Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

Johansson went off for his coffee. Lindman paused to have another look at the bear.

Then he drove to Ulvkalla and parked outside the white house. He saw Wigren in the street, no doubt looking for somebody he could invite into his kitchen for a cup of coffee.

She opened the door before he could ring the bell. Lindman didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not the elegantly dressed lady in the doorway. She had long black hair, obviously dyed, and she was heavily made-up around her eyes.

“I thought you might as well come in,” she said. “Instead of standing out there in the street.”

Lindman stepped into the hall. He’d gotten further than Wigren had managed in forty years. She led him into the living room that was at the back of the house, facing the garden. In the background Lindman could see the wooded hills rising towards Orsa Finnmark.

The room was expensively furnished. There were no prints of bare-breasted gypsy girls on Berggren’s walls. She had original oil paintings instead, and it seemed to Lindman that she had good taste. She excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen. He sat on the sofa to wait. He stood up again immediately. There were several photographs in frames in a bookcase. One of the pictures was of two girls sitting on a park bench. It had been taken several decades ago. In the background was a house with a sign outside. Lindman peered to see if he could make out what was on it. It didn’t look like Swedish, but it wasn’t clear enough to be sure. He sat down again. Berggren came in with coffee and cookies.

“A man appears and stands staring at my house,” she said. “Naturally, I’m surprised. And worried as well. After what happened to Herbert things will never be the same again in Sveg.”

“I’ll tell you why I was there,” Lindman said. “I used to work with Herbert Molin. I’m also a police officer.”

“Erik told me that.”

“I’m on sick leave and was kicking my heels. So I came here. I happened to speak to a real estate agent in Krokom who told me you had bought Herbert’s house on his behalf.”

“He asked me to. He phoned before he retired. He wanted me to help him.”

“So you knew each other?”

She looked dismissively at him. “Why else would he ask me to help him?”

“I’m trying to understand who he was. I’ve realized that the man I used to work with was not who I thought he was.”

“In what way?”

“In many ways.”

She stood up and adjusted a curtain in one of the windows.

“I knew Herbert’s first wife,” she said. “We went to school together. So I also got to know Herbert, to some extent. That was when he lived in Stockholm. Then I lost contact with her after they divorced. But not with Herbert.” She returned to her chair. “That’s all there is to it. And now he’s dead. And I’m sad about that.”

“Did you know that his daughter Veronica’s here?”

She shook her head.

“No, I didn’t know that. But I don’t expect her to pay me a visit. It was Herbert I knew, not his children.”

“Did he move here because you were here?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “That is something that concerned only him and me. And now it concerns only me.”

“Of course.”

Lindman took a sip of coffee. Berggren was not telling him the truth. The disappearing wife was plausible, but there was something about what she said that didn’t add up. Something he should be able to work out. He put down his cup, which was blue with a gold edge.

“Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

“No. Do you?”

Lindman shook his head.

“An old man who wanted to live in peace,” she said. “Who on earth would want to kill him?”

Lindman looked at his hands. “There must have been somebody who did,” he said.

There was only one other question he wanted to ask.

“I find it strange that you haven’t spoken to the police in Östersund. The ones who are in charge of the investigation.”

“I’ve been waiting for them to contact me.”

Lindman was now certain. The woman was not telling him the whole truth.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about why Herbert came here,” he said. “Why would anybody want to live such a lonely life?”

“It’s not lonely up here,” Berggren said. “There’s lots you can do if you want to. For instance, I’m going to a concert in the church tonight. There’s an organist coming here from Sundsvall.”

“I heard from Erik Johansson that you give dancing lessons.”

“Children should learn how to dance. If nobody else teaches them, I can. But I don’t know if I’ve got the strength to go on for much longer.”

Lindman decided not to ask any questions about Molin’s interest in dancing. Larsson was the man to ask those questions, nobody else.

A telephone rang somewhere in the house. She excused herself and left the room. Lindman stood up and made a rapid choice between the balcony door and a window, then unfastened the catch on a window, making sure it held tight and didn’t open. Then he sat down again. She returned a minute later.

“I won’t impose on you any longer,” Lindman said, getting to his feet. “Thank you for the coffee. It’s not often you get coffee as strong as that.”

“Why should everything have to be weak?” she said. “Everything is weak nowadays. Coffee, and people as well.”

Lindman had left his jacket in the hall. As he put it on, he looked around to see if the house had a burglar alarm. He could see no sign of one.

He drove back to the hotel, thinking over what Berggren had said about weak coffee and weak people. The receptionist seemed to be her cheerful self again. There was a signboard next to the desk. On it was a yellow poster advertising an organ concert in the church that evening, starting at 7:30. The program consisted exclusively of music by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Shortly after 7:00 that evening Lindman went to the church. He took up a position beyond the church wall. He could hear the organist rehearsing. At 7:25, Berggren arrived and walked into the church.

Lindman hurried back to the hotel and got into his car. He drove to the river and parked on the other side of the bridge. Then he approached Berggren’s house from the back. He was counting on the concert lasting for at least an hour. He checked his watch: 7:41. There was a narrow path around the back of the white house. He had no flashlight with him, but he felt his way cautiously forward in the dark. There was a light on in the room where he had had his coffee. He paused when he came to the garden fence and listened. Then he jumped over and ran to the house wall, crouching low. He stood up and felt the underside of the window. Berggren had failed to notice that he had unhooked the catch. He opened it carefully, hoisted himself up, and, taking careful stock of its position, lifted down the vase of flowers on the window ledge.

Here he was, breaking into Berggren’s house just as he had broken into Molin’s house a few days earlier.

He wiped the soles of his shoes with a handkerchief. It was 7:45. He looked around the room. He had no idea what he was looking for. Perhaps some indication that he had been right, that Berggren hadn’t been telling the truth. He knew that a lie could be exposed by an object. He left the living room, glanced into the kitchen, and then continued into what appeared to be a study. This is the last place I’ll search, he decided. First he wanted to look on the upper floor. He ran up the stairs. The first room seemed to be a guest room. He walked into Berggren’s bedroom. She slept in a large double bed. There was a pale blue fitted carpet. He looked into the bathroom. Bottles were lined up in neat rows in front of the mirror.