Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“I’m curious, like everybody else. You have to ask why somebody would move here from southern Sweden unless they were going to get married or had found their dream job,” Lindman said, sensing that he might be making a serious mistake by not telling the truth.

“I wondered about that as well. My wife too. But you don’t ask questions if you don’t have to. Elsa is nice, and helpful. She babysat for us when we needed it. And I still have no idea why she moved here. She didn’t have any relatives in these parts.” Wigren fell silent. Lindman waited. He had the impression that there was more to come.

“You might well think it’s a bit odd,” said Wigren, when he eventually got around to saying something. “I’ve been living next door to Elsa for a whole generation. Even so, I have no idea why she bought this house in Ulvkalla. But there’s another thing that’s even odder.”

“What?”

“All these years I never set foot in her house. Nor did my wife while she was alive. Nor the children while they were growing up. I don’t know anybody who’s ever been inside her house. Let’s face it, that’s a little strange.”

Lindman agreed. There was something about Berggren’s life that was reminiscent of Molin’s. Both came from elsewhere, and both led isolated lives. The question is whether what I think is true of Molin, that he was running away from something, also applied to Berggren. She was the one who bought the house on his behalf. But why? How had they gotten to know each other? Did they have anything else in common?

“Did you never see anyone arrive at the house?”

“Nobody has ever seen anyone set foot inside her house, nor come out again, for that matter.”

Lindman decided it was time to move on. He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go now,” he said. “But thank you for the coffee.”

They headed for the front door. Lindman pointed to the fourteenpointed antlers. “I shot that beast when I belonged to a group of hunters from around Lillhardal.”

“Is that big?”

Wigren burst out laughing. “The biggest I ever shot. It wouldn’t have found its way onto my wall if it wasn’t. When I die, it will end up on the garbage pile. None of my children want it. We could be in for some snow tonight,” he said, at the door. Then he turned to face Lindman. “I don’t know why you’ve been asking all these questions about Elsa, but I’m not going to say anything. One of these days though, you’ll come and join me here in the kitchen and tell me what’s going on.”

Lindman nodded. He’d been right not to have underestimated Wigren.

“Good luck with the cancer,” the old man said in farewell. “What I mean is, I hope you recover.”

Lindman walked back the way he’d come. There was still no car in Berggren’s drive or in the garage. He glanced at the windows. No movement of the curtains. When he crossed the bridge he stopped again and gazed down into the water. The fear he felt at the thought of his illness came and went in waves. He could no longer stop himself from thinking about what was in store for him. What he was doing here. Wandering about the periphery of the investigation of Molin’s murder was a form of therapy which had only a limited effect.

In the center of the town he found the public library in the community center. There was a large stuffed bear in the foyer, staring at him. He had a sudden urge to attack it in a test of strength. The thought made him burst out laughing. A man carrying a bundle of papers looked up at him in surprise.

Lindman located the shelves with medical literature, but when he sat down with a book with information on all varieties of cancer, he couldn’t bring himself to open it. It’s too soon, he thought. One more day. But not more. Then I will have to come to terms with my situation instead of trying to bury it under my pointless efforts to find out what happened to Molin.

When he left the community center, he felt a wave of indecision again. Annoyed, he started marching back to the hotel. On the way, he decided to stop at the wine shop. He hadn’t been told by the doctor in Borås that he shouldn’t drink alcohol. No doubt he shouldn’t, but just now, he didn’t care. He bought two bottles of wine. As he emerged onto the street, his phone rang. He put his bag down on the pavement and answered it. It was Elena.

“I was wondering why you haven’t called me.”

Lindman immediately felt guilty. He could hear that she was hurt and disappointed.

“I don’t feel too good,” he said apologetically.

“Are you still in Sveg?”

“Where else could I be?”

“What are you doing there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m waiting to go to Molin’s funeral.”

“Do you want me to come? I could take some time off work.”

He nearly said yes. Yes, he did want her to come. “No,” he said. “I think it’s better for me to be by myself.”

She didn’t ask again. They talked for a while without anything being said. Afterwards, he wondered why he hadn’t told her the truth. Why hadn’t he told her that he missed her? That he didn’t want to be on his own? It was as if he understood less and less about himself. And all because of the accursed lump in his mouth.

He walked into the hotel with his bottles. The girl was in the lobby, watering the flowers.

“Do you have everything you need?” she said.

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

She fetched his key, still holding the watering can.

“I can’t believe how gray everything looks,” she said. “Early November. And the worst is yet to come. All that awful winter.”

She went back to her plants. Lindman returned to his room. The suitcase was where he had left it. He put the shopping bag on the table. It was a few minutes past three. It’s too early, he thought. I can’t sit here drinking wine midway through the afternoon.

He stood motionless, gazing out of the window. Then he made up his mind. He would drive to the lake where he’d discovered the traces of a camp, but he’d go to the far side, to the forestry roads Larsson had talked about. He didn’t expect to find anything, but it would help to pass the time.

It took him an hour to find one of the forestry roads. On the map the lake was called Stångvattnet. It was long and narrow, widest at the point where the forestry road ended with a space big enough for trucks to turn in. He got out of the car and walked the few meters to the water’s edge. It was starting to grow dark already. He stood still and listened. The only sound was a faint rustling in the trees. He tried to remember if there had been any mention of the weather on the day of Molin’s murder in the material he’d read in Östersund. He couldn’t remember anything. It seemed to him that even if the wind were blowing towards the house it would have been possible to hear a shot fired in that direction. But what evidence was there to suggest that anybody had been here that day? None. None at all.

He remained by the water until darkness fell. A few ripples danced over the surface of the lake, then everything was still again. This was the first time in his life that he had been alone in a forest. Apart from that day when he and Molin had been chasing an escaped murderer outside Borås and he’d witnessed his colleague’s fear. So why did Molin move here? Because he wanted a refuge, a nest he could crawl into and hide? Or was there some other reason?

He thought about what Wigren had said. That nobody ever visited Berggren. That didn’t prevent Molin from being visited by her, though. There were two questions he should have asked Wigren: did Berggren go out at night? Did she still like dancing? Two questions that could have given him a lot of answers.

It struck him that it was Molin who had once taught him this simple truth. If you ask the right question at the right time, you could get a lot more answers than you were looking for.