Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“All he said was that you were here on a visit and that you used to work with Molin. He certainly didn’t say anything about your spying on Elsa.”

“I’m not spying,” Lindman said. “I went out for a walk. I don’t know why I stopped.”

He realized that it was an idiotic answer. He’d been standing there for a long time.

“We’d better move on,” Johansson said. “Otherwise Elsa will start wondering.”

Johansson’s car was parked in a nearby side street. It wasn’t a blue-and-white police car, but a Toyota with a grill in front of the backseat.

“So you went out for a walk,” Johansson said again. “And just happened to wind up outside Elsa’s house?”

“Yes.”

Johansson looked worried.

“It’s probably best if we don’t say anything about this to Giuseppe,” he said. “He would no doubt be a bit worried if we did. I don’t think they’re all that thrilled in Östersund to have you spying on people.”

“I’m not spying.”

“No, you said that. But it’s a little odd that you should be standing here at Elsa’s house. Even if she was the one who bought Molin’s cottage for him.”

“Do you know her?”

“She’s always lived here. Nice and friendly. Takes an interest in children.”

“Meaning?”

“She runs dancing classes in the community center. Or used to. The children learned how to dance. I don’t know if she still does it.”

Lindman nodded, but didn’t ask any questions.

“Are you staying at the hotel? I can give you a lift.”

“I’d rather walk,” Lindman said. “But thanks for the offer. I haven’t noticed a police station in Sveg.”

“We’re in the community center.”

“Can I check in tomorrow morning? Just to see how things are here. And to have a talk.”

“Of course.”

Johansson opened his car door.

“I’d better give Elsa a call and tell her everything’s okay.”

He got into the car, said goodbye, and closed the door. Lindman waited until the car was out of sight before walking away.

He stopped on the bridge for the fourth time. The link, he thought. It’s not just that Berggren and Molin knew each other. There’s more to it than that. But what? He started walking slowly, waiting for his thoughts to fall into a pattern. Molin had used Berggren to find a house for him. They already knew each other. Maybe Molin had moved to Härjedalen to be close to her?

At the end of the bridge he paused again. Another thought had struck him. He should have thought of it earlier. Berggren had noticed him in the street despite the fact that he’d avoided the light of the streetlights. That could only mean that she was keeping watch over the street. That she either expected or feared that somebody would come. He was certain of it. She couldn’t possibly have seen him by chance.

He set off again, more quickly now. It seemed to him that the interest Berggren and Molin shared in dance could not have been a coincidence.

The reception desk was closed by the time he got back to the hotel. As he walked up the stairs, he wondered if Veronica Molin was asleep. Assuming she was still called Molin.

He unlocked his door and switched on the light. On the floor, pushed under the door, was a message. He picked it up and read it. “Phone Giuseppe Larsson in Östersund. Urgent.”

It was Larsson himself who answered.

“I couldn’t find your cell phone number,” he said. “I must have left it at the office. I phoned the hotel, but they said you were out.”

Lindman wondered if Johansson had phoned Larsson after all to tell him about their meeting outside Berggren’s house.

“I went for a walk. There’s not much else to do here.”

Larsson chuckled.

“I think they show films sometimes at the community center.”

“I need to keep moving.”

Lindman could hear that Larsson was talking to somebody. The volume of the television set behind him was turned down.

“I thought I’d entertain you with something we heard from Umeå today. A paper signed by Dr. Hollander. You might well ask why he didn’t mention it in the first preliminary report he sent us, but these pathologists have their own way of doing things. Have you got a moment?”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“He says he’s found three old entry wounds.”

“What does he mean by that?”

“That Molin had been shot at some time. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Not just one bullet. Three. And Dr. Hollander takes the liberty of deviating from strict protocol. He thinks that Molin was fantastically lucky to have survived. He actually used that word: ‘fantastic good fortune.’ Two of the bullets hit him in the chest just beneath his heart, and the third in his left arm. On the basis of the scars and other things I don’t understand, Hollander concludes that Molin received these wounds when he was a young man. He can’t tell whether all three bullets came at the same time, but it seems likely.”

Larsson started sneezing. Lindman waited.

“Red wine always does that to me,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t resist the temptation tonight. I’m being punished for it.”

“There was nothing about bullet wounds in the files, was there?”

“No. But I phoned Borås and spoke to a friendly man who laughed nearly all the time.”

“Inspector Olausson.”

“That’s the one. I didn’t mention that you were here; I simply asked if he knew that Molin had been shot. He didn’t. Which enables us to draw a simple conclusion.”

“That it happened before he joined the police?”

“Even earlier than that. When the old regional council offices were reformed, the police took over their archives and personnel details. It would have been documented when the police force was nationalized and Molin became an employee of His Majesty the King.”

“So it must have happened while he was in the army.”

“That’s more or less the conclusion I’ve come to. But it takes time to get into military archives. But what we should be asking ourselves even now is what might have happened if it turns out that he wasn’t wounded while he was a soldier.”

Larsson paused.

“Does this change the picture?”

“It changes everything in the picture. Or rather, we don’t have a picture any more. I don’t think we’re going to find out who did this for quite a long time. My experience tells me that it’s going to take a long time, because we’re going to have to dig deep. What does your experience tell you?”

“That you might be right.”

Larsson started sneezing again.

“I thought you’d want to know this,” Larsson said when he came back on the phone. “Incidentally, I shall be meeting Molin’s daughter tomorrow.”

“She’s staying here in the hotel.”

“I thought you might meet her. What’s she like?”

“Reserved. But she’s a very good-looking woman.”

“I have something to look forward to then. Have you spoken to her?”

“We had dinner together. She told me something I didn’t know, about those missing years in the mid-fifties. She says Molin owned a couple of music shops in the Stockholm area, but he went bankrupt.”

“I suppose there’s no reason why she should lie about that?”

“Hardly. But you’ll meet her tomorrow anyway.”

“I’ll certainly ask her about the bullet wounds. Have you decided how long you’re going to stay?”

“Perhaps tomorrow as well. Then I’m leaving. But I’ll stay in touch.”

“Make sure you do.”

Lindman put the phone down and slumped onto the bed. He felt tired. Without even taking off his shoes, he stretched out and fell asleep.