Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

It was lucidly written, and after less than an hour’s reading he realized something that he hadn’t grasped before. Something Wetterstedt had said, and maybe also Berggren: that in the 1930s and up to around 1943 or 1944, Nazism had been much more widespread in Sweden than most people nowadays were aware of. There had been various branches of Nazi parties that squabbled between themselves, but behind the men and women in the parades there had been a gray mass of anonymous people who had admired Hitler and would have liked nothing more than a German invasion and the establishment of a Nazi regime in Sweden. He found astonishing information about the government’s concessions to the Germans, and how exports of iron ore from Sweden had been crucial in enabling the German munitions industry to satisfy Hitler’s constant demand for more tanks and other war materials. He wondered what had happened to all that history when he was a schoolboy. What he vaguely remembered from his history classes was a very different picture: a Sweden that had succeeded — by means of extremely clever policies and by skillfully walking a tightrope — in staying out of the war. The Swedish government had remained strictly neutral and thus saved the country from being crushed by the German military machine. He’d heard nothing about groups of homegrown Nazis. What he was now discovering was an entirely different picture, one which explained Molin’s actions, his delight at crossing the border into Norway and looking forward to going on to Germany. He could envisage young Mattson-Herzén, his father and mother, and Wetterstedt and the gray mass of people hovering between the lines of the text, or in the blurred background of the photographs of demonstrations by Nazis in Swedish streets.

That was when he must have fallen asleep and started dreaming about the frenzied dogs.

The Punch man stood up and left the reading room. Two girls, heads almost touching, sat whispering and giggling. Lindman guessed that they probably came from the Middle East. That made him think about what he’d been reading: about how Uppsala students had protested against Jewish doctors who’d been persecuted in Germany and were seeking asylum in Sweden. They had been refused entry.

He went downstairs to the circulation desk. There was no sign of the woman who’d woken him up. He found a restroom, and washed his face in cold water. Then he returned to the reading room. The giggling girls had left. There was a newspaper lying on the table where they’d been sitting. He went to investigate what they’d been reading. It was in Arabic script. They’d left behind a faint perfume. It reminded him that he should call Elena. Then he sat down to read the last chapter: “Nazism in Sweden after the War.” He read about all the factions and various more or less clumsily organized attempts to establish a Swedish Nazi party that would carry real political weight. Behind all those small groups and local organizations that kept coming and going, changing their names and symbolically scratching out each other’s eyes, he could still sense the gray mass assembling at the blurred periphery. They had nothing to do with the little neo-Nazi boys with shaven heads. They were not the ones who robbed banks, murdered police officers, or beat up innocent immigrants. He was clear about the difference between them and the weirdos who demonstrated in the streets and shouted the praises of Karl XII.

He put the book to one side, and wondered where the boy who kept watch over Wetterstedt fitted in. Was there in fact some kind of organization that nobody knew about, where people like Molin, Berggren, and Wetterstedt could make propaganda for their views? A secret room where a new generation — to which the boy standing behind Wetterstedt’s chair belonged — could be admitted? He thought about what Wetterstedt had said about “papers winding up in the wrong hands.” The boy had reacted, and Wetterstedt had clammed up immediately.

He returned the books to their places on the shelves. It was dark when he left the library. He went to his car and called Elena. He couldn’t put it off any longer. She sounded pleased when she heard his voice, but also cautious.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’m on my way.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Trouble with the car.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Something with the transmission. I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

“Why do you sound so irritable?”

“I’m tired.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t have the strength to go into that now. I just wanted to call and tell you that I was on my way.”

“You must realize that I am worried.”

“I’ll be in Borås tomorrow, I promise.”

“Can’t you tell me why you sound so irritable?”

“I’ve already said that I’m tired.”

“Don’t drive too fast.”

“I never do.”

“You always do.”

The connection was cut off. Lindman sighed, but made no attempt to call again. He switched his cell phone off. The clock on the dashboard suggested it was 7:25 P.M. He wouldn’t dare to break into Wetterstedt’s apartment before midnight. I ought to go home, he thought. What will happen if I’m caught? I’ll be fired and disgraced. A police officer breaking into a property is not something a prosecutor would turn a blind eye to. I wouldn’t only be putting my own future on the line, I’d be creating trouble for all my colleagues. Larsson would think he’d been visited by a lunatic. Olausson in Borås would never be able to laugh again.

He wondered if what he really wanted was to be caught. If he was intent on an act of self-destruction. He had cancer, so he had nothing to lose. Was that the way it was? He didn’t know. He drew his jacket closer around him, and closed his eyes.

When he woke up it was 8:30. He hadn’t dreamed about the dogs again. Again he tried to convince himself that he should get out of Kalmar as quickly as possible. But in vain.

The last lights in the windows of the apartments in Lagmansgatan went out. Lindman stood in the shadows under a tree, looking up at the façade of the block of apartments. It had started raining and a wind was starting up. He hurried across the street and tried the front door. To his surprise, it was still open. He slipped into the dark entrance hall and listened. He had his tools in his pocket. He turned on his flashlight and crept up the stairs to the top floor. He shone his flashlight onto the door of Wetterstedt’s apartment. He’d remembered correctly. Earlier in the day when he’d been waiting for somebody to answer the door, he’d noticed the locks. There were two, but neither of them was a deadbolt. That surprised him. Shouldn’t a man like Wetterstedt take as many safety precautions as possible? If Lindman’s luck had run out, it would have an alarm, but that was a risk he would have to take.

He pushed the mailbox open and listened. He couldn’t be absolutely certain that there was nobody in the apartment. It was all quiet. He took out the jimmy. The flashlight was small enough for him to hold it in his teeth. He knew he could only make one attempt. If he didn’t manage to open the door right away he would have to leave. In the first few months of his police career he had learned the basic techniques used by burglars to force open a door. Just one try, no more. One single unexpected noise would generally pass unnoticed, but if it happened again there was a serious risk that somebody would hear and become suspicious. He crouched down, put the jimmy on the floor, and pushed the screwdriver as far into the crack between the door and the frame as it would go. He worked it back and forth, and the crack widened. He pressed the screwdriver further in, then pulled it up as far as the lower of the two locks. He picked up the jimmy and forced it in at a point between the two locks, and pressed his knee against the screwdriver to widen the opening as far as possible. He was starting to sweat from the effort. He still wasn’t satisfied. If he forced it now there was a risk that only the frame would split and the locks would hold fast. He pressed hard against the screwdriver once more and this time managed to push the jimmy further in between the door and the frame. He got his breath back before testing the jimmy again. It was impossible to push it in any further.