The Return of the Dancing Master(123)

“There was an old detective in the Borås force called Fredlund,” Lindman said. “He was abrupt, sullen, and slow, but a brilliant investigator. Once when he was in an unusually good mood he said something I’ve never forgotten. ‘You work with a flashlight in your hand. You point it straight in front of you so that you can see where you’re putting your feet, but you should occasionally point it to each side as well, so that you can see where you’re not putting your feet.’ If I understand him correctly he was maintaining that you should always keep checking on what’s central. Which of the people involved is the most important?”

“What happens if you apply that to our situation? I’ve been talking too much today. I need to do some listening.”

“Could there be a link between the man on the mountain and Berggren? What she said about being attacked doesn’t have to be true. It strikes me now that it could have been my showing up there that triggered that situation. That’s the first question: is there a link between her and Hereira? The second question, leading me in a different direction, is: is there somebody else involved in all of this, somebody lurking in the shadows whom we haven’t yet identified?”

“Someone who may share the political views of Berggren and Molin? Are you thinking of some kind of neo-Nazi network?”

“We know they exist.”

“So, Hereira turns up to dance the tango with Molin. That sparks off a series of incidents. One important consequence is that Berggren decides that Andersson has to be killed. So she sends for somebody suitable from her brownshirted brotherhood to take care of it. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I can hear how crazy it sounds.”

“Not that crazy,” Larsson said. “I’ll keep it in mind as I chew my way through the files tonight.”





Lindman walked back to the hotel. There was no light in Veronica Molin’s room. The receptionist was peering at her new computer.

“How long are you staying?” she said.

“Until Wednesday, if that’s all right.”

“We won’t be full until the weekend.”

“Test drivers?”

“A group of orienteers from Lithuania are coming to set up a training camp.”

Lindman took his key.

“Is there a bowling alley in Sveg?”

“No,” she said, surprised.

“Just wondering!”

When he got to his room he lay on the bed. It was something about Hanna Tunberg, he thought. Something about her death. He started remembering. The images in his head were elusive. It took time for him to sort them out, to make them fit together.





He was five or six years old. He didn’t know where his sisters and mother were. He was at home with his father. He remembered that it was evening. He was on the floor playing with a car behind the red sofa in the living room. The car was made of wood, yellow and blue with a red stripe. His eyes were concentrating on the invisible road he’d mapped out on the carpet. He could hear the rustling of newspaper pages. A friendly noise, but not completely without menace. His father sometimes used to read things that annoyed him. That could result in the newspaper being ripped to shreds. “These damned socialists, ” he would say. It was like leaves on a tree. They could rustle like newspaper pages. Suddenly a gale would start blowing and the tree would disintegrate. He drove the car down a road winding along the brink of a precipice. Things could go wrong. He knew his father was in the dark green armchair next to the open fire. Before long he would lower his newspaper and ask Stefan what he was doing. Not in a friendly way, not even because he was interested. Just a question to check that everything was in order.

Then the rustling stopped, there was a groan followed by a thud. The car stopped. A rear tire had burst. He was forced to edge his way carefully out of the driving seat, trying not to send the car tumbling into the ravine.

Stefan slowly stood up and peered over the back of the sofa. His father had fallen to the floor. He still had the newspaper in his hand, and he was groaning. Lindman approached him cautiously. So as not to be completely defenseless, he took the car with him. He would not let go of it. He could use it to escape if necessary. His father looked at him with fear in his eyes. His lips were blue. They were moving, forming words. “I don’t want to die like this. I want to die upright, like a man. ”

The images faded away. Stefan wasn’t even in them any more, he was looking in from the outside. What had happened next? He remembered his fear, standing there with the car in his hand, his father’s blue lips. Then his mother had come in. His sisters were no doubt with her, but he couldn’t remember them. It was just him, his father, and his mother. And a car with a red stripe. He remembered the make now. Brio. A toy car from Brio. They made better trains than cars. But he liked it because his father had given it to him. He’d have preferred a train. But the car had a red stripe. And now it was hanging over the edge of a precipice.