Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

She stood up. “Don’t underestimate my ability to see through people. Do whatever you like,” she said. “Go back to your room and come back later. To sleep, nothing more.”

When Lindman had finished showering and wrapped himself in the biggest towel he could find, his phone rang again. It was Elena.

“Why haven’t you called?”

“I have been asleep. I don’t feel well.”

“Come back home. I’m waiting for you.”

“Just a few more days. I really must sleep now. If we go on talking I’ll be awake all night.”

“I miss you.”

“And I miss you.”

I lied, he thought. And a little while ago I denied Elena’s existence. The worst of it is that just at this moment, I couldn’t care less.

When Lindman woke up the next morning Veronica Molin had already left. There was a message on the computer screen: “I’ve gone out. Make sure you’ve left by the time I get back. I like men who don’t snore. You are one.”

Lindman left the room wrapped in a bath towel. On the stairs to the upper floor he passed a chambermaid. She smiled and bade him good morning. When he came to his room he crept into bed. I was drunk, he thought. I spoke to Elena, but I can’t remember what I said, only that it wasn’t true. He sat up and reached for his cell phone. There was a message. Elena had called. He felt a shooting pain in his stomach. He lay down again and pulled the sheets over his head. Just as he used to do as a child, to make himself invisible. He wondered if Larsson did the same? And Veronica Molin? She’d been in bed when he returned to her room last night, but firmly rejected all advances — she just tapped him on the arm and told him it was time to go to sleep. He was feeling extremely passionate, but had enough sense to leave her in peace.

He had never lied to Elena before. Now he had, and he still wasn’t sure how much he cared. He decided to stay in bed until 9 A.M. Then he would call her. Meanwhile, he would lie with the bedclothes over his head and pretend he didn’t exist.

Nine o’clock arrived. She answered at once.

“I was asleep,” he said. “I can’t have heard the phone. I slept really soundly last night. For the first time in ages.”

“Something scared me. It was something I dreamed. I don’t know what.”

“Everything’s okay here, but I’m worried. The days are racing past. It’ll soon be the 19th.”

“It’ll all be fine.”

“I’ve got cancer, Elena. If you’ve got cancer, there’s always a chance that you might die.”

“That’s not what the doctor said.”

“She can’t know for sure. Nobody can.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Very soon. I’m going to Molin’s funeral on Tuesday. I expect to be leaving for home on Wednesday. I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive.”

“Are you going to call me tonight?”

“You’ll hear from me.”

The conversation had made him sweaty. He didn’t like discovering how easy it was to tell lies. He got out of bed. Staying between the sheets would do nothing to dispel his remorse. He dressed and went downstairs to the dining room. The usual girl was back at the reception desk. He felt calmer.

“We’re going to change the television set in your room today,” she said. “When would be a suitable time?”

“Any time, no problem. Is Inspector Larsson around?”

“I don’t think he was in his room at all last night. His key’s still here. Have you arrested anybody yet?”

“No.”

He set off for the dining room, but turned back.

“Ms. Molin? Is she in?”

“I arrived at 6 A.M. and passed her on her way out.”

There was something else he should ask her, but Lindman couldn’t remember what it was. His hangover was making him feel sick. He drank a glass of milk then sat down with a cup of coffee. His cell phone rang. It was Larsson.

“Awake?”

“Just about. I’m having coffee. What about you?”

“I slept for a couple of hours in Erik’s office.”

“Did something happen?”

“There’s always something happening. But it’s still misty in Funäsdalen. Everything’s at a standstill, according to Rundström. As soon as the mist lifts today they’ll go out with the dog again. What are you doing at the moment? Apart from drinking coffee?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I’ll come see you. I think you should come with me on a house visit.”

Ten minutes later Larsson came bounding into the dining room, unshaven, hollow-eyed, but full of energy. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He had a plastic bag in his hand, and put it on the table.

“Do you remember the name Hanna Tunberg?” he said.

Lindman thought, then shook his head.

“She was the one who found Molin. His cleaning lady who came every two weeks.”

“I remember now. From the file I read in your office.”

Larsson frowned. “It seems like a long time since it was my office,” he said. “It’s only been two weeks, though.”

He shook his head as if he’d just made a great discovery about life and the passage of time.

“I remember there was something about her husband,” Lindman said.

“He had a nasty shock when he found Molin’s body at the edge of the trees. We had several detailed talks with her, though. It turned out that she hardly knew Molin at all, even though she was his cleaner. He never left her on her own, she claimed. He kept constant watch over her. And he would never allow her to clean the guest room. Where the doll was. She thought he was unpleasant, arrogant. But he paid well.”

Larsson put his cup down.

“She called this morning and said that she had calmed down now and been thinking. She thought she had something else she could tell us. I’m on my way there now. I thought you might like to come with me.”

“By all means.”

Larsson opened the plastic bag and produced a photograph behind glass in a frame. It was of a woman in her sixties.

“Do you know who this is?”

“No.”

“Katrin Andersson. Andersson’s wife.”

“Why did you bring that with you?”

“Because Hanna Tunberg asked me to. She wanted to see what Abraham’s wife looked like. I don’t know why. But I sent one of the boys out to Dunkärret this morning to get the photograph.”

Larsson finished his coffee and stood up.

“Hanna lives in Ytterberg,” he said. “It’s not far.”

The house was old and well cared-for. It was beautifully situated with views of the wooded hills. A dog started barking when they parked. A woman was standing next to a rusty old tractor, waiting for them.

“Hanna Tunberg,” Larsson said. “She was wearing the same clothes the last time I saw her. She’s one of the old school.”

“Who are they?”

“People who put on their best clothes when they have an appointment with the police. Want to bet she’s been doing some baking?”

He smiled and got out of the car.

Larsson introduced Hanna Tunberg to Lindman. He found it hard to say how old she was. Sixty, perhaps, or maybe only just over fifty.

“I’ve made some coffee. My husband’s gone out.”

“Not because we were coming, I hope,” Larsson said.

“He’s a bit strange. He’s not overfond of the police. Even though he’s an honest man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Larsson said. “Shall we go in?”

The house smelled of tobacco, dog, and lingonberries. The living room walls were decorated with elk antlers, tapestries, and some paintings with woodland motifs. Hanna Tunberg moved some knitting out of the way, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and started coughing. There was a rattling noise in her lungs. Lindman noticed that the tips of her fingers were yellow. She had brought the coffee and filled the cups. There was a plate of buns on the table.