The Return of the Dancing Master(137)

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 Borås’?”

“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?”