Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

It took Lindman half an hour to work it all out.

“The hiding place,” he said. “Andersson’s hiding place. What did he have hidden in there? How much did he know? We can’t tell. But whatever it was, it was too much.”

Snow was falling more densely now. Larsson had angled his desk lamp so that it shone out into the darkness.

“This has been threatening for the last week,” he said. “Snow. And now we’re getting plenty of it. It might melt away, but it could stick. Winters up here are not easy to predict, but they’re always long.”

They drank coffee. The community center was empty. The library had closed.

“I think it’s time for me to go back to Östersund,” Larsson said. “All you’ve told me makes me more convinced than ever that the Special Branch must be brought in.”

“What about the information you’ve gotten from me?” Lindman said.

“We may have received an anonymous tip,” Larsson said. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to report you for breaking down the door of that Nazi’s apartment.”

It was 10:15. They examined the situation they were in from various angles. Shuffled the pieces around. A couple of hours ago Berggren had been playing a central role. Now she’d been sidelined, at least for the time being. At the front of stage were Fernando Hereira and the man who’d filled a Ford Escort with gas in Söderköping.

There was a clattering from the entrance to the community center. Johansson eventually trudged in, snow in his thinning hair.

“I nearly ran off the road,” he said, brushing the snow from his jacket. “I started skidding. I was close to catastrophe.”

“You drive too fast.”

“Very possibly.”

“What happened in Östersund?”

“Lövander will work out the remanding procedures tomorrow morning. He came to the police station and listened to the tape, then called me in the car.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“She didn’t utter a word all the way to Östersund.”

Larsson had vacated the desk chair, and Johansson sat down with a yawn. Larsson told him about the gas receipt and the conclusions they’d drawn. He invented a story about Lindman receiving an anonymous call about the Strong Sweden Foundation. Johansson was only half-listening at first, but soon pricked up his ears.

“I agree,” he said when Larsson had finished. “We have to bring in the Special Branch. If we have an organization calling itself Nazi and killing people, then Stockholm needs to be in on the case. There’s been a whole lot of this kind of stuff in Sweden lately. Meanwhile I suppose we’d better keep on hunting for that red Escort.”

“Isn’t Stockholm doing that?”

Johansson had opened his briefcase and was taking out some faxes.

“They’ve traced Anders Harner. He says the Escort is his all right, but it’s in a garage in Stockholm. A place run by somebody called Mattias Sundelin. I’ve got his telephone number here.”

He called the number and switched his telephone to loudspeaker mode. A woman answered.

“I’m trying to get in touch with Mattias Sundelin.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Erik Johansson and I’m a police officer in Sveg.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Härjedalen, but that’s irrelevant. Is Sundelin there?”

“Just a minute, I’ll get him.”

They waited.

“Mattias here,” said a gravelly voice.

“This is Inspector Johansson from the police in Sveg. It’s about a red Ford Escort, registration number ABB 003. The owner is Anders Harner. He tells us it’s in your garage. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So you have the car?”

“Not here at home. It’s in the garage in town. I rent out garage space.”

“But you are certain that the car is there at this moment?”

“I can’t be certain about every single car I’ve got parked there. I have about ninety of them. What’s this all about?”

“We need to trace that car. Where is the garage?”

“In Kungsholmen. I can take a look tomorrow.”

“No,” Johansson said. “We need to know right now.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“I can’t go into that. Please drive in and check that the car is still there.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“I can’t do that. I’ve been drinking wine. I’d be over the limit if I was stopped.”

“Is there somebody else who could check? If not, you’ll have to take a taxi.”

“You can try Pelle Niklasson. I’ve got his number here.”

Johansson wrote it down, thanked Sundelin, and hung up. Then he called the new number. The man who answered said he was Pelle Niklasson. Johansson repeated the questions about the red Escort.

“I can’t remember if I saw it today. We’ve got quite a few cars in the long-term area.”

“We need to have confirmation that it is there, and we need it now.”

“I’m in Vällingby. Surely you’re not suggesting that I should drive all that way at this time of night.”

“If not a police car will come to get you.”

“What’s happened?”

Johansson sighed. “I’m the one asking the questions. How long will it take you to get there and check if the car’s where it should be?”

“Forty minutes. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. Write down this number. Call me as soon as you know.”

It was still snowing in Sveg. They waited. Thirty-seven minutes later, the phone rang.

“Erik Johansson here.”

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That the car wasn’t here.”

Larsson and Lindman sat up and leaned towards the speakerphone.

“Has it been stolen?”

“I don’t know. It’s supposed to be impossible to steal a car from here.”

“Can you explain that a bit more clearly?”

“This is a garage that charges high fees in return for maximum security. No car can be driven away from here without our checking the person who’s in it.”

“So everything is recorded?”

“In the computer, yes. I don’t know how to run that thing, though. I mostly do maintenance. It’s the other boys who look after the computer side.”

“Mattias Sundelin?”

“He’s the boss. He doesn’t do anything.”

“Who are you referring to, then?”

“The other boys. Five of us work here, apart from the custodian. And the boss, of course. One of them must know when the car left, but I can’t contact them now.”

Lindman raised his hand. “Ask him to fax their personal details.”

“Do you have access to their personal details?”

“They’re here somewhere.”

He went to look, then returned to the telephone.

“I’ve found copies of their driver’s licenses.”

“Do you have a fax there?”

“Yes, and I know how to use that. I can’t send anything until I get the okay from Sundelin, though.”

“He knows about it. He gave us your number, remember?” Johansson said, sounding as authoritative as he could. He gave Niklasson the police fax number.

The black fax machine was in the corridor outside the office. Johansson checked that it was working. Then they waited again.

There was a ring, and paper began to emerge from the machine. Four driver’s licenses. The text was barely legible, their faces like black thumbprints. The machine stopped. They returned to the office. Snow was piling up on the windowsill. They passed the pages around, and Johansson wrote down the names: Klas Herrström, Simon Lukac, Magnus Holmström, Werner Mäkinen. He read them out, one after the other.

Lindman didn’t even listen to the fourth name. He recognized the third one. He took the fax and held his breath. The face was just an outline, with no distinguishable features. Even so, he was certain.