The Return of the Dancing Master(119)

“I’d make that three questions,” Larsson said. “And they’re all important. We can’t answer any of them, though. Not yet, at least.”

They hurried through the rain to the car. The dog had retired to its kennel and watched their departure in silence. That was the second melancholy dog Lindman had come across in the space of a few days. He wondered how much of what had happened the dogs had understood.

They were on the point of joining the main road when Larsson pulled onto the side and stopped.

“I must call Rundström. I guess that the mist is as bad as ever. And to make things worse, I heard on the radio this morning that a storm’s brewing.”

He dialed the number. Lindman tried to think about Elena, but all he could picture was Hanna Tunberg. Gasping for breath, then dying with a rattling sound.

Larsson told Rundström about Hanna Tunberg’s death. Then he asked questions—about the mist, the dog, the man on the mountain. It was a short call. Larsson put the phone down and felt his throat.

“Every time I catch a cold I think I’m going to die. It hasn’t even been an hour since Hanna Tunberg died before our very eyes, and here I am complaining because I think I can feel a cold coming on.”

“Why worry about somebody who’s dead?”

Larsson looked at him. “I’m not thinking about her,” he said. “I’m thinking about my own death. That’s all I care about.”

Lindman punched the roof of the car. He couldn’t control his violent outburst. “You sit here complaining about the beginnings of a cold. At the same time, I could really be dying.”

He flung the car door open and stormed out into the rain.

Larsson opened his door. “That was thoughtless of me.”

Lindman made a face. “What difference does it make? Cancer or a sore throat.”

He got back into the car. Larsson stayed out in the rain.

Lindman stared through the windshield, past the raindrops. The trees were swaying gently. He had tears in his eyes. The mist was in his eyes, not on the windshield.





They drove back to Sveg. Lindman leaned his head against the window, thinking about where his life was going. He gave up and started again. Elena was there. And Veronica. He wasn’t sure where he fitted in.

It was 12:30 when they arrived at the hotel. Larsson said he was hungry. The rain was still pattering on the car roof. They hurried into the lobby with their jackets pulled up over their heads.

The receptionist stood up.

“Can you call Erik Johansson,” she said. “He’s been trying to get in touch with you. It’s urgent.”

Larsson took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and cursed. It was turned off. He turned it on and sat on the sofa. Lindman thumbed through a brochure lying on the reception desk. Old Mountain Pastures in Härjedalen. Hanna Tunberg was still dying before his eyes. The receptionist was searching through a file. Larsson was speaking to Johansson.

What Lindman would have liked to do most of all just now was to go to his room and masturbate. That would be the only way of fulfilling last night. And his betrayal of Elena.

Larsson stood up. Lindman could see that the phone call had worried him.

“Is something wrong?”

The receptionist eyed them inquisitively. Lindman noticed that she had been working at a computer identical to the one Veronica Molin had in her room. Larsson beckoned Lindman to follow him into the empty dining room.

“It looks as if the man on the mountain may have found a road through the fog that wasn’t being watched, and then stolen another car. Erik went home for a meal,” Larsson said, “and he saw that he’d been burgled. A pistol and a rifle had been taken. Plus some ammo and a detachable telescopic sight. It must have happened today, early in the morning.” He felt his throat again. “It could have been somebody else, of course. But our man is still in the area, he threatens Berggren, he wants something although we don’t know what. A man like that may have realized that he needed another gun—no doubt he got rid of the others, if he’s got any sense. And who would have a gun in his house? A policeman, of course.”

“He would have to have known Johansson’s name, and that he was a police officer. And where he lives. How could he have found that out? And when?”

“I don’t know. But I think it’s time to work backwards. We must have seen something at some point without realizing its significance.” Larsson bit his lip. “We started looking for a murderer who tried to make us think there were actually two of them. Now I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t only one after all, but he’s let loose his shadow to put us off the scent.”