Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“I’ve spoken to Giuseppe Larsson,” she said. “I had to squeeze what happened last night out of him. I gathered from what he said that you might be in the hotel.”

“What did he tell you?”

“About the shooting. And that you haven’t caught the man you’re after yet.”

“The question is, how many men are the police after? Is it one or two? Maybe even three.”

“Why aren’t I being kept informed about what’s happening?”

“The police like to work in peace, without being harassed by reporters. And relatives. Especially when they don’t know what’s actually happened. And especially when they don’t know why something has happened.”

“I still don’t believe that my father died because he used to be a Nazi. Because of something he might have done when he was a German soldier. The war ended more than fifty years ago. I think his death is somehow connected with that woman in Scotland, whose name I remember as Monica.”

Lindman decided on the spur of the moment to tell her about the discovery he had made in Wetterstedt’s apartment in Kalmar. He didn’t know why. Perhaps to establish the fact that they had a secret to share and that both their fathers had been Nazis. He told her without saying how he’d made the discovery, without saying that he’d broken into the apartment and found out by accident. He told her about the network, and the foundation called Strong Sweden. About all the dead as well as the living who made contributions to the organization.

“I still don’t know enough,” he said in conclusion. “Perhaps that organization is just a small part of something much bigger? I’m not so naive that I think there might be a worldwide Nazi conspiracy, but it’s clear that Nazi ideas are alive and well. When all this is over I’ll talk to my boss in Borås. There must be grounds for the security services to look into this in earnest.”

She listened intently to what he had to say.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said eventually. “I would have done the same.”

“We’ve got to fight against this lunacy,” he said. “Even if these people are harboring a hopeless dream, they are spreading the madness further into the world.”

She looked at her watch.

“I know you have to get your brother,” Lindman said. “Just answer me one question. Why did you let me sleep here?”

She put her hand on her computer.

“I said that this thing contains my entire life. That’s not really true, of course.”

Lindman stared at her hand and the computer. He was listening to what she was saying, but it was an image that imprinted itself on his mind. She removed her hand and the image disappeared.

“I’ll go now. What time’s the funeral tomorrow?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

He turned and walked to the door. He was about to open it when he felt her hand on his arm.

“You’ve got to get your brother,” he said.

His cell phone rang in his jacket pocket.

“You’d better answer.”

It was Larsson. “Where are you?”

“At the hotel.”

“Something very odd has happened.”

“What?”

“Berggren has called Erik. She wants him to pick her up.”

“why?”

“She says she wants to confess to the murder of Abraham Andersson.”

It was 2:25. Monday, November 15.

Larsson called at 6 P.M. and asked Lindman to come to Johansson’s office. It was cold and windy when he left the hotel. When he reached the church he stopped and turned around quickly. A car went by along Fjällvägen, followed by another. He thought he could make out a shadowy figure next to the wall of the building opposite the school, but he wasn’t sure. He continued to the community center. Larsson was waiting for him outside the entrance. They went to the office. Lindman noticed that there were two extra chairs — one for Berggren, he assumed, and the other for her lawyer.

“They’re on the way to Östersund now,” Larsson said. “She’s under arrest, and will be remanded into custody tomorrow. Erik is with her.”

“What did she say?”

Larsson pointed at a tape recorder on the desk.

“A tape of the interrogation is on its way to Östersund,” he said, “but I had two tape recorders. I thought you might like to hear the copy. You’ll be on your own here. I have to get something to eat, and rest for a little while.”

“You can borrow my hotel room if you like.”

“There’s a sofa in the other room. That’ll do.”

“I don’t need to listen to the tape. You can tell me what happened.”

Larsson sat in Johansson’s chair. He scratched at his forehead, as if he suddenly had an itch.

“I’d rather you listened to it.”

“Did she confess?”

“Yes.”

“The motive?”

“I think you should listen to the tape. And then tell me what you think.”

“You are not convinced?”

“I don’t know what I am. That’s why I want to hear your reaction.”

Larsson stood up. “Still no sign of Hereira,” he said. “We haven’t found the red Ford either. Nor the man who did the shooting. But we will in the end. I’ll be back here in two hours.”

Larsson put on his jacket.

“She sat on that chair,” he said, pointing. “Her lawyer, Hermansson, was in that one. She’d called him this morning. He was already here when we went to pick her up.”

Larsson closed the door behind him. Lindman turned on the tape recorder. There was a scraping noise as a microphone was being moved. Then he heard Larsson’s voice.

GL: So, we are commencing this interrogation and note that today is November 15, 1999. The time is 15:07. The interrogation is being conducted at the police station in Sveg by Detective Inspector Giuseppe Larsson. The witness is Inspector Erik Johansson. The interrogation of Elsa Berggren is being held at her own request. She is being represented by her lawyer, Sven Hermansson. Would you please give us your name and personal details?

EB: My name is Elsa Maria Berggren, born May 10, 1925, in Tranås.

GL: Could you speak a bit louder, please?

EB: My name is Elsa Maria Berggren, born May 10, 1925, in Tranås.

GL: Thank you. Could we have your full identity number, please?

EB: 250510-0221.

GL: Thank you. (More scraping from the microphone, somebody coughed, a door closed.) So, if you could just move a bit closer to the microphone... Now, please tell us what happened.

EB: I want to confess to the murder of Abraham Andersson.

GL: You are confessing to killing Abraham Andersson with intent?

EB: Yes.

GL: So it was murder, is that correct?

EB: Yes.

GL: Did you consult with your lawyer before saying this?

EB: There’s nothing to consult about. I admit to having killed him with premeditation. Isn’t that what it’s called?

GL: That’s what they usually say, yes.

EB: Then I admit to having murdered Abraham Andersson with premeditation.

GL: So you are confessing to having committed murder?

EB: How many times do I have to repeat it?

GL: Why did you kill him?

EB: He threatened to expose Herbert Molin, the man living nearby who was killed shortly beforehand as a former National Socialist. I didn’t want that. He also threatened to expose me as a convinced National Socialist. And he also committed blackmail.

GL: Against you?

EB: No, Herbert Molin. He demanded money from him every month.

GL: How long had that been going on?

EB: Since a year or so after Herbert moved here. Eight or nine years, I suppose.

GL: Are we talking about a lot of money?

EB: I don’t know. No doubt it was a lot of money for Herbert.

GL: When did you decide to kill Andersson?