The Return of the Dancing Master(118)

“It’s hard to believe that it can all be over so quickly. Still, it’s the best kind of death you can possibly wish for.”

“As long as it doesn’t come too soon.”

They went outside. The dog barked. It had started raining.

“What did she say? That her husband had gone out?”

Lindman looked around. There was no sign of a car. The garage doors were open. Nothing inside.

“He seems to have gone for a drive.”

“We’d better wait. Let’s go in.”

They sat without speaking. The dog barked again. Then it, too, fell silent.

“What do you do when you have to inform a relative that somebody’s died?” Larsson said.

“I’ve never had to do that. I’ve been present, but it was always somebody else who had to do the talking.”

“There was only one occasion when I thought seriously about resigning from the force,” Larsson said. “Two sisters, aged four and five, had been playing by a pond. Seven years ago. Their father had left them by themselves for a few minutes. We never managed to find out what actually happened, but they both drowned. I was the one who had to go and tell their mother about it, taking a priest with me. Their father had broken down. He’d gone out with the children so their mother could be left in peace to prepare for the five-year-old’s party. That drove me close to giving up. It hadn’t happened before, and it hasn’t happened since.”

The silence wafted to and fro between them. Lindman looked at the carpet where Hanna Tunberg had died. Her knitting was on a table next to the chair, the needles sticking out at an angle. Larsson’s cell phone rang. Both of them jumped. Larsson answered. The rain started pelting against the windowpanes. He finished the call without having said much.

“That was the ambulance. They met Hanna’s husband. He went with them in the ambulance. We don’t need to stay here any longer.”

Neither of them moved.

“We’ll never know,” Larsson said. “A witness steps forward, crossing the threshold that usually holds people back from saying anything. The question remaining is: was she telling the truth?”

“Why wouldn’t she have been?”

Larsson was by the window, looking out at the rain. “I know nothing about Borås,” he said, “other than that it’s a decent-sized town. Sveg is not much more than a village with only a few thousand inhabitants. Fewer people live in Harjedalen as a whole than in a Stockholm suburb. That means that it’s harder to keep secrets here.”

Larsson left the window and sat down in the chair where Hanna Tunberg had died. Then he sprang to his feet and remained standing.

“I ought to have mentioned this before we got here. I suppose I simply forgot that you are not from these parts. It’s sort of like the angels with their halos. Everybody up here is surrounded by little rings of rumor, and Hanna Tunberg was no exception.”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

Larsson stared gloomily down at the carpet where Hanna had been lying.

“One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. What’s so wrong about being nosy? Most people are. Police work is based on facts and curiosity.”

“You mean she was a gossip?”

“Erik told me she was. And he always knows what he’s talking about. I had that in mind all the time she was speaking. If she’d lived for another five minutes I’d have been able to ask her. Now that’s not possible.” Larsson went back to the window. “We should be able to conduct an experiment,” he said. “We’ll put a car where she said she parked. Then we’ll ask somebody to look in the rearview mirror while somebody else comes out of Andersson’s front door, counts to three, and then goes in again. I can guarantee that either the person in the car will see whoever is at the door perfectly clearly, or not at all.”

“So she was lying?”

“Yes and no. She wasn’t actually telling a lie, but I suspect that she had either spotted something behind Andersson when he answered the door, or that she peeped in through a window. We’ll never know which.”

“But you think the gist of what she said was right?”

“That’s what I think. She wanted to tell us something that might be important, but she didn’t want to tell us how she’d found out about it.” Larsson sighed. “I can feel a cold coming on,” he said. “I’ve got a sore throat. No. Not yet. But it’s starting to get sore. I’ll have a headache a couple of hours from now. Shall we go?”

“Just one question,” Lindman said. “Or two, rather. What are the implications if it really was Berggren, as Hanna suggested? And if it wasn’t her, who was it? And what does it all mean?”