The Return of the Dancing Master (48 page)

Everybody realized what that meant. Hereira had broken through the cordon around the mountain.

The police car came racing up, turned off its siren, and pulled up. A member of the forensic team Lindman had met before got out. Rundström explained briefly what had happened.

“It'll be light in an hour or two,” Larsson said. “We must get the traffic boys here. Even if we are in the middle of nowhere there'll presumably be some traffic on this road.”

The forensic officer had some caution tape with him and Lindman helped cordon off the Golf. They positioned the cars so that their headlights lit up not only the Golf in the ditch, but also the road and the edge of the trees. Larsson and Rundström stood back to let the forensic specialist get on with his work. They beckoned Lindman to join them.

“What do we do now?” Larsson said. “None of us understands what's happened, if we're honest.”

“Facts are facts,” Rundström said impatiently. “The man we've been hunting in the mountains has broken through our cordon. He steals a
car. Then somebody has a surprise in store for him, steps into the road, and takes a few pot shots at him. Shoots to kill, because he's aiming at the windshield. I think we can take it for granted that Hereira didn't get out of the car and shoot at it himself. The man must have been incredibly lucky—unless he's lying wounded or dead somewhere out there in the forest, of course. There could have been blood even if we didn't see any. Has it been snowing, by the way? We had a few millimeters up in Funasdalen.”

“We had some wet snow for about an hour. That's all.”

“The dog handler will be here any minute,” Rundström said. “He's in his own car and, needless to say, he's gotten a flat. But my sense is that Hereira has survived. The stain on the car seat doesn't suggest a serious wound. Assuming it is blood, of course.” He went over to the forensic officer and asked him. “It could be blood,” he said when he came back, “but it could also be chocolate.”

“Have we got a time scale?” Larsson said. A question apparently directed mainly at himself.

“It was precisely 4:03 when you phoned me,” Rundström said.

“So this drama must have taken place between 3:30 and 3:45.”

The penny dropped for all of them at the same time.

“The cars,” Larsson said slowly. “Two passed through our roadblock shortly before Wallen called to tell us about the shooting.”

All three realized what that meant. The man who did the shooting could have passed through the cordon already. Larsson looked at Lindman.

“Can you remember? The last two cars to pass through?”

“The first was a woman in a green Saab. Erik knew her.”

Larsson agreed.

“Then there was another car after that woman had gone. Driving rather fast. What was it? A Ford?”

“A red Ford Escort,” Lindman said.

“A young man in a fur hat. Driving back south after visiting some relatives in Hede. The time would fit. First he shoots up this car, and then he passes through our checkpoint.”

“Did you check his driver's license?”

Larsson shook his head grimly.

“Registration number?”

Larsson called Johansson and explained what had happened. He waited, then put his cell phone back in his pocket.

“ABB 303,” he said. “Erik's not absolutely certain about the numbers.
His notebook got wet and the pages are stuck together. We're handling this business very badly.”

“Let's trace that car right away,” Rundström said. “Red Ford Escort. ABB 303, or something similar. We want the owner now, no delays. We yell at Erik later.”

“Let's try to get clear about what's happened,” Larsson said. “There are tons of questions that need answering. Just so we don't overlook something crucial. How could anybody know that Hereira would be driving past in a dark blue Golf at this very spot and at this time? Who stands in the middle of the road and tries to kill him?”

Rundström and Larsson got out their cell phones again. Lindman did the same, but had no idea who to call. A car drew up with the dog handler, two other officers, and Dolly the Alsatian. The dog found a scent immediately. The officers headed into the forest.

Rundström exploded in anger when he'd finished his call. “The stupid computer's down. We can't trace the car,” he said. “Why does everything always have to be fucked up?”

“Did it crash or is it a software glitch?”

Larsson was talking to somebody in Ostersund and to Rundström at the same time.

“They're putting in new data. They claim it'll be up and running within an hour.”

The forensic officer went past. He had gone to his car to exchange his shoes for rubber boots.

“Have you found anything?” Larsson said.

“All kinds of things, but I'll give you a holler if I think it's important.”

 

 

It was still dark at 6 A.M. The police officers and the dog returned from the forest.

“She lost the scent,” the dog handler said. “She's tired as well. You can't push her beyond her limits. We'll have to get some more dogs here.”

Rundström was talking nonstop on the phone. Larsson had unfolded the map again.

“He hasn't got much to choose from. He'll come to two gravel roads. The rest is nothing but trees. He'll have to choose one of these two roads.”

Larsson folded the map carelessly and tossed it into the car. Rundström was berating somebody for not “understanding how serious this is.” Larsson took Lindman with him to the other side of the road.

“You think clearly,” Larsson said. “And you are lucky enough not to be responsible for all this. Even so, you can help us by telling us what conclusions you think we should reach.”

“You've already asked the most important question,” Lindman said. “How could anybody know that Hereira was going to come down this very road tonight?”

Larsson stared at him for a long while before replying. They were standing in the light from one of the police cars' headlights.

“Can there be more than one answer?” Larsson asked.

“Hardly.”

“So whoever did the shooting must have been in contact with Hereira?”

“It's the only possibility I can see. Either directly with Hereira, or with a third party who was a link between the two of them.”

“And then he stakes out this road, intending to kill him.”

“I can't think of any other explanation. Unless there's a leak from the police. Somebody passing on information about where we were setting up roadblocks, and why.”

“That doesn't sound plausible.”

It occurred to Lindman that the previous evening he'd had the feeling that he was being followed. That somebody was keeping him under observation. But he didn't say anything.

“One thing's certain in any case,” Larsson said. “We've got to find Hereira. And we've got to identify the man driving that red Ford. Did you see his face?”

“It was pretty much hidden by his fur hat.”

“Erik can't remember what he looked like either. Nor how he spoke. If it was a dialect. But it's far from clear that Erik would have noticed anyway. Remember, he threw up that sleeping tablet. I don't think he's one hundred percent clear in the head tonight.”

Lindman suddenly felt dizzy. It came out of nowhere. He was forced to grab hold of Larsson so as not to fall.

“Are you sick?”

“I don't know. Everything started spinning around.”

“You'd better go back to Sveg. I'll get somebody to drive you. Erik is obviously not the only one who's not in the best shape tonight.”

Lindman could see that Larsson was genuinely concerned.

“Are you going to faint?”

Lindman shook his head. He didn't want to tell him the truth, which was that he felt as if he could keel over at any moment.

Larsson drove him back to Sveg himself. They didn't speak during the journey. Dawn was breaking. The snow had gone away, but the clouds were still thick overhead. Lindman had noted absentmindedly that sunrise was about 7:45. Larsson pulled up outside the hotel.

“How do you feel?”

“Same as you. A sleepless night. I'll feel better when I've had a little sleep.”

“Don't you think it would be best if you went back to BorÃ¥s?”

“Not yet. I'll stay as arranged. Until Wednesday. Besides, I'm interested to know if that registration number has been linked to an owner yet.”

Larsson called Rundström.

“The computers are still down. Don't they have any paperwork? Don't they have any backup?”

Lindman opened the car door and eased himself out. Fear was churning around in his insides. Why don't I say anything? he thought. Why don't I tell Larsson that I'm so frightened that I can't stop shaking?

“Go and get some rest. I'll be in touch.”

Larsson drove away. The receptionist was sitting at her computer.

“You're up early,” she said with a smile.

“Or late,” he said.

He took his key, went up to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and called Elena. She was already at school. He told her what had happened, that he'd been up all night, and that he felt dizzy. She asked when he was coming home, but he raised his voice, couldn't conceal his irritation, and simply said that he needed to sleep. Then he'd make up his mind.

 

 

It was 1:30 when he woke up. He lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He had dreamed about his father again.

He got out of bed. He didn't feel dizzy any more. He felt hungry. Even so, his curiosity got the better of him. He tried Larsson's number. Busy. He showered and tried again. Still busy. He dressed and discovered that
he had no clean underwear left. Called again. Now Larsson answered, with a bellowing “Yes?”

“It's Lindman.”

“Oh. I thought it was a reporter from Ostersund. He's been chasing me all morning. Erik thinks Wallén must have tipped him off about the shooting. If so, he's in for a good time. The chief of police is making a stink as well. He's wondering what on earth is going on. Aren't we all?”

“How's it going?”

“We've established the registration number. ABB 003. Erik was off by one digit.”

“Who's the owner?”

“A man called Anders Harner. His address is a P.O. box in Albufeira in southern Portugal. One of the officers in Hede knew exactly where that is. He's been there on vacation. But we've got more problems: Anders Harner is seventy-seven, and the man in that car was certainly not an old man. None of us have eyesight that bad.”

“Perhaps it was his son? Or some other relative?”

“Or the car had been stolen. We're looking into that. It's perfectly obvious that nothing about this investigation is straightforward.”

“Why not say that the crimes are well-planned instead? Any trace of Hereira?”

“We've sent out three dogs, and the helicopter from Sundsvall finally showed up. But we've drawn a blank. No sign at all. Which is quite remarkable. How are you, by the way? Have you had some sleep?”

“I don't feel dizzy anymore.”

“I have a bad conscience. I don't know how many regulations I've broken by roping you into all this, but most importantly, I shouldn't have forgotten that you're sick.”

“I wanted to participate.”

“The forensic specialist thinks it could have been Erik's gun that was used last night. It's a possibility, at least.”

Lindman went to the dining room. He felt better after a meal, but he was still tired when he went back to his room. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like a face. Jacobi's face, he thought. I wonder if he's still alive.

There was a knock on the door. He opened it. It was Veronica Molin.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all.”

“I've come to apologize. I reacted too strongly last night.”

“It was my fault. I was stupid.”

He wanted to ask her in, but there was dirty laundry lying around. Besides, it smelled stuffy.

“The room hasn't been cleaned,” he said.

She smiled. “Mine has.” She looked at her watch. “I'm due to meet my brother at Ostersund Airport exactly four hours from now. There's time for us to talk.”

He took his jacket and followed her down the stairs. He was just behind her and had to force himself not to reach out and touch her.

Her computer was turned off.

“I've spoken to Giuseppe Larsson,” she said. “I had to squeeze what happened last night out of him. I gathered from what he said that you might be in the hotel.”

“What did he tell you?”

“About the shooting. And that you haven't caught the man you're after yet.”

“The question is, how many men are the police after? Is it one or two? Maybe even three.”

“Why aren't I being kept informed about what's happening?”

“The police like to work in peace, without being harassed by reporters. And relatives. Especially when they don't know what's actually happened. And especially when they don't know why something has happened.”