Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“I bought the local paper,” Lindman said, no longer bothering to conceal his anger. “I told the man who I was and asked if Molin did his shopping there.”

Rundström produced a sheet of paper he’d been holding behind his back. “You asked quite a few more questions as well. Lundell read them to me over the phone.”

This is lunacy, Lindman thought. He looked at Larsson, but he was staring down at his stomach.

For the first time Rundström looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.

“Who killed my colleague.”

“That’s what we want to know as well. Needless to say, we’ve given this investigation top priority. It’s been a long time since we’ve set up such a broadly based investigative team as this one. We’ve had some pretty violent crimes up here over the years. We’re not exactly unused to it.”

Lindman could see that Rundström was making no attempt to disguise the fact that he resented his presence, but he could also see that Larsson was upset by the approach Rundström had adopted. That gave him an escape route.

“It goes without saying that I’m not questioning the way you are working.”

“Have you any information you can give us that would be of use to the investigation?”

“No,” Lindman said. He didn’t want to tell Rundström about the tent site until he’d discussed it with Larsson. “I have no useful information to give you. I didn’t know Molin well enough to be able to tell you anything about the life he led in Borås, never mind here. No doubt there are others who would be better at that than I am. And in any case, I’ll be leaving soon.”

Rundström nodded and opened the door. “Any news from Umeå yet?”

“Nothing so far,” Larsson said.

Rundström smiled curtly at Lindman and was gone. Larsson stretched out an arm apologetically.

“Rundström can be a bit abrupt at times. But he means well.”

“He’s within his rights to complain about my poking my nose in your business.”

Larsson leaned back in his chair and eyed him speculatively. “Is that what you’re doing? Poking your nose in?”

“Only in the sense that sometimes you can’t avoid stumbling over things.”

Larsson looked at his watch. “How long are you thinking of staying in Östersund? Overnight?”

“I haven’t decided anything.”

“Stay overnight, then. I’ll be working here tonight as well. Come here sometime after seven. With a little luck, everything will be quiet here then. I have to be on call tonight, because so many officers are out sick. You can make yourself at home in my office.”

Larsson pointed to some files on a shelf behind him.

“You can look through the material we have. Then we can talk.”

“And Rundström?”

“He lives in Brunflo. You can bet your life he won’t be here tonight. Nobody will ask any questions.”

Larsson rose from his chair. Lindman understood that the conversation was over.

“The old theater’s been converted into an hotel. A good hotel. There’s no question of their being full in October.”

Lindman buttoned up his jacket.

“Umeå?” he wondered.

“That’s where we send our dead bodies.”

“I thought that was Uppsala or Stockholm.”

Larsson smiled. “You’re in Östersund now. Umeå’s a lot nearer.”

Larsson accompanied him as far as the reception area. Lindman noticed that he was limping. Larsson saw that he’d noticed.

“I slipped in the bathroom. Nothing serious.”

Larsson opened the front door and went out into the street with him. “There’s winter in the air,” he said, looking up at the sky.

“Herbert Molin must have bought the house from somebody,” said Lindman. “Privately, or through a real estate agent.”

“We’ve looked into that, of course,” Larsson said. “Molin bought the house from an independent real estate agent. Not one of the big companies. A rural real estate agent. His name’s Hans Marklund and he runs the business on his own.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Nothing yet. He’s been on vacation in Spain. He’s evidently got a second home down there. He’s on my list for tomorrow.”

“He’s back?”

“Yesterday.”

Larsson thought for a moment. “I can tell my colleagues that I’ll take the responsibility for interviewing him. Which in turn means that there’s nothing to prevent you from talking to him.”

“Hans Marklund?”

“He works from his house in Krokom. Take the road north. In Krokom itself, you’ll see a sign saying ‘Rural Properties.’ Ring the doorbell here at 7:15, and I’ll come and let you in.”

Larsson went back inside. Rundström’s attitude had annoyed Lindman, but at the same time it had given him renewed energy. And Larsson wanted to help him by letting him go through the material they had accumulated so far. In doing so, Larsson was putting himself at risk, even if there were no real impropriety in allowing a colleague from another force to take part in the investigation. Lindman found the hotel Larsson had suggested. He got a room under the eaves. He left his suitcase there and returned to his car. He phoned the hotel in Sveg and spoke to the receptionist.

“Nobody will take your room,” she assured him.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You come when it suits you.”

Lindman found his way out of Östersund. It was only twenty kilometers to Krokom, where he found the real estate agent’s right away. It was a yellow-painted house with a large garden. A man was walking around the lawn vacuuming up dead leaves. He switched off the machine when he saw Lindman. The man was tanned and about Lindman’s age. He looked fit and trim, and had a tattoo on one of his wrists.

“Are you looking for a house?” he said.

“Not exactly. Are you Hans Marklund?”

“That’s me.”

Then he turned serious. “Are you from the tax authority?”

“No. Giuseppe Larsson told me I’d find you here.”

Marklund frowned. Then he remembered who that was. “The policeman. I’ve just gotten back from Spain. There are quite a lot of Giuseppes there. Or something like that. In Östersund there’s only one. Are you a police officer as well?”

Lindman hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I’m a police officer. You once sold a house to a man called Herbert Molin. As you know, he’s dead now.”

“Come inside,” Marklund said. “They phoned me in Spain and told me he’d been murdered. I didn’t expect to hear from them until tomorrow.”

“You will.”

One of the rooms on the ground floor had been turned into an office. There were maps on the walls, and colored photographs of houses up for sale. Lindman noticed that the prices were significantly lower than in Borås.

“I’m on my own at the moment,” Marklund said. “My wife and children are staying in Spain for another week. We’ve got a little house in Marbella. I inherited it from my parents. The kids have their fall break, or whatever it’s called.”

Marklund made some coffee and they sat down at a table strewn with files.

“I had some problems with the tax people last year,” Marklund said apologetically. “That’s why I asked. As the local authority is running short of money, I supposed they have to squeeze out every krona they can.”

“Eleven years ago or so, you sold the house near Linsell to Herbert Molin. I used to work with him in Borås. He retired and moved up here. And now he’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“He was murdered.”

“Why? By whom?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Marklund shook his head.

“It sounds nasty. We like to think that we live in a pretty peaceful area up here — but maybe there aren’t any of those anymore?”