Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Can I trust you?”

“You don’t really have a choice.”

Hereira hesitated. Then he stood up and cut the tape tying Lindman to the chair.

“We have to trust each other. There’s no other possibility.”

Lindman felt dizzy as he walked to the door. His legs were stiff, and the back of his neck was extremely sore.

“I’ll wait for her to call,” Hereira said. “I’ll probably talk to her for about an hour. Then you can tell your colleagues where I am.”

Lindman crossed the bridge. Before leaving the house he made a note of Berggren’s telephone number. He paused at the place where a police diver would start looking for a shotgun on the riverbed an hour or two from now. He was exhausted, but he tried to think clearly. Hereira had committed murder, but there was something appealing about him, something genuine, when he’d tried to convince Lindman that he wanted to talk to Molin’s daughter, try to make her understand, hope that she would forgive him. He wondered again if Veronica and her brother had spent the night in Östersund. If so, he’d have to call all the hotels to find her.

It was 6:30 when he got back to the hotel. He knocked on her door. She opened it so quickly that he almost recoiled. She was already dressed. Her computer was shimmering in the background.

“I have to talk to you. I know it’s early. I thought you might have stayed in Östersund for the night, because of the snow.”

“My brother never showed up.”

“Why not?”

“He had changed his mind. He called. He didn’t want to go to the funeral. I got back here late last night. What is so urgent?”

Lindman headed back to the lobby. She followed him. They sat down and without more ado he told her what had happened during the night and about her father’s murderer, Fernando Hereira, who was waiting in Berggren’s house for her to call him, and possibly even forgive him.

“He wanted to meet you,” Lindman said. “I didn’t agree to that, of course.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said after a while. “I wouldn’t have agreed to go there, though. Of course not. Does anybody else know about this?”

“Nobody.”

“Not even your colleagues?”

“Nobody. He speaks English.”

She looked hard at him. “I’ll talk to him, but I want to be alone when I call him. When the call is over, I’ll knock on your door.”

Lindman gave her the paper with the telephone number. Then he went to his room. As he opened his door it struck him that she might already have called Hereira. He looked at his watch. In twenty minutes he would contact Larsson and tell him where he could find Hereira.

He went to the bathroom, but found that there was no toilet paper left. He went back to the lobby. He saw her through the window. Veronica Molin, out in the street. In a hurry.

He stopped short. Tried to work it out. Thoughts were racing around his head. There was no doubt that Veronica Molin was on her way to Hereira. He should have foreseen that. Something in direct contrast to what he’d previously thought. It has something to do with her computer, he thought. Something she’d said. Maybe something I’d thought without really understanding the implications. His alarm was growing quickly. He turned to the girl, who was on her way to the dining room.

“Ms. Molin’s key,” he said. “I must have it.”

She stared at him in bewilderment.

“She’s just gone out.”

“That’s why I need her key.”

“I can’t give it to you.”

Lindman slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m a police officer,” he roared. “Give me the key.”

She took the key from beneath the desk. He grabbed it, raced along the corridor, and opened her door. The computer was on. The screen was glowing. He stared at it in horror.

Everything fell into place. Now he could see how it all fit together. Most of all he could see how catastrophically wrong he’d been.

It was 7:05 A.M. and still dark. Lindman ran. Several times he slipped and almost fell in the snow. He should have recognized long ago what was now obvious, absolutely clear and simple. He had been too lazy. Or his worries over what lay in store for him at the hospital had been too great. I should have caught on when Veronica Molin called and asked me to come back, he thought. Why wasn’t I suspicious? I’m only now asking all the questions that cried out to be asked even then.

He came to the bridge. Still not light. No sign of Larsson or a diver. How long was it taking for Molin’s house to burn down? He took out his cell phone and tried Larsson’s number. The same female voice asking him to try again later. He very nearly threw the phone after the shotgun, to the bottom of the river.

Then he saw somebody coming towards him over the bridge. He could see from the light of the streetlamps who it was. During his early days in Sveg he’d had coffee with the man in his kitchen. He tried to remember his name. The man who had never traveled further afield than Hede. Then he got it: Björn Wigren. The man recognized Lindman.

“Are you still here?” he said in surprise. “I thought you’d gone home. I do know one thing, though: Elsa hasn’t committed murder.”

Lindman wondered how Wigren knew she’d been arrested and taken to Östersund. But that didn’t matter for the moment. Perhaps Wigren could be of some use.

“Let’s talk about Elsa Berggren later,” he said. “Just now I need your help.”

Lindman searched through his pockets for paper and pencil, but found nothing.

“Do you have anything to write with?”

“No. I can go home and get something if it’s important. What’s happening?”

His curiosity is terrible, Lindman thought, looking around. They were only just onto the bridge.

“Come over here,” he said.

They went to where the bridge joined the road. There was a drift of virgin snow there. Lindman squatted down and wrote in the snow with his finger.

ELSA’S HOUSE. VERONICA. DANGEROUS. STEFAN.

He stood up.

“Can you see what I’ve written?”

Wigren read it aloud. “What does it mean?”

“It means you should stand here and wait until some police officers and a diver show up. One of the officers will probably be Larsson. Or it might be a man called Rundström. Erik Johansson might well be there as well, and you know him. In any case, show them this message. Is that clear?”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing that affects you for the moment, but it’s very important for the police. Wait until they get here.”

Lindman was trying hard to sound authoritative. “Stay here,” he repeated. “Is that understood?”

“Yes. But I’m curious, of course. Is it about Elsa?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. The important thing right now is that this message is crucial. You’ll be doing the police a great service if you make sure they see it.”

“I’ll stay here. I was only going out for a morning stroll.”

Lindman left Wigren and ran over the bridge, trying to call the police emergency number at the same time. Same voice. He swore, and put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn’t wait any longer. He turned left and stopped when he came to Elsa Berggren’s house. Tried to keep calm. There’s only one thing to do, he told himself. I have to be as convincing as possible. I must give the impression that I don’t know anything. Veronica Molin must keep believing that I’m still the idiot she’s had every reason to think I am so far.

He thought about the night when she’d let him sleep by her side. No doubt she had gotten up while he was asleep and searched his room. That was why she had let him sleep in her bed. Not even then had the penny dropped. He had been vain and conceited, and he had also betrayed Elena. Veronica had made the most of his weakness. Not that he could blame her.