Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Two different murderers?”

“Exactly.”

“It could still be the same one even so.”

“It could. But we can’t ignore the other possibility. And I can tell you something else as well. Somebody reported a burglary in Säter yesterday. The owner had been away for a week. When he got back home he found that he’d been burgled and a gun had been stolen. He reported it to the police, and we found out about it when we started making inquiries. It could have been the gun used to kill Andersson. It’s the right caliber. But we have no tabs on the thief.”

“How was the break-in done? The way they do it always says something about the burglar.”

“A front door forced, neat and tidy. The same applies to the gun cabinet. Not an amateur, in other words.”

“Somebody getting himself a gun, with a specific job in mind?”

“That’s more or less the way I see it.”

Lindman tried to envision the map.

“Am I right in thinking that Säter is in Dalarna?”

“The road from Avesta and Hedemora goes through Säter to Borlänge and then up to Härjedalen.”

“Somebody drives up from the south, gets himself a gun on the way, then keeps on going until he comes to Andersson’s house.”

“That’s what could have happened. We don’t have a motive, though. And the murder of Andersson really worries me if it transpires that we have a different murderer. We might well ask ourselves what on earth is going on. Is this the beginning of something that has some way to go yet before it’s finished?”

“You think there could be more acts of violence in store?”

Larsson roared with laughter again.

“Acts of violence. Police officers do have a special way of expressing themselves. I sometimes think that’s why the criminal is generally one step ahead. He calls a spade a spade, but we have to find some roundabout way of describing it.”

“All right, but what you are expecting is more murders?”

“If we have two different weapons, there’s an increased likelihood that we could have two different murderers. Are you driving or are you standing still, by the way?”

“I’m parked.”

“In that case I’ll tell you a little more about the way we’re thinking. The first thing, of course, is the dog. Who took it and then put it in Molin’s pen? And why? We now know that it was taken from Andersson’s house by car. We haven’t a clue why.”

“It might be a macabre joke.”

“Could be. But the folks up here aren’t all that inclined to partake in what you call macabre jokes. People are really upset and indignant. That’s obvious when we knock on doors and talk to people. They really are eager to help.”

“It’s very strange that nobody seems to have seen anything.”

“We’ve had a few vague reports, a car that somebody might have seen, that sort of thing. Nothing definite. Nothing to give us a clear lead.”

“What about Berggren?”

“Rundström took her to Östersund. Spent a whole day questioning her. She stuck to the same story. The same disgusting opinions, but very clear on key matters. She has no idea who might have killed Molin. She’d only met Andersson once, very briefly, when she was visiting Molin and Andersson happened to stop by. We’ve even given her house the once-over to see if she had any weapons. Nothing. I think she’d tell us if she was frightened of somebody coming after her as well.”

There was a grating noise in the telephone. Lindman shouted “Hello” several times before Larsson’s voice returned.

“I start to think that this is going to take time. I’m worried.”

“Have you found any link between Andersson and Molin?” Lindman asked.

“We’re digging away. According to Andersson’s widow, he only ever mentioned Molin as a neighbor, one of several. We have no reason to suspect that isn’t true. That’s about as far as we’ve got.”

“What about the diary?”

“What about it precisely?”

“His journey to Scotland. The person referred to as ‘M.’ ”

“I can’t see why we should give that priority.”

“I just wondered.”

Larsson sneezed comprehensively. Lindman held his cell phone at arm’s length, as if the germs might fly through the ether and attack him.

“Sorry about that. The usual autumn cold. I always catch one about now.”

Lindman took a deep breath, then told him about his experiences in Kalmar and on Öland. He said nothing about the break-in, but he stressed Wetterstedt’s Nazi views. When he’d finished there was so long a silence at the other end, he started to wonder if he’d been cut off.

“I’ll suggest to Rundström that we should bring in the national criminal investigation department,” Larsson eventually said. “They have a section that specializes in terrorists and neo-Nazis. I can’t believe that what we’re up against here can be traced back to a few skinheads, but you never know.”

Lindman said he thought it was a sensible move, and then he finished up the call. He felt hungry. He drove into Varberg and found a restaurant. When he got back to the car he found it had been burgled. Instinctively he felt in his jacket pocket. His cell phone was still there. But the car radio had been stolen. And the central locking system was broken. He cursed as he climbed into the driving seat. He should report it to the police, but he knew the thief would not be caught and that the police would devote no more than a strictly rationed portion of time to the case. The police were overworked everywhere. He also knew that the excess on his insurance policy was such that he might just as well buy a new radio. There was the problem of the central locking system, but he had a friend who helped the police with car repairs on the side.

He started for Borås. He could feel the wind buffeting the car. The countryside looked gray and desolate. Autumn is setting in, winter is approaching, he thought. And November 19 was approaching too. If only time could be cut off, and he could advance to the day after the beginning of his treatment.

He had just driven into Borås when his phone rang. He wondered if he should answer. It was bound to be Elena. Then again, he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. One of these days she’d get fed up with the way he was forever running away, always putting his own needs before hers. He pulled onto the side and answered.

It was Veronica Molin.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you. Where are you?”

“In Borås. You’re not disturbing me.”

“Have you got time?”

“I have time. Where are you?”

“In Sveg.”

“Waiting for the funeral?”

Her reply seemed hesitant. “Not only that. I got your number from Inspector Larsson. The policeman who claims to be investigating the murder of my father.”

She made no attempt to conceal her contempt. That made him angry.

“Larsson is one of the best police officers I’ve ever met.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to come here.”

Her response had been swift and definite.

“Why?”

“I think I know what happened, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to me. You should call Larsson. I have nothing to do with the investigation.”

“Just at the moment you are the only person I know who can possibly help me. I’ll pay for your flight here and all the rest of your costs. But I want you to come. As soon as possible.”

“Are you saying you know who killed your father?”

“I think so.”

“And Andersson?”

“That has to have been somebody else. But there’s another reason why I want you to come. I’m frightened.”

“Why are you frightened?”