The Return of the Dancing Master

  All his father listened to was old-fashioned jazz. Lindman could still remember the names of some of the musicians his father had tried in vain to persuade him to listen to and admire. King Oliver, the cornet player who had inspired Louis Armstrong. He’d played with a handkerchief over his fingers, so that other trumpeters wouldn’t be able to work out how he’d managed to produce his advanced solos. And then there was a clarinettist called Johnny Dodds. And the outstanding Bix Beiderbecke. Time and time again Lindman had been forced to listen to these scratchy old recordings, and he’d pretended to like what he heard. Pretended to be as enthusiastic as his father wanted him to be. If he did that, he might stand a better chance of getting a new ice hockey set, or something else he badly wanted. In reality, he preferred to listen to the same music as his sisters. Often the Beatles, but more usually the Rolling Stones. His father had accepted that as far as music was concerned, his daughters were a lost cause; but he thought that his son might just be saved.

  When he was younger, his father had played the music he admired. There was a banjo hanging on the living-room wall. Occasionally he would take it down and play. Just a few chords, no more. It was a Levin with a long neck. A real beauty, his father had insisted, dating from the 1920s. There was also a picture of his father playing in the Bourbon Street Band – drums, base, trumpet, clarinet and trombone. Plus his father on the banjo.

  They’d often discussed music at home – but nothing that might fuel his father’s furious outbursts that were rare, but real. As Lindman grew up, he was constantly worried about the possibility of his father bursting into a fit of rage.

  When they went to Borås to buy a bicycle, his father had expressed an opinion that went a long way beyond deploring the stupidity of listening to pathetic pop music. What he said had to do with people, and their right to exist. “We should send the whole lot packing.” The memory grew in Lindman’s consciousness as he recalled the incident.

  And there was an epilogue.

  He’d been sitting in the passenger seat. In the side mirror, he could see the bike handlebars sticking out from the roof.

  “Why do gypsies have to be sent packing?” he’d said.

  “Because they’re inadequate, as people,” his father had told him. “They’re inferior. They’re not like us. If we don’t keep Sweden for the Swedes, everything will fall apart.”

  He could still hear those words, as clear as a bell. He also remembered feeling worried about what his father had said. Not about what might happen to the gypsies if they hadn’t the wit to flee the country. It was more to do with himself. If his father was right, he’d be bound to think the same thing, that the gypsies ought to be sent packing.

  His memories drifted away. There was nothing left of the rest of the journey. It was only when they got back home and his mother came out to admire the new bicycle that his memory started to work again.

  The telephone rang. He gave a start, put the album down and answered.

  “Olausson here. How are you?”

  He’d expected to hear Elena’s voice. He was instantly on his guard.

  “I don’t know how I am. I just go through the motions, waiting for the treatment.”

  “Can you call in at the station? Are you up to it?”

  “What about?”

  “A minor matter. When can you be here?”

  “Five minutes from now.”

  “Let’s say half an hour, then. Come straight up to my office.”

  Lindman hung up. Olausson hadn’t laughed. Kalmar has caught up with me already, he thought. The forced door, the police in Kalmar asking questions, another policeman, a colleague from Borås, paying an unexpected visit. Does he know anything about the break-in? Let’s phone our colleagues in Borås and ask.

  That’s what must have happened. It was nearly 2 p.m. That meant the police in Kalmar would have had time to search the flat and talk to Wetterstedt. He was sweating. He was sure there was nothing to link him to the affair, but he’d have to talk to Olausson without being able to mention anything about the contents of the brown leather box file in the desk drawer.

  The telephone rang again. This time it was Elena.

  “I thought you were going to come here?”

  “I have a few things to see to. Then I’ll come.”

  “What sort of things?”

  He was tempted to put down the receiver.

  “I have to go to the police station. We can talk later. Bye.”

  He hadn’t the energy to cope with questions just now. It would be hard enough inventing something plausible enough to convince Olausson.

  He stood in the window and rehearsed the story he’d made up about his activities the previous day. Then he put on his jacket and headed for the police station.

  He paused to greet the girls in reception. Nobody asked him how he was. That convinced him that everybody in the building knew he had cancer. The duty officer, Corneliusson, also came out to the desk for a brief chat. No questions, no cancer, nothing. Lindman took the lift up to Olausson’s floor. The door of his office was ajar. He knocked. Olausson shouted “Come!” Every time Lindman entered his room, he wondered what tie he would be faced with. Olausson was notorious for ties with strange patterns and odd colour combinations. Today, however, it was an unremarkable dark blue. Lindman sat down. Olausson burst out laughing.

  “We caught a burglar this morning. He must be one of the thickest people alive. You know that radio shop in Österlånggatan, next to the square? He’d broken in through the back door, but he must have been so sweaty that he took his coat off and hung it up. And he forgot it when he left. In one of the pockets was a wallet with his driving licence and some visiting cards. The bastard had his own visiting cards! ‘Consultant’, godammit. All we had to do was pop round to his address and take him in. He was in bed asleep. Forgotten all about his coat.”

  Lindman thought he’d better take the initiative when Olausson said nothing more.

  “What did you want?”

  Olausson picked up some faxed sheets from his desk.

  “Just a bagatelle. We received this earlier on from our colleagues in Kalmar.”

  “I’ve just come from there, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  “Precisely. I gather you went to see somebody called Wetterstedt on Öland. I seem to recognise that name, incidentally.”

  “His brother, one-time Minister of Justice, was murdered some years ago in Skåne.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right. What happened?”

  “The murderer was a teenager. I remember reading in the paper about a year ago that he committed suicide.”

  Olausson looked thoughtful.

  “Has something happened?” Lindman said.

  “Evidently there’s been a burglary at Wetterstedt’s flat in Kalmar. During the night. One of the neighbours claims you were there yesterday. His description of you corresponds closely to the one Wetterstedt gave the police.”

  “I was there yesterday morning, trying to find Wetterstedt. An old man in the flat next door told me he was at his summer place on Öland.”

  Olausson put the fax down. “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That there’d be a straightforward explanation.”

  “Explanation of what? Is somebody suggesting I did the break-in? I found Wetterstedt and spoke to him at his summer cottage.”

  “They were just asking what you were doing there. That’s all.”

  “Is that all, then?”

  “More or less.”

  “Am I under suspicion?”

  “Not at all. You were looking for Wetterstedt, and he wasn’t there. Is that it?”

  “I thought maybe the bell wasn’t working, so I hammered on the door. I also wondered if Wetterstedt might be hard of hearing. He’s well over 80, after all. The neighbour heard me rapping on the door.”

  “And then you went to Öland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you drove home.”

  ?
??Not straightaway. I didn’t leave until evening. I spent a few hours in the library, then I stopped for an hour or two near Jönköping to get some sleep, in the car. Let’s face it, if I’d intended going back that night and breaking into the flat, I’d hardly have attracted attention to myself by belting on the door, would I?”

  “I imagine not.”

  Olausson was retreating now. Lindman had managed to steer the conversation his way. Nevertheless, he was worried. Someone might have seen his car. And there was that business with the front door opening as he was about to leave the flat.

  “Obviously, nobody for a minute thinks that you broke into the flat. We want to answer our colleagues’ questions as soon as possible, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’ve answered them.”

  “You didn’t notice anything that might give them a lead?”

  “Such as what?”

  Olausson burst out laughing. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Neither have I.”

  Lindman could see that Olausson believed him. He was amazed at how easy it had been to lie. Now it was time to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “I hope nothing valuable was stolen from Wetterstedt’s place.”

  Olausson picked up the fax. “According to this, nothing at all was stolen. Which seems rather remarkable, given that Wetterstedt claims there was quite a bit of valuable art in the flat.”

  “Not many junkies are au fait with the art market. Prices, and which artists are in demand by the collectors and fences, that’s a bit off their patch.”

  Olausson carried on reading. “There was evidently a fair amount of jewellery and cash lying around. The kind of stuff that would interest your usual burglar. But none of it was taken.”

  “Maybe they were frightened off?”

  “Assuming there was more than one. The way the door was forced suggests a thief who knows what he’s doing. Not an amateur.” Olausson lay back in his chair. “I’ll phone Kalmar and tell them I’ve spoken to you. I’ll tell them you couldn’t think of anything that might be of use to them.”

  Olausson stood up and opened the window. Until then Lindman hadn’t noticed how stuffy it was in the room.

  “There’s something wrong with the ventilation all over the police station,” Olausson said. “Officers are complaining about allergy attacks. Down in the cells they are moaning about headaches. Nothing gets done, though, because there’s no money.”

  Olausson sat down again. Lindman noticed that he’d put on weight. His stomach was hanging out over his trousers.

  “I’ve never been to Kalmar,” Olausson said. “Nor Öland. They say it’s beautiful around there.”

  “If you hadn’t asked me to come in, I’d have phoned you anyway. There was a reason why I went to see Wetterstedt. It had to do with Herbert Molin.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Herbert Molin was a Nazi.”

  Olausson stared at him in astonishment. “A Nazi?”

  “Long before he joined the police, when he was a young man, he fought as a volunteer in Hitler’s army. And he never abandoned those opinions. Wetterstedt had known him when he was young, and they’d stayed in contact. Wetterstedt was a very unpleasant person.”

  “You mean to say you went to Kalmar to speak to him about Herbert?”

  “It’s not forbidden, is it?”

  “No, but I’m a good deal surprised to hear it.”

  “Did you know anything about Molin’s past? Or his views?”

  “Not a thing. I’m flabbergasted.”

  Olausson leant forward over his desk. “Has that anything to do with his murder?”

  “It could have.”

  “What about the other man, the second who was murdered up there? The violinist?”

  “There’s no apparent connection. At least, there wasn’t when I left. Molin moved to Härjedalen because he knew a woman up there. She helped him to buy a house. She’s also a Nazi. Her name’s Elsa Berggren.”

  Olausson shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. Lindman could tell that Kalmar was forgotten now. If Olausson had vaguely suspected Lindman of being responsible for the break-in, he’d forgotten all about it.

  “The whole thing sounds incredible.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. There’s no doubt about it, though: we had an out-and-out Nazi working for the police here in Borås, for years.”

  “He was a good policeman, all the same, irrespective of his politics.”

  Olausson stood up to signal that the interview was at an end. He accompanied Lindman as far as the lift.

  “Needless to say, I wonder how you are. Health-wise.”

  “I’m due back at the hospital on the 19th. Then we’ll find out.”

  The lift door slid open.

  “I’ll talk to Kalmar,” Olausson said.

  Lindman got into the lift. “I suppose you didn’t know either that Molin was a passionate dancer?”

  “Good lord no. What kind of dancing?”

  “Preferably the tango.”

  “There’s obviously a lot that I didn’t know about Herbert Molin.”

  “I suppose that’s true of all of us. None of us knows much more than we find on the surface.”

  The lift door closed. Olausson had no time to comment. Lindman left the police station. When he emerged into the street, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Kalmar wasn’t going to be a problem. Not unless somebody had seen him that night. That was hardly likely.

  He stopped, unable to make up his mind what to do. For some reason, his reaction was annoyance, and he swore out loud. A woman walking past gave him a wide berth.

  Lindman went back to his flat and changed his shirt. He looked at his face in the mirror. As a child he’d always looked like his mother. The older he became, the more he began to resemble his father. Somebody must know, he thought. Somebody must be able to tell me about my father and his politics. I must get in touch with my sisters. But there’s somebody else who must know. My father’s friend, the solicitor who drew up his will. He didn’t even know if the solicitor was still alive. Hans Jacobi, that was his name. It sounded Jewish, but Lindman recalled that Jacobi was fair-haired, tall and burly, a tennis player. He looked him up in the phone book. Sure enough, there he was. Jacobi & Brandell, Solicitors.

  He dialled the number. A woman answered, reciting the name of the firm.

  “I’d like to speak to herr Hans Jacobi.”

  “Who’s speaking, please?”

  “My name is Stefan Lindman.”

  “Herr Jacobi has retired.”

  “He was a good friend of my father’s.”

  “Yes, I remember. But herr Jacobi’s an old man now. He retired over five years ago.”

  “I phoned mainly to discover if he is still alive.”

  “He’s not well.”

  “Does he still live in Kinna?”

  “His daughter’s looking after him, at her home near Varberg.”

  “I’d like to get in touch with him.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to tell you his address or telephone number. Herr Jacobi has asked that callers be advised that he wishes to be left in peace. When he finished here, he did exactly what one ought to do.”

  “Which was what?”

  “He passed all his work on to his younger colleagues. Mainly to his nephew, Lennart Jacobi. He’s a partner.”

  Lindman thanked the woman, and hung up. It wouldn’t be difficult to track down the address in Varberg. But was he really justified in pestering an old, ailing man with questions about the past? He couldn’t make up his mind and left it until tomorrow. Right now there was something else that needed doing. Something more important.

  Shortly after 7 p.m. he parked outside the block of flats in Norrby where Elena lived. He looked up at her window. Without Elena, I am nothing at the moment, he thought. Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 21

  Something had disturbed Silberstein during the night. At one point he’d been woken by the sou
nd of the dog rubbing against the side of the tent. He’d hissed at it, and it stopped. Then he’d fallen asleep again and dreamt about La Cãbana and Höllner. It was still dark when he next woke up. He lay motionless, listening. The watch he’d hung from one of the tent poles said 4.45. He wondered what had disturbed him, if it was something inside himself, or whether there was something out there in the autumn night. Although there was a long time to go before dawn he couldn’t lie there in his sleeping bag any longer. The darkness was full of questions.

  If things turned out badly for him and he was tried for the murder of Herbert Molin, he would be found guilty. He had no intention of denying what he had done. If all had gone according to his original plan, he would have returned to Buenos Aires and would never have been traced. The murder would have been filed away in the Swedish police archives and never solved.

  Several times, especially while he was waiting for the right moment, in his tent by the lake, he’d considered writing a confession that he would ask a solicitor to send to the Swedish police after his death. It would be a story going back to 1945, and would describe simply and clearly what had happened. If he were arrested now, though, he would also be accused of a murder he hadn’t committed.

  He crawled out of the sleeping bag and dismantled the tent while it was still dark. The dog was wagging its tail and tugging at its lead. With the aid of his torch he made a thorough search of where the tent had been standing, making sure that he had left no trace. Then he drove off with the dog in the back seat. When he came to a crossroads with a sign pointing to Sörvattnet he stopped. He lit the inside light and unfolded the map. What he wanted to do most of all was to go back south, leave all the darkness behind, phone Maria and tell her he was on his way home. But he knew he couldn’t do that, his life would be intolerable if he didn’t find out what had happened to the man called Andersson. He took a road east to Rätmyren. He parked on one of the forestry roads he knew from before, and cautiously approached Molin’s house. The dog by his side was quiet. When he was sure the house was deserted, he put the dog inside the pen, closed the gate, hung the lead on the fence and went back into the woods. That will give the police something to worry about, he thought, as he made his way back to where he’d parked the car. It was still dark.