

“He had a nasty shock when he found Molin's body at the edge of the trees. We had several detailed talks with her, though. It turned out that she hardly knew Molin at all, even though she was his cleaner. He never left her on her own, she claimed. He kept constant watch over her. And he would never allow her to clean the guest room. Where the doll was. She thought he was unpleasant, arrogant. But he paid well.”

Larsson put his cup down.

“She called this morning and said that she had calmed down now and been thinking. She thought she had something else she could tell us. I'm on my way there now. I thought you might like to come with me.”

“By all means.”

Larsson opened the plastic bag and produced a photograph behind glass in a frame. It was of a woman in her sixties.

“Do you know who this is?”

“No.”

“Katrin Andersson. Andersson's wife.”

“Why did you bring that with you?”

“Because Hanna Tunberg asked me to. She wanted to see what Abraham's wife looked like. I don't know why. But I sent one of the boys out to Dunkarret this morning to get the photograph.”

Larsson finished his coffee and stood up.

“Hanna lives in Ytterberg,” he said. “It's not far.”

The house was old and well cared-for. It was beautifully situated with views of the wooded hills. A dog started barking when they parked. A woman was standing next to a rusty old tractor, waiting for them.

“Hanna Tunberg,” Larsson said. “She was wearing the same clothes the last time I saw her. She's one of the old school.”

“Who are they?”

“People who put on their best clothes when they have an appointment with the police. Want to bet she's been doing some baking?”