Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“No, I do not, but I want you to find the guilty person, even if they will not receive any punishment worthy of the name. In Sweden the powers that be protect the criminal, not the victim. Naturally, it will emerge that Herbert remained faithful to his old ideals and he will be condemned, despite the fact that he is dead.”

“That will be all for the time being. But you will be called for further talks.”

“Am I suspected of some crime?”

“No.”

“Will you kindly tell me how you knew about my father’s uniform?”

“Some other time,” Larsson said, getting up. “I have to say that your opinions verge on the unacceptable.”

“Sweden is already beyond redemption,” she said. “When I was young one often came across police officers who were politically aware and who shared our beliefs. That is now a thing of the past.”

She closed the door behind them. Larsson couldn’t get away from her house fast enough.

“That’s what I call a really nasty person,” he said when they came to the gate. “I was sorely tempted to slap her.”

“There are more people than you would imagine who share her views,” Lindman said.

They walked back to the hotel in silence. Larsson suddenly stopped short.

“What did she actually say? About Molin?”

“That he’d always been a Nazi.”

“And what else?”

Lindman shook his head.

“What she actually said was that Molin remained a person with the same views until the day he died. I haven’t read his diary in detail, but you have. One might well ask what he actually did during the war. And one might well wonder if there are not a lot of people who would have been glad to see him dead.”

“I doubt that,” Lindman said. “The war ended fifty-four years ago. That’s an awful long time to wait.”

“Maybe,” Larsson said. “Maybe.”

They set off again. As they were passing the district court, Lindman said, “What happens if we turn the whole business upside down? We are assuming everything started with Molin since he was murdered first. What if we approach it from the other side? If we started concentrating on Andersson?”

“Not ‘we,’” Larsson said. “‘I.’ Obviously I’ll keep that possibility open. But it’s very unlikely. Andersson moved here for reasons very different from Molin’s. He didn’t hide himself away. He mixed with his neighbors and was a completely different personality.”

They returned to the hotel. Lindman had been annoyed by Larsson’s remark. He was excluded again.

“What are you going to do now?” Larsson said.

Lindman shrugged. “I have to get out of here.”

Larsson hesitated before asking, “How are you?”

“I was in pain one day, but I’m okay now.”

“I try to imagine what it must be like, but I can’t.”

They were standing outside the hotel entrance. Lindman watched a house sparrow pecking away at a dead worm. I can’t imagine it myself either, he thought. I still think the whole business is a nightmare, and that I won’t in fact have to show up at the hospital in Borås on November 19 to start radiation therapy.

“Before you leave, I’d like you to show me that place where the tent was pitched.”

Lindman thought that he would prefer to leave Sveg as soon as possible, but he could hardly say no.

“When?” he asked.

“How about now?”

They got into Larsson’s car and set off in the direction of Linsell.

“There’s no end to the forests in this part of the country,” Larsson said, suddenly breaking the silence. “If you stop here and walk ten meters into the trees, you’re in a different world. Perhaps you know that already?”

“I’ve tried it.”

“Somebody like Molin would find it easier to live with his memories in the forest,” Larsson said. “Where there’s nothing to disturb him. Where time stands still, if you like. Was there really no uniform where you found that diary? He might have gotten all dressed up and gone into the depths of the forest to make the Hitler salute, then goose-stepped along the paths.”

“He wrote in his diary that he deserted. Exchanged his uniform for civvies that he took off a corpse, with Berlin in flames all around him. If I understand his diary correctly, he became a deserter the day Hitler committed suicide in his bunker. But we can assume that Molin didn’t know anything about that.”

“I think they withheld news of his suicide for some days,” Larsson said. “Then somebody broke the news on the radio that the Fuhrer had fallen in action. But it could be that my memory is a bit hazy.”

They turned onto the road to Molin’s house. Pieces of the police tape used to cordon off the scene of crime were fluttering from low branches.

“We ought to clean up when we leave a place,” Larsson said, not pleased by what he saw. “We’ve handed the house over to Molin’s daughter now. Have you met her?”

“Not since we spoke at the hotel the other evening.”

“A very self-confident young lady,” Larsson said, disapprovingly. “I wonder how much she really knows about her father’s past. That’s something I intend on discussing with her, in any case.”

“Surely she can’t not know.”

“I expect she’s ashamed of it. Who wouldn’t be if their father was a Nazi?”

They got out of the car. Listened to the rustling of the trees. Then Lindman led the way down to the lake and along the shore to the campsite. He saw right away that somebody had been there. He stopped in his tracks. Larsson stared at him in surprise.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think somebody’s been here since I was here last.”

“Has something changed?”

“I can’t tell yet.”

Lindman studied the place where the tent had been pitched. Superficially, everything seemed the same. Even so, he was certain somebody had been there since. Something was different. Larsson said nothing. Lindman walked around the clearing in the trees, examining the site from different angles. He walked around a second time. Then the penny dropped. He had sat on the fallen tree trunk. As he looked around, he’d had a broken twig in his hand. He’d left it on the ground in front of him when he’d stood up to leave, but it wasn’t there anymore. It was lying by the side of the path down to the water.

“Somebody has been here,” Lindman said. “Somebody has been sitting on this log.” He pointed to the twig. “Can you take fingerprints from a twig?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Larsson said, taking a plastic bag from his pocket. “We can always try. Are you sure?”

Lindman was certain. He remembered where he’d left the twig. It had definitely been moved. He could picture somebody sitting there on the log, just as he’d done, bending down to pick up the twig, then tossing it away.

“In that case we’ll call in a dog team,” Larsson said, taking out his cell phone.

Lindman turned to look into the forest. He had the feeling that there might be somebody there, very close. Somebody keeping an eye on them. He also had the nagging feeling that there was something he should remember. Something to do with Larsson. But what? He couldn’t put a finger on it.

Larsson was listening to what they were saying on the phone. Asking questions, asking for a dog team to be mobilized, and then finishing the call.

“Very odd,” Larsson said.

“What is?”

“Andersson’s dog has disappeared.”

“What do you mean disappeared?”

“What I say. Vanished. There’s no sign of it. And the place is crawling with police.”

They looked at each other, amazed. A bird clattered up from a branch and flew off over the lake. They watched it until it was gone from view.