Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“We don’t get very many visitors here in the autumn,” the man said. His nametag said that his name was Torbjörn Lundell. Lindman thought he might as well tell him the truth. “I knew Herbert Molin,” he said. “We worked together before he retired.”

Lundell looked doubtfully at him. “You’re the police,” he said. “Can’t our own force handle this?”

“I’ve got nothing to do with the investigation.”

“But even so, you’ve come here, from as far away as... Halland, was it?”

“Vâstergötland. I’m on vacation. But Herbert told you that, did he? That he came from Borås?”

Lundell shook his head. “It was the police who said that. But he used to shop here. Every other week. Always on a Thursday. Never said a word unless he had to. Always bought the same things. He was a bit choosy when it came to coffee, though. I had to order it specially for him. French coffee.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Thursday, the week before he died.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about him?”

“Such as what?”

“Was he different at all?”

“He was the same as ever. Didn’t say a word more than he had to.”

Lindman hesitated. He shouldn’t have lapsed so easily into his role as a police officer. Rumors would get around that there was a policeman from some distant place, asking awkward questions. Nevertheless, there was one question he simply couldn’t resist asking.

“Have you had any other customers lately? Ones you don’t usually have?”

“That’s what the fuzz from Östersund asked me. And the officer from Sveg. I told ’em the way it was — apart from a few Norwegians and some berry pickers from Belgium last week, I haven’t seen a soul here that I didn’t know.”

Lindman thanked him, left the shop, and continued towards Sveg. It was dark by now. He was feeling distinctly hungry.

He’d gotten an answer to one of his questions, though. There was a police presence in Sveg. Even if the investigation was based in Östersund.

Shortly before he came to Glissjöberg an elk ran over the road into his headlights. He managed to brake in time. The animal disappeared into the trees at the side of the road. He waited to see if others would follow it, but none did.

He parked outside his hotel. There was a group of men in uniforms chatting away in the lobby. He went up to his room and sat on the bed. Before he knew where he was, he had visions of himself lying in bed with tubes attached to his body and face. Elena was in a chair at the side of his bed, crying.

He jumped up and slammed his fist hard into the wall. Before he knew where he was there came a knock at the door. Another of the test drivers.

“Did you want something?” the man said.

“What on earth would I want?”

“You knocked on the wall.”

“It must have been from somewhere else.”

Lindman slammed the door in the driver’s face. I’ve made my first enemy in Härjedalen, he thought. Just when I should be concentrating on making friends. That set him thinking. Why did he have so few friends? Why didn’t he move in with Elena and start living the life he really yearned for? Why did he lead a life that left him all on his own, now that he was faced with a serious illness? He had no answer to that.

He thought about calling Elena, but decided to eat first. He went down to the dining room and chose a window table. He was the only customer. He could hear the sound from a television set coming from the bar. To his surprise he found that the receptionist had been reincarnated as a waitress. He ordered a steak and a beer. As he ate, he thumbed through the newspaper he’d bought in Linsell. He read all the way through the obituaries, and tried to imagine his own obituary. He ordered a coffee after the meal, and stared out into the darkness.

He left the dining room and paused in the lobby, wondering whether to go for a walk or return to his room. He chose the latter course. He dialed Elena’s number. She picked up immediately. Lindman had the impression she’d been sitting by the phone, waiting for him to call.

“Where are you?”

“In Sveg.”

“What’s it like there?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Cold, and I feel lonely.”

“I don’t understand why you’ve gone there.”

“Neither do I.”

“Come back home, then.”

“If I could, I’d head back right away. But I’ll be here for a few more days.”

“Can’t you tell me you miss me, at least?”

“You know I do.”

He gave her the hotel telephone number, and hung up. Neither of them liked talking on the phone. Their conversations were often short. Even so, Lindman had the feeling she was close by his side.

He was tired. It had been a long day. He untied his laces and kicked his shoes away from the side of the bed. Then he lay down and stared at the ceiling. I must make up my mind what I’m doing here, he thought. I came here to try to understand what had happened, to understand what Molin had been so frightened of. Now I’ve seen the house where he was murdered, and I’ve found a camping site that might have been a hiding place.

He wondered what to do next. The obvious thing would be to drive up to Östersund and meet this Larsson.

But then what?

Maybe the journey here was pointless. He should have gone to Mallorca. The Jämtland police would do what they had to do. One day he would find out what had happened. Somewhere out there was a murderer waiting to be arrested.

He lay on his side and looked at the blank television screen. He could hear some young people laughing in the street below. Had he laughed at all during the day that had just passed? He searched his memory, but couldn’t even remember a smile. Just at this moment I’m not the person I usually am, he thought. A man who’s always laughing. At the moment I’m a man with a malignant lump on his tongue who’s scared to death about what’s going to happen next.

Then he looked at his shoes. Something had stuck to one of the soles, he discovered, trapped in the pattern of the rubber sole. A stone from the gravel path, he thought. He reached to extract it.

But it wasn’t a stone. It was part of a jigsaw puzzle piece. He sat up and adjusted the bedside lamp. The piece was soft and discolored by soil. He was certain he hadn’t stepped on any pieces inside the house. It might have been outside the house. Nevertheless, his intuition told him that the jigsaw piece had stuck to the sole of his shoe at the place where the tent had been pitched. Whoever killed Herbert Molin had been camping at the lakeside.

The discovery of the broken jigsaw puzzle piece livened him up somewhat. He sat at the table and started making notes about everything that had happened in the course of the day. It took the form of a letter. At first, he couldn’t think to whom it should be addressed. It occurred to him that it should go to the doctor who was expecting to see him in Borås on the morning of November 19. Was there nobody else to write to? Perhaps it was that Elena wouldn’t understand what he was talking about? At the top of the page he wrote: The fear of Herbert Molin, and underlined the words with forceful strokes of his pen. Then he noted one by one the observations he’d made in and around the house, and where the tent had been. He tried to draw some conclusions, but the only thing that seemed to him definite was that Molin’s murder had long been planned.

It was 10 P.M. He hesitated, but decided to phone Larsson at home and tell him he would come and see him in Östersund the following day. He looked for the number in the phone book. There were a lot of Larssons, but predictably only one Giuseppe, a police officer. His wife answered. Lindman explained who he was. She sounded friendly. While he was waiting, he wondered what Larsson’s hobby might be. Why didn’t he have a hobby himself, apart from football? He hadn’t managed to find an answer before Larsson came to the phone.