The Return of the Dancing Master

  He went for a walk after his meal. North this time, past a museum comprising several old houses, and then past the hospital. He walked fast, so as to exert himself. He heard music playing in his mind’s ear. It was some time before he realised it was the music he’d heard at Jacobi’s. Johann Sebastian Bach. He kept going until he’d left Sveg far behind him.

  He took a shower, then went down to reception. Veronica Molin was waiting for him. He noticed again what a good-looking woman she was.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “The alternative was ten-pin bowling.”

  She looked at him in surprise, then laughed.

  “I’m glad you didn’t say golf. I’ve never understood men who play golf.”

  “I’ve never touched a golf club in my life.”

  She looked round reception. Some test drivers had just come in, declaring in loud voices that it was high time for a beer.

  “I don’t normally invite men to my room,” she said, “but at least we can be left in peace there.”

  Her room was on the ground floor, at the end of the corridor. It was different from Lindman’s – bigger, for a start. He wondered what it must be like for somebody used to staying in five-star hotels all over the world to adjust to the simplicity of a hotel in Sveg. He remembered her saying that she’d heard about her father’s death in a room with a view of the cathedral in Cologne. From the window in this room she could see the River Ljusnan and beyond it the wooded hills of Härjedalen. Perhaps this view is as beautiful, he thought, and in its way as impressive as Cologne Cathedral.

  There were two armchairs in the room. She’d switched on the bedside lamp and directed it away from them, so that the room was dimly lit. He smelled her perfume. He wondered how she would react if he were to tell her that what he most wanted to do just now was to remove all her clothes and make love to her. Would she be surprised? She was no doubt aware of the effect she had on men.

  “You asked me to be here,” he said. “I’d like to hear what you have to tell me. Which said, this conversation shouldn’t be taking place. You ought to be talking to Inspector Larsson, or one of his colleagues. I have nothing to do with the investigation.”

  “I know. But I want to talk to you even so.”

  Lindman could see that she was agitated. He waited.

  “I’ve been trying to understand,” she said. “Who would have had any reason for killing my father? It was beyond all comprehension at first. It seemed as if somebody had raised his hand and brought it crashing down on my father’s head for no reason. I could see no motive at all. I was stunned. I don’t usually react like that. In my work I come up against crises every day, crises that can develop into commercial catastrophes if I don’t stay absolutely calm and make sure I’m influenced by nothing but the facts in whatever I do. The feeling passed. I was eventually able to think rationally again. And I started remembering.” She looked at him. “I read that diary,” she said. “What was in it came as a shock.”

  “You mean you knew nothing about his past?”

  “Nothing at all. I told you that.”

  “Have you spoken to your brother?”

  “He didn’t know anything either.”

  Her voice was strangely toneless. Lindman felt an odd sensation of uncertainty. He concentrated harder, leaned forward so that he could see her face more clearly.

  “Naturally, it was a bolt from the blue to discover that my father had been a volunteer in Hitler’s army. Not just paying lip service to it, but very much an active Nazi. I was ashamed. I hated him. Mainly because he’d never said anything.”

  Lindman wondered if he was ashamed of his own father. He didn’t think he’d come that far yet. He was in a very peculiar situation, though. He and the woman opposite him had made the same discovery about their fathers.

  “Anyway, it dawned on me that there might be an explanation in that diary for why he was killed.”

  A lorry rumbled past in the street outside. Lindman waited eagerly for what was coming next.

  “How well do you remember what was in it?” she asked.

  “Pretty well. Not all the detail and dates, of course.”

  “He describes a journey to Scotland.”

  Lindman remembered that. The long walks with “M.”.

  “It was a long time ago. I wasn’t very old, but I do remember my father going to Scotland to see a woman. I think her name was Monica, but I’m not sure. He’d met her in Borås and she was also a police officer, but quite a bit younger, I think. There’d been some kind of an exchange between Sweden and Scotland. They fell in love. My mother knew nothing about it. Not then at least. Anyway, he went to meet her. And he cheated her.”

  “How?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “I’m telling this at my own pace. It’s difficult enough as it is. He tricked her out of some money. I don’t know what he told her, of course, but he borrowed money off her, large sums of money. And he never paid it back. My father had a weakness. He was a gambler. Mainly on horses. Cards as well, I think. Anyway, he lost. All her money went down the drain. She demanded the money back. There was nothing about it in writing, apparently. He refused. She came to Borås once, that’s how I know about this. She appeared at the door one evening. It was winter. My mother was at home, and my father and me. I don’t know where my brother was. Anyway, there she was at the door and, although he tried to prevent her, she forced her way into the house and told my mother everything, and she yelled at my father, threatening to kill him if he didn’t return the money. I’d learnt enough English to be able to understand what they were saying. My mother collapsed and my father was wild with rage, or maybe it was fear. She promised she’d kill him in the end, no matter how long it took. I remember distinctly what she said.”

  “So you’re suggesting that after all those years she came here to exact vengeance?”

  “That must be what happened.”

  Lindman shook his head. It seemed to him grossly improbable. In his diary Molin had described the Scotland trip in a way that didn’t fit in at all with what he’d just heard.

  “You have to tell the police about your theory. They’ll look into it. For myself, I can’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It simply doesn’t sound credible.”

  “Aren’t most violent crimes incredible?”

  Someone walked past in the corridor. They waited until all was quiet again.

  “I have a question that you have to answer,” Lindman said. “Why don’t you want to tell this to Inspector Larsson?”

  “I want to and I shall tell him, but I wanted your advice first.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I had confidence in you.”

  “What kind of advice do you think I can give you?”

  “How can I prevent the truth about my father from coming out? That he was a Nazi?”

  “If it has nothing to do with the murder, there’s no reason for the police or the prosecution service to make any such information public.”

  “I’m frightened of reporters. I’ve had them after me before and I never want to go through that again. I was involved in the complicated merger of two banks in Singapore and England. Something went wrong. The reporters came after me because they knew that I was one of those most involved.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry. Which said, I don’t agree with you.”

  “About what?”

  “That the truth shouldn’t be told about your father. The old form of Nazism is dead. And yet it’s still alive, and growing, in new forms. If you turn over the right stones, they come teeming out. Racists, supermen. All the creatures who look for inspiration from the rubbish dumps of history.”

  “Can I at least prevent the diary from being published?”

  “Presumably. But there may be others who decide to dig deeper.”

  “What do you mean, others?”

  “Me, perhaps.”

  She leaned back in her chair.
Her face disappeared in the shadows. Lindman regretted what he’d said.

  “But I shan’t be digging into it. I’m a police officer, not a journalist. You don’t need to worry on that score.”

  She stood up. “You made a long journey for my sake,” she said. “And I am afraid it wasn’t necessary. I could have asked you over the telephone. The trouble is that for once, I’ve lost a little of my usual presence of mind. My work is sensitive. My employers might abandon me if I were tainted by rumours. After all, the man lying dead in the forest was my father. My belief is that the woman called M. is behind it all. I have no idea who would have killed the other man.”

  Lindman gestured to the phone. “You should call Inspector Larsson.”

  He stood up.

  “When are you leaving?” she said.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can’t we have dinner together? That’s the least I can do for you.”

  “I only hope they’ve changed the menu.”

  “7.30?”

  “That suits me fine.”

  She was reserved and distant during dinner. Lindman could feel himself getting cross. Partly because she’d persuaded him to make this absurdly unnecessary journey on account of her exaggerated anxiety, and partly because he couldn’t avoid being attracted by her.

  They said goodbye in reception, with hardly a word exchanged. She said she would send a cheque to his office in Borås to cover his costs, and went to her room. Lindman fetched his jacket and went out. He’d asked if she’d phoned Larsson. She said she had, but that she couldn’t get through, and would try again.

  As he walked through the deserted town, he thought about what she’d said. The story about the woman in Scotland could conceivably be true, but he refused to believe that after all those years she’d come to Sweden to take her revenge. It didn’t make sense.

  Without realising it, he’d reached the old railway bridge. He thought it was time to return to the hotel, but something made him keep walking. He crossed the bridge and turned into Berggren’s street. There was light in two of the ground floor windows. He was about to walk past when he thought he noticed a shadowy figure disappearing rapidly round one of the gable walls. He frowned. Stood still, peering into the darkness. Then he opened the gate and approached the house. He stopped to listen. Not a sound. He pressed himself against the wall and peered round the corner. Nobody there. He must have been imagining things. He crept round to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows. Nobody there either.

  He never heard the footsteps behind him. Something struck the back of his neck. He was on the ground and the last he felt was a pair of hands tightening round his throat. Then nothing. Only darkness.

  PART III

  The woodlice / November 1999

  CHAPTER 24

  Lindman opened his eyes. He knew immediately where he was. He sat up slowly, took a deep breath and looked around in the darkness. Nothing to be seen, nor was there a sound. He felt the back of his neck. There was some blood, and it hurt when he swallowed. Still, he was alive. He couldn’t say how long he’d been unconscious. He raised himself up, clinging on to the drainpipe on the house wall. He was thinking clearly again, despite the pain in his throat and at the back of his neck. So his eyes hadn’t deceived him. There had been somebody moving in the shadows at the back of the house, somebody who’d seen him, and tried to kill him.

  Something must have happened. Why was he still alive? Whoever had tried to throttle him must have been disturbed and been forced to let go. Mind you, there was another possibility. His attacker might have intended to stop him, but not to kill him. He let go of the drainpipe, and listened. Still not a sound.

  A faint light reached him from one of the windows. Something must have happened in that house, he thought. Just as something happened in Molin’s house, and later in Andersson’s. Now I’m standing outside my third house. He wondered what to do, and had no problem in making up his mind. He took out his mobile and phoned Larsson’s number. His hand was shaking, and he pressed the wrong buttons twice. When he did get through, a girl answered.

  “This is Daddy’s telephone.”

  “Can I speak to Giuseppe, please?”

  “Good grief, he went to bed ages ago. Do you realise what time it is?”

  “I have to talk to him.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Stefan.”

  “Are you the one from Borås?”

  “Yes. You must wake him up. This is important.”

  “I’ll give him the telephone.”

  While he waited Lindman moved a few paces from the house and stood in the shadow of a tree. Then he heard Larsson’s voice, and was able to explain briefly what had happened.

  “Are you hurt?” Larsson said.

  “The back of my neck is bleeding and it hurts a lot when I swallow, otherwise it’s OK.”

  “I’ll try to get hold of Johansson. Where exactly are you?”

  “At the back of the house. By one of the gables. Under a tree. Something may have happened to Berggren.”

  “You said you disturbed someone leaving the place, is that right?”

  “I think so.”

  Lindman waited for a long silence.

  “Let’s keep the line open,” Larsson said at last. “Ring her doorbell and stay at the door. If there’s no sign of her, wait until Erik gets there.”

  Lindman walked round to the front of the house and rang the bell. The outside light was on. He held the phone to his ear all the time.

  “What’s happening?” Larsson said.

  “I’ve rung. Twice. Nothing.”

  “Ring again. Knock.”

  Lindman tried the door handle. It was locked. He knocked loudly. Every time he rapped on the door he felt pain in the back of his neck. Then he heard footsteps.

  “Someone’s coming now.”

  “You can’t be certain it’s her. Be careful.”

  Lindman took a couple of paces back from the door. The door opened. It was Elsa Berggren. She was still dressed. Lindman could see from her face that she was scared.

  “It’s her all right. She’s opened,” Lindman said into the telephone.

  “Ask her if anything’s happened.”

  Lindman asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been attacked. I’ve just phoned Inspector Johansson. He said he’d come.”

  Lindman reported what she’d said to Larsson.

  “But she’s not injured?”

  “Not as far as I can see, at least.”

  “Who attacked her?”

  “Who was it that attacked you?”

  “He was wearing a hood. When I dragged it off him I caught sight of his face. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Lindman passed this on.

  “It sounds very strange. A masked man? What do you make of it?”

  Lindman looked her in the eye as he replied.

  “I think she’s telling the truth. Even if the truth sounds incredible.”

  “Wait there with her until Erik comes. I’ll get dressed and drive over. Ask Erik to phone me when he turns up. OK, Roger and out.”

  Lindman stumbled as he walked in through the door. He felt dizzy and was forced to sit down. Then he saw that he had blood on one of his hands. He told her what had happened. She went to the kitchen and came back with a wet cloth.

  “Turn round. I can stand the sight of blood.”

  She pressed the cloth gently against the back of his neck.

  “That’s enough, thank you,” he said, getting slowly to his feet.

  A clock somewhere struck a quarter hour. They went into the living room. A chair was lying on its back, and a glass dish had shattered. She wanted to tell him what had happened, but he told her to wait.

  “Inspector Johansson’s the one who should listen to what you’ve got to say. Not me.”

  Johansson arrived just as the invisible clock was striking the next quarter hour.

  “What’s happened?” he said.

  T
hen he turned to Lindman.

  “I didn’t even know you were still here.”

  “I came back. But that’s irrelevant. This story didn’t start with me, it started in here.”

  “That’s as maybe,” Johansson said, “but to make things easier perhaps you can explain how you came to be involved.”

  “I was out walking, and thought I saw somebody acting suspiciously in the garden. I went to investigate and was knocked down. Almost strangled, come to that.”

  Johansson leaned over Lindman.

  “You’ve got bruises on your neck. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Johansson sat down, gingerly, as if frightened that the chair might collapse under him.

  “How many times in succession is this?” he said. “That you’ve taken a walk past fröken Berggren’s house, I mean. The second? Third?”

  “Is that important now?”

  Johansson’s ponderous approach was beginning to irritate Lindman.

  “How do I know what’s important? But let’s hear what fröken Berggren has to say.”

  Berggren was sitting on the edge of the sofa. Her voice was different, she could no longer conceal her fear. Lindman noticed that she was trying to do so, nevertheless.

  “I’d just left the kitchen and was on my way up to bed when there was a knock on the door. I thought that was odd, because I rarely, if ever, have visitors. When I opened the door, I had the safety chain on – but he flung himself at it so violently that it gave way. He told me to be quiet. I couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a sort of hood. A woollen hat with holes in it for his eyes. He dragged me into the living room and threatened me with an axe, and started asking me who’d killed Abraham Andersson. I tried to keep calm. I was sitting here, on the sofa. I could see that he was getting nervous. He raised his axe, and so I made a run at him. That was when the chair fell over. I pulled the hood off him, and he ran out of the house. I’d just phoned you when there was a belting on the door. I looked out of the window and saw that it was you,” she said, turning to Lindman.