Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

He marked the spot on the map with his finger. It was a crossroads southeast of Funäsdalen. Lindman estimated the distance between there and Frostengren’s chalet at about 20 kilometers.

“A dark blue sedan, possibly a Golf,” Larsson said. “The driver was a man. His appearance could be in line with the descriptions we’ve had previously. The officers didn’t have time to see much. But this could mean that our man has broken through the cordon, and that he’s on his way here.”

Larsson looked at his watch again. “If he really leans on the accelerator he could be here in two hours.”

Lindman looked at the map and pointed to a side road. “He could turn off there.”

“All the roadblocks in Funäsdalen are being moved right now. They’ll build a wall behind him. It’s here that has no checkpoint at the moment.”

He picked up the telephone. “Let’s hope that Erik’s sleeping pill hasn’t knocked him out yet.”

Lindman waited while Larsson spoke to Johansson about the roadblock they needed to set up. He put the phone down and shook his head.

“Erik’s a good man,” he said. “He’d just taken his sleeping pill, but he’s going to stick his finger down his throat and throw it up. He’s really determined to catch that bastard. Not just because Hereira’s most probably the one who stole his guns.”

“It doesn’t add up,” Lindman said. “The more I think about it, the more impossible it gets. Why on earth would he break into Johansson’s place and then go back to the mountain?”

“Nothing adds up. But we can hardly start thinking about a third person being mixed up in all this.” Larsson interrupted himself. “Maybe that is what happened,” he said, “but if so, what does that mean?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Whoever is in that car could be the one with the guns. And he might start using them. We’ll put a stinger out to puncture his tires. If he starts shooting, we’ll stay out of the way.” Then he turned serious. “You’re a police officer,” he said. “We’re very shorthanded just now. Will you come with us?”

“Yes.”

“Erik’s bringing a gun for you.”

“I thought they’d been stolen?”

Larsson made a face.

“He had an extra pistol that he presumably hasn’t registered either. Hidden away in the cellar. Plus his police-issue weapon.”

The telephone rang again. Rundström. Larsson listened without saying anything.

“The car is stolen,” he said when the call was over. “It was in fact a Golf. Stolen from a gas station in Funäsdalen. A truck driver saw it happen. According to Rundström, it was one of the guys Erik plays cards with.”

He was in a hurry now. He shoved several files lying on his jacket into a heap.

“Erik will bring in the two police officers in Sveg. Not exactly an impressive squad, but I expect that will be enough to stop a Golf.”

Three quarters of an hour later they had set up a roadblock three kilometers northwest of Sveg. The wind was rushing through the trees. Larsson talked in a low voice to Johansson. The other police officers skulked like shadows, back from the side of the road. The headlights from the police cars cut into the darkness.

The car they were waiting for never arrived. Five other cars passed through. Johansson knew two of the drivers. The other three were strangers: two were women, domestic caregivers, who lived to the west of Sveg, and a young man in a fur hat who had been staying with relatives in Hede and was now on his way south. All were made to submit their boots for inspection before they were allowed to continue.

The temperature had risen again, and some wet snow was falling, melting the moment it touched the ground. There was no breeze now, and every sound was clearly audible. Somebody broke wind; a hand brushed against a car door.

They spread out a map on the hood of one of the police cars, and examined it by flashlight. It quickly became wet. Did they make a mistake? Was there some other route that they had overlooked? They couldn’t see the alternative. All the roadblocks were where they should be. Larsson was acting as a sort of one-man call center, keeping in touch with the other groups of officers stationed at various points in the forest.

Lindman stayed on the sidelines. He’d been given a pistol of a type familiar to him by Johansson. Snow was falling on his head. He thought about Veronica Molin, Elena, and most of all about November 19. He couldn’t make up his mind if the darkness and the trees increased or alleviated his anxiety. There was also a brief moment when it crossed his mind that he could put an end to it all in just a few seconds. He had a loaded gun in his pocket; he could put it to his head and pull the trigger and there would be no need for radiation.

Nobody could see where the Golf could have disappeared to. Lindman heard Larsson getting more annoyed every time he spoke to one of his colleagues. Then Johansson’s telephone rang.

“You what?” he shouted.

He signaled for the wet map to be unfolded again as he listened to what was being said. He jabbed his finger onto the map so hard that it made a hole, repeated a name, Löten, then finished the call.

“Shooting,” he said. “Some time ago, here, by the lake, Löten, three kilometers from the road to Hardabyn. The call was from somebody called Rune Wallén. He lives near there, owns a truck and a bulldozer. He said he was woken by something that sounded like a bang. His wife heard it as well. He went outside, and there was another bang. He counted ten shots altogether. He’s a hunter, so he knows what a shotgun sounds like.”

Johansson looked at his watch and did some calculations. “He said it took him a quarter of an hour to find my cell phone number. We’re in the same hunting club so he knew he had the number somewhere. He said he’d also spent five minutes discussing with his wife what they should do. He thought at first he’d be waking me up if he called. All of which adds up to the fact that the shooting took place twenty-five minutes ago at the most.”

“All right, let’s regroup,” Larsson said. “This roadblock must stay, but a couple of us and some of the men further north will head for the scene. Now we know that guns are being used. Caution is the watchword, no reckless intervention.”

“Shouldn’t we call a national alert on this?” Johansson said.

“You bet we will,” Larsson said. “You can arrange that. Call Östersund. And take charge of the roadblock here.”

Larsson looked at Lindman, who nodded.

“Stefan and I will go to Löten. I’ll call Rundström from the car.”

“Be careful,” Johansson said.

Larsson didn’t seem to hear. Lindman drove. Larsson spoke to Rundström. Described what had happened, what decisions had been taken. Then he put the telephone down.

“What’s going on?” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

After a while, he said, “We could meet a car. We won’t stop, we’ll just try and get its make and registration number.”

It took them thirty-five minutes to reach the place described by Rune Wallén. They could see no cars. Lindman slowed down and pulled up when Larsson shouted, pointing at a dark blue Golf at the side of the road, halfway into a ditch.

“Let’s back up a little,” Larsson said. “Turn off the lights.”

It had stopped snowing. There wasn’t a sound. Larsson and Lindman crouched as they ran from the car. They had each taken one side of the road. Both had drawn their guns. They were peering into the darkness, listening intently. Lindman wasn’t sure how long they waited, but eventually they heard the sound of a car approaching. The headlights cut through the darkness and the police car came to a halt. Larsson had turned on his flashlight. It was Rundström on the other side of the blue Golf, and another officer Lindman thought was called Lennart Backman. It occurred to him that there had once been a footballer he admired whose name was Lennart Backman. Who did he used to play for? Was it Hammarby or AIK?