Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

Her fear was starting to turn to anger. “I don’t associate with that sort of person. You ought to know that.”

“I do know that, Elsa, but I have to ask you. How tall was he? Was he thin or fat? What was he wearing, what did his hands look like?”

“Dark jacket, dark pants, I didn’t notice his shoes. No rings on his fingers.” She stood up and walked to the door. “I’d say he was about this height, neither fat nor thin.” She marked a place on the frame with her hand.

“One eighty,” Johansson said, turning to Lindman. “What do you think?”

“All I saw was a moving shadow.”

Berggren sat down again.

“He threatened you,” Johansson said. “How exactly?”

“He asked questions about Abraham Andersson.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Only one, I suppose. Who killed Andersson?”

“Nothing else? Nothing about Molin?”

“No.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“ ‘Who killed Abraham?’ Or ‘Who killed Andersson?’ ”

“You said he threatened you.”

“He said he wanted the truth. Otherwise there’d be trouble. ‘Who killed Abraham?’ That’s all. I told him I didn’t know.”

Johansson shook his head and looked at Lindman. “What do you make of all this?”

“I am surprised that he didn’t ask about the motive. Why was Abraham Andersson murdered?”

“But he didn’t. He only asked who had done it. He obviously thought I knew. Then I realized he was actually implying something different. That was when I got really scared. He thought that I had killed him.”

Lindman felt his dizziness coming and going in waves. He tried to concentrate. He could see that Berggren’s account of the attack was crucial. The important thing was not what the man had asked her, but what he hadn’t asked her. There was only one explanation: he knew the answer. Lindman had broken into a sweat. The man in the shadows who’d tried to strangle him, either to kill him or just to render him unconscious, could be playing the central role in the drama that started with Molin’s murder.

Johansson’s cell phone rang. It was Larsson. Lindman could hear that he was worried that Larsson might be driving too fast.

“He’s already gone through Brunflo,” Johansson said. “He wants us to wait here for him. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to write up what you’ve said. We must start searching for this man.”

Lindman stood up.

“I’m going out. I need some air.”

Once outside, Lindman began searching his memory for something that had to do with what Berggren had said. He returned to the back of the house, avoiding any footprints there might be. He tried to picture the face she’d described. He knew he’d never seen the man before. Nevertheless, it was as if he recognized him. He hammered at his forehead in an attempt to stir his memory. It had something to do with Larsson.

Dinner at the hotel. They were sitting there eating. The waitress had been going back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. There had been another person there that evening. A man on his own. Lindman hadn’t noticed his face. But there was something else about him. It eventually dawned on him what it was. The man hadn’t said a single word to the waitress, despite the fact that he had summoned her several times. That man had been in the dining room when first Lindman and then Larsson had arrived, and he was still there when they left.

He racked his brains. Larsson had scribbled things on the back of the bill, then crumpled it up and dropped it in the ashtray as they left. There was something about that piece of paper. He couldn’t remember what. And the man by himself at the nearby table; he hadn’t said a word. And somehow he answered the description Berggren had given.

He went back into the house. It was 1:20. Berggren was on the sofa, very pale.

“He’s making coffee,” she said.

Lindman went to the kitchen.

“I can’t think straight without coffee,” Johansson said. “Would you like some? To be frank, you look awful. I wonder if you shouldn’t see a doctor, no matter what you say.”

“I want to talk to Giuseppe first.”

“I’m sorry if I sounded a bit brusque earlier on. The police here in Härjedalen sometimes feel they are being patronized and walked on. That goes for Giuseppe too. Just so that you know.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. But never mind.”

He handed Lindman a cup of coffee. Lindman was trying to remember what Larsson had scribbled on that piece of paper.

It wasn’t until about 5 A.M. that he had an opportunity to ask Larsson about what had happened that evening in the dining room. Larsson arrived at Berggren’s house at 1:50. Once he had taken stock of the facts, he went with Johansson and Lindman to the police station. An officer had been posted to keep watch over Berggren’s house. The description they had of the attacker was too imprecise to be sent out and trigger a nationwide alert. On the other hand, reinforcements would arrive from Östersund tomorrow morning. They would mount yet another house-to-house operation. Somebody must have seen something, was Larsson’s conviction. The man must have had a car. There can’t be all that many English-speaking southern Europeans in Sveg at this time of year. People occasionally came from Madrid or Milan to hunt elk, and the Italians are ardent mushroom pickers, of course. The only thing is, we’re not in the mushroom-picking or elkhunting seasons. Somebody must have seen him. Or a car. Or something.

At 5:30 Johansson left to cordon off Berggren’s garden. Larsson was tired and irritable. “He should have done that right away. How can we carry out correct police procedures if people don’t follow the routines?”

Larsson had his feet on the desk.

“Can you remember that dinner we had at the hotel?” Lindman said.

“Very well.”

“There was a man in the dining room as well. Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely. Next to the kitchen door, if I remember rightly.”

“To the left.”

Larsson looked at him, his eyes weary. “Why do you ask?”

“He said nothing. That could mean that he didn’t want to let us know that he was a foreigner.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t he want to do that?”

“Because we were police officers. We used the word ‘police’ again and again during dinner. The word is similar in most languages. What’s more, I think he looked a little like the description Berggren tried to give us.”

Larsson shook his head. “It’s too circumstantial, too farfetched.”

“Possibly. But even so. You sat there doodling on a piece of paper when you’d finished eating.”

“It was the bill. I asked about it the next day, but it had disappeared. The waitress said she hadn’t seen it.”

“That’s the point. Where did it go?”

Larsson stopped rocking back and forward in his chair.

“Are you saying that man took the bill after we’d left?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just thinking aloud. One question is: what did you write?”

Larsson tried to remember. “Names, I think. Yes, I’m sure. We were talking about the three of them: Molin, Andersson, and Berggren. We were trying to find a link.” Larsson sat up with a start. “I wrote down their names, and I joined them with arrows. They made a triangle. I think I drew a swastika beside Andersson’s name.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I might be wrong, of course,” Lindman said, “but I think I saw a big question mark after the swastika.”

“You could be right.”

Larsson stood up and leaned against the wall. “I’m listening,” he said. “I’m starting to catch on to the way you’re thinking.”