The Return of the Dancing Master (55 page)

“I'm not afraid,” she said after a while. “I wouldn't have agreed to go there, though. Of course not. Does anybody else know about this?”

“Nobody.”

“Not even your colleagues?”

“Nobody. He speaks English.”

She looked hard at him. “I'll talk to him, but I want to be alone when I call him. When the call is over, I'll knock on your door.”

Lindman gave her the paper with the telephone number. Then he went to his room. As he opened his door it struck him that she might already have called Hereira. He looked at his watch. In twenty minutes he would contact Larsson and tell him where he could find Hereira.

He went to the bathroom, but found that there was no toilet paper left. He went back to the lobby. He saw her through the window. Veronica Molin, out in the street. In a hurry.

He stopped short. Tried to work it out. Thoughts were racing around his head. There was no doubt that Veronica Molin was on her way to Hereira. He should have foreseen that. Something in direct contrast to what he'd previously thought. It has something to do with her computer, he thought. Something she'd said. Maybe something I'd thought without really understanding the implications. His alarm was growing quickly. He turned to the girl, who was on her way to the dining room.

“Ms. Molin's key,” he said. “I must have it.”

She stared at him in bewilderment.

“She's just gone out.”

“That's why I need her key.”

“I can't give it to you.”

Lindman slammed his fist on the desk. “I'm a police officer,” he roared. “Give me the key.”

She took the key from beneath the desk. He grabbed it, raced along the corridor, and opened her door. The computer was on. The screen was glowing. He stared at it in horror.

 

 

Everything fell into place. Now he could see how it all fit together. Most of all he could see how catastrophically wrong he'd been.

I
t was 7:05 A.M. and still dark. Lindman ran. Several times he slipped and almost fell in the snow. He should have recognized long ago what was now obvious, absolutely clear and simple. He had been too lazy. Or his worries over what lay in store for him at the hospital had been too great. I should have caught on when Veronica Molin called and asked me to come back, he thought. Why wasn't I suspicious? I'm only now asking all the questions that cried out to be asked even then.

He came to the bridge. Still not light. No sign of Larsson or a diver. How long was it taking for Molin's house to burn down? He took out his cell phone and tried Larsson's number. The same female voice asking him to try again later. He very nearly threw the phone after the shotgun, to the bottom of the river.

Then he saw somebody coming towards him over the bridge. He could see from the light of the streetlamps who it was. During his early days in Sveg he'd had coffee with the man in his kitchen. He tried to remember his name. The man who had never traveled further afield than Hede. Then he got it: Björn Wigren. The man recognized Lindman.

“Are you still here?” he said in surprise. “I thought you'd gone home. I do know one thing, though: Elsa hasn't committed murder.”

Lindman wondered how Wigren knew she'd been arrested and taken to Ostersund. But that didn't matter for the moment. Perhaps Wigren could be of some use.

“Let's talk about Elsa Berggren later,” he said. “Just now I need your help.”

Lindman searched through his pockets for paper and pencil, but found nothing.

“Do you have anything to write with?”

“No. I can go home and get something if it's important. What's happening
^?
”

His curiosity is terrible, Lindman thought, looking around. They were only just onto the bridge.

“Come over here,” he said.

They went to where the bridge joined the road. There was a drift of virgin snow there. Lindman squatted down and wrote in the snow with his finger.

ELSA'S HOUSE. VERONICA. DANGEROUS. STEFAN.

He stood up.

“Can you see what I've written?”

Wigren read it aloud. “What does it mean?”

“It means you should stand here and wait until some police officers and a diver show up. One of the officers will probably be Larsson. Or it might be a man called Rundström. Erik Johansson might well be there as well, and you know him. In any case, show them this message. Is that clear?”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing that affects you for the moment, but it's very important for the police. Wait until they get here.”

Lindman was trying hard to sound authoritative. “Stay here,” he repeated. “Is that understood?”

“Yes. But I'm curious, of course. Is it about Elsa?”

“You'll find out soon enough. The important thing right now is that this message is crucial. You'll be doing the police a great service if you make sure they see it.”

“I'll stay here. I was only going out for a morning stroll.”

Lindman left Wigren and ran over the bridge, trying to call the police emergency number at the same time. Same voice. He swore, and put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn't wait any longer. He turned left and stopped when he came to Elsa Berggren's house. Tried to keep calm. There's only one thing to do, he told himself. I have to be as convincing as possible. I must give the impression that I don't know anything. Veronica Molin must keep believing that I'm still the idiot she's had every reason to think I am so far.

He thought about the night when she'd let him sleep by her side. No doubt she had gotten up while he was asleep and searched his room.
That was why she had let him sleep in her bed. Not even then had the penny dropped. He had been vain and conceited, and he had also betrayed Elena. Veronica had made the most of his weakness. Not that he could blame her.

He went through the gate. Everything was very still. A faint band of light had appeared in the sky over the hills to the east. He rang the bell. Fernando Hereira peeped out from behind the curtain covering the glass part of the front door. Lindman was relieved to see that nothing had happened to him yet. When he'd gone to Veronica's room he was still worried that something would happen to her, but as soon as he saw what was on her computer screen, everything changed. From that moment on it was Hereira he was worried about. It made no difference that what was taking place now was a meeting between a woman and the man who had murdered her father. Hereira had the right, as everybody else did, to have their actions tried in a court of law.

Hereira opened the door. His eyes were unusually bright. “You've come too soon,” he said, brusquely.

“I can wait.”

The door to the living room was ajar. Lindman couldn't see her. He wondered if he should tell Hereira the truth right away, but decided to wait. She might be standing behind the door, listening. He knew now that Veronica was capable of anything. He must draw out this meeting for as long as possible, so that Larsson and the rest had time to get here.

He nodded towards the bathroom. “I'll join you in a moment,” he said. “How's it going?”

“As I hoped it would,” Hereira said. His voice sounded tired. “She's listening. And it seems as if she understands. I don't know if she'll forgive me, though.”

He went back into the living room, somewhat unsteadily. Lindman locked himself in the bathroom. The worst was still to come—looking Veronica in the eye and convincing her that he knew no more now than he had known half an hour ago. On the other hand, why should she suspect that he'd suddenly understood what he'd failed to understand before? He tried Larsson's number. When he heard the voice once again he nearly panicked. He flushed the toilet and emerged into the hall. He went to the front door and coughed loudly as he turned the key to unlock it. Then he went to the living room.

Veronica was in the chair he'd been tied to. She looked at him. He gave her a smile.

“I can wait outside,” he said in English. “If you haven't finished, that is.”

“I'd like you to stay,” she said.

Hereira had nothing against that either.

As if by chance Lindman sat on the chair nearest to the front door. It also gave him a clear view of the windows behind the other two. Veronica was still looking hard at him. It was obvious to Lindman now that she had always tried to see right through him whenever they were together. He returned her gaze, repeating over and over to himself: I know nothing, I know nothing.

The bottle was still on the table. Lindman could see that Hereira had drunk half of it, but he'd pushed it to one side and screwed on the cap. He started speaking. About the man called Höllner in a Buenos Aires restaurant, who, purely by chance, had been able to tell him who had killed his father. Hereira gave a detailed account of the meeting, explaining when and where he'd met Hollner, and how they had eventually realized that Hollner was almost a messenger sent by some divine power to provide the information he'd been looking for. Lindman approved: the more Hereira spun out his story, the better. Lindman needed Larsson to be here, he wouldn't be able to handle the situation on his own.

Then he gave a start.

Neither Hereira nor Veronica seemed to have noticed anything. A face had fleetingly appeared in the window behind Veronica. Wigren. Lindman could see him from the corner of his eye. There was no limit to the man's curiosity. So he'd left the bridge, he hadn't been able to control his inquisitiveness.

The face appeared again. It was obvious to Lindman that Wigren hadn't realized he'd been spotted. What can the man see? Lindman wondered. Three people in a room, engrossed in a serious, not heated conversation. He might be able to see the bottle of brandy from the window, but what is there about this situation that could possibly be “dangerous”? Nothing. No doubt he wonders who the man is, and it's possible that he didn't see Veronica when she came to visit Elsa Berggren. He must think the policeman from the south of Sweden that he bumped into on his morning stroll is insane. He must also wonder why they are in Elsa Berggren's house when she's somewhere else. And how did they get in?

Lindman could hardly keep his anger in check. He couldn't imagine that Larsson or anybody else would see the message in the snow by the bridge. And now there was no one waiting for them.

The face disappeared again. Lindman said a silent prayer, hoping
that Wigren would go back to the bridge. It might not be too late. But then the face appeared once more, this time in the window behind Hereira. Lindman thought there was a risk that Veronica might see him if she turned her head.

A cell phone rang. Lindman thought at first it was his, but the tone was different. Veronica picked up her handbag, which was on the floor beside her chair, took out the phone, and answered the call. Whoever it is who's calling, it's giving me more time, Lindman thought. And time is what I need most of all. Wigren hadn't reappeared. Lindman dared to hope that he had gone back to the bridge after all.

Veronica listened to what the caller was saying without speaking herself. Then she turned it off and returned the phone to her handbag. When she took her hand out, it was holding a pistol.

She stood up slowly and took two steps to one side. From there she could cover both Lindman and Hereira. Lindman held his breath. Hereira didn't seem to grasp at first what she had in her hand. When it dawned in him that it was a gun, he started to stand up, but he sat down again when she raised the pistol. Then she turned to Lindman.

“That was stupid,” she said. “Of both of us.”

She was pointing the gun at Lindman now. Holding it in both hands, steady as a rock.

“That was the receptionist at the hotel. She phoned to tell me that you had taken my key and gone into my room. And of course, I know I didn't turn off the computer.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” It was pointless trying to talk himself out of the situation, but he had to try. He glanced at the window. No sign of Wigren. He could only hope. This time she had noticed his glance. Without lowering the gun she edged closer to the nearest window, but evidently saw no one outside.

“So you didn't come on your own?” she said.

“Who do I have to bring with me?”

She stayed by the window. It struck Lindman that the face he'd found so attractive before now seemed sunken and ugly.

“There's no point in lying,” she said. “Especially when you're no good at it.”

Hereira stared at the gun in her hand. “I don't understand,” he said. “What's going on?”

“It's just that Veronica is not what she pretends to be. She might devote part of her time to business deals, but she spends the rest of her life spreading the cause of Nazism throughout the world.”

Hereira stared at him in astonishment. “Nazism?” he said. “She is a Nazi?”

“She's her father's daughter.”

“Perhaps it's better if I explain it myself to the man who killed my father,” said Veronica.

She spoke slowly and in perfect English, a person with no doubt about the justice of her cause. To Lindman, what she said was just as frightening as it was clear. Molin had been his daughter's hero, a man she'd always looked up to and in whose footsteps she had never hesitated to follow. But she wasn't uncritical of her father: he had stood for political ideals that were now out of date. She belonged to a new era that adapted the ideals championing the absolute right of the strongest, and the concepts of supermen and subhuman creatures adapted to contemporary reality. She described raw and unlimited power, the right of the strong few to rule over the weak and the poor. She used words like “unfit,” “subhumans,” “the poverty-stricken masses,” “the dregs,” “the rabble.” She described a world in which people in poor countries were doomed to extinction. She condemned the whole of Africa, with just a few exceptions where despotic dictators were still in charge. Africa was a continent that should be left to bleed to death, that should not be given aid, but isolated and allowed to die. The new age and new technology, the electronic networks, gave people like her the upper hand and the instruments they needed to consolidate their sovereignty over the world.