The Return of the Dancing Master (47 page)

She wasn't asleep.

“I know you're sick, but do you really have the right to treat me like this?” she said.

“I've been working.”

“You're not at work. You're on sick leave.”

“I've been pretty busy talking to Larsson.”

“And so you don't have time to call me, is that it?”

“I didn't realize it was as late as this.”

No response. Then:

“We have to have a serious talk. Not now, though. Later.”

“I miss you. I don't really know why I'm here. I suppose I'm so scared of the day dawning when I have to go to the hospital that I don't even dare be at home. I don't know whether I'm coming or going right now. But I do miss you.”

“Are you sure you haven't met another woman up there?”

That shook him. Hard, in a flash.

“And who would that be?”

“I don't know. Somebody younger.”

“Don't be silly.”

He could hear that she was depressed, unhappy, and that made him feel even more guilty.

“I'm standing next to a stuffed bear,” he said. “He sends his greetings.”

She didn't answer.

“Are you still there?”

“I'm still here. But I'm going to sleep now. Call me tomorrow. I hope you'll be able to sleep tonight.”

Lindman went back to the office. Larsson was poring over an open file. Lindman poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. Larsson pushed the file to one side. His hair was in a mess, his eyes bloodshot.

“Berggren,” he said. “I'll have another talk with her tomorrow. I intend to take Erik along with me, but I'll be asking the questions. Erik is too nice with her. I even think he's a little scared of her.”

“What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Clarity. There's something she's not telling us.”

Larsson stood up and stretched.

“Bowling,” he said. “I'll ask Erik to have a word with the local authority and see if they can't establish a little bowling alley. Strictly for visiting policemen.” Then he was serious again. “What would you ask Berggren? You'll soon be as familiar with this investigation as I am.”

Lindman said nothing for almost a minute before replying.

“I'd try to find out if she knew that Erik kept guns in the house.”

“That's a good idea, of course,” Larsson said. “We'll keep on trying to fit the old girl into the picture. With a little luck, we'll find a place for her in the end.”

The telephone on his desk rang. Larsson answered. He listened, sat down, and pulled a notepad towards him. Lindman handed him a pencil that had fallen to the floor. Larsson checked his watch.

“We're on our way,” he said, and hung up.

Lindman could see from his face that something serious had happened.

“That was Rundström. Twenty minutes ago a car drove right through one of the roadblocks. The officers there were very lucky to escape uninjured.”

He marked the spot on the map with his finger. It was a crossroads southeast of Funasdalen. Lindman estimated the distance between there and Frostengren's chalet at about 20 kilometers.

“A dark blue sedan, possibly a Golf,” Larsson said. “The driver was a man. His appearance could be in line with the descriptions we've had previously. The officers didn't have time to see much. But this could mean that our man has broken through the cordon, and that he's on his way here.”

Larsson looked at his watch again. “If he really leans on the accelerator he could be here in two hours.”

Lindman looked at the map and pointed to a side road. “He could turn off there.”

“All the roadblocks in Funasdalen are being moved right now. They'll build a wall behind him. It's here that has no checkpoint at the moment.”

He picked up the telephone. “Let's hope that Erik's sleeping pill hasn't knocked him out yet.”

Lindman waited while Larsson spoke to Johansson about the roadblock they needed to set up. He put the phone down and shook his head.

“Erik's a good man,” he said. “He'd just taken his sleeping pill, but he's going to stick his finger down his throat and throw it up. He's really determined to catch that bastard. Not just because Hereira's most probably the one who stole his guns.”

“It doesn't add up,” Lindman said. “The more I think about it, the more impossible it gets. Why on earth would he break into Johansson's place and then go back to the mountain?”

“Nothing adds up. But we can hardly start thinking about a third person being mixed up in all this.” Larsson interrupted himself. “Maybe that is what happened,” he said, “but if so, what does that mean?”

“I've no idea.”

“Whoever is in that car could be the one with the guns. And he might start using them. We'll put a stinger out to puncture his tires. If he starts shooting, we'll stay out of the way.” Then he turned serious. “You're a police officer,” he said. “We're very shorthanded just now. Will you come with us?”

“Yes.”

“Erik's bringing a gun for you.”

“I thought they'd been stolen?”

Larsson made a face.

“He had an extra pistol that he presumably hasn't registered either. Hidden away in the cellar. Plus his police-issue weapon.”

The telephone rang again. Rundström. Larsson listened without saying anything.

“The car is stolen,” he said when the call was over. “It was in fact a Golf. Stolen from a gas station in Funasdalen. A truck driver saw it happen. According to Rundström, it was one of the guys Erik plays cards with.”

He was in a hurry now. He shoved several files lying on his jacket into a heap.

“Erik will bring in the two police officers in Sveg. Not exactly an impressive squad, but I expect that will be enough to stop a Golf.”

Three quarters of an hour later they had set up a roadblock three kilometers northwest of Sveg. The wind was rushing through the trees. Larsson talked in a low voice to Johansson. The other police officers skulked like shadows, back from the side of the road. The headlights from the police cars cut into the darkness.

T
he car they were waiting for never arrived. Five other cars passed through. Johansson knew two of the drivers. The other three were strangers: two were women, domestic caregivers, who lived to the west of Sveg, and a young man in a fur hat who had been staying with relatives in Hede and was now on his way south. All were made to submit their boots for inspection before they were allowed to continue.

The temperature had risen again, and some wet snow was falling, melting the moment it touched the ground. There was no breeze now, and every sound was clearly audible. Somebody broke wind; a hand brushed against a car door.

They spread out a map on the hood of one of the police cars, and examined it by flashlight. It quickly became wet. Did they make a mistake? Was there some other route that they had overlooked? They couldn't see the alternative. All the roadblocks were where they should be. Larsson was acting as a sort of one-man call center, keeping in touch with the other groups of officers stationed at various points in the forest.

Lindman stayed on the sidelines. He'd been given a pistol of a type familiar to him by Johansson. Snow was falling on his head. He thought about Veronica Molin, Elena, and most of all about November 19. He couldn't make up his mind if the darkness and the trees increased or alleviated his anxiety. There was also a brief moment when it crossed his mind that he could put an end to it all in just a few seconds. He had a loaded gun in his pocket; he could put it to his head and pull the trigger and there would be no need for radiation.

Nobody could see where the Golf could have disappeared to. Lindman
heard Larsson getting more annoyed every time he spoke to one of his colleagues. Then Johansson's telephone rang.

“You what?” he shouted.

He signaled for the wet map to be unfolded again as he listened to what was being said. He jabbed his finger onto the map so hard that it made a hole, repeated a name, Löten, then finished the call.

“Shooting,” he said. “Some time ago, here, by the lake, Löten, three kilometers from the road to Hardabyn. The call was from somebody called Rune Wallén. He lives near there, owns a truck and a bulldozer. He said he was woken by something that sounded like a bang. His wife heard it as well. He went outside, and there was another bang. He counted ten shots altogether. He's a hunter, so he knows what a shotgun sounds like.”

Johansson looked at his watch and did some calculations. “He said it took him a quarter of an hour to find my cell phone number. We're in the same hunting club so he knew he had the number somewhere. He said he'd also spent five minutes discussing with his wife what they should do. He thought at first he'd be waking me up if he called. All of which adds up to the fact that the shooting took place twenty-five minutes ago at the most.”

“All right, let's regroup,” Larsson said. “This roadblock must stay, but a couple of us and some of the men further north will head for the scene. Now we know that guns are being used. Caution is the watchword, no reckless intervention.”

“Shouldn't we call a national alert on this?” Johansson said.

“You bet we will,” Larsson said. “You can arrange that. Call Ostersund. And take charge of the roadblock here.”

Larsson looked at Lindman, who nodded.

“Stefan and I will go to Löten. I'll call Rundström from the car.”

“Be careful,” Johansson said.

Larsson didn't seem to hear. Lindman drove. Larsson spoke to Rundström. Described what had happened, what decisions had been taken. Then he put the telephone down.

“What's going on?” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

After a while, he said, “We could meet a car. We won't stop, we'll just try and get its make and registration number.”

 

 

It took them thirty-five minutes to reach the place described by Rune Wallén. They could see no cars. Lindman slowed down and pulled up
when Larsson shouted, pointing at a dark blue Golf at the side of the road, halfway into a ditch.

“Let's back up a little,” Larsson said. “Turn off the lights.”

It had stopped snowing. There wasn't a sound. Larsson and Lindman crouched as they ran from the car. They had each taken one side of the road. Both had drawn their guns. They were peering into the darkness, listening intently. Lindman wasn't sure how long they waited, but eventually they heard the sound of a car approaching. The headlights cut through the darkness and the police car came to a halt. Larsson had turned on his flashlight. It was Rundström on the other side of the blue Golf, and another officer Lindman thought was called Lennart Backman. It occurred to him that there had once been a footballer he admired whose name was Lennart Backman. Who did he used to play for? Was it Hammarby or AIK?

“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.”