Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m still here.”

“What can you see through your window?”

“Darkness.”

“Is what I’m afraid of true?”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That you’ll never come back?”

The question worried him. He took another drink of wine before answering.

“Why shouldn’t I come back?”

“I don’t know. You are the only one who knows what you’re doing and why you aren’t here. You’re lying to me, Aron. You’re not telling me the truth.”

“Why should I lie to you?”

“You haven’t made this journey to look at furniture. There’s some other reason. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps you’ve met another woman. I don’t know. The only one who knows is you. And God.”

He realized that what he’d told her before hadn’t sunk in — that he had killed a man.

“I’ll be home soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“I still don’t know where you are.”

“I’m high up in the mountains. It’s cold.”

“Have you started drinking again?”

“Not very much. Just so that I can sleep.”

The connection was cut off. When Silberstein dialed the number again, he couldn’t get through. He tried several times without success. Then he prepared to wait for the dawn. Things had now entered the crucial stage, that was clear. The Berggren woman had seen his face when she pulled the hood off. He hadn’t expected that, and he had panicked. He should have stayed there, put the hood on again, and forced her to tell him what he was certain she knew. Instead he had fled and run into the policeman.

Although he was filling his body with alcohol, he was still able to think during the long wait for the dawn. He always experienced a moment of great insight before he became intoxicated. He had learned how much he could drink, and how quickly, while still being in control of his thoughts, and he needed to think clearly now. The endgame was starting. Nothing had turned out as he had thought it would. Despite all his planning, all his meticulous preparations. It was all Andersson’s fault. Or rather, it was because somebody had killed him. It had to be the woman. The question was: why? What forces had he set in motion when he killed Molin?

He continued drinking, but held his intoxication in check. He found it hard to accept that a woman in her seventies could have murdered Andersson. She must have had an accomplice. In which case, who? And if the police thought she was the murderer, why hadn’t they arrested her? He couldn’t find any answers, and started all over again. The woman had said that she didn’t know who killed Andersson. He was sure from the start that she wasn’t telling the truth. When she heard that Molin was dead, she drove through the night to Andersson’s house and killed him. Was it revenge? Did she think Andersson had killed Molin? What was between these people that he couldn’t work out? The police must have seen that there was a link. He still had the crumpled restaurant bill with the three names on the back of it.

He was beginning to think that revenge was a sort of boomerang that was now on its way back and would soon hit his own head. It was a matter of guilt. He was indifferent with regard to Molin. Killing him had been necessary, something he owed to his father. But Andersson wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t whipped Molin to death. The question now was: did he have an obligation to avenge the death of Abraham Andersson? Thoughts buzzed around in his head all night. Occasionally he went outside and gazed at the starry sky. He wrapped himself in a blanket while he waited. Waited for what? He didn’t know. For something to go away. His face was known now. The woman had seen it. The police would start putting two and two together and work out where he was. Sooner or later they would find his name on the credit card receipt at the hotel. That had been the one thing that had ruined his careful planning: running out of ready cash. The police would come looking for him, and they would assume he’d killed Andersson. And now that he might have killed a police officer — even by accident — they would commit all their resources to hunting him down.

He kept coming back to that chance encounter. Had he squeezed the policeman’s neck too hard? When he let go and walked away, he was convinced that he hadn’t overdone it. Now he wasn’t so sure. He should get away, as far away as possible, but he knew he wouldn’t do that, not until he found out what had happened to Andersson. He could not go back to Buenos Aires until he had the answers to his questions.

Dawn broke. He was tired. From time to time he nodded off as he sat looking at the mountains. He couldn’t stay here: he had to move on, or they’d find him soon enough. He stood up and started wandering round the house. Where should he go? He went outside to urinate. It was slowly getting light — the thin gray mist he was familiar with from Argentina. Only it wasn’t so cold there. He went back inside.

He’d made up his mind. He gathered together his belongings, the bottles of wine, the canned food, the crispbread. He didn’t bother about the car. That could stay where it was. Perhaps somebody would find it tomorrow, perhaps he would get a head start. He left the house at about 9 A.M. and headed straight up the mountain. He stopped after only a hundred meters and off-loaded some of his luggage. Then he set off again, uphill all the time. He was drunk, and kept stumbling, falling over, and scratching his face on the rough ground. Even so, he kept on until he could no longer see the chalet.

By noon he didn’t have the strength to go any further. He pitched his tent in the grass next to a large rock, took off his shoes, unrolled his sleeping bag, and lay down with a bottle of wine in his hand.

The light seeping through the canvas turned the interior of the tent into something resembling a sunset. He thought about Maria as he emptied the bottle, how much she meant to him. Then he snuggled down and fell asleep.

When he woke up, he knew he had one more decision to make.

At 10 A.M. there was to be a meeting in Johansson’s office. The forensic unit was already in Berggren’s house, and a dog team was trying to sniff out traces of the man who had attacked both Berggren and Lindman. Lindman had slept for a couple of hours at the hotel, but Larsson woke him soon after 9 A.M., telling him he must attend the meeting.

“You’re involved in these murder investigations whether you or I like it or not. I’ve spoken to Rundström. He thinks you should be there. Not formally, of course. But we can forget the rule book, given the circumstances.”

“Any new clues?”

“The dog headed straight for the bridge. That’s where he must have parked his car. The forensic boys think they got a pretty good print of his tires. We’ll see if it matches any of the casts we made at the Molin and Andersson sites.”

“Have you had any sleep?”

“Too much to take care of. I’ve brought in four men from Östersund, and we’ve called in a couple of Erik’s boys who were off-duty. There are a lot of doors we have to knock on. Let’s face it, somebody must have seen something. A swarthy man speaking broken English. It’s impossible to live without talking to other people. You fill your tank with gas, you eat, you shop. Someone must have seen him. He must have spoken to someone, somewhere.”

Lindman said he would be there. He got out of bed, and felt the back of his neck. It was tender. He had taken a shower before going to bed. As he was getting dressed, he thought about his meeting with Veronica Molin a few hours before. They had eaten breakfast together since he was on his way into the hotel. Lindman had told her what had happened during the night. She had paid close attention without asking any questions. Then he had begun to feel sick and excused himself. They had agreed to meet later in the day, when he felt better. He had fallen asleep the moment he had crawled into bed.