Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Have you seen anything?” Rundström shouted.

His voice echoed through the forest.

“The car seems to be empty,” Larsson said. “We waited for you to get here before moving in to examine it.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Lindman.”

“You and I will approach the car,” Rundström said. “You others stay where you are.”

Lindman held his pistol at the ready, simultaneously shining his flashlight for Larsson. He and Rundström closed in on the Golf from each side.

“There’s nothing here,” Larsson cried. “Move the cars to give us more light.”

Lindman moved the car up and directed the headlights at the Golf.

Wallén had not been mistaken. The Golf was riddled with bullet holes. There were three in the windshield, the front left tire had been punctured, and there were holes in the hood as well.

“The shots seem to have come from straight in front,” Rundström said, “possibly slightly to one side.”

They shone their flashlights into the car.

Larsson pointed. “That could be blood.”

The driver’s door was open wide. They shone their flashlights on the ground, but could see no trace of blood on the road or on the wet ground on the shoulder. Larsson pointed his flashlight into the trees.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” he said. “No idea at all.”

They formed a chain, shining their flashlights into trees and bushes. There was no sign of anybody, nor of any tracks. They continued into the trees for about a hundred meters before Larsson gave the order to turn back. There was a distant sound of sirens approaching from the east.

“The dogs are on their way,” Rundström said when they were on the asphalt again.

The keys were still in the ignition. Larsson opened the trunk. There were some cans of food and a sleeping bag. They exchanged looks.

“A dark blue sleeping bag,” Rundström said. “Labeled ‘Alpin.’ ”

He searched the bank of numbers in his cell phone, then called one of them.

“Inspector Rundström,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you. Didn’t you say there was a sleeping bag in your chalet? What color was it?”

He nodded. Dark blue. It fitted.

“What brand was it?” He listened. “Can you remember if you had any cans of Bullen’s Party Sausages in your pantry?”

Frostengren’s reply seemed to be comprehensive.

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Rundström said. “Many thanks for your help.”

“So now we know,” he said. “Even though he was half-asleep Frostengren could remember that his sleeping bag wasn’t labeled ‘Alpin.’ That may not be significant, of course. Hereira presumably had some stuff of his own. But the sausages were his.”

Everybody realized what that meant. Hereira had broken through the cordon around the mountain.

The police car came racing up, turned off its siren, and pulled up. A member of the forensic team Lindman had met before got out. Rundström explained briefly what had happened.

“It’ll be light in an hour or two,” Larsson said. “We must get the traffic boys here. Even if we are in the middle of nowhere there’ll presumably be some traffic on this road.”

The forensic officer had some caution tape with him and Lindman helped cordon off the Golf. They positioned the cars so that their headlights lit up not only the Golf in the ditch, but also the road and the edge of the trees. Larsson and Rundström stood back to let the forensic specialist get on with his work. They beckoned Lindman to join them.

“What do we do now?” Larsson said. “None of us understands what’s happened, if we’re honest.”

“Facts are facts,” Rundström said impatiently. “The man we’ve been hunting in the mountains has broken through our cordon. He steals a car. Then somebody has a surprise in store for him, steps into the road, and takes a few pot shots at him. Shoots to kill, because he’s aiming at the windshield. I think we can take it for granted that Hereira didn’t get out of the car and shoot at it himself. The man must have been incredibly lucky — unless he’s lying wounded or dead somewhere out there in the forest, of course. There could have been blood even if we didn’t see any. Has it been snowing, by the way? We had a few millimeters up in Funäsdalen.”

“We had some wet snow for about an hour. That’s all.”

“The dog handler will be here any minute,” Rundström said. “He’s in his own car and, needless to say, he’s gotten a flat. But my sense is that Hereira has survived. The stain on the car seat doesn’t suggest a serious wound. Assuming it is blood, of course.” He went over to the forensic officer and asked him. “It could be blood,” he said when he came back, “but it could also be chocolate.”

“Have we got a time scale?” Larsson said. A question apparently directed mainly at himself.

“It was precisely 4:03 when you phoned me,” Rundström said.

“So this drama must have taken place between 3:30 and 3:45.”

The penny dropped for all of them at the same time.

“The cars,” Larsson said slowly. “Two passed through our roadblock shortly before Wallén called to tell us about the shooting.”

All three realized what that meant. The man who did the shooting could have passed through the cordon already. Larsson looked at Lindman.

“Can you remember? The last two cars to pass through?”

“The first was a woman in a green Saab. Erik knew her.”

Larsson agreed.

“Then there was another car after that woman had gone. Driving rather fast. What was it? A Ford?”

“A red Ford Escort,” Lindman said.

“A young man in a fur hat. Driving back south after visiting some relatives in Hede. The time would fit. First he shoots up this car, and then he passes through our checkpoint.”

“Did you check his driver’s license?”

Larsson shook his head grimly.

“Registration number?”

Larsson called Johansson and explained what had happened. He waited, then put his cell phone back in his pocket.

“ABB 303,” he said. “Erik’s not absolutely certain about the numbers. His notebook got wet and the pages are stuck together. We’re handling this business very badly.”

“Let’s trace that car right away,” Rundström said. “Red Ford Escort. ABB 303, or something similar. We want the owner now, no delays. We yell at Erik later.”

“Let’s try to get clear about what’s happened,” Larsson said. “There are tons of questions that need answering. Just so we don’t overlook something crucial. How could anybody know that Hereira would be driving past in a dark blue Golf at this very spot and at this time? Who stands in the middle of the road and tries to kill him?”

Rundström and Larsson got out their cell phones again. Lindman did the same, but had no idea who to call. A car drew up with the dog handler, two other officers, and Dolly the Alsatian. The dog found a scent immediately. The officers headed into the forest.

Rundström exploded in anger when he’d finished his call. “The stupid computer’s down. We can’t trace the car,” he said. “Why does everything always have to be fucked up?”

“Did it crash or is it a software glitch?”

Larsson was talking to somebody in Östersund and to Rundström at the same time.

“They’re putting in new data. They claim it’ll be up and running within an hour.”

The forensic officer went past. He had gone to his car to exchange his shoes for rubber boots.

“Have you found anything?” Larsson said.

“All kinds of things, but I’ll give you a holler if I think it’s important.”

It was still dark at 6 A.M. The police officers and the dog returned from the forest.

“She lost the scent,” the dog handler said. “She’s tired as well. You can’t push her beyond her limits. We’ll have to get some more dogs here.”