The Return of the Dancing Master

  She tapped the keys again. A picture of Hitler. More tapping, and suddenly she appeared on the screen herself. “Veronica Molin. Broker.”

  She switched off. The screen went black.

  “Now I’d like you to leave,” she said. “You chose to jump to a conclusion on the basis of a picture you saw on my screen when you were snooping around and looking in at my window. Perhaps you still think I’m stupid enough to sit here worshipping a swastika. It’s up to you to decide if you’re an idiot or not, but please go anyway. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

  Lindman didn’t know what to do. She was upset, convincingly so.

  “If the situation had been reversed,” he said, “how would you have reacted?”

  “I’d have asked. Not immediately accused you of lying.”

  She stood up and flung open the door.

  “I can’t stop you from going to my father’s funeral,” she said. “But I shall feel no compulsion to speak to you there, or to shake your hand.”

  She ushered Lindman out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He went back to reception. The card players had left. He went up to his room, wondering why he had reacted as he did. He was rescued by a telephone call. It was Larsson.

  “I hope you weren’t asleep.”

  “On the contrary.”

  “Wide awake?”

  “Very much so.”

  He thought he might as well tell Larsson what had happened.

  “It’s a dangerous habit, peeping into little girls’ bedrooms. You never know what you might see,” he said, laughing.

  “I acted like an idiot.”

  “We all do sometimes. Not all at the same time, with luck.”

  “Did you know that you can look up all the Nazi organisations in the world on the Internet?”

  “Probably not all of them. What was the word she used? ‘Underworld’? There are no doubt lots of different rooms down there. I suspect the really dangerous organisations don’t advertise their name and address on the Internet.”

  “You mean it’s only possible to scrape the surface?”

  “Something like that.”

  Lindman sneezed. And again.

  “I hope that’s not something you’ve caught from me.”

  “How’s your throat?”

  “I have a slight temperature, it’s swollen on the left side. People who get to see as much misery as we do often succumb to hypochondria.”

  “I’ve enough to cope with in the real world.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I put my foot in it again.”

  “What did you want?”

  “Somebody to talk to, I suppose.”

  “Are you still in Johansson’s office?”

  “Yes, and I’ve got coffee.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  As he passed the front of the hotel he glanced at Veronica Molin’s window. He could just see that the light was still on, but the gap in the curtains was gone.

  Larsson was waiting for him outside the Community Centre. He had a cigarillo in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “Only when I’m very tired and need to keep awake.”

  He broke the end off the cigarillo and trampled the glowing tobacco. They went inside. The bear observed their entry. The building was deserted.

  “Erik phoned,” Larsson said. “He’s a very honest man. He said that he was so depressed at having his guns stolen that he didn’t feel up to working tonight. He was going to have a couple of drinks and a sleeping tablet. Maybe not a very good combination, but I don’t blame him.”

  “Any news from the mountain?”

  They were in the office by now. There were two thermos flasks on the desk, marked “Härjedalen County Council”. Lindman shook his head when Larsson offered him a cup. There were a few half-eaten Danish pastries on a torn paper bag.

  “Rundström has been phoning on and off. We’ve also heard from back-up HQ in Östersund. One of the helicopters we usually hire has broken down. A substitute will be arriving from Sundsvall tomorrow.”

  “What about the weather?”

  “There is no mist on the mountain at the moment. They’ve moved their base down to Funäsdalen. No joy from the roadblocks as yet, apart from that Norwegian drunk. Apparently his grandmother had been a missionary in Africa and brought a zebra skin home with her. There’s an explanation for practically everything. Rundström’s worried, though. If they’re able to carry out a search on the mountain tomorrow and don’t find him, it can only mean that he’s broken through the cordon. In which case it probably was him who burgled Erik’s place.”

  “Maybe he never did go up the mountain?”

  “You’re forgetting that the dog picked up a scent.”

  “He could have doubled back. Besides, don’t forget this man is from South America. It’s too cold for him on a Swedish mountainside in the late autumn.”

  Larsson was looking at a map on the wall. He drew a circle with his finger round Funäsdalen.

  “What bugs me is why he hasn’t left the area ages ago,” he said. “I keep coming back to that. Of all the questions buzzing around in connection with this investigation, that’s one of the most important. I’m convinced of it. The only explanation I can think of is that he hasn’t finished yet. There’s something more for him to do. That thought makes me more and more apprehensive. He runs the risk of getting caught, but still he stays on. He might well have got himself a new set of weapons. Earlier this evening it made me think of a question we haven’t yet addressed.”

  “What did he do with the weapons he used to torture and kill Molin?”

  Larsson turned away from the map. “Right. We asked ourselves where he got them from, but not what he did with them. And the fact that he probably disposed of them has set my brain working overtime. What about yours?”

  Lindman thought for a moment before replying.

  “He goes away. Something has been finished. He throws the weapons away, maybe in the lake, or perhaps he buries them. Then something happens and he comes back. He needs new weapons. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Precisely. But I can’t make sense of it. We are wondering if he came back to dispose of Andersson. He obviously had access to a gun if that was the case. It seems very odd if he then went away a second time. If he was the one who broke into Erik’s place, does that mean that he’s disposed of his weapons twice? That can’t be right. We know the man planned everything meticulously. All these guns thrown away suggests the opposite. Is he after Berggren? He asks her who killed Andersson, but he doesn’t get an answer, so far as we know. He is insistent. Then he bashes you over the head and disappears.”

  “How about if we ask the same question as he did?”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing all evening.”

  Larsson gestured towards all the files scattered on every surface in the room.

  “I’ve had that question in mind while I’ve been going through the most important bits of the material we’ve got. I’ve even asked myself if he went to see Berggren to create a false trail because in fact he did murder Andersson. But if that were the case, why is he still here? What’s he waiting for now? Is he expecting something specific to happen? Or is he after somebody else? In which case, who?”

  “There’s a missing link,” Lindman said, slowly. “A person. The question is, though, is it a murderer or another victim?”

  They sat in silence. Lindman found it difficult to concentrate. He wanted to help Larsson, but he was thinking about Veronica Molin all the time. And he ought to have phoned Elena by now. He looked at his watch. It was 11 p.m. already. She’d be asleep. Too bad. He took his mobile out of his pocket.

  “I have to ring home,” he said, and went out. He stood beside the stuffed bear, hoping it might protect him.

  She wasn’t asleep.

  “I know you’re ill, but do you really have the right to treat me like you are doing?” she said.

  “I’ve bee
n working.”

  “You’re not at work. You’re on sick leave.”

  “I’ve been pretty busy talking to Larsson.”

  “And so you don’t have time to phone me, is that it?”

  “I didn’t realise it was as late as this.”

  No response. Then:

  “We have to have a serious talk. Not now, though. Later.”

  “I miss you. I don’t really know why I’m here. I suppose I’m so scared of the day dawning when I have to go to the hospital that I daren’t even be at home. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going at the moment. But I do miss you.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t met another woman up there?”

  That shook him. Hard, in a flash.

  “And who would that be?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody younger.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  He could hear that she was depressed, unhappy, and that made him feel even more guilty.

  “I’m standing next to a stuffed bear,” he said. “He sends his greetings.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here. But I’m going to sleep now. Phone me tomorrow. I hope you’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  Lindman went back to the office. Larsson was poring over an open file. Lindman poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. Larsson pushed the file to one side. His hair was in a mess, his eyes bloodshot.

  “Berggren,” he said. “I’ll have another chat with her tomorrow. I intend to take Erik along with me, but I’ll be putting the questions. Erik is too nice with her. I even think he’s a bit frightened of her.”

  “What are you hoping to achieve?”

  “Clarity. There’s something she’s not telling us.”

  Larsson stood up and stretched.

  “Bowling,” he said. “I’ll ask Erik to have a word with the local authority and see if they can’t establish a little bowling alley. Strictly for visiting policemen.” Then he was serious again. “What would you ask Berggren? You’ll soon be as familiar with this investigation as I am.”

  Lindman said nothing for almost a minute before replying.

  “I’d try to find out if she knew that Erik kept guns in the house.”

  “That’s a good idea, of course,” Larsson said. “We’ll keep on trying to fit the old girl into the picture. With a bit of luck, we’ll find a place for her in the end.”

  The telephone on his desk rang. Larsson answered. He listened, sat down and pulled a notepad towards him. Lindman handed him a pencil that had fallen to the floor. Larsson checked his watch.

  “We’re on our way,” he said, and hung up.

  Lindman could see from his face that something serious had happened.

  “That was Rundström. Twenty minutes ago a car drove straight through one of the roadblocks. The officers there were very lucky to escape uninjured.”

  He marked the spot on the map with his finger. It was a crossroads south-east of Funäsdalen. Lindman estimated the distance between there and Frostengren’s chalet at about 20 kilometres.

  “A dark blue saloon car, possibly a Golf,” Larsson said. “The driver was a man. His appearance could be in line with the descriptions we’ve had previously. The officers didn’t have time to see much. But this could mean that our man has broken through the cordon, and that he’s on his way here.”

  Larsson looked at his watch again. “If he really puts his foot down he could be here in two hours.”

  Lindman looked at the map and pointed to a side road. “He could turn off there.”

  “All the blocks in Funäsdalen are being moved right now. They’ll build a wall behind him. It’s here that there is no check at the moment.”

  He picked up the telephone. “Let’s hope that Erik’s sleeping pill hasn’t knocked him out yet.”

  Lindman waited while Larsson spoke to Johansson about the road block they needed to set up. He put the phone down and shook his head.

  “Erik’s a good man,” he said. “He’d just taken his sleeping pill, but he’s going to stick his finger down his throat and sick it up. He’s really set his mind on catching that bastard. Not just because Hereira’s most probably the one who stole his guns.”

  “It doesn’t add up,” Lindman said. “The more I think about it, the more impossible it gets. Why on earth would he break into Johansson’s place and then go back to the mountain?”

  “Nothing adds up. But we can hardly start thinking about a third person being mixed up in all this.” Larsson interrupted himself. “Maybe that is what happened,” he said, “but if so, what does that mean?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Whoever is in that car could be the one with the guns. And he might start using them. We’ll put a stinger out to puncture his tyres. If he starts shooting, we’ll keep well out of the way.” Then he turned serious. “You’re a police officer,” he said. “We’re very short-staffed just now. Will you come with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Erik’s bringing a gun for you.”

  “I thought they’d been stolen?”

  Larsson pulled a face.

  “He had an extra pistol that he presumably hasn’t registered either. Hidden away in the cellar. Plus his police issue weapon.”

  The telephone rang again. Rundström. Larsson listened without saying anything.

  “The car is stolen,” he said when the call was over. “It was in fact a Golf. Stolen from a petrol station in Funäsdalen. A lorry driver saw it happen. According to Rundström, it was one of the blokes Erik plays cards with.”

  He was in a hurry now. He shoved several files lying on his jacket into a heap.

  “Erik will call out the two police officers in Sveg. Not exactly an impressive squad, but I expect that will be enough to stop a Golf.”

  Three quarters of an hour later they had set up a roadblock three kilometres north-west of Sveg. The wind was rushing through the trees. Larsson talked in a low voice to Johansson. The other police officers skulked like shadows back from the side of the road. The headlights from the police cars cut into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 30

  The car they were waiting for never arrived. Five other cars passed through. Johansson knew two of the drivers. The other three were strangers: two were women, home helps, who lived to the west of Sveg, and a young man in a fur hat who had been staying with relatives in Hede and was now on his way south. All were made to submit their boots for inspection before they were allowed to continue.

  The temperature had risen again, and some wet snow was falling, melting the moment it touched the ground. There was no breeze any more, and every sound was clearly audible. Somebody broke wind, a hand brushed against a car door.

  They spread out a map on the bonnet of one of the police cars, and examined it by torchlight. It quickly became wet. Had they made an error? Was there some other route that they’d overlooked? They couldn’t see the alternative. All the roadblocks were where they should be. Larsson was acting as a sort of one-man call centre, keeping in touch with the other groups of officers stationed at various points in the forest.

  Lindman stayed on the sidelines. He’d been given a pistol of a type familiar to him by Johansson. Snow was falling on his head. He thought about Veronica Molin, Elena, and most of all about November 19. He couldn’t make up his mind if the darkness and the trees increased or alleviated his anxiety. There was also a brief moment when it crossed his mind that he could put an end to it all in just a few seconds. He had a loaded gun in his pocket; he could put it to his head and pull the trigger and there would be no need for radiotherapy.

  Nobody could see where the Golf could have disappeared to. Lindman heard Larsson getting more annoyed every time he spoke to one of his colleagues. Then Johansson’s telephone rang.

  “You what?” he shouted.

  He signalled for the wet map to be unfolded again as he listened to what was being said. He jabbed his finger onto the map so hard that it
made a hole, repeated a name, Löten, then finished the call.

  “Shooting,” he said. “Some time ago, here, by the lake, Löten, three kilometres from the road to Hårdabyn. The call was from somebody called Rune Wallén. He lives near there, owns a lorry and a bulldozer. He said he was woken by something that sounded like a bang. His wife heard it as well. He went outside, and there was another bang. He counted ten shots altogether. He’s a hunter, so he knows what a shotgun sounds like.”

  Johansson looked at his watch and did some calculations. “He said it took him a quarter of an hour to find my mobile phone number. We’re in the same hunting club so he knew he had the number somewhere. He said he’d also spent five minutes discussing with his wife what they should do. He thought at first he’d be waking me up if he called. All of which adds up to the fact that the shooting took place 25 minutes ago at the most.”

  “Right, let’s re-group,” Larsson said. “This roadblock must stay, but a couple of us and some of the men further north will head for the scene. Now we know that guns are being used. Caution is the watchword, no reckless intervention.”

  “Shouldn’t we call a national alert on this?” Johansson said.

  “You bet we will,” Larsson said. “You can arrange that. Phone Östersund. And take charge of the roadblock here.”

  Larsson looked at Lindman, who nodded.

  “Stefan and I will go to Löten. I’ll phone Rundström from the car.”

  “Be careful,” Johansson said.

  Larsson didn’t seem to hear. Lindman drove. Larsson spoke to Rundström. Described what had happened, what decisions had been taken. Then he put the telephone down.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  After a while, he said, “We could meet a car. We shan’t stop, we’ll just try and get its make and registration number.”

  It took them 35 minutes to reach the place described by Rune Wallén. They could see no cars. Lindman slowed down and pulled up when Larsson shouted, pointing at a dark blue Golf at the side of the road, halfway into the ditch.