Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

Larsson was waiting for him outside the community center. He had a cigarillo in his hand.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only when I’m very tired and need to keep awake.”

He broke the end off the cigarillo and trampled the glowing tobacco. They went inside. The bear observed their entry. The building was deserted.

“Erik called,” Larsson said. “He’s a very honest man. He said that he was so depressed about having his guns stolen that he didn’t feel up to working tonight. He was going to have a couple of drinks and a sleeping pill. Maybe not a very good combination, but I don’t blame him.”

“Any news from the mountain?”

They were in the office by now. There were two thermos flasks on the desk, marked “Härjedalen County Council.” Lindman shook his head when Larsson offered him a cup. There were a few half-eaten Danish pastries on a torn paper bag.

“Rundström has been calling off and on. We’ve also heard from backup headquarters in Östersund. One of the helicopters we usually use has broken down. A substitute will be arriving from Sundsvall tomorrow.”

“What about the weather?”

“There is no mist on the mountain at the moment. They moved their base down to Funäsdalen. No joy from the roadblocks yet, apart from that Norwegian drunk. Apparently his grandmother had been a missionary in Africa and brought a zebra skin home with her. There’s an explanation for practically everything. Rundström’s worried, though. If they’re able to carry out a search on the mountain tomorrow and don’t find him, it can only mean that he’s broken through the cordon. In which case it probably was him who burgled Erik’s place.”

“Maybe he never did go up the mountain?”

“You’re forgetting that the dog picked up a scent.”

“He could have doubled back. Besides, don’t forget this man is from South America. It’s too cold for him on a Swedish mountainside in the late autumn.”

Larsson was looking at a map on the wall. He drew a circle with his finger around Funäsdalen.

“What bugs me is why he didn’t leave the area long before,” he said. “I keep coming back to that. Of all the questions buzzing around in connection with this investigation, that’s one of the most important. I’m convinced of it. The only explanation I can think of is that he’s not finished yet. There’s something more for him to do. That thought makes me more and more apprehensive. He runs the risk of getting caught, but still he stays. He might well have gotten himself a new set of weapons. Earlier this evening it made me think of a question we haven’t yet addressed.”

“What did he do with the weapons he used to torture and kill Molin?”

Larsson turned away from the map. “Right. We asked ourselves where he got them from, but not what he did with them. And the fact that he probably disposed of them has set my brain working overtime. What about yours?”

Lindman thought for a moment before replying.

“He goes away. Something has been finished. He throws the weapons away, maybe in the lake, or perhaps he buries them. Then something happens and he comes back. He needs new weapons. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Precisely. But I can’t make sense of it. We are wondering if he came back to dispose of Andersson. He obviously had access to a gun if that was the case. It seems very strange if he then went away a second time. If he’s the one who broke into Erik’s place, does that mean that he disposed of his weapons twice? That can’t be right. We know the man planned everything meticulously. All these guns thrown away suggests the opposite. Is he after Berggren? He asks her who killed Andersson, but he doesn’t get an answer, so far as we know. He is insistent. Then he hits you over the head and disappears.”

“How about if we ask the same question as he did?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing all evening.”

Larsson gestured toward all the files scattered on every surface in the room.

“I’ve had that question in mind while I’ve been going through the most important pieces of the material we have. I’ve even asked myself if he went to see Berggren to create a false trail because in fact he did murder Andersson. But if that were the case, why is he still here? What’s he waiting for now? Is he expecting something specific to happen? Or is he after somebody else? In which case, who?”

“There’s a missing link,” Lindman said slowly. “A person. The question is, though, is it a murderer or another victim?”

They sat in silence. Lindman found it difficult to concentrate. He wanted to help Larsson, but he was thinking about Veronica Molin the entire time. And he should have called Elena by now. He looked at his watch. It was 11 P.M. already. She’d be asleep. Too bad. He took his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I have to call home,” he said, and went out. He stood beside the stuffed bear, hoping it might protect him.

She wasn’t asleep.

“I know you’re sick, but do you really have the right to treat me like this?” she said.

“I’ve been working.”

“You’re not at work. You’re on sick leave.”

“I’ve been pretty busy talking to Larsson.”

“And so you don’t have time to call me, is that it?”

“I didn’t realize it was as late as this.”

No response. Then:

“We have to have a serious talk. Not now, though. Later.”

“I miss you. I don’t really know why I’m here. I suppose I’m so scared of the day dawning when I have to go to the hospital that I don’t even dare be at home. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going right now. But I do miss you.”

“Are you sure you haven’t met another woman up there?”

That shook him. Hard, in a flash.

“And who would that be?”

“I don’t know. Somebody younger.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He could hear that she was depressed, unhappy, and that made him feel even more guilty.

“I’m standing next to a stuffed bear,” he said. “He sends his greetings.”

She didn’t answer.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m still here. But I’m going to sleep now. Call me tomorrow. I hope you’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

Lindman went back to the office. Larsson was poring over an open file. Lindman poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. Larsson pushed the file to one side. His hair was in a mess, his eyes bloodshot.

“Berggren,” he said. “I’ll have another talk with her tomorrow. I intend to take Erik along with me, but I’ll be asking the questions. Erik is too nice with her. I even think he’s a little scared of her.”

“What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Clarity. There’s something she’s not telling us.”

Larsson stood up and stretched.

“Bowling,” he said. “I’ll ask Erik to have a word with the local authority and see if they can’t establish a little bowling alley. Strictly for visiting policemen.” Then he was serious again. “What would you ask Berggren? You’ll soon be as familiar with this investigation as I am.”

Lindman said nothing for almost a minute before replying.

“I’d try to find out if she knew that Erik kept guns in the house.”

“That’s a good idea, of course,” Larsson said. “We’ll keep on trying to fit the old girl into the picture. With a little luck, we’ll find a place for her in the end.”

The telephone on his desk rang. Larsson answered. He listened, sat down, and pulled a notepad towards him. Lindman handed him a pencil that had fallen to the floor. Larsson checked his watch.

“We’re on our way,” he said, and hung up.

Lindman could see from his face that something serious had happened.

“That was Rundström. Twenty minutes ago a car drove right through one of the roadblocks. The officers there were very lucky to escape uninjured.”