The Return of the Dancing Master (50 page)

 

EB: Three meters or so.

 

GL: And he didn't move? Didn't try to run away?

 

EB: I suppose he didn't believe I was going to shoot.

 

GL: Can you remember what time it was when this happened?

 

EB: Around about midnight.

 

GL: That means it was dark.

EB: I had a strong flashlight with me. I made him carry it when we walked into the forest.

 

 

GL: What happened after you'd shot him?

 

EB: I looked to make sure he was dead. He was.

 

GL: Then what did you do?

 

EB: I tied him to a tree trunk. I had a clothesline with me.

 

GL: So you tied him up after you'd shot him?

 

EB: Yes.

 

GL: Why did you do that?

 

EB: At that time I had no intention of making a confession. I wanted to make it look as if it was something different.

 

GL: Something different from what?

 

EB: A murder a woman could have done. I made it look more like an execution.

 

 

EB: I need to go to the bathroom.

 

GL: Then we'll take a break here, at 15:32. Erik can show you where it is.

 

The tape started running again. The interrogation continued. Larsson went back to the beginning, repeated all the questions, but stopped in connection with more and more details. A classic interrogation, Lindman thought. Larsson is tired, he's been working day and night for several days, but he's still in complete control of what he's saying, step by step.

The tape stopped. Larsson had brought the interrogation to a close at 17:02. The last thing he said on the tape was the only conclusion he could draw.

 

GL: Okay, I think we can stop there. What has happened is that you, Elsa Berggren, have confessed to shooting Abraham Andersson, intentionally
and after having planned it, at his house at Dunkarret on November 3, shortly after midnight. You have described in detail what happened, and stated that the motive was that you and Herbert Molin had been blackmailed, or threatened with blackmail. You also said that you threw the murder weapon into the Ljusnan River from the old bridge. Is that all correct?

 

EB: Yes.

 

GL: Is there anything you've said that you'd like to change?

 

EB: No.

 

GL: Is there anything Mr. Hermansson would like to say?

 

SH: No.

 

GL: I must now inform you that you are under arrest and will be taken to the police station in Ostersund. Then a public prosecutor will make a decision about remanding you into custody. Your lawyer will explain all this to you. Is there anything you wish to add?

 

EB: No.

 

GL: What you have told us is exactly what happened, is that correct?

 

EB: Yes.

 

GL: Then I shall conclude the interrogation at this point.

 

Lindman stood up and stretched his back. It was stuffy in the room. He opened a window and emptied the half-bottle of mineral water. Thought about what he'd heard. He felt the need to stretch his legs. Larsson was asleep somewhere. He wrote a note and put it on the desk.
Short walk, to both bridges and back. Stefan.

He walked quickly because he was cold. The path by the river was well-lit. Again he had the feeling that somebody was following him. He stopped and turned. Nobody in sight. Although—had there been a shadowy figure dodging out of the light? I'm imagining things, he told himself. There's nobody there. He continued toward the bridge from which Berggren claimed to have dropped her shotgun into the river. Not thrown, dropped. Was she telling the truth? He had to assume so. Nobody confesses to a murder they haven't committed unless there is a very special reason to protect the real culprit. In such cases, the culprit is usually a child. Parents sometimes accept the blame to save their children.
But otherwise? He came to the bridge, tried imagining the shotgun lying there in the water, then turned back. There was one question that Larsson had overlooked. Why had she chosen this particular day to confess? Why not yesterday? Why not tomorrow? Did she only finally make up her mind today? Or was there some other reason?

He came back to the community center and passed behind it. The window was still ajar. Larsson was on the phone. Talking to Rundström, Lindman could hear. The library was still open. He went into the reading room and looked for the Boras local paper. It wasn't there. He went back to the police office. Larsson was still talking to Rundström. Lindman stayed in the doorway. Looked at the window. Held his breath. He'd been standing out there in the dark and had heard everything Larsson said. He went over to the window, closed it, and went back outside. Now he couldn't hear a word of what was being said inside. He went back in. Larsson was finishing his conversation with Rundström. Lindman opened the window again. Larsson looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“What are you up to?”

“I've just realized that from outside you can hear every word that's said in here, loud and clear, when the window's open. If it's dark you can be right next to the window and not be seen.”

“So?”

“Just a thought. A possibility.”

“You mean that somebody's been listening to our phone calls?”

“I expect I'm just imagining it.”

Larsson closed the window.

“For safety's sake,” he said with a smile. “What do you think about her confession?”

“Did it say in the papers that he was tied to a tree trunk?”

“Yes, but not that a clothesline was used. I also spoke to one of the forensic boys who examined the scene. He could see no flaw in what she described.”

“So she did it?”

“Facts are facts. You no doubt noticed that I was skeptical, though.”

“If she didn't do it, if she's protecting the real culprit, we have to ask why.”

Larsson shook his head. “We have to start from the assumption that we've got this murder solved. A woman has admitted doing it. If we find the shotgun in the river tomorrow, we can soon establish if the fatal shot came from that gun.”

He sat down and started rolling one of his broken-off cigarillos between his fingers.

“We've been fighting on several fronts these last few days. I hope that one of them can now be regarded as closed.”

“Why do you think she decided to confess today instead of any other day?”

“I don't know. Maybe I should have asked her that. I suppose she had only just made up her mind. She may even have had enough respect for us to have decided that we'd get her in the end anyway.”

“Would we have?”

Larsson made a face. “You never know. Sometimes even the Swedish police catch a criminal.”

There was a knock on the half-open door. A boy came in with a pizza box. Larsson paid the bill and put it in his pocket. The boy left.

“This time I'm not going to crumple it up and drop it in an ashtray. Do you still think it was Hereira in the dining room that night? And that he picked up the bill?”

“Could have been.”

“This is the most continental thing about Sveg,” he said. “They have a pizzeria. Not that they normally deliver, but they will if you have the right contacts. Would you like some? I didn't get around to eating. I fell asleep.”

Larsson cut the pizza in half with a ruler.

“Police officers put on weight quickly,” Larsson said. “Stress and careless eating habits. On the other hand, we don't commit suicide all that often. Doctors are worse in that respect. Then again, a lot of us die from heart problems. Which is probably not all that surprising.”

“I've got cancer,” Lindman said. “Perhaps I'm an exception.”

Larsson sat with a piece of pizza in his hand.

“Bowling,” he said. “That would make you healthy again, no question.”

Lindman couldn't help laughing.

“I only have to mention the word ‘bowling' and you start laughing. I don't think being serious suits your face.”

“What was it she called me? ‘That pale-looking policeman from BorÃ¥s'?”

“That was the only funny thing she said from start to finish. To be honest, I think Berggren is an awful woman. I'm glad she isn't my mother.”

They ate in silence. Larsson put the box and the remains of his pizza on top of the wastebasket.

“We're getting random bits of information in,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The only problem is that it's the wrong stuff. For instance, Interpol in Buenos Aires have sent a mysterious message telling us that there's somebody called Fernando Hereira in jail for life, for something as old-fashioned as counterfeiting. They ask if he's our man. What on earth do you say to that? Do we tell them that if they can prove the guy has cloned himself, we'll take them seriously?”

“Is that really true?”

“I'm afraid so. Maybe if we're a little patient we'll get something more sensible from them. You never know.”

“The red Ford?”

“Disappeared into thin air. Like the driver. We still haven't tracked down the owner, Harner. He seems to have emigrated to Portugal. Some might take that news with a pinch of salt considering he still has a car in Sweden. The national crime squad are looking into it. There's a nationwide alert for the car. Something will happen, given time. Rundström's a persistent bastard.”

Lindman tried to make a summary in his head. His role in this investigation, insofar as he had one at all, had been to ask questions that could be of use to Larsson.

“I take it that you'll be telling the mass media as soon as possible that you have the person responsible for the murder of Abraham Andersson?”

Larsson looked up in surprise. “Why on earth should I do that? If what we think is right, it could mean that Hereira will leave the country. If it's true that he came back up to the northern forests to find out about the murder of Andersson, that is. Don't forget that he put Berggren under pressure about that. I think she was telling the truth about that, at least. Obviously, we'll have to dig into all this. Our first task tomorrow morning will be to look for the shotgun in the river.”

“Somebody else could have killed Andersson, using a gun that either the murderer or Berggren threw into the river. Or dropped, as she said.”

“Are you suggesting that she confessed to get our protection?”

“I'm just asking questions.”

Then he thought of something else that had been troubling him on and off.

“Why isn't there a prosecutor?” he said. “I haven't heard a name, at any rate.”

“Lövander,” Larsson said. “Albert Lövander. They say that in his
younger days he was a pretty good highjumper, only just below the elite standard. Now he devotes most of his time to his grandchildren. Of course there's a prosecutor involved. We don't work outside the legal system. Besides, Lövander and Rundström are old friends. They talk to each other every morning and every evening. And Lövander never interferes in what we're doing.”

“But surely he must have given some general instructions?”

“Only to keep on with what we're doing.”

It was now 9:15. Larsson called home. Lindman went out and stood next to the stuffed bear. Then he called Elena.

“Where are you?”

“Next to the bear.”

“I consulted a map of Sweden today, large-scale. I'm trying to find out where you are exactly.”

“We got a confession. One of the murders might have been solved. It was a woman.”

“Who'd done what?”

“Killed a man who'd been blackmailing her. She shot him.”

“Was that the man who was tied to a tree?”

“Yes.”

“No woman would ever do that.”

“Why not?”

“Women defend themselves. They never attack.”

“I don't think it's quite as straightforward as that.”

“How straightforward is it, then?”

He hadn't the energy to try to explain.

“When are you coming home?”

“I've already said.”

“Have you thought any more about our trip to London?”

Lindman had forgotten all about it.

“No,” he said. “But I will. I think it sounds like an excellent idea.”

“What are you doing just now?”

“Talking to Giuseppe.”

“Doesn't he have a family to go home to?”

“What makes you ask that? Right now he's talking to his wife on the phone.”

“Can you give me an honest answer to a question?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Does he know that I exist?”

“I think so.”

“Think?”

“I've probably mentioned your name. Or he's heard me talking to you on the phone.”

“Anyway, I'm glad you called. But don't call again until tomorrow. I'm going to bed early tonight.”

Lindman went back to the office. Larsson had finished his call. He was picking at his fingernails with a straightened paper clip.