The Return of the Dancing Master (37 page)

He went for a walk after his meal. North this time, past a museum comprising several old houses, and then past the hospital. He walked fast so as to exert himself. He heard music playing in his mind's ear. It was some time before he realized it was the music he'd heard at Jacobi's. Johann Sebastian Bach. He kept going until he'd left Sveg far behind him.

 

 

He took a shower, then went down to reception. Veronica Molin was waiting for him. He noticed again what a good-looking woman she was.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“The alternative was bowling.”

She looked at him in surprise, then laughed.

“I'm glad you didn't say golf. I've never understood men who play golf.”

“I've never touched a golf club in my life.”

She looked around the lobby. Some test drivers had just come in, declaring in loud voices that it was high time for a beer.

“I don't normally invite men to my room,” she said, “but at least we can be left in peace there.”

Her room was on the ground floor, at the end of the corridor. It was different from Lindman's—bigger, for a start. He wondered what it must be like for somebody used to staying in five-star hotels all over the world to adjust to the simplicity of a hotel in Sveg. He remembered her saying that she'd heard about her father's death in a room with a view of the cathedral in Cologne. From the window in this room she could see the Ljusnan River and beyond it the wooded hills of Harjedalen. Perhaps this view is as beautiful, he thought, and in its way as impressive as Cologne Cathedral.

There were two armchairs in the room. She'd switched on the bedside lamp and directed it away from them so that the room was dimly lit. He smelled her perfume. He wondered how she would react if he were to tell her that what he most wanted to do just now was to remove all her clothes and make love to her. Would she be surprised? She was no doubt aware of the effect she had on men.

“You asked me to be here,” he said. “I'd like to hear what you have to tell me. That said, this conversation shouldn't be taking place. You should be talking to Inspector Larsson, or one of his colleagues. I have nothing to do with the investigation.”

“I know. But I want to talk to you even so.”

Lindman could see that she was agitated. He waited.

“I've been trying to understand,” she said. “Who would have had any reason for killing my father? It was beyond all comprehension at first. It seemed as if somebody had raised his hand and brought it crashing down on my father's head for no reason. I could see no motive at all. I was stunned. I don't usually react like that. In my work I come up against crises every day, crises that can develop into commercial catastrophes if I don't stay absolutely calm and make sure I'm influenced by nothing but the facts in whatever I do. The feeling passed. I was eventually able to think rationally again. And I started remembering.” She looked at him. “I read that diary,” she said. “What was in it came as a shock.”

“You mean you knew nothing about his past?”

“Nothing at all. I told you that.”

“Have you spoken to your brother?”

“He didn't know anything either.”

Her voice was strangely toneless. Lindman felt an odd sensation of uncertainty. He concentrated harder, and leaned forward so that he could see her face more clearly.

“Naturally, it was a bolt from the sky to discover that my father had been a volunteer in Hitler's army. Not just paying lip service to it, but very much an active Nazi. I was ashamed. I hated him. Mostly because he'd never said anything.”

Lindman wondered if he was ashamed of his own father. He didn't think he'd come that far yet. He was in a very peculiar situation, though. He and the woman opposite him had made the same discovery about their fathers.

“Anyway, it dawned on me that there might be an explanation in that diary for why he was killed.”

A truck rumbled past in the street outside. Lindman waited eagerly for what was coming next.

“How well do you remember what was in it?” she asked.

“Pretty well. Not all the details and dates, of course.”

“He describes a journey to Scotland.”

Lindman remembered that. The long walks with “M.”

“It was a long time ago. I wasn't very old, but I do remember my father going to Scotland to see a woman. I think her name was Monica, but I'm not sure. He'd met her in BorÃ¥s and she was also a police officer, but quite a bit younger, I think. There'd been some kind of an exchange between Sweden and Scotland. They fell in love. My mother knew nothing about it. Not then at least. Anyway, he went to meet her. And he cheated her.”

“How?”

She shook her head impatiently. “I'm telling this at my own pace. It's difficult enough as it is. He tricked her out of some money. I don't know what he told her, of course, but he borrowed money from her, large sums of money. And he never paid it back. My father had a weakness. He was a gambler. Mostly on horses. Cards too, I think. Anyway, he lost. All her money went down the drain. She demanded the money back. There was nothing about it in writing, apparently. He refused. She came to BorÃ¥s once, that's how I know about this. She appeared at the door one evening; it was winter. My mother was at home, and my father and me. I don't know where my brother was. Anyway, there she was at the door and, although he tried to prevent her, she forced her way into the house and told my mother everything, and she yelled at my father, threatening to kill him if he didn't return the money. I'd
learned enough English to be able to understand what they were saying. My mother collapsed and my father was wild with rage, or maybe it was fear. She promised she'd kill him in the end, no matter how long it took. I remember distinctly what she said.”

“So you're suggesting that after all those years she came here to exact vengeance?”

“That must be what happened.”

Lindman shook his head. It seemed to him grossly improbable. In his diary Molin had described the Scotland trip in a way that didn't fit in at all with what he'd just heard.

“You have to tell the police about your theory. They'll look into it. As for myself, I can't believe it.”

“Why not?”

“It simply doesn't sound credible.”

“Aren't most violent crimes incredible?”

Someone walked past in the corridor. They waited until all was quiet again.

“I have a question that you have to answer,” Lindman said. “Why don't you want to tell this to Inspector Larsson?”

“I want to and I shall tell him, but I wanted your advice first.”

“Why me?”

“Because I have confidence in you.”

“What kind of advice do you think I can give you?”

“How can I prevent the truth about my father from coming out? That he was a Nazi?”

“If it has nothing to do with the murder, there's no reason for the police or the prosecution to make any such information public.”

“I'm frightened of reporters. They've chased me before and I never want to go through that again. I was involved in the complicated merger of two banks in Singapore and England. Something went wrong. The reporters came after me because they knew that I was one of those most involved.”

“I don't think you need to worry. That said, I don't agree with you.”

“About what?”

“That the truth shouldn't be told about your father. The old form of Nazism is dead. And yet it's still alive, and growing, in new forms. If you turn over the right rocks, they come teeming out. Racists, ‘supermen.' All the creatures who look for inspiration from the garbage dumps of history.”

“Can I at least prevent the diary from being published?”

“Presumably. But there may be others who decide to dig deeper.”

“What do you mean, others?”

“Me, perhaps.”

She leaned back in her chair. Her face disappeared in the shadows. Lindman regretted what he'd said.

“But I won't be digging into it. I'm a police officer, not a journalist. You don't need to worry about that.”

She stood up. “You made a long journey for my sake,” she said. “And I am afraid it wasn't necessary. I could have asked you over the telephone. The trouble is that for once, I've lost a little of my usual presence of mind. My work is sensitive. My employers might abandon me if I were tainted by rumors. After all, the man lying dead in the forest was my father. My belief is that the woman called M. is behind it all. I have no idea who would have killed the other man.”

Lindman gestured to the phone. “You should call Inspector Larsson.”

He stood up.

“When are you leaving?” she said.

“Tomorrow.”

“Can't we have dinner together? That's the least I can do for you.”

“I only hope they've changed the menu.”

“7:30?”

“That suits me fine.”

 

 

She was reserved and distant during dinner. Lindman could feel himself getting testy. Partly because she had persuaded him to make this absurdly unnecessary journey on account of her exaggerated anxiety, and partly because he couldn't avoid being attracted to her.

They said goodbye in the lobby, with hardly a word exchanged. She said she would send a check to his office in Boras to cover his costs, and went to her room. Lindman fetched his jacket and went out. He'd asked if she'd called Larsson. She said she had but that she couldn't get through, and would try again.

As he walked through the deserted town, he thought about what she'd said. The story about the woman in Scotland could conceivably be true, but he refused to believe that after all those years she'd come to Sweden to take her revenge. It didn't make sense.

Without realizing it, he'd reached the old railroad bridge. He thought
it was time to return to the hotel, but something made him keep walking. He crossed the bridge and turned onto Berggren's street. There were lights in two of the ground-floor windows. He was about to walk past when he thought he noticed a shadowy figure disappearing rapidly around one of the gable walls. He frowned. Stood still, peering into the darkness. Then he opened the gate and approached the house. He stopped to listen. Not a sound. He pressed himself against the wall and peered around the corner. Nobody there. He must have been imagining things. He crept around to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows. Nobody there either.

He never heard the footsteps behind him. Something struck the back of his neck. He was on the ground and the last thing he felt was a pair of hands tightening around his throat. Then nothing. Only darkness.

The Woodlice November 1999

L
indman opened his eyes. He knew immediately where he was. He sat up slowly, took a deep breath and looked around in the darkness. Nothing to be seen, nor was there a sound. He felt the back of his neck. There was some blood, and it hurt when he swallowed. Still, he was alive. He couldn't say how long he'd been unconscious. He raised himself up, clinging onto the drainpipe on the house wall. He was thinking clearly again, despite the pain in his throat and at the back of his neck. So his eyes hadn't deceived him. There had been somebody moving in the shadows at the back of the house, somebody who'd seen him, and tried to kill him.

Something must have happened. Why was he still alive? Whoever had tried to strangle him must have been disturbed and been forced to let go. Of course, there was another possibility. His attacker might have intended to stop him, but not to kill him. He let go of the drainpipe and listened. Still not a sound.

A faint light reached him from one of the windows. Something must have happened in that house, he thought. Just as something happened in Molin's house, and later in Andersson's. Now I'm standing outside my third house. He wondered what to do, and had no problem making up his mind. He took out his cell phone and called Larsson's number. His hand was shaking, and he pressed the wrong buttons twice. When he did get through, a girl answered.

“This is Daddy's telephone.”

“Can I speak to Giuseppe, please?”

“Good grief, he went to bed ages ago. Do you know what time it is?”

“I have to talk to him.”

“Who are you?”

“Stefan.”

“Are you the one from BorÃ¥s?”

“Yes. You must wake him up. This is important.”

“I'll give him the telephone.”

While he waited, Lindman moved a few paces from the house and stood in the shadow of a tree. Then he heard Larsson's voice, and was able to explain briefly what had happened.

“Are you hurt?” Larsson said.

“The back of my neck is bleeding and it hurts a lot when I swallow; otherwise it's okay.”

“I'll try to get hold of Johansson. Where exactly are you?”

“At the back of the house. By one of the gables. Under a tree. Something may have happened to Berggren.”

“You said you disturbed someone leaving the place, is that right?”

“I think so.”

Lindman waited for a long silence.

“Let's keep the line open,” Larsson said at last. “Ring her doorbell and stay at the door. If there's no sign of her, wait until Erik gets there.”

Lindman walked around to the front of the house and rang the bell. The outside light was on. He held the phone to his ear the whole time.

“What's happening?” Larsson said.

“I've rung. Twice. Nothing.”