Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Not hearing anything is also significant, of course. You’re dealing with people who know exactly what they’re doing. Even when a plan goes wrong they can still find a way out very fast, in cold blood.”

“You’re saying ‘them.’ ”

“I’m wavering between one murderer and some kind of plot involving more than one.”

There was a knock on the door. A young man in a leather jacket and with highlights in his dark hair marched in before Larsson had time to respond. He nodded to Lindman and put a bundle of papers down on the desk.

“The latest from the house-to-house operation.”

“Well?”

“A crazy old bat from Glöte claims the murderer lives in Visby.”

“Why?”

“Mostly because the Swedish Lottery has its headquarters there. She thinks the Swedish nation is being attacked by insane gamblers. Half the population is running around and killing off the other half to make it easier for them to submit their lottery tickets. That’s your pile.”

The door closed behind him.

“He’s new,” Larsson said. “New, confident, and dyes his hair. He’s a recruit of the type that goes out of his way to stress that he’s young and the rest of us are ancient. He’ll be okay when he grows up.”

He stood up.

“I like talking to you,” he said. “You listen, and you ask the questions I need to hear. I’d like to go on a little longer, but I have an appointment with the forensic boys that can’t wait.”

Larsson went with him as far as reception.

“How long are you thinking of staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“The same hotel in Sveg?”

“Is there another one?”

“A good question. I don’t know. There should be a bed-and-breakfast, I suppose.”

Lindman remembered a question he’d almost let slip. “Have they released Molin’s body for burial yet?”

“I can find out, if you like. I’ll be in touch.”

Driving to Sveg, he remembered what Larsson had said about bowling. He stopped just north of Överberg and got out. It was completely calm and chilly. The ground under his feet was hard. I’m giving way to self-pity, he thought. I’m locking myself up in doom and gloom, and it’s not doing me any good. I’m usually a cheerful type, not at all like the man I seem to be right now. Larsson is quite right when he goes on about bowling. I don’t have to ever aim a single bowling bowl at a row of pins, but I have to take what he’s trying to tell me seriously. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m going to overcome this illness, but at the same time I’m doing my best to play the role of a man on death row, beyond hope.

By the time he got to Sveg, he was wishing he had never come. He had to resist the urge to drive past the hotel, return to Östersund, and fly back to Borås and Elena as quickly as possible. He parked and went into the hotel. The girl at the reception desk seemed pleased to see him.

“I thought you wouldn’t be able to drag yourself away,” she chuckled.

Lindman laughed. It sounded far too shrill and loud. Even my laughter is telling lies, he thought.

“I’ve given you your old room,” the girl said. “Number 3. There’s a message for you from Ms. Molin.”

“Is she in?”

“No. She said she’d be back around 4 P.M.”

He went up to his room. It was as if he’d never left. He went into the bathroom, opened his mouth wide, and stuck out his tongue. Nobody dies of tongue cancer, he thought. It will turn out all right. I’ll take my course of radiation therapy, and I’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. There will come a time when I look back on this period of my life as a mere interlude, a sort of nightmare, nothing more.

He consulted his address book and found the telephone number of his sister in Helsinki. He listened to her recorded message, and left one of his own with his cell phone number. He didn’t have the number of his other sister, who was married and lived in France, and he couldn’t be bothered to track it down. Nor was he sure he would be able to spell her name correctly.

He looked at the bed. If I lie down I’ll die, he thought. He took off his shirt, moved a table out of the way, and started doing push-ups. He felt like giving up when he got as far as twenty-five, but he forced himself to go on to forty. He sat on the floor and took his pulse. 170. Far too high. He decided he’d have to start exercising. Every day, regardless of the weather, regardless of how he felt. He rummaged through his bag. He’d forgotten his sneakers. He put on his shirt and jacket and went out. He found his way to the one sports shop in Sveg. There was a very limited selection of athletic shoes, but he found a pair that fitted him. Then he went to the pizzeria for a meal. He could hear a radio in the background. He pricked up his ears when he heard Larsson’s voice. He was making another appeal, asking the public to get in touch with the police if they had noticed anything unusual or had any information, etc., etc. They really are in a bind, Lindman thought. He wondered if the murders would ever be solved.

He went for a walk after his meal. North this time, past a museum comprising several old houses, and then past the hospital. He walked fast so as to exert himself. He heard music playing in his mind’s ear. It was some time before he realized it was the music he’d heard at Jacobi’s. Johann Sebastian Bach. He kept going until he’d left Sveg far behind him.

He took a shower, then went down to reception. Veronica Molin was waiting for him. He noticed again what a good-looking woman she was.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“The alternative was bowling.”

She looked at him in surprise, then laughed.

“I’m glad you didn’t say golf. I’ve never understood men who play golf.”

“I’ve never touched a golf club in my life.”

She looked around the lobby. Some test drivers had just come in, declaring in loud voices that it was high time for a beer.

“I don’t normally invite men to my room,” she said, “but at least we can be left in peace there.”

Her room was on the ground floor, at the end of the corridor. It was different from Lindman’s — bigger, for a start. He wondered what it must be like for somebody used to staying in five-star hotels all over the world to adjust to the simplicity of a hotel in Sveg. He remembered her saying that she’d heard about her father’s death in a room with a view of the cathedral in Cologne. From the window in this room she could see the Ljusnan River and beyond it the wooded hills of Härjedalen. Perhaps this view is as beautiful, he thought, and in its way as impressive as Cologne Cathedral.

There were two armchairs in the room. She’d switched on the bedside lamp and directed it away from them so that the room was dimly lit. He smelled her perfume. He wondered how she would react if he were to tell her that what he most wanted to do just now was to remove all her clothes and make love to her. Would she be surprised? She was no doubt aware of the effect she had on men.

“You asked me to be here,” he said. “I’d like to hear what you have to tell me. That said, this conversation shouldn’t be taking place. You should be talking to Inspector Larsson, or one of his colleagues. I have nothing to do with the investigation.”

“I know. But I want to talk to you even so.”

Lindman could see that she was agitated. He waited.

“I’ve been trying to understand,” she said. “Who would have had any reason for killing my father? It was beyond all comprehension at first. It seemed as if somebody had raised his hand and brought it crashing down on my father’s head for no reason. I could see no motive at all. I was stunned. I don’t usually react like that. In my work I come up against crises every day, crises that can develop into commercial catastrophes if I don’t stay absolutely calm and make sure I’m influenced by nothing but the facts in whatever I do. The feeling passed. I was eventually able to think rationally again. And I started remembering.” She looked at him. “I read that diary,” she said. “What was in it came as a shock.”