Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“But I hardly think you were the one who wore them?”

“I don’t think I need answer that question. Not merely because it’s idiotic.”

“Not just at the moment, but we could take you to Östersund for a quite different kind of questioning. It’s up to you.”

She thought for a while before answering. “It belonged to my father. Karl-Evert Berggren. He’s been dead for many years now.”

“So he fought in World War II, in the German army, is that right?”

“He was a member of the volunteer corps known as the Swedish Company. He was awarded two medals for bravery. I can show them to you if you wish.”

Larsson shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I take it you know that Molin used to be a Nazi in his youth, and was a volunteer in the Waffen-SS during the war?”

She sat up straight, but she didn’t ask how they knew that. “Not ‘used to be.’ Herbert was just as convinced a National Socialist the day he died as he was as a young man. He and my father fought side by side. Even if my father was much older than Herbert, they remained good friends all their lives.”

“And you?”

“I don’t think I need to answer that question. There is no law that requires one to declare one’s political persuasion.”

“If that persuasion, as you call it, involves an association with a group that can be linked with violence and a crime known as racial agitation, it is a question that can be justified.”

“I am not a member of any organization,” she said, obviously angered. “What would it be? That band of idiots who run around the streets with shaven heads and desecrate the Hitler salute?”

“Let me rephrase the question. Were you of the same political views as Herbert Molin?”

Her reply came with no hesitation. “Of course. I grew up in a family well aware of race. My father was one of the founders of the National Socialist Workers’ Party in 1933. Sven-Olof Lindholm, our leader, often came to visit us. My father was a doctor and an officer in the territorial army. We lived in Stockholm in those days. I still remember my mother taking me with her on demonstrations in support of the National Socialist women’s organizations. I have been giving the Hitler salute since I was ten. My parents could see what was happening. Jews flocking into the country, degeneration, moral decay. And the threat of Communism. Nothing has changed. Now Sweden is being undermined by indiscriminate immigration. The very thought of mosques being built on Swedish soil makes me sick. Sweden is a society that is rotting away. And nobody is doing anything about it.”

Her outburst had set her trembling. Lindman was sickened, and wondered where all this hatred could have come from.

“What you have just said was not exactly uplifting,” Larsson said.

“I stand by every single word. Sweden is a social concept that barely exists any longer. One has to feel nothing but loathing for the people who have allowed this to come to pass.”

“So Molin’s moving up here was no coincidence?”

“Of course not. In times like this when everything is falling apart, those of us who maintain the old ideals have a responsibility to help one another.”

“So there is an organization, despite what you said?”

“No. But we know who our real friends are.”

“You keep it all secret, though?”

She snorted with disgust as she answered. “Being faithful to the land of our fathers seems to be a criminal offense nowadays. If we are to be left in peace, we have to keep quiet about our views.”

“Nevertheless, somebody tracked down your friend and killed him, isn’t that so?”

“What has that got to do with his patriotic views?”

“You said it yourself. You are forced to hide away and conceal your idiotic ideals.”

“There must have been some other reason for Herbert’s death.”

“What, for instance?”

“I didn’t know him well enough to know.”

“But you must have wondered?”

“Of course, but I find it impossible to understand.”

“These last few months. Did anything unexpected happen? Did he behave differently in any way?”

“He was just the same as he always was. I used to visit him once every week.”

“He didn’t mention anything that was worrying him?”

“No, nothing.”

Larsson paused. It seemed to Lindman that Berggren was telling the truth.

“What happened to Abraham Andersson?” she said.

“He was shot. It seems to have been an execution. Did he belong to your organization — which isn’t an organization, of course?”

“No. Herbert used to talk to him occasionally, but they never discussed politics. Herbert was very cautious. He had very few real friends.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed Abraham Andersson?”

“I didn’t know the man.”

“Can you tell me who was closest to Molin?”

“I suppose that must have been me. And his children. His daughter at least. His relationship with his son had been broken off.”

“By the father or by the son?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anybody else? Have you ever heard of anybody by the name of Wetterstedt, from Kalmar?”

She hesitated before answering. Larsson and Lindman exchanged glances. She had been surprised to hear the name Wetterstedt.

“He sometimes referred to a person by that name. Herbert was born and grew up in Kalmar. Wetterstedt was related to a former minister of justice, I believe, the one who was murdered some years ago. He may have been a portrait painter, but I’m not sure.”

Larsson had taken out his notebook and written down what she said. “Is that all?”

“Yes. But Herbert was not a man to say anything more than the bare essentials. People have their integrity, don’t you agree?”

Larsson looked up at Lindman.

Then he said, “I have one more question. Did you and Molin do an occasional twirl when you visited him?”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I wondered if you used to dance together?”

For the third time she looked startled. “We did, as a matter of fact.”

“Tango?”

“Not only that. But often, yes. We also did some of the old-fashioned dances, ones that are dying out. The ones that require some technique and a certain elegance. How do they dance nowadays? Like monkeys?”

“I suppose you know that Molin had a sort of doll that he used to dance with?”

“He was a passionate dancer. Very skilled. He practised a lot. When he was young, I believe he dreamed of becoming a professional dancer, but instead he did his duty and answered the call to arms.”

Lindman was struck by her high-flown language. It was as if she were trying to make time go backwards, to the 1930s and 1940s.

“May I take it that there were not many people who knew that Molin was a dancer?”

“He did not have many friends. How many times do I need to tell you that?”

“How far back do you remember his interest in dancing going?”

“I think it was aroused during the war. Perhaps shortly before.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He once said so.”

“What did he say?”

“What I’ve just told you. Nothing more. The war was harrowing, but he did have leave occasionally. The German armed forces took good care of their troops. They were granted leave whenever possible, and everything was paid for them.”

“Did he often talk about the war?”

“No. But my father did. They once had a week’s leave at the same time. They went to Berlin together. My father told me that Herbert wanted to go out dancing every evening. I believe that Herbert went to Berlin to go dancing whenever he was allowed to leave the front.”

“Do you have anything to say to us that you think could be of assistance in apprehending his murderer?”