The Return of the Dancing Master(132)

“That doesn’t sound plausible.”

It occurred to Lindman that the previous evening he’d had the feeling that he was being followed. That somebody was keeping him under observation. But he didn’t say anything.

“One thing’s certain in any case,” Larsson said. “We’ve got to find Hereira. And we’ve got to identify the man driving that red Ford. Did you see his face?”

“It was pretty much hidden by his fur hat.”

“Erik can’t remember what he looked like either. Nor how he spoke. If it was a dialect. But it’s far from clear that Erik would have noticed anyway. Remember, he threw up that sleeping tablet. I don’t think he’s one hundred percent clear in the head tonight.”

Lindman suddenly felt dizzy. It came out of nowhere. He was forced to grab hold of Larsson so as not to fall.

“Are you sick?”

“I don’t know. Everything started spinning around.”

“You’d better go back to Sveg. I’ll get somebody to drive you. Erik is obviously not the only one who’s not in the best shape tonight.”

Lindman could see that Larsson was genuinely concerned.

“Are you going to faint?”

Lindman shook his head. He didn’t want to tell him the truth, which was that he felt as if he could keel over at any moment.

Larsson drove him back to Sveg himself. They didn’t speak during the journey. Dawn was breaking. The snow had gone away, but the clouds were still thick overhead. Lindman had noted absentmindedly that sunrise was about 7:45. Larsson pulled up outside the hotel.

“How do you feel?”

“Same as you. A sleepless night. I’ll feel better when I’ve had a little sleep.”

“Don’t you think it would be best if you went back to Borås?”

“Not yet. I’ll stay as arranged. Until Wednesday. Besides, I’m interested to know if that registration number has been linked to an owner yet.”

Larsson called Rundström.

“The computers are still down. Don’t they have any paperwork? Don’t they have any backup?”

Lindman opened the car door and eased himself out. Fear was churning around in his insides. Why don’t I say anything? he thought. Why don’t I tell Larsson that I’m so frightened that I can’t stop shaking?

“Go and get some rest. I’ll be in touch.”

Larsson drove away. The receptionist was sitting at her computer.

“You’re up early,” she said with a smile.

“Or late,” he said.

He took his key, went up to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and called Elena. She was already at school. He told her what had happened, that he’d been up all night, and that he felt dizzy. She asked when he was coming home, but he raised his voice, couldn’t conceal his irritation, and simply said that he needed to sleep. Then he’d make up his mind.





It was 1:30 when he woke up. He lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He had dreamed about his father again.

They were paddling in a two-man canoe. There was a waterfall somewhere ahead. He tried to tell his father that they had to turn back before the current became so strong that they would be forced over the edge, but his father didn’t answer. When Stefan turned around, he found that it wasn’t his father sitting behind him, but the lawyer Jacobi. He was stark naked, his chest covered in reeds. Then the dream dissolved.

He got out of bed. He didn’t feel dizzy any more. He felt hungry. Even so, his curiosity got the better of him. He tried Larsson’s number. Busy. He showered and tried again. Still busy. He dressed and discovered that he had no clean underwear left. Called again. Now Larsson answered, with a bellowing “Yes?”

“It’s Lindman.”

“Oh. I thought it was a reporter from Ostersund. He’s been chasing me all morning. Erik thinks Wallén must have tipped him off about the shooting. If so, he’s in for a good time. The chief of police is making a stink as well. He’s wondering what on earth is going on. Aren’t we all?”

“How’s it going?”

“We’ve established the registration number. ABB 003. Erik was off by one digit.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“A man called Anders Harner. His address is a P.O. box in Albufeira in southern Portugal. One of the officers in Hede knew exactly where that is. He’s been there on vacation. But we’ve got more problems: Anders Harner is seventy-seven, and the man in that car was certainly not an old man. None of us have eyesight that bad.”

“Perhaps it was his son? Or some other relative?”

“Or the car had been stolen. We’re looking into that. It’s perfectly obvious that nothing about this investigation is straightforward.”