Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

Lindman thought he’d better take the initiative when Olausson said nothing more.

“What did you want?”

Olausson picked up some faxes from his desk.

“Just a trifle. We received this earlier from our colleagues in Kalmar.”

“I’ve just come from there, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“Precisely. I gather you went to see somebody called Wetterstedt on Öland. I seem to recognize that name, incidentally.”

“His brother, one-time Minister of Justice, was murdered several years ago in Skåne.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. What happened?”

“The murderer was a teenager. I remember reading in the paper about a year ago that he committed suicide.”

Olausson looked thoughtful.

“Has something happened?” Lindman said.

“Apparently there’s been a burglary at Wetterstedt’s apartment in Kalmar. During the night. One of the neighbors claims you were there yesterday. His description of you corresponds closely to the one Wetterstedt gave the police.”

“I was there yesterday morning, trying to find Wetterstedt. An old man in the apartment next door told me he was at his summer place on Öland.”

Olausson put the fax down. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That there’d be a straightforward explanation.”

“Explanation of what? Is somebody suggesting I committed the break-in? I found Wetterstedt and spoke to him at his summer cottage.”

“They were just asking what you were doing there. That’s all.”

“Is that all, then?”

“More or less.”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“Not at all. You were looking for Wetterstedt, and he wasn’t there. Is that it?”

“I thought maybe the doorbell wasn’t working, so I hammered on the door. I also wondered if Wetterstedt might be hard of hearing. He’s well over eighty, after all. The neighbor heard me rapping on the door.”

“And then you went to Öland?”

“Yes.”

“Then you drove home.”

“Not right away. I didn’t leave until that evening. I spent a few hours in the library, then I stopped for an hour or two near Jönköping to get some sleep in the car. Let’s face it, if I’d intended going back that night and breaking into the apartment, I’d hardly have attracted attention to myself by banging on the door, would I?”

“I imagine not.”

Olausson was retreating now. Lindman had managed to steer the conversation his way. Nevertheless, he was worried. Someone might have seen his car. And there was that business with the front door opening as he was about to leave the apartment.

“Obviously, nobody thinks for a minute that you broke into the apartment. We want to answer our colleagues’ questions as soon as possible, that’s all.”

“Well, I’ve answered them.”

“You didn’t notice anything that might give them a lead?”

“Such as what?”

Olausson burst out laughing. “I have no idea.”

“Neither have I.”

Lindman could see that Olausson believed him. He was amazed at how easy it had been to lie. Now it was time to steer the conversation in another direction.

“I hope nothing valuable was stolen from Wetterstedt’s place.”

Olausson picked up the fax. “According to this, nothing at all was stolen. Which seems rather remarkable, given that Wetterstedt claims there was quite a bit of valuable art in the apartment.”

“Not many junkies are au fait with the art market. Prices, and which artists are in demand by the collectors and fences, that’s a little out of their league.”

Olausson continued reading. “There was evidently a fair amount of jewelry and cash lying around. The kind of stuff that would interest your usual burglar. But none of it was taken.”

“Maybe they were frightened?”

“Assuming there was more than one. The way the door was forced suggests a thief who knew what he was doing. Not an amateur.” Olausson leaned back in his chair. “I’ll call Kalmar and tell them I’ve spoken to you. I’ll tell them you couldn’t think of anything that might be of use to them.”

Olausson stood up and opened the window. Until then Lindman hadn’t noticed how stuffy it was in the room.

“There’s something wrong with the ventilation all over the police station,” Olausson said. “Officers are complaining about allergy attacks. Down in the cells they are moaning about headaches. Nothing gets done, though, because there’s no money.”

Olausson sat down again. Lindman noticed that he’d put on weight. His stomach was hanging out over his pants.

“I’ve never been to Kalmar,” Olausson said. “Nor Öland. They say it’s beautiful around there.”

“If you hadn’t asked me to come in, I’d have called you anyway. There was a reason why I went to see Wetterstedt. It had to do with Herbert Molin.”

“What exactly?”

“Herbert Molin was a Nazi.”

Olausson stared at him in astonishment. “A Nazi?”

“Long before he joined the police, when he was a young man, he fought as a volunteer in Hitler’s army. And he never abandoned those opinions. Wetterstedt had known him when he was young, and they stayed in touch. Wetterstedt was a very unpleasant person.”

“You mean to say you went to Kalmar to speak to him about Herbert?”

“It’s not forbidden, is it?”

“No, but I’m pretty surprised to hear it.”

“Did you know anything about Molin’s past? Or his views?”

“Not a thing. I’m flabbergasted.”

Olausson leaned forward over his desk. “Does that have anything to do with his murder?”

“It could.”

“What about the other man, the second person who was murdered up there? The violinist?”

“There’s no apparent connection. At least, there wasn’t when I left. Molin moved to Härjedalen because he knew a woman up there. She helped him buy a house. She’s also a Nazi. Her name’s Elsa Berggren.”

Olausson shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. Lindman could tell that Kalmar was forgotten now. If Olausson had vaguely suspected Lindman of being responsible for the break-in, he’d forgotten all about it.

“The whole thing sounds incredible.”

“I couldn’t agree more. There’s no doubt about it, though: we had an out-and-out Nazi working for the police here in Borås for years.”

“He was a good policeman, all the same, irrespective of his politics.”

Olausson stood up to signal that the interview was at an end. He accompanied Lindman as far as the elevator.

“Needless to say, I wonder how you are. Health-wise.”

“I’m due back at the hospital on the 19th. Then we’ll find out.”

The elevator door slid open.

“I’ll talk to Kalmar,” Olausson said.

Lindman got into the elevator. “I suppose you didn’t know that Molin was a passionate dancer either?”

“Good Lord no. What kind of dancing?”

“Preferably the tango.”

“There’s obviously a lot that I didn’t know about Herbert Molin.”

“I suppose that’s true of all of us. None of us know much more than we find on the surface.”

The elevator door closed. Olausson had no time to comment. Lindman left the police station. When he emerged onto the street, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Kalmar wasn’t going to be a problem. Not unless somebody had seen him that night. That was hardly likely.

He stopped, unable to make up his mind what to do next. For some reason, his reaction was annoyance, and he swore out loud. A woman walking past gave him a wide berth.

Lindman went back to his apartment and changed his shirt. He looked at his face in the mirror. As a child he’d always looked like his mother. The older he became, the more he began to resemble his father. Somebody must know, he thought. Somebody must be able to tell me about my father and his politics. I must get in touch with my sisters. But there’s somebody else who must know. My father’s friend, the lawyer who drew up his will. He didn’t even know if the lawyer was still alive. Hans Jacobi, that was his name. It sounded Jewish, but Lindman recalled that Jacobi was fair-haired, tall, and burly, a tennis player. He looked him up in the phone book. Sure enough, there he was. Jacobi & Brandell, Attorneys.